Journal articles on the topic 'Animated films – Japan'

In recent years, Chinas animation industry has drawn on the experience of some developed countries in the process of development. For example, Japan has already formed an animation industry and disseminates its works through various media through transmedia storytelling to obtain better communication effects. There are still some problems with transmedia storytelling and media mix in Chinese animation. This study uses a content analysis and ethnographic approach to compare Chinese and Japanese animation movies in terms of the number of transmedia and the effect of transmedia communication. In order to analyze the problems of Chinese animated films in transmedia communication, as a further extension of transmedia theory in animation, this paper summarises the problems of Chinese animated films in transmedia communication based on previous theories of transmedia communication as well as research on Chinese animation, and suggests that Chinese animated films should perhaps learn from Japanese animation films to increase their interaction with other media, and to become part of the media mix of Chinese animation. According to statistics, it was found that the number of Chinese animated films spread transmedia in 2019 was much lower than that of Japanese animation films, which means that if Chinese animated films are seen as part of a media mix , there are still have problems with Chinese animated films. Improving the linkage of animation films with other media to increase the number and effectiveness of their transmedia dissemination may be the solution.

The ideological and cultural context of Soviet-Japanese cinematographic contacts is determined by the activities of foreign film editors. The front of the work of representatives of this profession is selection, literary translation, dubbing, and in some cases – abbreviations, remounting of Japanese films for Soviet rental. Despite the «alien lifestyle», Japanese films were not just exotic «land of the rising sun», but also a kind of interpretation of European and American cultures in different genres: post-neorealist drama («Naked Island», «Red Beard»), sports film («The Genius of Judo»), film catastrophe («The Death of Japan», «The Legend of the Dinosaur»), children’s animation («Puss in Boots»). Joint film productions with Japan are especially noteworthy for the domestic cinema of the 1970s and 80s. The artistic space of these works is presented in the form of a historical drama («Dersu Uzala»), a melodrama («Moscow, my love», «Melodies of the White no-chi»), an animated fairy tale («The Adventures of the Penguin Lolo»). The Soviet Japanese co-production remains a historical example of a creative compromise between states with diverse types of social devices.

An animated movie is a movie made by animating still objects projected into motion using projection tools or application software. The reason people are able to enjoy animated films is that they have a more interesting visual appearance so that the audience does not easily feel bored when watching them. An example of an animated film that has attracted public attention and has received the 26th Japan Movie Critics Awards is the animated film Koe no Katachi. This film has a bullying theme, where Ishida Shouya as a main player is a bully who then wants to change his behavior to become a good person. This research aims to represent the changes of bullying behavior in the animated film Koe no Katachi. Changes of bullying behavior in the animated film Koe no Katachi are influenced by external and internal factors. The object of this research is the main player of the animated film Koe no Katachi, Ishida Shouya. The method of analysis in this research uses the Roland Barthes semiotic analysis method which analyzes the meaning of denotation, connotation and myth in the unit of analysis as many as five images of changes in the behavior of bullying perpetrators in the Koe no Katachi film. The results of this study show that the behavioral changes of bullying perpetrators are influenced by several factors originating from the perpetrators themselves, parents, friends, and victims who are able to change the bullying perpetrators into good people. Film animasi merupakan film yang dibuat dengan menghidupkan benda diam diproyeksikan menjadi bergerak dengan menggunakan tool proyeksi atau software aplikasi. Alasan masyarakat mampu menikmati film animasi adalah memiliki tampilan visual yang lebih menarik sehingga penonton tidak mudah merasa bosan saat menontonnya. Contoh film animasi yang menarik perhatian masyarakat dan telah mendapatkan Japan Movie Critics Awards ke-26 adalah film animasi Koe no Katachi. Film ini bertema bullying, dimana Ishida Shouya sebagai pemain utama adalah pelaku bullying yang kemudian ingin merubah perilakunya menjadi orang baik. Penelitian ini bertujuan merepresentasikan perubahan perilaku pelaku bullying yang ada dalam film animasi Koe no Katachi. Perubahan perilaku yang ada dalam film animasi Koe no Katachi dipengaruhi oleh faktor eksternal dan internal. Objek dalam penelitian ini adalah pemain utama dari film animasi Koe no Katachi yaitu Ishida Shouya. Metode analisis dalam penilitian ini menggunakan metode analisis semiotika Roland Barthes yang menganalisis makna denotasi, konotasi dan mitos di unit analisis sebanyak lima gambar perubahan perilaku pelaku bullying di film Koe no Katachi. Hasil dari penelitian ini menunjukan perubahan perilaku pelaku bullying yang dipengaruhi oleh beberapa faktor yang bersumber dari diri pelaku, orang tua, teman, dan korban yang mampu merubah pelaku bullying menjadi orang baik.

This study aims to examine the diversity of animation supply on OTT platforms using the top 50 domestic and international animated films in terms of box office success as a basis. The key findings are as follows. Firstly, subscription-based OTT services generally tend to offer only popular selected animations. On the other hand, VOD-based OTT services were found to provide most hit animations through purchasing or renting options. Subscription-based OTT services had lower content scale and diversity compared to VOD-based OTT services. Secondly, when examining the distribution by nationality, animations from three countries including Japan, the United States, and Korea accounted for 68.0%. When looking at the specific OTT platform services, Japanese, American, and Korean animations had a high supply rate across various OTT services, including Wavve Purchase (83.3%), Apple TV (75.0%), Disney Plus (100.0%), Watcha (66.7%), and Netflix (70.0%). Thirdly, when examining the distribution by genre, adventure, fantasy, and action accounted for 64.0%. When observed on specific OTT platform services, the supply rate of animations within these three genres was high on Wavve Purchase (66.7%), Apple TV (62.5%), Disney Plus (66.7%), Watcha (76.7%), and Netflix (60.0%).

The rise of what has been called ‘new television’ or ‘media regionalism’ in East Asia has occurred in a context in which the production of media networks ‒ both infrastructures (broadcast and relay stations, satellites, cable systems) and media devices or platforms (tvsets,vcr,vcd, and mobile phones) ‒ outstrips the production of contents. The essay considers the question: what is coming into common through this emerging sense of media regionalism? Looking at the highly popular seriesHana yori dangoor ‘Boys over Flowers’, which has been formatted across media forms (such as manga, animatedtvseries, animated films, television dramas, and theatrical release cinema) and across nations (Japan, Taiwan, Korea, China, and the Philippines), this essay finds that the feeling of media regionalism is related to both the gap between infrastructures (of distribution and production) and the gap within media distribution (between mobility and privatization).

After evaluating some of the limitations in the reception of Hayao Miyazaki’s films as advocacy for climate change reform, the author suggests the need for a new path in animation toward animating the nonhuman. He nominates the anime series Mushishi as the ideal trailblazer for a more ecologically sound and posthumanistically inclined future. Mushishi envisions a fairly realistic turn-of-the-20th-century Japan in which beings called ‘ mushi’, simple organisms that are neither plant nor animal nor Miyazaki-esque fantastic spirit, exist alongside small agrarian communities. Using Mushishi and its barely animated titular beings as a test case, he argues that animation’s allusory–illusory nature and depiction of nature can combat the central tenets of anthropocentrism, generating a visually figurative ontology in which humans and nonhuman animals, subjects and objects, and characters and landscapes are democratically leveled down to symbolic totems, all rendered unreal through the filter of cartooning.

This article examines ethnographically the production of anime (Japanese animated films and TV shows) by focusing on how professional animators use characters and dramatic premises to organize their collaborative creativity. In contrast to much of the analysis of anime that focuses on the stories of particular media texts, I argue that a character-based analysis provides a critical perspective on how anime relates to broader transmedia phenomena, from licensed merchandise to fan activities. The ideas of characters, premises, and world-settings also specify in greater detail the logic of anime production, which too often is glossed as emerging from a generalized Japanese culture, as in the ongoing debates about `cool Japan'. I conclude that an ethnographic approach to anime production through a focus on characters can offer new ways of thinking about what moves across media, what distinguishes anime from other media forms, and what gives anime its value.

Japan has a long tradition when it comes to graphic novels, animated series, films, and, more recently, video games. This popularity has gained international attention in recent decades, creating a market for Japanese-to-English translation. An example of such translations is the localized version of the video game Yakuza 0. Friedrich Schleiermacher, and Lawrence Venuti in his footsteps, argue that there are fundamentally two ways of translating: domestication and foreignization. However, what we find in the translation of Yakuza 0 is a hybrid way of working, which demonstrates that the issue is not as black and white. This paper focuses on the aforementioned game to draw examples and discuss the impact of honorifics on socio-cultural markers and relationship dynamics. First, an overview of the Japanese system of honorific characters is provided in order to understand why translators would choose to retain them in their subtitles. Second, we aim to discuss possible factors that lead translators and localization professionals to retain honorifics in their translation. Finally, we contribute to the broader discussion of ideological and cultural factors that influence the dynamics between source and target culture, by pointing to possible shifts in this relationship, in view of Venuti's critique of Anglo-American translation.

Anime is an animated film with a distinctive graphic design originating from Japan, which is widely favored by various groups. anime itself has a genre like a movie in general, but there is a slight difference from ordinary films, anime has additional genres that are not in ordinary films, such as the Ecchi, Mahou Shoujou, Seinen, Shounen, and Josei genres. Since those genres only exist in anime, this research is devoted to predicting those anime genres. The prediction will use posters from the anime itself, with the help of image processing, namely the Convolutional Neural Network method and Transfer Learning. Transfer Learning will be implanted as a comparison of the performance of the existing architecture with the architecture that will be created, whether the architecture is able to process the dataset properly. The dataset to be used is a dataset of posters and csv documents containing images and details of the anime, the dataset contains anime data from 1980 to 2021 and contains 11651 anime poster data which has different resolution sizes. The ResNet50 model has the highest accuracy rate of 48% with a loss rate of 36%, while InceptionV3 produces 35% accuracy with 69% loss. At the time of testing ResNet50 gave the smallest genre percentage value of CustomModel and InceptionV3, while CustomModel gave the highest genre value. In addition to the value, all modes also predicted the genre well. Especially InceptionV3 is able to predict the music genre, because the music genre has a very small number of datasets, and this music genre is difficult to predict by the ResNet50 and CustomModel models.

nime (Japanese animation) which currently become popular in the community has resulted in the emergence of various anime products, such as action figures, posters, comics, and even animated films. One of the most popular anime is One Piece, and its rabid fans are known as anime otaku. This anime otaku phenomenon not only occurs in Japan, but also throughout the world, including Indonesia. This article deals with newcomers who are interested in popular anime, and call themselves otaku, labeled as impromptu otaku by anime otaku.
 Using a qualitative approach, this research was conducted through social media Instagram and TikTok. The research informants were ten students, who came from public and private universities in the city of Makassar. They consist of six men and four women, whose age range between 19 and 25 years. Data was collected using in-depth interview and observation techniques.
 One Piece is one of the anime that has a high rating and is the most popular anime of all time. For impromptu otaku, this is considered as “the king of anime", so that fanaticism towards anime is only focused on the One Piece anime, even though there are many other anime that also have high ratings. While anime otaku are not just fans of one anime. In the process of choosing anime One Piece, a person goes through three stages, namely selection, interpretation, and reaction stages. One of the aspects that makes One Piece as an interesting anime for otaku is how One Piece is able to raise spirits through motivational words uttered by certain characters in the One Piece anime. The identity of impromptu otaku is shown through their involvement in various activities, showing that they are fans of One Piece anime, namely following One Piece developments on the internet and social media, collecting One Piece-themed merchandise, and joining the fan community. This indicates that impromptu otaku realizes their "class" when compared to anime otaku. Thus, by participating in related activities they hope to be aligned as anime otaku.

Purpose – This study explores the utilization of Chinese traditional culture in animation, with a focus on film derivatives. The study analyzes recent growth and challenges in the Chinese animation industry and aims to effectively utilize Chinese culture in developing animation derivatives. Drawing insights from US and Japanese models, the initiative aims to develop a unique Chinese animation industry, with the goal of improving global competitiveness, cultural impact, and market expansion. Design/Methodology/Approach – This study adopts a research methodology primarily focused on deeply mining the rich resources of Chinese traditional culture, coupled with referencing the mature animation industry chains of the United States and Japan, to develop a more ethnically distinctive animation film industry chain in China. The main research methods involve literature review and case analysis, aiming to explore key issues and solutions in the development of ethnic-oriented animation film derivatives in the Chinese animation film industry. Findings – China’s animation industry is progressing, yet it faces challenges in derivative development, which hinders sustained growth. Leveraging its abundant traditional culture can provide a unique competitive advantage. Integrating insights from established US and Japanese animation industries with Chinese culture is crucial for fostering a more ethnically distinctive animation industry in China, which holds significant promise for future development. Research Implications – The proposal innovatively leverages China’s traditional culture for animation growth, providing insights for sustainable development. It highlights the significance of animation derivatives, guiding commercial exploration. By promoting Chinese culture, it enhances the global competitiveness of animation, facilitating international cultural exchange.

Gender role portrayal in children’s media, especially in animated films, have been studied considerably to understand its possible effects on children’s perceptions of gender. Previous studies have shown that characters in these films are usually depicted in traditional and sometimes negative representations of gender roles. However, while Western children’s animations have been frequently discussed, little research has been done on gender role portrayal in Studio Ghibli films, despite their popularity both in Japan and internationally. To address this gap in research, the current study analyzed the behaviors of male and female protagonists from five Studio Ghibli films (e.g., Castle in the Sky, Spirited Away). The study used a coded content analysis method first developed by England, Descartes, and Collier-Meek in a 2011 study on gender role portrayal in Disney princess movies. During the research process, the frequency of gendered characteristics exhibited by the male and female protagonists of each film was tracked and recorded. Results indicated that while male protagonists exhibited more traditionally masculine characteristics, female protagonists portrayed close to equal levels of masculine and feminine characteristics, suggesting that they were more androgynous than their male counterparts. Examination of the protagonists’ most frequently exhibited characteristics as well as their rescuing actions also supported this conclusion. These findings add to the existing discussion on gender portrayal in children’s media and to the limited research on Studio Ghibli films in hopes of providing the groundwork for future exploration.

Abstract Introduction There is an urgent need to increase the workforce of geriatricians. Geriatrics is not a popular specialty amongst medical students due to limited education and training opportunities in this discipline. Nurturing positive attitudes towards ageing, and early engagement with older people and their social networks could address this challenge. Film can be creatively employed to introduce the lived experience of older generations to medical students. Methods An 8-weeks film-based educational intervention, a student-selected module (SSM) was offered by a clinical-academic geriatrician to 11 first year medical students at Brighton and Sussex Medical School to enable them: to appreciate the diversity of older people, to understand the bio-psycho-social model of ageing, to develop skills in history taking, and present a focused narrative learning from film aesthetics, and to learn how to analyse a life narrative in a non-judgemental, compassionate, and empathic manner. Over 6 weeks, students watched and discussed a selection of short films, and a feature ‘Radiator’ with its director Tom Browne, all films depicted ‘old age’. During the last 2 weeks, students delivered a short presentation on a film they choose and gave feedback on the module. Results In their presentations, students discussed short, feature, and animated films portraying successful ageing, institutionalisation, dementia, and terminal illness. Examples included ‘Ikiru’ (Japan, Akira Kurosawa, 1952), ‘Drving Miss Daisy’ (Bruce Beresford, USA, 1989), ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’ (Hayao Miyazaki, Japan, 2004), ‘Amour’ (Michael Haneke, France, 2012), ‘Echoes’ (Ben Bradbury, UK, 2018), and ‘The Father’ (Florian Zeller, UK, 2020). Students demonstrated insight into the heterogeneity of senior citizens, and the burden experienced by carers of dependent adults. The module, as a platform for interactive learning, was positively perceived by students. Conclusions Conversations with medical students around films portraying ‘old age’ could enhance the possibilities of them choosing ‘Geriatrics’ as a future career.

The purpose of the article is to reveal the content and main directions of implementation of the model of cultural policy in Japan. Its peculiarities related to the traditional worldview, visuality, sensuality, and oriental aesthetics, and combined with the orientation towards human values are substantiated. This model, the main recipient of which is young people, unlike many models of Western countries, is implemented within the framework of mass culture, significantly influences American culture and is attractive to residents of other regions. The researchmethodology consists in the use of such approaches as synchronic and diachronic analysis, phenomenology and hermeneutics in the selection and analysis of works of art, strategies of cultural policy of Japan. Scientific novelty of the work is the first cultural analysis of the combination of traditional and modern cultural heritage in such leading genres of Japanese visual art as anime and manga. Conclusions. Due to the sensual nature of the authors' nature, the products of the Japanese creative industry reflect on such important universal problems as ecology, social injustice, moments of important emotional experiences of teenagers at their tender age and family values. The important contextual content of anime and manga is presented in an extremely aesthetic visual form, which often makes animation and literature equal to works of art. Many animated films and series are considered by connoisseurs to be an example of an ideal balance of visual and semantic load, which allows both to plunge into philosophical reflections on the meaning of life, one's place in society, or the existence of the dichotomy of good-evil, and simply to satisfy aesthetic needs in contemplation of beauty. Thus, the combination of Japanese thought and Western technology was realised in products – anime and manga – that became desirable in European and Western countries.
 Key words: cultural policy, Japan, anime, manga, Shinto, visual thinking, tradition, universal values.

Doraemon Stand by Me 1 & 2 film. Japan and this film using animated images make researchers want to analyze and examine strategies for conveying verbal and nonverbal meanings with the variety of children's languages found in the study. The method used in this research is a qualitative approach and descriptive analysis techniques. The data sources in this study are the first and second Doraemon Stand by Me films. The research data used are thirty-nine data. The results of the study found that the variety of children's languages used in the film Doraemon Stand by Me 1 & 2 were shown using 10 suffixes, namely Yo, Wa, Ne, Na, Zo, Ya, Mon, Kke, I, No in the children's language variety in Indonesia. in Japanese based on the theory from Takahashi Tarou. Verbal and nonverbal meanings in films are conveyed using three strategies, namely aspects of speech and images, aspects of images and sound effects, and aspects of images and writing. Of these three strategies, the speech and image aspects were found, then the image and sound effects aspects were found, and the image and writing aspects were the least found. The strategy of conveying meaning is easier to understand and can have a psychological impact on the audience such as sad, happy, tense, and others to make the audience entertained. Keywords: Doraemon Stand by Me, Variety of Languages, Verbal Meaning, and Nonverbal Meaning

AbstrakBandung memiliki posisi begitu penting dalam perkembangan seni rupa kontemporer Indonesia.Perkembangan yang pesat paska boom tahun 2000an serta peran penting salah satu akademi seni tertua di Indonesia menjadi lahan subur bermunculannya seniman muda dengan karakter yang khas. Karakter yang khas tersebut salah satuya dimiliki oleh Radi Arwinda, seorang seniman yang dibesarkan dari lingkungan keluarga yang begitu tertarik pada kebudayaan tradisi, namun tumbuh dan berkembang di kota urban dengan dipengaruhi oleh kultur populer Jepang dan Amerika lewat film animasi, dan komik. Karya-karya Radi pada perkembangannya merupakan upaya re-interpretasi budaya, mengubah struktur dengan pembacaan personal terhadap fenomena di masyarakat.Penelitian ini menggunakan pendekatan metodologi kualitatif secara deskriptif dengan menganalisis berbagai macam data literatur serta data hasil wawancara dan observasi yang mendukung penelitian. Penelitian ini juga meminjam pendekatan kritik seni untuk menginterpretasikan karya.(Kata-kata Kunci: Radi Arwinda re-interpretasi budaya tradisi, seni rupa kontemporer, , Bandung)AbstractBandung has a very important position in the development of contemporary art in Indonesia. The rapid development after the boom of the 2000s as well as the important role of one of the oldest art academy in Indonesia to be fertile ground emergence of young artists with a distinctive character. Distinctive character is one of owned by Radi Arwinda, an artist who grew up in the so interested in cultural tradition family environment, but thrive in an urban city with popular Japan and the US culture influenced through animated films and comics. Radi works on the development of an attempt to re-interpretation of the culture, changing the structure of the personal reading of the phenomena in the society. This study uses descriptive qualitative methodological approach to analyzing a wide range of literature data as well as data from interviews and observations to support research. The study also borrow approach of art criticism to interpret the works.(Key Words:Radi Arwinda,traditional cultural re-interpretation, contemporary art, Bandung)

In Japan, ouen-jouei (cheer screening) events permit novel forms of audience participation, with screened events allowing cheering, glowstick waving, and cosplaying. Fans immerse themselves in story worlds by physically performing at such ouen-jouei events. Ouen-jouei audience members become immersed in the film's story world through a process of negotiation between their physical state as a spectator and their imagined self as a story world character, as is demonstrated by ouen-jouei events associated with the 2016 Japanese animated film King of Prism. Theories associated with audience studies, media studies, and fan tourism are deployed to analyze this novel form of cinema audience immersion. It is impossible to physically integrate audience members and a film's story world, so fans' inner experiences become the primary concern.

To re-imagine can, at one extreme, be a casual thought (what if I moved all the furniture in the living room?) and, at the other, re-imagining can be a complex process (what if I adapt a classic text into a major film?). There is a long history of working with the ideas of others and of re-working our own ideas. Of taking a concept and re-imagining it into something that is similar to the original and yet offers something new. Such re-imaginations are all around us; from the various interpretations of the Sherlock Holmes stories to the adjustments made, often over generations, to family recipes. Some of these efforts are the result of a creative drive to experiment and push boundaries, some efforts are inspired by changes in society or technology, yet others will be born of a sense of 'this can be done better' or 'done differently'. Essentially, to re-imagine is to ask questions, to interrogate that which is often taken for granted. This issue of M/C Journal seeks to explore the 'why' and the 'how' of re-imagining both the everyday and the extraordinary. In a reflection of the scale and scope of the potential to re-imagine all that is around us, this issue is particularly diverse. The contributions offer explorations into varied disciplines, use a range of methodological lenses, and deploy different writing styles. To this end we present a range of articles—some of which contain quite challenging content—that cover copyright, crime fiction, the stage, the literary brand and film, horror and children’s film, television, military-inspired fashion, and a piece that focuses on events leading up to September 11, 2001. We then present three, quite different, works that explore various aspects of Australian Indigenous culture and history. We begin with our feature article: “‘They’re creepy and they’re kooky’ and They’re Copyrighted: How Copyright Is Used to Dampen the (Re-)Imagination”. In this work Steve Collins explores important issues of copyright in the re-imagining and re-purposing of content. In particular, this article unpacks—using examples from the United States—how copyright legislation can restrict the activities of creative practitioners, across varied fields, and so adds to the debate on copyright reform. In our lead article “The Re-imagining Inherent in Crime Fiction Translation”, by Alistair Rolls, ideas of re-imagination, language, and the world’s most popular genre—crime fiction—are critically appraised. Rolls looks at a suite of issues around imagining original and re-imagining, through translation, crime fiction texts. These two forms of creativity are essential to the genre's development for, as Rolls notes, this type of fiction was born, “simultaneously in France and America but also in the translation zone between the two.” Amy Antonio re-imagines the femme fatale. Antonio acknowledges the centrality of the femme fatale to the noir tradition and re-imagines this iconic figure by positioning her on the Renaissance stage, explaining how the historical factors that precipitated the emergence of the noir femme fatale in the years following World War II, similarly existed in the sixteenth century and, as a result, the femme fatale can be re-imagined in a series of Elizabethan and Jacobean plays. The articles in this issue turn from fiction, to theatre, and then to film with Leonie Rutherford embarking on a “Re-imagining the Brand” exercise. Through two, very informative, case studies—Adventures of Tin Tin and Silver, Return to Treasure Island—Rutherford engages with issues of re-imagining classic literary texts as big-screen blockbusters. This article addresses some of the complexities associated with the updating “of classic texts [that] require interpretation and the negotiation of subtle changes in values that have occurred since the creation of the ‘original’.” Erin Hawley also looks at film, through a lens of horror, in “Re-imagining the Horror Genre in Children’s Animated Film”. Hawley explores how animated films have always been an ambiguous space “in terms of age, pleasure, and viewership.” Hawley goes on to challenge common assumptions that “animation itself is often a signifier of safety, fun, nostalgia, and childishness; it is a means of addressing families and young audiences” and outlines how animation complements horror where, “the fantastic and transformative aspects of animation can be powerful tools for telling stories that are dark, surprising, or somehow subversive.” Issues of the small screen, and social media, are reviewed by Karin van Es, Daniela van Geenen, and Thomas Boeschoten in their work of “Re-imagining Television Audience Research on Twitter”. In particular, this work highlights issues with how audience research is undertaken and argues for new ways forward that adapt to the changing viewing landscape: one that features social media as an increasingly important tool for people to engage with more traditional types of entertainment. Fashion, too, features within this special issue with the work Emerald L. King and Denise N. Rall, “Re-imagining the Empire of Japan through Japanese Schoolboy Uniforms”. King and Rall present their research into the significant re-imagining of Japanese cultural and national identities, which are explored in this work through the cataclysmic impact of Western ideologies on Japanese cultural traditions. The idea of re-imagining is challenged by Meg Stalcup through her article “What If? Re-imagined Scenarios and the Re-virtualisation of History” which looks at several events that took place in the lead up to September 11, 2001. Several of the men who would become 9/11 hijackers were stopped for minor traffic violations. Police officers in the United States replayed these incidents of contact, yet their questioning “what if?” asked not only if those moments could have revealed the plot of that traumatic day, but also places alternate scenarios into play. John C. Ryan, Danielle Brady, and Christopher Kueh guide us through a geographical re-imagining of one of Australia’s capital cities in “Where Fanny Balbuk Walked: Re-imagining Perth’s Wetlands through Digital Modelling”. This re-imagining of a major city’s natural environment calls “attention to past indiscretions while invigorating future possibilities.” Moreover, this work highlights the value of re-imagining a city anew as well as re-imagining the original after a process of considerable change. Rachel Franks traces the history of an effort to communicate the concept of equality under the law, to the Indigenous peoples of Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania), in “A True Crime Tale: Re-imagining Governor Arthur’s Proclamation Board for the Tasmanian Aborigines”. This article provides an overview of some of the various re-imaginings of this Board—including the re-imagining of the Board’s history—and also offers a new re-imagination of this curious, colonial object; positing that the Board serves as an early “pamphlet” on justice and punishment. Brooke Collins-Gearing, Vivien Cadungog, Sophie Camilleri, Erin Comensoli, Elissa Duncan, Leitesha Green, Adam Phillips, and Rebecca Stone take a very different, and rather creative, approach to re-imagining with “Listenin’ Up: Re-Imagining Ourselves through Stories of and from Country” a work that explores Western discourses of education; and looks at ways to engage with Aboriginal knowledge through the pedagogical and personal act of listening. These authors attempt to re-imagine “the institutionalised space of our classroom through a dialogic pedagogy.” These articles are, necessarily, brief. Yet, each work does provide insight into various aspects of the re-imagining process while offering new perspectives on how re-imagining takes place—in material culture, learning practices, or in all important media re-interpretations of the world around us. We extend our thanks to our contributors. We thank, too, all those who engaged in the blind peer review process. We sincerely appreciate the efforts of those who offered their expertise and their time as well as offering valuable comments on a wide range of contributions. Rachel Franks, Simon Dwyer, and Denise N. RallEditors

Voice synthesising software Vocaloid (Yamaha Corporation) is a popular tool for professional and amateur music production. At the time of writing, there are over 770,000 videos tagged ‘vocaloid’ on Niconico; karaoke chain Karatez displays the top five thousand tracks on its Website (Karatetsu); Hatsune Miku Wiki has over 59,000 pages, while the Vocaloid Lyrics Wiki has over 90,000. Vocaloid is part of Japan’s unique media mix, comprising of the software and music but also official collaborations and a significant amount of fan culture. However, while there is academic research on the way that Vocaloid music is produced and consumed (Sousa; Hamasaki et al.; Leavitt et al.; Kobayashi and Taguchi), there is a lack of research into the content of Vocaloid songs and music videos: that is, what kinds of themes and messages are present and what this might suggest for producers and consumers. This article highlights the importance of the content of Vocaloid music. To this end, I have focussed on Vocaloid composer/producer Neru’s 2018 album CYNICISM. Not to be confused with the Vocaloid Akita Neru, Neru’s music tends to focus on negative affect such as depression, loneliness, and anxiety. Documenting such themes helps to illustrate some of the struggles that producers and consumers experience. I provide a brief explanation of Vocaloid, followed by a reflection on their personas and functioning as a Body without Organs (Annett; Lam; Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-Oedipus). Then I introduce Small’s concept of musicking to provide a framework for the way that music transmits certain affects. In the second half of the article, I unpack Neru’s album and its use of imagery, lyrics, and sound. Vocaloids Voice synthesising software Vocaloid was initially released in 2004, the result of a collaboration between Japan’s Yamaha Corporation and Spain’s Pompeu Fabra University (Voctro Labs; Yamada 17). This software allows the user to create singing audio, drawing from recordings of real people called “voicebanks”. These voicebanks are produced by third-party companies, and are typically provided with a persona with an appearance and personality. For instance, the most well-known Vocaloid is Hatsune Miku, while Kagamine Rin and Kagamine Len are those most used by Neru. Essentially anyone who uses the Vocaloid software can become producers – the term used in Vocaloid cultures for composer. Vocaloid is an example of Japan’s “unique media mix”, where the media are produced not just by “the original company”, but also via “commercial collaborations with media franchises”, and “by a creative collective of individuals on the internet” (Leavitt et al. 204 & 211; see also Steinberg). As well as producers there are songwriters, lyricists, tuners, illustrators, and animators. Some people edit Vocaloid videos, creating compilations, ranking them, and so on (Hamasaki et al. 166). There is also a vibrant fan culture of database managers, fan translators, artists, and fiction writers, as well as human cover artists (utaite), such as Mafumafu, who became popular in part due to his covers of Neru’s music. Official corporate production mostly involves Hatsune Miku, and includes concerts, video games, and collaborations for consumer products. Such branding and collaboration illustrates the creation of a complex Vocaloid narrative. Accordingly, most researchers who examine Vocaloid discuss the complex relationships between various content creators and their methods of collaboration (Yamada), as well as Vocaloid as fan-generated media, examining issues such as commercial interest and exploitation (Bell; Sousa; Jørgensen et al.; To; Kobayashi and Taguchi). However, in this article I am interested in why fans strongly enjoy Vocaloid music and find meaning in it; as I will explore below, such fan collaboration is both a symptom and a cause. Personas and Bodies without Organs Although Vocaloid has a crowd-sourced and collaborative production environment, its use of digital voicebanks and significant consumer culture has led to criticism. For instance, Lam (1110–11) describes voicebanks as being “devoid of originality”, suggests that “all Vocaloid works are derivative”, and also that Vocaloid simply allows users “to indulge … within the virtual space of fabricated authenticity and depthlessness”. However, it is evident from comments on Niconico, YouTube, Reddit, the aforementioned Wikis, Vocaloid Discord servers, and any other space where fans socialise that listeners are emotionally moved by Vocaloid music. Zaborowski, for instance, describes two Japanese boys enthusiastically singing to ryo/Supercell’s Melt. Strikingly, Zaborowski (107) noted that the boys repeatedly told him that “precisely because the voice is the same, the listener can appreciate the quality of the melody and the lyrics”, and that a Vocaloid “sounds different when you are sad. Or when you are away from home”. Listeners are experiencing something when they engage with Vocaloid music, and it would be hasty to simply dismiss their experiences as “depthless”. One factor that makes Vocaloid music particularly authentic and affective for its audiences is the attachment of crowdsourced, constructed personas to Vocaloids. Authenticity here is not necessarily evaluated by the virtual nature of the artist (or instrument) itself, but the producers’ effort to create the work (Zaborowski 107). In this sense there is a need to consider the people involved in producing and listening to Vocaloid music, who find meaning in the songs and characters. Aside from Vocaloids, producers and utaite often also establish a character or imagery as a persona. Neru for instance is recognisable through his avatar—a closed eye with eyelashes and a single tear, and the various characters featured in his videos. The practice of creating a persona for non-human items is unique to Japanese culture, visible in the way that yuru kyara or “wobbly characters” are created to represent entities such as events, corporations, locations, policies, and so on (Occhi 77). These characters can be human-like or creature-like, drawing on Shinto’s anthropomorphism (Jensen and Blok 97). Kyara help minimise the separation between humans and nature, as well as humans and technology (Occhi 80–81). The attachment of kyara to voicebanks, which would otherwise have no face, helps to facilitate a sense of humanisation and connection with the software. It may be that the synthetic nature of the music as well as the use of personas in Vocaloid music means that the listener feels that the song is sung by the Vocaloid, but also processes the creator’s emotion. Kenmochi (4), for instance, suggests that since synthetic voices hold less emotion, it is the persona that functions as a symbol to connect the creator and listener. The producer is able to “impose their own values and perceptions on the virtual character” (Lam 1111), and in doing so, the persona functions as what Deleuze and Guattari call a Body without Organs (Anti-Oedipus 9; A Thousand Plateaus 151). That is, the persona has “no fixed identity” (Lam 1117), and can stratify or destratify, depending on what people do with it (Annett 172). They can become whatever the listener or creator wants, and so there is an emotional connection. Vocaloid music is meaningful to listeners, then, not despite its digital, virtual, constructed nature, but in fact because of what these elements facilitate. Musicking Christopher Small’s work Musicking also provides a framework useful to consider the emotional impact of Vocaloid music. Small argues that “the fundamental nature and meaning of music lie not in objects … but in action”, and therefore proposes a definition of ‘musicking’; to “take part, in any capacity, in a musical performance” (8–9, emphasis omitted). Importantly, for Small (77) simply listening to a recording is to take part in music, and “we may be sure that somebody's values are being explored, affirmed, and celebrated in every musical performance”. Small’s comments here provide a framework for focussing on the experiences of the people involved in producing and listening to Vocaloid music, rather than getting caught up in negative beliefs around the digital nature of production. Further, reflecting on remix, a significant aspect of Vocaloid music, Small (214) notes that relationships are “open to reinterpretation over and over again as listeners create new contexts for their reception and their ritual use of it”. Further, Small (134) suggests that the act of musicking functions as a powerful “means of social definition and self-definition”. Small’s suggestions here that music can be recycled, reinterpreted, and used for self-definition aligns with many aspects of Vocaloid music; tracks are frequently covered by producers using other Vocaloids, or utaite; the meanings of lyrics are frequently discussed in comment sections of YouTube videos and Wikis, and fans often align themselves with certain Vocaloids or producers that they enjoy and relate to. Such self-definition is an important theme to keep in mind when I consider Neru’s CYNICISM album as it touches on societal issues such as loneliness, nihilism, and low self-esteem. CYNICISM Vocaloid producer Neru, also known as z’5 or Oshiire-P, is quite popular. At the time of writing, he has 124,000 followers on Japanese video-sharing site Niconico (Neru, "Neru"), 242,000 on Chinese video-sharing site BiliBili (Neru, "Neru_Official"), 388,000 monthly listeners on Spotify (Spotify), and 560,000 subscribers on YouTube (Neru, "Neru OFFICIAL"). He released his first Vocaloid song in 2009, and to date has three major albums. CYNICISM is the latest, released in 2018. The standard edition contains 14 tracks, and all aside from one use the Vocaloids Kagamine Rin or Kagamine Len. Fig. 1: CYNICISM standard edition, illustrated by Sudou Souta (Apple Music) Fig. 2: Tracklist All quotes from songs are my own translations from the original Japanese. The CYNICISM album communicates a strong sense of nihilism. Nihilism is an ambiguous concept (Nietzsche 76; Diken 6; Marmysz 61). However, Marmysz (71) summarises that nihilists have three claims: that humans are alienated from the world; that this should not be the case; and that “there is nothing we can do” about this situation. As explored below, Neru’s nihilism appears to align with Kant’s “existential nihilism (believing that life has no meaning)” (Gertz, ch. 2, emphasis omitted). It is worth noting that Neru’s music has some commonalities with other genres. For instance, Prinz (584–85) suggests that punk music is irreverent, challenging social norms, and is nihilistic, reflecting on themes such as “decay, despair, suicide, and societal collapse”. As explored below, CYNICISM projects feelings including disappointment with society, poor self-esteem, and themes of irreverence. Irreverence and Society The namesake of the album is important to note within the context of nihilism, as cynicism can be understood as “a passive nihilist affect” (Diken 61). Cynicism is the attitude that comes about when one has failed “to come to terms with loss”, “to realize that something has been lost”, or understand exactly what has been lost. It incited a state of melancholy, trapping the cynic, who suffers an “utterly debilitating sense of disappointment, the root cause of which it cannot identify or move beyond” (Allen, ch. 7). In numerous ways Neru exhibits a lack of faith in humanity and society. Just the title of the track What a Terrible Era communicates a sense of hopelessness, particularly the line “強いて言うとするなら人類は失敗作だった” (“if I had to say, humanity was a work of failure”). The album’s lyrics repeatedly refer to the negative state of the world; “本日の世界予報向上性低迷後退” (“today’s world forecast: Progress is stagnant and regressing”) (Hey, Rain). SNOBBISM asks “バグ塗れの人類のデバッグはいつ終わる” (“humanity is stained with bugs; when will debugging end?”). Neru repeatedly laments the state of humanity and his disappointment with the world. Further, cynicism is an attitude of scorn towards “sincerity and integrity”, which are viewed as “a cover for self-interest” (Allen, ch. 1). In line with this, reflecting the cynic’s embrace of untruthfulness (Gertz, ch. 3), in SNOBBISM Neru states “一生、ブラフを威すがいいさ” (“it’s okay to threaten to bluff through your entire life”). Further, Diken (59) suggests that “capitalism is the age of cynicism”, and the Law-Evading Rock (Neru OFFICIAL, "Law-Evading Rock") music video, illustrated and animated by Ryuusee, exhibits such a critique of capitalism. The video is quite chaotic, designed to appear as a Japanese TV channel. Meme-style characters are superimposed onto photographic backgrounds to depict absurd advertisements and news programmes with flashing and dancing, as the lyrics call for the viewer to escape from reality. The character in this video, Datsu, appears to enter a state of nirvana when Neru’s CD is inserted into him. Here we can see how personas are particularly affectual in Vocaloid music, with fans stating that they relate to Datsu, among other forms of affectation, in comments on his Wikia page (Neru Wikia). Further, CYNICISM frequently calls for the self-identified ‘losers’ to band together, breaking the norms of society. Whatever Whatever Whatever, with its upbeat tune, bright colours, and proclamation of “能天気STYLE” (“Carefree STYLE”) exhibits a strong sense that ‘nothing matters so do whatever’. Let’s Drop Dead’s “僕等はきっとあぶれ者” (“we are surely hooligans”), Law-Evading Rock’s “負け犬になって 吠えろ 吠えろ” (“become a loser, roar, roar”) indicate a sense of knowing that one is ‘useless’ but attempting to take pride in or band together in spite (or indeed, because of this). These lyrics ascribe to a nihilistic notion that nothing matters, but are also a call to arms in a sense – a call for losers to band together for strength, and to act with irreverence. Some encourage the listener to become someone unfit for society (Law-Evading Rock), or to turn back on and break away from morals that are designed to get one into heaven (March of Losers). The music video for SNOBBISM (Neru OFFICIAL, "SNOBBISM"), illustrated and animated by Ryuusee, features Bizu, a demon man wearing a formal suit and top hat. The video has a retro style and is bright but muted with blurry backgrounds, streaking, and graininess. Bizu appears to take on a retro rubber hose animation style, dancing and sometimes hitting objects while calling on the viewer to “make a scene”; to be irreverent and break the norms of society. Personal Failure CYNICISM also in numerous ways refers to personal failures and a lack of faith in the future. Some lyrics refer to a plan or manual (SNOBBISM, Song of Running Away), or a future being wrecked or torn (Spare Me My Inferiority, What a Terrible Era). Corresponding with the nihilistic tone of the album, Whatever Whatever Whatever describes being lazy today, and putting effort in tomorrow, while Let’s Drop Dead simply states “明日はくたばろうぜ” (“tomorrow let’s drop dead”). Yet continuing forward into the future seems mandatory, as in Whatever Whatever Whatever Neru describes himself as being too much of a wimp to commit suicide, and March of Losers repeats the refrain “進め進め” (“forward, forward”), calling for the losers to continue even though “this kind of life has no meaning”. Some tracks indicate a more raw or vulnerable state, with Nihil and the Sunken City’s “もっとちょーだい ちょーだい 承認をちょーだい” (“more, give it to me, give it to me, please give me approval”). Importantly, Neru identifies himself as a loser, engaging in self-irreverence, making fun of himself (Kroth 104), referring to himself and his social group as ‘losers’. The music videos for Whatever Whatever Whatever (Neru OFFICIAL, "Whatever Whatever Whatever") and Let’s Drop Dead (Neru OFFICIAL, "Let’s Drop Dead"), illustrated and animated by Terada Tera, exhibit self-irreverent themes. The former uses vapourwave aesthetics, and both exhibit bright colours, with cartoonish characters I and Yaya dancing and drinking alcohol. I wears a Space Invaders jacket and grill glasses, while Yaya wears a t-shirt featuring a marijuana leaf and a pink animal-eared beanie; together in the video they communicate a ‘slacker’, partying attitude. What is particularly interesting here is the way that nihilistic lyrics have been employed alongside upbeat, catchy, pop-style music and flashy colours. Such dissonance is attention-grabbing and also reflects a sarcastic, careless sense of cynicism, one that is “irreverent” and “playful” – a style that Nietzsche adopted (Allen, ch. 7). Relatedly, Marmysz (4) suggests that humour is a useful response to nihilism because it shatters expectations. It is important to understand CYNICISM within the Japanese context. Discussing the Meiji Period, Nishitani (175) points out that Buddhism and Confucianism lost their power, and that with modernisation Japan became Europeanised and Americanised to the extent that there is a spiritual void. More recently, various economic crises and disasters throughout the 1990s and 2000s have contributed to national trauma (Roquet 89). Due to significant societal pressure, many Japanese people feel anxiety, sensitivity, vulnerability, and alienation (Ren 29). Accordingly, much Japanese anime engages with feelings of nihilism (Lozano-Méndez and Loriguillo-López; Tsang). In some respects Vocaloid culture is interrelated with hikikomori, a form of social withdrawal associated with various psychological, social, and behavioural factors (Li and Wong 603). Much academic literature exists on hikikomori, which in many ways is a Japanese phenomenon, being influenced by “culture, society and history”, and having come about in Japan during a period of “very rapid socioeconomic changes” (Kato et al. 1062). Many Vocaloid producers and utaite identify as hikikomori, including Mafumafu. However, studies on hikikomori outside Japan have shown that feelings of isolation, anxiety, and social exclusion are a global concern (Krieg and Dickie 61; Kato et al. 1062), contributing to Neru’s popularity among English-speaking audiences Conclusion My goal in this article is to point out that a significant number of people find Vocaloid music relatable and affectual, and it would be hasty to dismiss such music as “depthless” due to its use of voicebanks and connection to consumer culture. Vocaloid music is particularly affective in part due to the way that Vocaloids, producers, and utaite make use of personas which function as bodies without organs: something that listeners are able to project their own feelings onto. Further, Small’s concept of musicking encourages us to pay attention to what producers are saying as well as what listeners and fans are engaging with: what values are being explored and how they are being used for self-definition. It is important to consider not just the economic aspects of participatory culture and the networks of production surrounding Vocaloid, but the content of the music and the meanings that listeners get out of it. Neru’s CYNICISM album is particularly interesting in this regard. The combination of upbeat music, bright and garish imagery, and nihilistic lyrics communicates a strong sense of disappointment with society and a lack of self-worth in a dissonant manner – there is a sense of playfulness that is attention-grabbing and uses humour to communicate these negative themes. Given the breadth of Vocaloid content that is produced, further research into other producers, fan groups, and pieces of media will provide insight into this varied and rich phenomenon. References Allen, Ansgar. Cynicism. Cambridge: MIT P, 2020. Annett, Sandra. "What Can a Vocaloid Do? The Kyara as Body without Organs." Mechademia 10 (2017): 163–77. Bell, Sarah A. "The dB in the .Db: Vocaloid Software as Posthuman Instrument." Popular Music and Society 39.2 (2016): 222–240. Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus. Trans. Brian Massumi. 11th ed. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 2005. ———. Anti-Oedipus. Trans. Robert Hurley et al. 10th ed. 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Animations, in their various genres, are an important amalgamation of art and technology that suggest new ways of thinking, feeling, and experiencing contemporary issues (Wells; Whitley). Animations can provide a commentary on the current planetary crisis, such as climate change, by offering a radically altered reality (Lundberg et al. 9). In the case of environmental animations, these issues become more evident because at their core is the production of knowledge, subjectivities, and speculations about the future of the planet and humanity. These problematisations usually arise from the centrality of non-human entities as narrative subjects (Starosielski). However, even in other genres of animation, such as fantasy, superhero fiction, and comedy, where non-human beings may or may not be at the narrative’s centre, it is possible to find suggestions regarding environmental issues emerging from characters, episodes, and specific events (see, for example, Vital, “Lapis Lazuli”; Vital, “Water”). Such is the case with Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir (2015–Present), where climate change is addressed in the episodes Stormy Weather 1 and Stormy Weather 2 with the supervillain Climatika, offering an original commentary on human responsibility in causing climate changes. This article examines how climate change in this animated series is constructed as black magic through these episodes, shown between Seasons 1 and 3. Black magic is understood as where people will use non-human phenomena to fulfil their dark intentions against the forces of light, often to the individuals’ benefit (Thacker). Despite its anthropocentric roots, the relationship between climate change and black magic in the animation is analysed using Jane Bennett’s concept of enchantment in the modern world. According to this concept, nature—often perceived as inert, passive, and instrumental—actively impacts on human life, regardless of human beings’ alienation from non-human entities’ affective power (Bennett). Thus, in the animation, although Aurore Beauréal, driven by selfish motivations, seeks to control time by becoming the supervillain Climatika, the effect of this manipulation proves to be completely contingent on fostering a world-without-us feeling, which has also been present in other animations and media. Negative Emotions, Akumatisation, and Black Magic Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir (Miraculous: Les aventures de Ladybug et Chat Noir) is a French 3D animated series created by Thomas Astruc, co-produced with South Korea, Japan, Italy, Brazil, and Portugal, and involving the studios Zagtoon, Method Animation, Toei Animation, SAMG Animation, SK Broadband, TF1, and Gloob. It is a superhero fiction series that tells the adventures of Marinette Dupain-Cheng (Ladybug) and Adrien Agreste (Cat Noir), two teenage students who possess jewels (Miraculous) that connect them to magical creatures (Kwamis). These characters mostly lead normal lives, keeping their superhero identities a secret (including from each other, fuelling a confused platonic love from Cat Noir for Ladybug and Marinette for Adrien). During crises, the Kwamis grant superpowers to both of them to protect Paris from the evil villain Hawk Moth (whose alter ego is Gabriel Agreste, Adrien’s father). The series is one of the most popular animations today, aired in over 120 countries and winner of several international awards (Aguasanta-Regalado). Hawk Moth possesses the Butterfly Miraculous, which enables him to create akumas (butterflies with the power to sense individuals with intense negative emotions, such as anger, distress, envy, and sadness, and akumatise them). At first, this butterfly grants Moth the ability to communicate telepathically with its target when it lands on and possesses an important object of the victim. Therefore, the villain makes an irresistible proposal to grant superpowers to the victim (usually in an attempt to reverse an unfortunate situation the victim faces) and, in return, the victim is expected to defeat Ladybug and Cat Noir. Akumatisation is a clear allegorical reference to demonic possession in the mythological terms of Judeo-Christian culture, while the akumatised villains are, less evidently, related to the image of the witch in Renaissance Europe. According to Carolyn Merchant, there was a consensus in the sixteenth century that witches, by making a pact with the devil, acquired the power to alter the weather drastically, produce diseases, destroy crops, and spread famine. Furthermore, some scientists of the time connected the behaviour of witches to an excess of melancholic humour, which was related to anxieties, sadness, and other extreme negative emotions that made them vulnerable to the devil’s attacks (Merchant 140). Therefore, in the episodes Stormy Weather 1 and Stormy Weather 2 there appears to be a manifestation of two out of the three levels of possession in the akumatised character, as indicated in the main demonology manuals of the sixteenth century. The first level, which is that of individual possession, affects the victim on psychological and physical levels, and their intentions and actions become controlled or inspired by the evil spirit. The third level involves the possibility of climatological possession, with the induction of extreme weather phenomena such as droughts and floods (Thacker 62). Aurore Beauréal—the villain of episodes Stormy Weather 1 and Stormy Weather 2—transforms into Climatika, resembling the witches of Renaissance Europe with all their powers of black magic. That is, a psychological and moral disposition induces Aurore Beauréal to undergo a radical metamorphosis to gain control over the world and achieve her objectives. This world control, driven by selfish objectives, which could be achieved through technological and scientific artifices, is depicted in the series as something stemming from the darkest depths of our beings—an innate desire for dominance and control for personal ends, a form of black magic. One of the dilemmas found in superhero fiction series and films in addressing climate change is the exploitation of exceptionally catastrophic weather events but concealing the long-term human actions that lead to transformations in the environment (McGowan). The other dilemma is the simplification of the environmental issue by transferring the possibility of its resolution to a hero. One interpretation is that the hero of these texts represents the status quo of corporations that contribute to the problem, but in sponsoring these series or films are not held accountable, or the climate problem is too readily fixed (Chatterji). However, the Miraculous animation addresses these dilemmas by examining extreme weather events and placing them directly in the hands of a character who is an ordinary yet ambitious individual, and like any person has emotional instabilities. Miraculous, then, explicitly expresses the anthropogenic nature of climate change and indicates the impossibility of effectively controlling the cosmos by those who, driven by their negative desires, resort to artifices to dominate planetary forces. Finally, the efforts of the superheroes Ladybug and Cat Noir prove insufficient to prevent Climatika’s return, who emerges as even more powerful due to a set of factors that promote and intensify the negative emotions of Aurore Beauréal. Therefore, Miraculous can highlight the human face of climate change and its inability to be easily overcome. Climatika: Revenge of the Weather Witch The first season starts with the story of Aurore Beauréal, a young student who dreams of becoming the weather girl for the KIDZ+ channel. In a contest involving numerous candidates, only she and Mireille Caquet (another student) entered the final. The fact that Caquet is an extremely shy and calm young woman led Beauréal to believe that she would easily win the competition over Caquet, due to Beauréal having a more outgoing nature and assertive exploration of her physical appearance. Nevertheless, Aurore suffered an unexpected and humiliating defeat (with a difference of half a million votes) that was seen nationwide. Hawk Moth senses the vibrations of extreme anger and sadness from Aurore Beauréal and sends an akuma to her, transforming her into Climatika (Stormy Weather). The aesthetics of Climatika are related to the stereotype of the modern teenage witch in contemporary fantasy stories. She is depicted wearing a pleated mini skirt and a short dark blue blouse with puffy sleeves—a retro trend from the 1980s lending a romantic and feminine touch to the composition. The wand or the magic broomstick is replaced by an umbrella, from which she casts her weather control powers, and her expression is that of a person possessed by a demon. In this sense, there are similarities with the character Lapis Lazuli from Steven Universe, who also had an aesthetic related to the witch stereotype, but within the 1960s–1970s hippie culture. Moreover, Lapis Lazuli’s powers are associated with the occult and evil, as she can control the entire hydrological cycle (Vital, “Water”). The similarities end here, as Lapis Lazuli herself is an alien and water elemental who destabilises and disrupts the attempts of control and domination promoted by the characters representing modern science and the State. However, Climatika uses a technical device (black magic) to control the weather and achieve her revenge goals. She causes catastrophic climatic events and promotes horror in the name of a global order that satisfies her desires. The instrumentalisation that Climatika promotes through black magic subtly brings her closer to the scientists who sought to investigate and control nature for human progress during the early days of the Scientific Revolution. In the sixteenth century, scientists such as Francis Bacon commonly used metaphors involving the torture of witches and the exploitation of nature to uncover their secrets, to control and alter the world for the advancement and well-being of humans (Merchant). However, black magic, whether through a satanic or pagan path, also has anthropocentric roots, manifesting as a tool that humans can use to enforce their intentions or as an internal force available for self-benefit (Thacker 29). In the case of Climatika, the hydrological cycle was understood as a tool responsive to her emotions and supposedly at her service. The presence of the phenomenon brings it closer to the stereotype of the witch serving the forces of evil and can also act as an allegory for the scientist who fulfils the State’s or private corporations’ obscure purposes at the expense of others. Not by chance, Hawk Moth, when transforming Aurore into Climatika, proclaims, “tu vas devenir ma miss méteór” (you will become my weather girl), a sentence that plays on Aurore’s work in scientific journalism for weather forecasts, while the hidden meaning behind the statement is about the witch manipulating the weather. Climatika will boast about being the only weather girl who gets all the forecasts right (as she is the one who influences the weather events). Although Climatika takes an anthropocentric stance towards the climate, her case highlights how hydro-meteorological phenomena affect Aurore Beauréal to the point where she aspires to be the weather girl and, if not possible, to become a witch who controls the hydrological cycle. Aurore, at first, wished to be the spokesperson for meteorology, studying the weather and climate. When she fails, she aspires for more: to become the weather girl, merging herself with meteorological phenomena and using climatic factors to organise the world to satisfy her desires. She appears oblivious to the way the weather affects her, although it is central to her life. She considers herself free and in control of herself and the world. The perception of the modern world as disenchanted, characterised by reason, freedom, and control, results in an alienation from the affective power of non-human phenomena (Bennett). This alienation leads to an arrogant attitude, such as that of Aurore Beauréal, who transforms into Climatika and believes she can finally be recognised as the weather girl with her new hydrokinesis powers. However, despite all the chaos that Climatika promotes by inducing hurricanes, hailstorms, and lightning, dramatically affecting the lives of the inhabitants of Paris and all of France, she fails in the face of Ladybug and Cat Noir. Finally, Aurore will have to deal with the defeat against Mireille Caquet and public censorship for transforming into Climatika, the weather witch. Cosmic Pessimism and Planetary Catastrophe in the Return of Climatika In the seventeenth episode of the third season, there is a prime example of what Aurore Beauréal went through after being defeated and the akumatisation being undone. Her schoolmate, Chloé Bourgeois, publicly humiliates her for having low grades and not having emotional control, becoming a failed villain. Hawk Moth takes advantage of the opportunity left by Bourgeois and tells Aurore that she will always be and continue to grow in power as Climatika, transforming her once again. Being emotionally affected, Climatika’s powers amplify significantly, and she uses volcanic explosions and moves the planet away from the sun’s orbit to cool it down, destroying all of humanity and proving her true power. In this episode, Stormy Weather 2, Climatika manages to establish herself as a global threat, inducing a dramatic climate change. Fear and horror spread throughout the world as people embrace each other to stay alive in the apocalyptic cold. Even the heroes, Ladybug and Cat Noir, feel haunted by the immense power of Climatika and find themselves in an intimate moment reminiscing about all the challenges they have overcome in the past, and the growth they have experienced over time while fighting together against the forces of evil. It is in sharing these memories that they find the power to come together once again, regaining the trust and confidence that help them to face and defeat Climatika. Thus, because of suppressed affections, unfulfilled desires, the combined force of words, and extreme social and meteorological events, negative and selfish emotions emerged and re-emerged, fuelling the return of Climatika—the regional and later planetary climate threat. Moreover, in the case of Ladybug and Cat Noir, the affective power of their bodily and physical encounter generated memories, along with deep positive emotions and words of trust, affection, and unity. These provided the means to change the course of events and prevent the realisation of the climate catastrophe (they no longer felt overcome and could battle Climatika). The two episodes suggest that the emergence of the climate catastrophe is a result of the feelings of disenchantment amongst people in the world and the combination of human alienation from the affective power of things, and the power that events and things gain in their encounters worldwide. The suggestion is the development of an ethics of generosity as a response to climate change that involves sharpening the perception of the affective power of things and encounters between humans in public spaces, as well as between humans and non-humans in everyday life (Bennett). Nonetheless, the episodes Stormy Weather 1 and Stormy Weather 2 display a type of cosmic pessimism perceptible through the emotional failures and revenge of Aurore Beauréal and Climatika. Cosmic pessimism indicates distrust regarding the impossibility of controlling and organising a world that does not require order. This world does not manifest itself for us or in itself but as a world-without-us (Thacker, Cosmic). Control does not make Aurore more respected, although she is feared when she manifests as Climatika. As Climatika, she inflicts on other people the suffering caused by the catastrophic disruption of their routines due to the manifestation of the effects of climate change. Conversely, the disappointment of the double failure to become the weather girl and the subsequent bullying becomes an oppressive reality for Aurore that induces more fear and horror due to her inability of being able to organise the world according to her desires. Thus, climate change is manifested in Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir as a result of the failed attempt to control the world (represented by the metaphor of black magic) and the impossibility of organising the world according to human desires. Conclusions Ladybug and Cat Noir manage to save the day in the episodes Stormy Weather 1 and Stormy Weather 2. However, the return of Climatika manifests itself as persistence, which suggests two important points. First, heroes or exceptional individuals cannot handle the complexity involved in the climate crisis because the crisis results from multiple factors, including human emotions, under the pressure of a system emphasising competition for prominence, efficiency, and social recognition. Climatika was defeated but returned for the same reason: the primacy of the ideal of success and recognition in a universe of pure abstract value that is based on the alienation of emotions. Second, profound uncertainties arise from the current climate crisis. Anthropogenic climate change is manifested through completely contingent effects, where the expectation of controlling and ordering the world according to human desires is disrupted, resulting in a sense of cosmic pessimism due to the world-without-us feeling. The indifference of the universe to human desires becomes explicit, exposing the failure of the abstraction of self and world control—the foundation of modern ontology and capitalism. Therefore, Climatika highlights climate change as a form of black magic: an intensive attempt to control and manipulate the world driven by selfish feelings that deepen the alienation regarding the power and indifference of the elements that compose the planetary atmosphere. References Aguasanta-Regalado, Miriam E., Ángel San Martín Alonso, and Isabel M. Gallardo-Fernández. “Analysis of the Narratives with Characters That Make Ethnic Diversity Visible—Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir.” Education Sciences 13.5 (2023): 460-470. Bennett, Jane. The Enchantment of Modern Life: Attachments, Crossing, and Ethics. Princeton UP, 2016. Chatterji, Roma. “Gaia and the Environmental Apocalypse in Superhero Comics and Science Fantasy.” Perspectives – A Peer-Reviewed, Bilingual, Interdisciplinary E-Journal 2 (2022): 1-30. Lundberg, Anita, André Vasques Vital, and Shruti Das. “Tropical Imaginaries and Climate Crisis: Embracing Relational Climate Discourses.” Etropic: Electronic Journal of Studies in the Tropics 20.2 (2021): 1-31. McGowan, Andrew. "Superhero Ecologies: An Environmental Reading of Contemporary Superhero Cinema." Honors Projects 110 (2019). <https://digitalcommons.bowdoin.edu/honorsprojects/110>. Merchant, Carolyn. The Death of Nature: Women, Ecology and the Scientific Revolution. Harper & Row, 1990. Starosielski, Nicole. “Movements That Are Drawn: A History of Environmental Animation from The Lorax to FernGully to Avatar.” The International Communication Gazette 73.1-2 (2011): 145-163. “Stormy Weather.” Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir. Created by Thomas Astruc. Season 1, episode 1. Zagtoon and Method Animation et al., 19 Oct. 2015. “Stormy Weather #2.” Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir. Created by Thomas Astruc. Season 3, episode 17. Zagtoon and Method Animation et al., 2 June 2019. Thacker, Eugene. Cosmic Pessimism. U of Minnesota P, 2016. ———. Thacker, Eugene. In The Dust of This Planet: Horror of Philosophy. Vol. 1. Zero Books, 2011. Vital André Vasques. “Lapis Lazuli: Politics and Aqueous Contingency in the Animation Steven Universe.” Series – International Journal of TV Serial Narratives 4.1 (2018): 51–62. ———. “Water, Gender, and Modern Science in the Steven Universe Animation.” Feminist Media Studies 20.8 (2020): 1144-1158. ———. “Water Spells: New Materialist Theoretical Insights from Animated Fantasy and Science Fiction.” Historia Ambiental Latinoamericana y Caribeña (HALAC) Revista de la Solcha 12.1 (2022): 246–269. Wells, Paul. Understanding Animation. Routledge, 1998. Whitley, David. The Idea of Nature in Disney Animation. Ashgate, 2008.

Fig. 1: “Pink Flamingo Furby” (2000), “Peachy Furby Baby” (1999), and “Owl Furby” (1999) Sunlight Up (“Dah-ay-loh oo-tye”): Introduction As playthings at the junction of human experience and imagination, toys like Furby present an interesting touch point to explore cultural imaginations, hopes, and fears about zoomorphic robots and AI toys. This year marks their 25th anniversary. Created by Dave Hampton and Caleb Chung, Furby publicly debuted at the American International Toy Fair in 1998. Originally released by Tiger Electronics, this toy was later sold to Hasbro in 2005 to 2007. Since their introduction to the market, Furbys have been occupying our shelves and basements, perceived as “annoying little owl-like dolls with embedded sound-recording chips” (Gullin) that speak their own language “furbish” (shown throughout in parenthesis). Early reportage likened Furby to all kinds of cute critters: mogwais, hamsters, and Star Trek’s tribbles. Narratively Furbys are framed as a benevolent, alien species, living in space in a cloud known as Furbyland. For motivations not revealed, Furbys, in looking down on our planet, were so struck by the beautiful view of nature and its signs of peacefulness — “no worry (boo boh-bay)” — that they jumped, plummeting to us like tiny fluffy asteroids. Little did they know that their arrival would spark an intergalactic diplomatic incident. During its introduction in 1998, the initial discourse in media reportage emphasised anxieties of the unknown. What lies beneath the surface of Furby, as a toy that might blur the line between the real and imagined for children? What technologies might it harbour? As a hybrid of technology and animal, Furby appeared as a creepy-cute cultural icon that simultaneously delighted and horrified children and adults alike. Today adult fans reimagine Furby through play and customisation as part of their reflections on their childhood experiences of this cultural moment, and as a way of exploring new futures. Furby provides an opportunity to reflect on adults’ interactions with toys, including parents, members of the public, and fans motivated by nostalgia. At the time of its release Furby presented adults with moments of “dissonance” towards new horrifying technologies that “might occur at the seams [of] … monumental cultural shifts” (Powell 4). But for adult fans today, as a childhood memory, the toy represents both strangeness and future possibilities; it has become a tool of “disrupt[ing] and challeng[ing] beliefs and connections” (Rand 9). In this article I primarily analyse the “original” Furbys of 1998 to 2002, but also mention a range of later versions. This includes: the Emoto-tronic Furbys (2006) which were designed to have more expressive faces; the Furby Boom (2003), a toy whose personality changes according to the level of care it is provided with; and the Furby Connect (2016), which has bluetooth capacity. This discussion is supported by a thematic analysis of 3800 news articles about Furby from 1998 to 2000, visual analysis of both the original and customised iterations of Furby, as well as my reflections as a member of the Furby fandom community. You Play? (U-nye-loo-lay-doo?): Furby Encounters A key part of the discourse around Furby since its introduction in 1998 was, “who would want one?” Indeed, the answer at the time appeared to be “several million of us, the toy demons hope” (Weeks). After their release in American toy stores on 2 October 1998 in limited supplies, a Furbish frenzy ensued, resulting in altercations between shoppers and staff (e.g. Munroe; Warmbir; Associated Press). Aged 10, I recall my little black and white Furby, Coco, waiting for me on the shelves of the electronics section of Big W in Australia, fortunately with no such commotion. Furby is classed by the Guinness World Records as the world’s first AI toy, but it was certainly not the first electronic toy to enter the market; at the time of Furby’s release, Tickle Me Elmo and My Interactive Pooh presented competition, and by the late 1980s there was already concern about how electronic pet toys might erode emotion and connection (Turkle, “Authenticity”; Turkle, “Nascent”). Speculation over the reason for the Furby mass hysteria ensued. Some suggested the appeal was the toy’s status symbol status (Beck), whereas others cited its broad appeal: “it's not gender specific; it doesn't appeal to a particular age group; and most important, it's affordable and doesn't require additional equipment or a computer” (Davis). Some experts offered their commentary of the cyberpet phenomena in general, suggesting that it is a way of dealing with isolation and loneliness (Yorkshire Post). Indeed, all of these features are important to note when we consider the transformation of Furby into queer icon. Central to Furby’s cultural narrative is the idea of contact, or a meeting between robot and user; through play children “teach” their new pet Earth’s new ways (Marsh, “Coded”; Marsh, “Uncanny”). And with this contact also comes a sense of the unknown: what lies beneath the creature’s surface? In their study of zoomorphic robots, Hirofumi Katsumi and Daniel White suggest that Donna Haraway’s work on animal encounters might help us understand this idea of contact. As “animal-like” creature, Furby recalls the transformative potentials of meeting with the more-than-human. Furby’s presence on toy shelves, in classrooms and in homes was one of the first times society had to consider what it meant to “enter the world of becoming with” zoomorphic robots, and to reflect on “who or what ... is precisely at stake” in this entanglement (Haraway 19). What do we learn about ourselves and the unknown through our encounters with Furby? “Monster” (Moh-moh): Technological Threat, Monstrous Other In media reportage, Furby is framed as both new and innovative, but also as a threatening fluffy anarchist. With its technology largely unknown, Furby at the time of its release presented society with a sense of “technohorror” and “imaginings of [social] collapse” (Powell 24). A common concern was that Furby might record and repeat inappropriate language in an act of rebellion. Occasionally tabloid newspapers would report claims such as, "MUM … was horrified when she sat down to play with her daughter's new Furby toy and it squeaked: "F*** me" (The Sun). Some concerns were quite serious, including that Furby could emit electromagnetic fields that would create interference for medical devices and aircraft instruments; this was later disproven by engineers (Tan and Hinberg; Basky; Computer Security). Other urban myths pointed to a more whimsical Furby, whose sensors had the capacity to launch spacecraft (Watson). One persistent concern was the surveillance potentials of Furby. In 1999 the US National Security Agency (NSA) issued a ban on Furby in their Fort Mead headquarters, with concern that they might record and repeat confidential information (Gullin; Ramalho; Borger). This was denied by Tiger Electronics, who emphatically stated “Furby is not a spy” (Computer Security). Engineers performing “autopsies” on Furbys quickly put much of this anxiety to rest (Phobe). This was met with mirthful rebuttals of how future Furbys might be transformed into cute and ubiquitous “wireless furby transmitters” to gather intelligence in warzones (Gullin). As a result, the initial anxiety about surveillance and toys dissipated. However, academics continue to remind us of the real risks of smart toys (e.g. Lupton; Milkaite and Lievens). The 2016 Furby Connect, equipped with voice recognition and Bluetooth capacities has been shown to be hackable (Williams). Further, Maria Ramalho has reported Snowden’s 2014 claims that both NSA and the UK Government Communication Headquarters have been accessing the data collected. In this context, Furby has become “Big Brother transmogrified into ambiguous, cute” unaccountable creature (Ramalho). Through this, we can see how our entanglement with Furby as an object of technohorror speaks both to our anxieties and the real possibilities of technology. In order to craft a narrative around Furby that speaks to this monstrous potential, many have drawn comparisons between Furby and the character Gizmo from the Gremlins franchise. This reference to Gizmo appears in the majority of the media articles sampled for this research. Gizmo is a “mogwai” (trans. demon) with both cute and monstrous potential; like Furby, it also has the potential to transform into a threat to “good society” (Chesher 153-4). This comparison speaks to Gremlins as an anti-technology statement (Sale). However, when we consider how media rhetoric has framed Furby as something to be tamed and controlled, it’s important we approach this comparison with caution in light of the Orientalist underpinnings of the Gremlins franchise. Wendy Allison Lee highlights how Gremlins reflects xenophobic themes of invasion and assimilation. While Gizmo is a “cute, well-behaved” character who “strives to assimilate” much like how Furby might, through play with children, it also harbours a threat to order. In this encounter are resonances of “racist love” that can sometimes underpin our affection for cuteness (Bow). Further reflection is needed on how we might unentangle ourselves from this framing and imagine more inclusive futures with toys like Furby. Fig. 2: Interactive Gizmo, a “Furby Friend” produced by Hasbro, Tiger and Warner Bros in 1999 Big Fun! (Dah doo-ay wah!): Queer Re-Imaginings of Furby Fig. 3: Party time! Adult fans around the world now gather under the “Furby” banner, participating in a colourful array of playful mischief. Reddit forum r/furby (11,200 subscribers) creates a fun space to enjoy the whimsy of Furby, transforming the figure into a sweet and kind companion. Under this umbrella, r/oddbodyfurby (997 subscribers) explore the horrifying potentials of Furby to its playful and surprising ends, which I discuss in this section. In other forums, such as Furby Collectors and Customisers (4.1k members) on Facebook, these different interests come together in a playful and creative space. There was also an active community on Tumblr, where some of the most creatively generative activities around Furby have occurred (Tiffany). In Japan, there is a lively community of fans on Twitter who dress and photograph Emoto-tronic Furbys in a range of cute and charming ways. This forms part of a broader network of creatives, such as “Circuit Benders” who tear down toys and rework them into instruments in a process known as “frankensteining”, such as Look Mum No Computer’s Furby Organ (Deahl). As fans and artists, people act as “queer accessories” to help Furby escape the world and narrative that sought to enclose it, so it might enact its revenge or transcend as a non-binary queer icon (Rand 9-11). As small, collectible and customisable friends, images of happy and creepy Furbys are part of a network of cute media that provides my generation with a source of comfort during times of precarity, occupying our spaces with their own vitality and presence as soothing companions (e.g. Stevens; Allison; Yano). Cuteness as media also lends itself to hybridisation; a mixing and matching with seemingly “opposing” aesthetics. For many fans, the charm of Furby lies in its nostalgic pull as a creature of childhood creepy-cute nightmares. Indeed, it seems that early concerns that Furby may “blur the line between the real and imagined for many children” were in fact valid (Knowlton). While we knew they weren’t “alive” in the true sense, to us they appeared “sort of alive” as our everyday environments became increasingly technological with a dazzling array of electronics (Turkle, “Authenticity”). As Allison (179) explains, we had to “adjust to a world where the border between the imaginary and the real” began to shift rapidly, leaving us open to dream, imagine, and craft narratives populated by a fear of the mechanised undead. Many Millennials were convinced as children that their Furby was waiting for them in the dark, watching, chuckling (“he he heeeee”). Patrick Lenton, diarising his adventures with a rescue Furby this year recalls his childhood toy as “a riot of noise and fury, the kind of demonic household terror”. Some adults, recalling these memories now refer to Furby as “it” or “evil” (Marsh, “Uncanny” 59). In 2020, adult Furby fans, thinking back to their childhood toys, speculated if the positioning of Furby’s eyes at the front of its head meant it was a predator (Watson). Some suggested that their short legs meant they are ambush predators, their infra-red sensor enabling them to detect prey in the dark. Other playful lore suggested that they were made of real cat and dog fur. Through this act of imaginative play, adults reach back to the playful horrors of their childhoods, combining their sense of dread with glee. This has been recently animated by films such as The Mitchells vs. The Machines (2021), where Furbys equipped with “PAL” chips transmogrify into a horrific pack of menacing creatures, and exact revenge. The main contributing factor to this experience is in part the puppetry of Furby. The 1999 Furby presents an exaggerated performance that is both “alive” and “unalive”, its wild rocking, owlish blinking, and cackling creating a sense of “dread and creeping horror” (Freud 2; Marsh, “Uncanny”). Through a blend of animation and imagination, agency is diffused between toy and child to give Furby “life” (Silvio 423). Interestingly, studies of the 2016 Furby Connect and its friendly and social programming that is designed to encourage positive care and engagement has counteracted some of this experience for children (Marsh, “Uncanny” 54). Likewise, in discussing the 2013 Furby Boom Chesher (151) describes this animation as “zany”, working with Sianne Ngai’s conceptualisation of this aesthetic and its relationship to cuteness. While some might praise these later developments in the Furby franchise as having saved another generation of children from nightmares, compared to the original Furby these later editions are less popular among fans; perhaps there is less “material” to work with. Fans as adults now draw on Furby as a playful and cute text to experiment with and hybridise with a variety of horrifying and surprising potentials. This leans into Furby’s design as a chimera, as it uses a combination of cute features to create a “short-hand” for life and also evoke the “idea” or “character” of appealing animals that form part of cultures “charismatic megafauna” (Nishimura 179; Stuck and Rogers; Gn). With cat-like ears, a tuft of hair that drifts with sympathetic movement, two wide eyes, framed with coquettish false lashes, a bird’s beak, and two paws, Furby both suspends and confounds our disbelief. Following the principles of the Kindchenschema (Lorenz) to a “100% ratio” its body is reduced to a round form, its most dominant feature its large eyes (Borgi, Cogliati-Dezza, Brelsford Meints, and Cirulli). While large eyes generally are thought to have an affective pull to them (Harris 4), their fixed placement in the original Furby’s skull creates a dead-pan gaze, that morphs into a Kubrik stare as the toy tilts forward to greet the viewer. Fig. 4: Kindschenschema at work in Furby’s design Furby fans mischievously extend this hybridisation of Furby’s body further through a range of customisation practices. Through “skinning”, Furby’s faux fur surfaces are removed and replaced with a fantastic array of colours and textures. Through breaking into their mechatronic shell – a practice known as “shucking” – their parts are repaired or modified. This results in a range of delightfully queer, non-binary representations of Furby with a range of vibrant furs, piercings, and evocative twinkling and gentle eyes (“tee-wee-lah!”). These figures act as both avatars and as companions for fans. Sporting earrings and rainbow bead necklaces, they are photographed resting in grassy fields, soft crochet rainbows, and bookshelves: they are an expression of all that is joyful in the world. Some fans push the customisation further to create whimsical creatures from another dimension. Some Furbys appear with moss and lichen for fur, sprouting tiny toadstools. Furbys are also transformed into “oddbodies” of varying species. Some appear both as winged fairies, and as transcendental multi-eyed and winged “biblically accurate” angels. Others are hybridised with plush toys or are reworked into handbags. Some veer into the realm of body horror, using doll limbs and bodies to create humanoid forms. The most iconic is the “long furby”, created by Tumblr user FurbyFuzz in 2018. Elongated and insect-like, the Long Furby wriggles into homes and curls up on soft furnishings. Collectors gather “haunted photos from the dark recesses of the internet” to document their escapades (Long Furby). Sometimes, hybridised Furbys appear not through creator interventions but rather emerge from nature itself. One such mythical creature is Murby, an original Furby unearthed in 2013 on an old farm property. Once toy, now woodland spirit, Murby gazes upon and blesses fans with dreamy, clouded eyes, its body an entanglement of thick moss, rich earth and time. Furby’s queerness, strangeness, and hybridity speaks to fans in different ways. Personally, as a neurodivergent person, I experience the coding and the playful reimaginings of Furby as a reflection of my own life experience. Neurodivergent people have a high capacity for care and empathy for objects as curiosities, supports, and friends (e.g. Atherton and Cross; White and Remington; Clutterbuck, Shah and Livingston). Like Furby, I am an alien whom people want to tame. My body and movement are treated with the same infantilising bemusement and suspicion. I feel like a chimera myself; an entanglement of many parts that make a whole, each on their own charming, but together forming a chaotic attempt to connect with neurotypicals. For me, what lies beneath Furby’s surface is my own psyche; rescuing and customising Furbys is a symbolic act, a creative expression of my desire to transcend and resist ableist forces. Together my Furbys and I revel in our strangeness in solidarity, plotting our mischievous revenge (“party time!”). This micro-level resistance will not overturn ableism but brings me a sense of reprieve as I work with my allies to bring socio-cultural change. Fig. 5: The author, Furby Queen. Photo by Sherbet Birdie Photography. Through their creative work, fans explore how Furbys could be reimagined. While fannish activities may at first glance appear fringe or frivolous, they hold up a mirror to our own limitations, anxieties, and practices as a society. The future is Furby. Go to Sleep Now (U-nye-way-loh-nee-way): Conclusions As a source of technohorror and queer potential, Furby provides a vessel by which we can imagine the futures of toys. Through encounter and contact, this seemingly harmless fluffy robot brought about disruption and chaos as a threat to securities and social fabrics. Adult fans, now recalling this cultural moment, lean into this creature’s promise of new possibilities, queering its cultural narrative. Through exploring adults’ interactions with toys, we explore new potentials for change and futures that are playful and creative. Acknowledgments This article was produced with the support of a Vitalities Lab Scholarship and the Australian Research Council Centre of Excellence for Automated Decision-Making and Society. I also thank Deborah Lupton and David Eastwood for their support in the production of an arts-based project that draws on this research into cyberpet histories. References Allison, Anne. Millennial Monsters: Japanese Toys and the Global Imagination. Berkeley: U of California P, 2006. Associated Press. “Two Injured in Flurry over Furby.” Charleston Daily Mail 28 Nov. 1998. Atherton, Gray, and Liam Cross. “Seeing More than Human: Autism and Anthropomorphic Theory of Mind.” Frontiers in Psychology 9 (2018): 1–18. Basky, Greg. “Furby Not Guilty as ‘Charged’.” The Western Journal of Medicine 172 (2000): 59. Beck, Rachel. “‘Must-Have’ Toys Created by Intense Publicity Campaigns.” AP Business Writer 16 Oct. 1998. 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 Samurai and Chinese martial arts themes inspire and permeate the uniquely philosophical lyrics and beats of Wu-Tang Clan, a New York-based hip-hop collective made popular in the mid-nineties with their debut album Enter the Wu-Tang: Return of the 36 Chambers. Original founder RZA (“Rizza”) scored his first full-length motion-picture soundtrack and made his feature film debut with Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai (Jim Jarmusch, 2000). Through a critical exploration of the film’s musical filter, it will be argued that RZA’s aesthetic vision effectively deterritorialises the figure of the samurai, according to which the samurai “change[s] in nature and connect[s] with other multiplicities” (Deleuze and Guattari, 9). The soundtrack consequently emancipates and redistributes the idea of the samurai from within the dynamic context of a fundamentally different aesthetic intensity, which the Wu-Tang has always hoped to communicate, that is to say, an aesthetics of adaptation or of what is called in hip-hop music more generally: an aesthetics of flow. At the center of Jarmusch’s film is a fundamental opposition between the sober asceticism and deeply coded lifestyle of Ghost Dog and the supple, revolutionary, itinerant hip-hop beats that flow behind it and beneath it, and which serve at once as philosophical foil and as alternate foundation to the film’s themes and message. Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai tells the story of Ghost Dog (Forest Whitaker), a deadly and flawlessly precise contract killer for a small-time contemporary New York organised crime family. He lives his life in a late 20th-century urban America according to the strict tenets of the 18th century text Hagakure, which relates the principles of the Japanese Bushido (literally, the “way of the warrior,” but more often defined and translated as the “code of the samurai”). Others have noted the way in which Ghost Dog not only fails as an adaptation of the samurai genre but thematises this very failure insofar as the film depicts a samurai’s unsuccessful struggle to adapt in a corrupt and fractured postmodern, post-industrial reality (Lanzagorta, par. 4, 9; Otomo, 35-8). If there is any hope at all for these adaptations (Ghost Dog is himself an example), it lies, according to some, in the singular, outmoded integrity of his nostalgia, which despite the abstract jouissance or satisfaction it makes available, is nevertheless blank and empty (Otomo, 36-7). Interestingly, in his groundbreaking book Spectacular Vernaculars, and with specific reference to hip-hop, Russell Potter suggests that where a Eurocentric postmodernism posits a lack of meaning and collapse of value and authority, a black postmodernism that is neither singular nor nostalgic is prepared to emerge (6-9). And as I will argue there are more concrete adaptive strategies at work in the film, strategies that point well beyond the film to popular culture more generally. These are anti-nostalgic strategies of possibility and escape that have everything to do with the way in which hip-hop as soundtrack enables Ghost Dog in his becoming-samurai, a process by which a deterritorialised subject and musical flow fuse to produce a hybrid adaptation and identity. But hip-hip not only makes possible such a becoming, it also constitutes a potentially liberating adaptation of the past and of otherness that infuses the film with a very different but still concrete jouissance. At the root of Ghost Dog is a conflict between what Deleuze and Guattari call state and nomad authority, between the code that prohibits adaptation and its willful betrayer. The state apparatus, according to Deleuze and Guattari, is the quintessential form of interiority. The state nourishes itself through the appropriation, the bringing into its interior, of all that over which it exerts its control, and especially over those nomadic elements that constantly threaten to escape (Deleuze and Guattari, 380-7). In Ghost Dog, the code or state-form functions throughout the film as an omnipresent source of centralisation, authorisation and organisation. It is attested to in the intensely stratified urban environment in which Ghost Dog lives, a complicated and forbidding network of streets, tracks, rails, alleys, cemeteries, tenement blocks, freeways, and shipping yards, all of which serve to hem Ghost Dog in. And as race is highlighted in the film, it, too, must be included among the many ways in which characters are always already contained. What encounters with racism in the film suggest is the operative presence of a plurality of racial and cultural codes; the strict segregation of races and cultures in the film and the animosity which binds them in opposition reflect a racial stratification that mirrors the stratified topography of the cityscape. Most important, perhaps, is the way in which Bushido itself functions, at least in part, as code, as well as the way in which the form of the historical samurai in legend and reality circumscribes not only Ghost Dog’s existence but the very possibility of the samurai and the samurai film as such. On the one hand, Bushido attests to the absolute of religion, or as Deleuze and Guattari describe it: “a center that repels the obscure … essentially a horizon that encompasses” and which forms a “bond”, “pact”, or “alliance” between subject/culture and the all-encompassing embrace of its deity: in this case, the state-form which sanctions samurai existence (382-3). On the other hand, but in the same vein, the advent of Bushido, and in particular the Hagakure text to which Ghost Dog turns for meaning and guidance, coincides historically with the emergence of the modern Japanese state, or put another way, with the eclipse of the very culture it sponsors. In fact, samurai history as a whole can be viewed to some extent as a process of historical containment by which the state-form gradually encompassed those nomadic warring elements at the heart of early samurai existence. This is the socio-historical context of Bushido, insofar as it represents the codification of the samurai subject and the stratification of samurai culture under the pressures of modernisation and the spread of global capitalism. It is a social and historical context marked by the power of a bourgeoning military, political and economic organisation, and by policies of restraint, centralisation and sedentariness. Moreover, the local and contemporary manifestations of this social and historical context are revealed in many of the elements that permeate not only the traditional samurai films of Kurosawa, Mizoguchi or Kobayashi, but modern adaptations of the genre as well, which tend to convey a nostalgic mourning for this loss, or more precisely, for this failure to adapt. Thus the filmic atmosphere of Ghost Dog is dominated by the negative qualities of inaction, nonviolence and sobriety, and whether these are taken to express the sterility and impotence of postmodern existence or the emptiness of a nostalgia for an unbroken and heroic past, these qualities point squarely towards the transience of culture and towards the impossibility of adaptation and survival. Ghost Dog is a reluctant assassin, and the inherently violent nature of his task is always deflected. In the same way, most of Ghost Dog’s speech in the film is delivered through his soundless readings of the Hagakure, silent and austere moments that mirror as well the creeping, sterile atmosphere in which most of the film’s action takes place. It is an atmosphere of interiority that points not only towards the stratified environment which restricts possibility and expressivity but also squarely towards the meaning of Bushido as code. But this atmosphere meets resistance. For the samurai is above all a man of war, and, as Deleuze and Guattari suggest, “the man of war [that is to say, the nomad] is always committing an offence against” the State (383). In Ghost Dog, for all the ways in which Ghost Dog’s experience is stratified by the Bushido as code and by the post-industrial urban reality in which he lives and moves, the film shows equally the extent to which these strata or codes are undermined by nomadic forces that trace “lines of flight” and escape (Deleuze and Guattari, 423). Clearly it is the film’s soundtrack, and thus, too, the aesthetic intensities of the flow in hip-hop music, which both constitute and facilitate this escape: We have an APB on an MC killer Looks like the work of a master … Merciless like a terrorist Hard to capture the flow Changes like a chameleon (“Da Mystery of Chessboxin,” Enter) Herein lies the significance of (and difference between) the meaning of Bushido as code and as way, a problem of adaptation and translation which clearly reflects the central conflict of the film. A way is always a way out, the very essence of escape, and it always facilitates the breaking away from a code. Deleuze and Guattari describe the nomad as problematic, hydraulic, inseparable from flow and heterogeneity; nomad elements, as those elements which the State is incapable of drawing into its interior, are said to remain exterior and excessive to it (361-2). It is thus significant that the interiority of Ghost Dog’s readings from the Hagakure and the ferocious exteriority of the soundtrack, which along with the Japanese text helps narrate the tale, reflect the same relationship that frames the state and nomad models. The Hagakure is not only read in silence by the protagonist throughout the film, but the Hagakure also figures prominently inside the diegetic world of the film as a visual element, whereas the soundtrack, whether it is functioning diegetically or non-diegetically, is by its very nature outside the narrative space of the film, effectively escaping it. For Deleuze and Guattari, musical expression is inseparable from a process of becoming, and, in fact, it is fair to say that the jouissance of the film is supplied wholly by the soundtrack insofar as it deterritorialises the conventional language of the genre, takes it outside of itself, and then reinvests it through updated musical flows that facilitate Ghost Dog’s becoming-samurai. In this way, too, the soundtrack expresses the violence and action that the plot carefully avoids and thus intimately relates the extreme interiority of the protagonist to an outside, a nomadic exterior that forecloses any possibility of nostalgia but which suggests rather a tactics of metamorphosis and immediacy, a sublime deterritorialisation that involves music becoming-world and world becoming-music. Throughout the film, the appearance of the nomad is accompanied, even announced, by the onset of a hip-hop musical flow, always cinematically represented by Ghost Dog’s traversing the city streets or by lengthy tracking shots of a passenger pigeon in flight, both of which, to take just two examples, testify to purely nomadic concepts: not only to the sheer smoothness of open sky-space and flight with its techno-spiritual connotations, but also to invisible, inherited pathways that cross the stratified heart of the city undetected and untraceable. Embodied as it is in the Ghost Dog soundtrack, and grounded in what I have chosen to call an aesthetics of flow, hip-hop is no arbitrary force in the film; it is rather both the adaptive medium through which Ghost Dog and the samurai genre are redeemed and the very expression of this adaptation. Deleuze and Guattari write: The necessity of not having control over language, of being a foreigner in one’s own tongue, in order to draw speech to oneself and ‘bring something incomprehensible into the world.’ Such is the form of exteriority … that forms a war machine. (378) Nowhere else do Deleuze and Guattari more clearly outline the affinities that bind their notion of the nomad and the form of exteriority that is essential to it with the politics of language, cultural difference and authenticity which so color theories of race and critical analyses of hip-hop music and culture. And thus the key to hip-hop’s adaptive power lies in its spontaneity and in its bringing into the world of something incomprehensible and unanticipated. If the code in Ghost Dog is depicted as nonviolent, striated, interior, singular, austere and measured, then the flow in hip-hop and in the music of the Wu-Tang that informs Ghost Dog’s soundtrack is violent, fluid, exterior, variable, plural, playful and incalculable. The flow in hip-hop, as well as in Deleuze and Guattari’s work, is grounded in a kinetic linguistic spontaneity, variation and multiplicity. Its lyrical flow is a cascade of accelerating rhymes, the very speed and implausibility of which often creates a sort of catharsis in performers and spectators: I bomb atomically, Socrates’ philosophies and hypotheses can’t define how I be droppin’ these mockeries, lyrically perform armed robberies Flee with the lottery, possibly they spotted me Battle-scarred shogun, explosion. … (“Triumph”, Forever) Over and against the paradigm of the samurai, which as I have shown is connected with relations of content and interiority, the flow is attested to even more explicitly in the Wu-Tang’s embrace of the martial arts, kung-fu and Chinese cinematic traditions. And any understanding of the figure of the samurai in the contemporary hip-hop imagination must contend with the relationship of this figure to both the kung-fu fighting traditions and to kung-fu cinema, despite the fact that they constitute very different cultural and historical forms. I would, of course, argue that it is precisely this playful adaptation or literal deterritorialisation of otherwise geographically and culturally distinct realities that comprises the adaptive potential of hip-hop. Kung-fu, like hip-hop, is predicated on the exteriority of style. It is also a form of action based on precision and immediacy, on the fluid movements of the body itself deterritorialised as weapon, and thus it reiterates that blend of violence, speed and fluidity that grounds the hip-hop aesthetic: “I’ll defeat your rhyme in just four lines / Yeh, I’ll wax you and tax you and plus save time” (RZA and Norris, 211). Kung-fu lends itself to improvisation and to adaptability, essential qualities of combat and of lyrical flows in hip-hop music. For example, just as in kung-fu combat a fighter’s success is fundamentally determined by his ability to intuit and adapt to the style and skill and detailed movements of his adversary, the victory of a hip-hop MC engaged in, say, a freestyle battle will be determined by his capacity for improvising and adapting his own lyrical flow to counter and overcome his opponent’s. David Bordwell not only draws critical lines of difference between the Hong Kong and Hollywood action film but also hints at the striking differences between the “delirious kinetic exhilaration” of Hong Kong cinema and the “sober, attenuated, and grotesque expressivity” of the traditional Japanese samurai film (91-2). Moreover, Bordwell emphasises what the Wu-Tang Clan has always known and demonstrated: the sympathetic bond between kung-fu action or hand-to-hand martial arts combat and the flow in hip-hop music. Bordwell calls his kung-fu aesthetic “expressive amplification”, which communicates with the viewer through both a visual and physical intelligibility and which is described by Bordwell in terms of beats, exaggerations, and the “exchange and rhyming of gestures” (87). What is pointed to here are precisely those aspects of Hong Kong cinema that share essential similarities with hip-hop music as such and which permeate the Wu-Tang aesthetic and thus, too, challenge or redistribute the codified stillness and negativity that define the filmic atmosphere of Ghost Dog. Bordwell argues that Hong Kong cinema constitutes an aesthetics in action that “pushes beyond Western norms of restraint and plausibility,” and in light of my thesis, I would argue that it pushes beyond these same conventions in traditional Japanese cinema as well (86). Bruce Lee, too, in describing the difference between Chinese kung-fu and Japanese fighting forms in A Warrior’s Journey (Bruce Little, 2000) points to the latter’s regulatory principles of hesitation and segmentarity and to the former’s formlessness and shapelessness, describing kung-fu when properly practiced as “like water, it can flow or it can crash,” qualities which echo not only Bordwell’s description of the pause-burst-pause pattern of kung-fu cinema’s combat sequences but also the Wu-Tang Clan’s own self-conception as described by GZA (“Jizza”), a close relative of RZA and co-founder of the Wu-Tang Clan, when he is asked to explain the inspiration for the title of his album Liquid Swords: Actually, ‘Liquid Swords’ comes from a kung-fu flick. … But the title was just … perfect. I was like, ‘Legend of a Liquid Sword.’ Damn, this is my rhymes. This is how I’m spittin’ it. We say the tongue is symbolic of the sword anyway, you know, and when in motion it produces wind. That’s how you hear ‘wu’. … That’s the wind swinging from the sword. The ‘Tang’, that’s when it hits an object. Tang! That’s how it is with words. (RZA and Norris, 67) Thus do two competing styles animate the aesthetic dynamics of the film Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai: an aesthetic of codified arrest and restraint versus an aesthetic of nomadic resistance and escape. The former finds expression in the film in the form of the cultural and historical meanings of the samurai tradition, defined by negation and attenuated sobriety, and in the “blank parody” (Otomo, 35) of a postmodern nostalgia for an empty historical past exemplified in the appropriation of the Samurai theme and in the post-industrial prohibitions and stratifications of contemporary life and experience; the latter is attested to in the affirmative kinetic exhilaration of kung-fu style, immediacy and expressivity, and in the corresponding adaptive potential of a hip-hop musical flow, a distributive, productive, and anti-nostalgic becoming, the nomadic essence of which redeems the rhetoric of postmodern loss described by the film. References Bordwell, David. “Aesthetics in Action: Kungfu, Gunplay, and Cinematic Expressivity.” At Full Speed: Hong Kong Cinema in a Borderless World. Ed. and Trans. Esther Yau. Minneapolis: Minnesota UP, 2004. Bruce Lee: A Warrior’s Journey. Dir./Filmmaker John Little. Netflix DVD. Warner Home Video, 2000. Daidjo, Yuzan. Code of the Samurai. Trans. Thomas Cleary. Tuttle Martial Arts. Boston: Tuttle, 1999. Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus. Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: Minnesota UP,1987. Forman, Murray, and Mark Anthony Neal, eds. That’s the Joint!: The Hip-Hop Studies Reader. New York: Routledge, 2004. Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai. Dir. Jim Jarmusch. Netflix DVD. Artisan, 2000. Hurst, G. Cameron III. Armed Martial Arts of Japan. New Haven: Yale UP,1998. Ikegami, Eiko. The Taming of the Samurai. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1995. Jansen, Marius, ed. Warrior Rule in Japan. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1995. Kurosawa, Akira. Seven Samurai and Other Screenplays. Trans. Donald Richie. London: Faber and Faber, 1992. Lanzagorta, Marco. “Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai.” Senses of Cinema. Sept-Oct 2002. http://www.sensesofcinema.com/contents/cteq/02/22/ghost_dog.htm>. Mol, Serge. Classical Fighting Arts of Japan. Tokyo/New York: Kodansha Int., 2001. Otomo, Ryoko. “‘The Way of the Samurai’: Ghost Dog, Mishima, and Modernity’s Other.” Japanese Studies 21.1 (May 2001) 31-43. Potter, Russell. Spectacular Vernaculars. Albany: SUNY P, 1995. RZA, The, and Chris Norris. The Wu-Tang Manual. New York: Penguin, 2005. Silver, Alain. The Samurai Film. Woodstock, New York: Overlook, 1983. Smith, Christopher Holmes. “Method in the Madness: Exploring the Boundaries of Identity in Hip-Hop Performativity.” Social Identities 3.3 (Oct 1997): 345-75. Watkins, Craig S. Representing: Hip Hop Culture and the Production of Black Cinema. Chicago: Chicago UP, 1998. Wu-Tang Clan. Enter the Wu-Tang: 36 Chambers. CD. RCA/Loud Records, 1993. ———. Wu-Tang Forever. CD. RCA/Loud Records, 1997. Xing, Yan, ed. Shaolin Kungfu. Trans. Zhang Zongzhi and Zhu Chengyao. Beijing: China Pictorial, 1996. 
 
 
 
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In the summer of 1944, American Sergeant Paul Dorsey was hired by the Naval Aviation Photography Unit (NAPU) to capture “the Marines’ bitter struggle against their determined foe” in the Pacific islands (Philips 43). Dorsey had been a photographer and photojournalist before enlisting in the Marines, and was thus well placed to fulfil the NAPU’s remit of creating positive images of American forces in the Pacific. Under the editorial and professional guidance of Edward Steichen, NAPU photographers like Dorsey provided epic images of battle (especially from the air and sea), and also showed American forces at ease – sunbathing, swimming, drinking and relaxing together (Bachner At Ease; Bachner Men of WWII). Steichen – by now a lieutenant commander – oversaw the entire NAPU project by developing, choosing and editing the images, and also providing captions for their reproduction in popular newspapers and magazines such as LIFE. Under his guidance, selected NAPU images were displayed at the famous Power in the Pacific exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York at the end of the war, and distributed in the popular U.S. Navy War Photographs memorial book which sold over 6 million copies in 1945.While the original NAPU photographers (Steichen himself, Charles Kerlee, Horace Bristol, Wayne Miller, Charles Fenno Jacobs, Victor Jorgensen and Dwight Long) had been at work in the Pacific since the summer of 1942, Dorsey was hired specifically to document the advance of American Marines through the Marianas and Volcano Islands. In line with the NAPU’s remit, Dorsey provided a number of famous rear view shots of combat action on Guam, Saipan and Iwo Jima. However, there are a number of his photographs that do not fit easily within that vision of war – images of wounded Marines and dead Japanese soldiers, as well as shots of abject Japanese POWs with their heads bowed and faces averted. It is this last group of enemy images that proves the most interesting, for not only do they trouble NAPU’s explicit propaganda framework, they also challenge our traditional assumption that photography is an inert form of representation.It is not hard to imagine that photographs of abject Japanese POWs reinforced feelings of triumph, conquest and justice that circulated in America’s post-war victory culture. Indeed, images of emaciated and incarcerated Japanese soldiers provided the perfect contrast to the hyper-masculine, hard-bodied, beefcake figures that populated the NAPU photographs and symbolized American power in the Pacific. However, once Japan was rehabilitated into a powerful American ally, and the decision to drop the atomic bomb was questioned once again in America’s Culture Wars of the 1980s and 90s, it was no longer acceptable to feel triumphant in the face of Japanese abjection and suffering. Instead, these images helped foster a new kind of belated patriotism – and a new global disposition – in which Americans generated their own magnanimity by expressing pity, compassion and sympathy for victims of their previous foreign policy decisions (Lisle).While that patriotic interpretive framework tells us much about how dominant formations of American identity are secured by the production – especially the visual production – of enemy others, it cannot account for images or viewer interpretations that exceed, unwork, or disrupt war’s foundational logics of friend/enemy and perpetrator/victim. I focus on Dorsey because he offers one such ‘deviant’ image: This photograph was taken by Dorsey on Guam in July 1944, and its caption tells us that the Japanese prisoner “waits to be questioned by intelligence officers” (Philips 189). As the POW looks into Dorsey’s camera lens (and therefore at us, the viewers), he is subject to the collective gaze of the American marines situated behind him, and presumably others that lay out of the frame, behind Dorsey. What is fascinating about this particular image is the prisoner’s refusal to obey the trope of abjection so readily assumed by other Japanese POWs documented in the NAPU archive and in other popular war-time imagery. Indeed, when I first encountered this image I immediately framed the POW’s return gaze as defiant – a challenging, bold, and forceful reply to American aggression in the Pacific. The problem, of course, was that this resistant gaze soon became reductive; that is, by replicating war’s foundational logics of difference it effaced a number of other dispositions at work in the photograph. What I find compelling about the POW’s return gaze is its refusal to be contained within the available subject positions of either ‘abject POW’ or ‘defiant resistor’. Indeed, this unruliness is what keeps me coming back to Dorsey’s image, for it teaches us that photography itself always exceeds the conventional assumption that it is a static form of visual representation.Photography, Animation, MovementThe connections between movement, stillness and photography have two important starting points. The first, and more general, is Walter Benjamin’s concept of the dialectic image in which the past and the present come together “in a flash” and constitute what he calls “dialectics at a standstill” (N3.1; 463). Unlike Theodore Adorno, who lamented Benjamin’s Medusa-like tendency to turn the world to stone, I read Benjamin’s concept of standstill – of stillness in general – as something fizzing and pulsating with “political electricity” (Adorno 227-42; Buck-Morss 219). This is to deny our most basic assumption about photography: that it is an inert visual form that freezes and captures discrete moments in time and space. My central argument is that photography’s assumed stillness is always constituted by a number of potential and actual mobilities that continually suture and re-suture viewing subjects and images into one another.Developing Benjamin’s idea of a the past and present coming together “in a flash”, Roland Barthes provides the second starting point with his notion of the punctum of photography: “this element which rises from the scene, shoots out of it like an arrow, and pierces me” (25). Conventional understandings of the punctum frame it as a static moment – so powerful that it freezes the viewer, stops them in their tracks, and captures their attention. My point is that the affective punch of the photograph is not a frozen moment at all; rather, the punctum – like the dialectic image – is fizzing with political electricity. Therefore, to suggest that a viewing subject is arrested in the moment of perception – that they are somehow captured by a photograph’s meaning – is to mistakenly understand the act of looking as a static behaviour.I want to use Dorsey’s image of the POW to push these theoretical starting points and explore the mobile dispositions that are generated when a viewing subject encounters a photograph. What most interests me about Dorsey’s photograph is the level of animation it produces. The POW’s return gaze is actually rather blank: it is unclear whether he is angry, weary, bored, insane or none of the above. But it is the viewing subject’s anxiety at such ambivalence – such unknowability – that provokes a powerful desire to name it. The visceral sensations and emotional responses provoked in viewers (are we taken aback? Do we sympathize with the POW? Are we equally blank?) very quickly become settled interpretations, for example, “his defiant gaze resists American power.” What I want to do is explore the pre-interpretive moment when images like Dorsey’s reach out and grab us – for it is in that moment that photography’s “political electricity” reveals itself most clearly.Production, Signification, InterpretationThe mobility inherent in the photograph has an important antecedent at the level of production. Since the Brownie camera was introduced in WWI, photographers have carried their mode of representation with them – in Dorsey’s case, his portable camera was carried with him as he travelled with the Marines through the Pacific (Philips 29). It is the photographer’s itinerary – his or her movement prior to clicking the camera’s shutter – that shapes and determines a photograph’s content. More to the point, the action of clicking the camera’s shutter is never an isolated moment; rather, it is punctured by all of the previous clicks and moments leading up to it – especially on a long photographic assignment like Dorsey’s – and contains within it all of the subsequent clicks and moments that potentially come after it. In this sense, the photographer’s click recalls Benjamin: it is a “charged force field of past and present” (Buck-Morss 219). That complicated temporality is also manifested in the photographer’s contact sheet (or, more recently, computer file) which operates as a visual travelogue of discrete moments that bleed into one another.The mobility inherent in photography extends itself into the level of signification; that is, the arrangements of signs depicted within the frame of each discrete image. Critic Gilberto Perez gives us a clue to this mobility in his comments about Eugène Atget’s famous ‘painterly’ photographs of Paris:A photograph begins with the mobility, or at least potential mobility, of the world’s materials, of the things reproduced from reality, and turns that into a still image. More readily than in a painting, we see things in a photograph, even statues, as being on the point of movement, for these things belong to the world of flux from which the image has been extracted (328).I agree that the origin point of a photograph is potential mobility, but that mobility is never completely vanquished when it is turned into a still image. For me, photographs – no matter what they depict – are always saturated with the “potential mobility of the world’s materials”, and in this sense they are never still. Indeed, the world of flux out of which the image is extracted includes the image itself, and in that sense, an image can never be isolated from the world it is derived from. If we follow Perez and characterize the world as one of flux, but then insist that the photograph can never be extracted from that world, it follows that the photograph, too, is characterized by fluctuation and change – in short, by mobility. The point, here, is to read a photograph counter intuitively – not as an arrest of movement or a freezing of time, but as a collection of signs that is always potentially mobile. This is what Roland Barthes was hinting at when he suggested that a photograph is “a mad image, chafed by reality”: any photograph is haunted by absence because the depicted object is no longer present, but it is also full of certainty that the depicted object did exist at a previous time and place (113-15). This is precisely Benjamin’s point as well, that “what has been comes together with the now” (N3.1; 463). Following on from Barthes and Benjamin, I want to argue that photographs don’t freeze a moment in time, but instead set in motion a continual journey between feelings of absence in the present (i.e. “it is not there”) and present imaginings of the past (i.e. “but it has indeed been”).As Barthes’ notion of the punctum reveals, the most powerful register at which photography’s inherent mobility operates is in the sensations, responses and feelings provoked in viewers. This is why we say that a photograph has the capacity to move us: the best images take us from one emotional state (e.g. passive, curious, bored) and carry us into another (e.g. shocked, sad, amused). It is this emotional terrain of our responses to photography that both Roland Barthes and Susan Sontag have explored in depth. Why are we moved by some images and not others? Are documentary or artistic photographs more likely to reach out and prick us? What is the most appropriate or ethical response to pictures of another’s suffering?Sontag suggests a different connection between photography and mobility in that it enables a particular touristification of the world; that is, cameras help “convert the world into a department store or museum-without-walls in which every subject is depreciated into an article of consumption, promoted to an item for aesthetic appreciation” (On Photography 110). While Sontag’s political economy of photography (with its Frankfurt School echo) continues to be explored by anthropologists and scholars in Tourism Studies, I want to argue that it offers a particularly reductive account of photography’s potential mobilities. While Sontag does address photography’s constitutive and rather complex relationship with reality, she still conceives of photographs themselves as static and inert representations. Indeed, what she wrestled with in On Photography was the “insolent, poignant stasis of each photograph”, and the photograph’s capacity to make reality “stand still” (111-12; 163). The problem with such a view is that it limits our account of interpretation; in short, it suggests that viewers either accept a photograph’s static message (and are thus moved), or reject it (and remain unmoved). But the moving, here, is the sole prerogative of the viewer: there is no sense in which the photograph and its contents are themselves mobile. I want to argue that the relationships established in the act of looking between viewing subjects and the objects contained within an image are much more complex and varied than Sontag’s framework suggests. Photography’s Affective MobilityTo reveal the mobilities underscoring photography’s affective punch, we must redistribute its more familiar power relations through W.J.T. Mitchell’s important question: what do pictures want? Such a question subverts our usual approach to photographs (i.e. what do we want from photographs?) by redeploying the privileged agency of the viewer into the image itself. In other words, it is the image that demands something of the viewer rather than the other way around. What it demands, of course, is a response. Certainly this is an emotional response, for even being bored by a photograph is a response of sorts. But an emotional response is also an affective response, which means that the punch carried by a photograph is as physical as it is metaphorical or visual. Indeed, it is precisely in the act of perception, where the emotional and the affective fuse, that photography’s assumed stillness is powerfully subverted.If Mitchell animates the picture by affording it some of the viewer’s agency, then Gilles Deleuze goes one step further by exploring what happens to agency in the act of perception. For Deleuze, a work of art – for our purposes, a photograph – is not an inert or still document, but rather a “block of sensations” (Deleuze; Deleuze & Guattari; Bogue). It is not a finished object produced by an autonomous artist or beheld in its entirety by an autonomous viewer; rather, it is a combination of precepts (initial perceptions) and affects (physical intensities) that passes through all subjects at the point of visual perception. This kind of relational encounter with an image not only deconstructs Modernity’s foundational distinction between the subject and the object, it also opens up an affective connection between all subjects engaged in the act of looking; in this case, the photographer, the subjects and objects within the photograph and the viewer.From Deleuze, we know that perception is characterized by common physical responses in all subjects: the movement of the optic nerve, the dilation of the pupil, the squint of the eyelid, the craning of the neck to see up close. However small, however imperceptible, these physical sensations are all still movements; indeed, they are movements repeated by all seeing subjects. My point is that these imperceptible modes of attention are consistently engaged in the act of viewing photographs. What this suggests is that taking account of the affective level of perception changes our traditional understandings of interpretation; indeed, even if a photograph fails to move us emotionally, it certainly moves us physically, though we may not be conscious of it.Drawing from Mitchell and Deleuze, then, we can say that a photograph’s “insolent, poignant stasis” makes no sense. A photograph is constantly animated not just by the potentials inherent in its enframed subjects and objects, but more importantly, in the acts of perception undertaken by viewers. Certainly some photographs move us emotionally – to tears, to laughter, to rage – and indeed, this emotional terrain is where Barthes and Sontag offer important insights. My point is that all photographs, no matter what they depict, move us physically through the act of perception. If we take Mitchell’s question seriously and extend agency to the photograph, then it is in the affective register that we can discern a more relational encounter between subjects and objects because both are in a constant state of mobility.Ambivalence and ParalysisHow might Mitchell’s question apply to Dorsey’s photograph? What does this image want from us? What does it demand from our acts of looking? The dispersed account of agency put forward by Mitchell suggests that the act of looking can never be contained within the subject; indeed, what is produced in each act of looking is some kind of subject-object-world assemblage in which each component is characterised by its potential and actual mobilities. With respect to Dorsey’s image, then, the multiple lines of sight at work in the photograph indicate multiple – and mobile – relationalities. Primarily, there is the relationship between the viewer – any potential viewer – and the photograph. If we follow Mitchell’s line of questioning, however, we need to ask how the photograph itself shapes the emotive and affective experience of visual interpretation – how the photograph’s demand is transmitted to the viewer.Firstly, this demand is channelled through Dorsey’s line of sight that extends through his camera’s viewfinder and into the formal elements of the photograph: the focused POW in the foreground, the blurred figures in the background, the light and shade on the subjects’ clothing and skin, the battle scarred terrain, and the position of these elements within the viewfinder’s frame. As viewers we cannot see Dorsey, but his presence fills – and indeed constitutes – the photograph. Secondly, the photograph’s demand is channelled through the POW’s line of sight that extends to Dorsey (who is both photographer and marine Sergeant), and potentially through his camera to imagined viewers. It is precisely the return gaze of the POW that packs such an affective punch – not because of what it means, but rather because of how it makes us feel emotionally and physically. While a conventional account would understand this affective punch as shocking, stopping or capturing the viewer, I want to argue it does the opposite – it suddenly reveals the fizzing, vibrant mobilities that transmit the picture to us, and us to the picture.There are, I think, important lessons for us in Dorsey’s photograph. It is a powerful antecedent to Judith Butler’s exploration of the Abu Graib images, and her repetition of Sontag’s question of “whether the tortured can and do look back, and what do they see when they look at us” (966). The POW’s gaze provides an answer to the first part of this question – they certainly do look back. But as to what they see when they look back at us, that question can only be answered if we redistribute both agency and mobility into the photograph to empower and mobilize the tortured, the abject, and the objectified.That leaves us with Sontag’s much more vexing question of what we do after we look at photographs. As Butler explains, Sontag has denounced the photograph “precisely because it enrages without directing the rage, and so excites our moral sentiments at the same time that it confirms our political paralysis” (966). This sets up an important challenge for us: in refusing conventional understandings of photography as a still visual art, how can we use more dispersed accounts of agency and mobility to work through the political paralysis that Sontag identifies. AcknowledgementsPaul Dorsey’s photograph of the Japanese POW is # 80-G-475166 in the NAPU archive, and is reproduced here courtesy of the United States National Archives.ReferencesAdorno, Theodore. Prisms. 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