Journal articles on the topic 'Marines in fiction'

In the biogeographical and taxonomical literature before the 1980s there was a wide perception that widespread, often referred to as ‘cosmopolitan’, species were very common among polychaetes. Here we discuss the origins of this perception, how it became challenged, and our current understanding of marine annelid distributions today. We comment on the presence of widely distributed species in the deep sea and on artificially extended ranges of invasive species that have been dispersed by anthropogenic means. We also suggest the measures needed to revolve the status of species with reported cosmopolitan distributions and stress the value of museum collections and vouchers to be associated with DNA sequences in resolving species distributions.

Prominent hallmarks of the widely distributed, mainly tropical marine snail genus Conus are: (1) its unusually high species diversity; it is the largest genus of animals in the sea, with more than 800 recognized species; and (2) its specialized feeding behavior of overcoming prey by injection with potent neurotoxic, paralytic venoms, and swallowing the victim whole. Including the first report of a human fatality from a Conus sting nearly 350 years ago, at least 141 human envenomations have been recorded, of which 36 were fatal. Most Conus species are quite specialized predators that can be classified in one of three major feeding guilds: they prey exclusively or nearly so on worms, primarily polychaete annelids, other gastropods, sometimes including other Conus species, or fishes. These differences are shown to relate to the severity of human envenomations, with the danger increasing generally in the order listed above and a strong likelihood that all of the known human fatalities may be attributable solely to the single piscivorous species C. geographus.

“Hue is the most beautiful city in the world,” a Vietnamese woman tells Marine Lieutenant Kramer, a central character in Robert Roth's Vietnam War novel,Sand in the Wind. Published in 1973, five years after the sweeping Tet Offensive had reduced Hue to rubble,Sand in the Windset the city within a complex meditation upon beauty and its relation to human desire, history, the vagaries of chance, ephemerality of happiness, and ineluctability of loss. Though ambitious in intent,Sand in the Windhas not been widely acclaimed. Except for John Hellmann's close reading, it has usually been referred to passingly or overlooked. Thomas Myers dismissed it as a “sterile mural,” a static work fixed upon a wall. I prefer to think of it as “walking point” — an action Myers ascribed to Vietnam War fiction he endorsed for “cutting trails” (227). Like the pointman of a patrol who clears a path for others to follow, the Vietnam War novel, Myers argued, opened a way into tangled historic territory — the territory of war now inhabited by literature. I propose to enter this forbidding area throughSand in the Wind, for I believe that like the novels Myers lauded it too secures a way, a unique way, of engaging safely with the Vietnam War and the losses it entailed.The lives of an estimated 5,713 soldiers, American and Vietnamese, were lost in the battle at Hue, as were almost 3,000 civilian lives. That the “longest and bloodiest” battle of the Offensive took place in Hue during the festive days of Tet was particularly shocking, for Hue was commonly considered an open city, and Tet, the lunar New Year, a time of peace and renewal. Traditionally, Tet Nguyen Dan ushered in the new year with three days of festivity, days of respite during which communal bonds were strengthened. Family members and their relatives renewed the bond of blood by gathering together for an exchange of gifts and good wishes; ancestral bonds were renewed by visits to family graves. Rice farmers plowing their paddies renewed the bond between man and nature.

Seafood is an increasingly popular source of healthy protein. Since 1961, the average annual increase in global food fish consumption has been twice as high as population growth and exceeds the consumption of meat from all terrestrial animals combined1. The following overview of seafood safety concerns is intended to help readers to understand potential risks associated with parasites in seafood products and the need for a national approach to reduce or minimise them. It is important to note that parasite infections are not limited to seafood: all other types of foods, including vegetables and red meat can also be infected with a broad range of parasites, some of which are more dangerous than parasites in seafood. The main issue is lack of science based contemporaneous safety protocols which focus on seafood-borne parasites. As a result, in Australia regulatory control of parasites in seafood lags far behind other food sectors. Seafood safety is a broad topic. The focus of this article is on an understudied field in Australia, seafood-borne parasitic diseases. The word ‘seafood' in this context encompasses fish and shellfish products from marine and freshwater ecosystems that are, directly or indirectly, meant for human consumption.

From SARS to H1N1, and most recently COVID-19, global disease outbreaks have defined the past several decades. For many, we are living in what can only be described as a pre-apocalyptic moment. Indeed, we are currently facing a global pandemic outbreak – a situation that had been previously described as imminent and perhaps even long overdue. Consequently, the publication of pandemic narratives has increased exponentially, which exposes a heightened social concern about the risk of viral outbreak. But instead of speaking to these growing anxieties and providing models to interpret our current position, a growing body of popular culture post-apocalyptic fiction remains deeply entrenched in a dangerous nostalgia that undermines the construction of hypothetical models that could appropriately respond to these threats. I argue that these texts can therefore be read as degenerate utopias, Louis Marin’s term for the false utopian myths that circulate within a society. A degenerate utopia is thus not really a utopia at all, but rather an ideology that elevates the past to a false state of perfection. My article examines the construction of degenerate utopian realities through collective memory in Emily St John Mandel’s Station Eleven and Peter Heller’s The Dog Stars.

Following the current trends in the development of historical science, the author considers fiction as an important source for the study of the post-Soviet period, allowing recreating the socio- historical types of behavior, way of thinking and public mood, to track the transformation of the structures of everyday life. The article is based on the fiction published from the early 1990s to the present day and reflected the Far Eastern realities of the 1990s-2000s. The main attention is paid to the ways of adaptation to the new socio-economic conditions, such as inflation and the fall in real money incomes, massive cuts and wage delays, privatization, the collapse of industrial enterprises, the destruction of social infrastructure, the income differentiation, and an increasing gap between more and less developed territories. Art works show how in crisis the Far East inhabitants are looking for opportunities for part- time work, change professions, working for hire, opening their own business or falling into the category of self-employed, use deviant and destructive forms of employment. Many people in the conditions of continuous growth of prices, delays in wages or lack of a permanent, well-paid place of work are accustomed to live without money, making purchases rarely, but using subsistence farming in dacha or vegetable garden, the interchange of goods and services, engaged in gathering, hunting, fishing (the aboriginal population returns to traditional marine mammal hunting). In addition, the Far East inhabitants react to the modified conditions by changing their demographic behavior. Horizontal public relations are being strengthened, mutual assistance are widely used in the circle of relatives and friends.

Caribbean literature is permeated by submarine aesthetics registering the environmental histories of colonialism and capitalism. In this essay, we contribute to the emergent discipline of critical ocean studies by delineating the contours of the “Oceanic Weird”. We begin with a brief survey of Old Weird tales by authors such as William Hope Hodgson and, most famously, H.P. Lovecraft, who were writing in the context of a world still dominated by European colonialism, but increasingly reshaped by an emergent US imperialism. We explore how these tales are both ecophobic and racialized, teeming with fears of deep geological time and the alterity of both nonhuman life and non-European civilizations, and argue that they register the oil-fuelled, militarised emergence of US imperial naval dominance. Subsequently, we turn to Rita Indiana’s neo-Lovecraftian novel, La mucama de Omicunlé [Tentacle, trans. Achy Obejas 2019], set in the Dominican Republic, as a key example of the contemporary efflorescence of ecocritical New Weird Caribbean fiction. We explore how the novel refashions Oceanic Weird tropes to represent the intertwining of marine ecological crisis in an era of global climate emergency with forms of oppression rooted in hierarchies of gender, sexuality, race, and class.

Résumé Cet article examine quelques réinterprétations du mythe d’Alphée et d’Aréthuse depuis l’Arcadia de Sannazar (1504) jusqu’aux opéras-ballets du début du XVIIIe siècle. Le motif des eaux, — plus particulièrement celui de la légende ovidienne de la course du fleuve amoureux sous la mer, depuis le cour du Péloponnèse jusqu’en Sicile —, a joué un grand rôle dans l’invention du mythe pastoral ; elle a permis de figurer le décentrement, l’idéalisation et l’universalisation de l’Arcadie géographique. L’Arcadia de Sannazar, où le trajet du narrateur, entre sa terre natale et l’Arcadie, suit la route sous-marine de l’Alphée, marque un infléchissement majeur du sens symbolique de la petite fable hydrographique. Lorsqu’elle est transposée sur la scène de théâtre, au début du XVIIe siècle, l’allégorie du lien invisible et de la profondeur se perd, tandis que l’Arcadie se résout de plus en plus à un pur décor. À travers les métamorphoses de la légende, il s’agit de montrer comment l’espace pastoral passe, à la fin de la Renaissance, d’un mode de représentation allégorique au régime de la fiction avant d’être recyclé dans l’univers de la féerie : ce qui se joue dans ce passage, c’est la disparition de l’Arcadie comme métaphore.

Reinhard Goering's play Die Südpolexpedition des Kapitäns Scott (1929) tells the story of the famously tragic British polar expedition led by Robert F. Scott in 1911–12. As the first public staging of the story, the play created considerable controversy in Britain when it premiered in Berlin in 1930. A late Expressionist drama, it offered perspectives on the expedition quite different to those coming out of Scott's homeland. In this article, Hanne Nielsen and Elizabeth Leane contextualize the play within Goering's own career; outline its performance history; examine its reception in both Germany and Britain; and analyze the play text in terms of its innovative treatment of Scott's story. Hanne Nielsen is a postgraduate student at Gateway Antarctica, University of Canterbury. Her background is in Antarctic Studies and German literature and she is currently undertaking a study of representations of Antarctica on stage. Elizabeth Leane is a Senior Lecturer in English at the University of Tasmania, where she holds a research position split between the School of Humanities and the Institute of Marine and Antarctic Studies. She has written and edited several books, most recently Antarctica in Fiction (Cambridge University Press).

Will humankind ever be able to live underwater? To answer this question from the perspective of visual media studies, I analyze narrative and expressive means used for positive representation of underwater experiences in several examples of screen media. My examples are principally different by origin and yet united by their highly enjoyable effect of immersion into underwater worlds. My primary focus is on Amphibian Man (1928), a cult early science fiction novel by Alexandr Belyaev adapted for screen in 1962 in the USSR.I also explore its unintentionally close contemporary reproduction in The Shape of Water (2016), which even led to accusations in plagiarism. The third example is a contemporary independent video game ABZU by Giant Squid (2016), which replays the same theme of amphibian human existence in a positive light. These cases present a surprisingly rare view of a safe, friendly and interactive marine world, approached by the protagonist who can breathe underwater. I apply the posthumanist lens to find out that, surprisingly, aquatic cyborgs seem to be underrated by the queer thought (Haraway, 2015, 2016); I conclude that the model of ‘queer ecologies’ may become the needed development.

In his 1932 book Brave New World, Aldous Huxley laid out a satirical blueprint of a future so strange to people of the time that it became a symbol of the frightening and unyielding momentum of scientific progress. Literature and popular culture have since been littered with images of a future earth so transformed by human progress (or extraterrestrial intervention) that we can hardly recognize it. Earth historians and paleontologists, however, have taken a different path into the bizarre. This group of time travelers has used the kind of technology that Huxley foreshadowed to recreate past worlds of similar disparity. These worlds are neither based on, nor entirely limited by, human imagination, but are based instead on scientific observation. In short, these strange old worlds are real, not imagined. As often is the case, however, truth can b e stranger than fiction.

These days environmental issues are among the most commonly reported ones in the world. The dangerous effects of the environmental problems, which are as old as the history of humanity, began to be felt more profoundly after the Industrial Revolution. In former times the environmental problems were felt only at a local level with the destruction of forests in order to facilitate hunting places and clear lands for farming areas. After the Industrial Revolution the extent of the problem rose and reached the catastrophic disaster level with the extensive fossil fuel use. Nowadays, when environment problems come into question, many people prefer using the term environmental disaster in place of the term environmental problems. This term, environmental disaster, may be remarkable enough to discern the severity of the problem. The role of literature in reaching the public cannot be denied. Ecocriticism tries to make use of this ability of literature in setting forth and expressing environment problems. Since both fictional and non-fictional literature can reach many people, the works which concern with the environmental problems may be beneficial to raise awareness and contribute to inform many people all over the world about the severity of these problems. Creating awareness is an important issue since many people are not aware of the fact that the nature is destroyed by humans, and they neglect that the harm to nature causes the harm to humanity concurrently since there has always been an indissoluble bond between ecosystem and humans. Humans cannot be dissociated from the natural world. In this study, some brief information about human related environment disasters, social organizations which were established to fight for the rights of nonhuman beings in nature, the function of literature in creating awareness among human beings, the efforts of creating ecological reading and the emergence of ecocritical literary criticism will be given. After discussing Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s contribution to nature writing and Romanticism briefly, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” will be evaluated from an ecocritical perspective.

Among the many anecdotes explaining Elizabeth Gaskell's entrance into the literary marketplace is one circulated by Travers Madge, a leading Manchester philanthropist. Gaskell allegedly told him that “the one strong impulse” to write Mary Barton came after visiting one particularly destitute laborer's cottage:She was trying hard to speak comfort, and to allay those bitter feelings against the rich which were so common with the poor, when the head of the family took hold of her arm, and grasping it tightly said, with tears in his eyes, “Ay, ma'am, but have ye ever seen a child clemmed to death?” (Hompes 131)While this anecdote ostensibly explains Gaskell's literary calling as a sacred duty and illustrates her expansive feminine sympathy, it also positions her work within the larger project of nineteenth-century philanthropy. As a lady visitor, she attempts to “speak comfort” and assuage working-class hostility toward the rich, but she finds herself in a discursive struggle with the workman, whose rough vernacular and even rougher hand threaten violence both to the lady and the narrative. Like the Ancient Mariner of Coleridge's poem, the nameless workman compels her to listen and accord him the authority that great suffering demands. He wrests the reader's attention away from the main figure of the anecdote, the benevolent “Mrs. Gaskell,” and renders her speechless — at least for a while. For it is his domestic tragedy which authorizes her literary vocation and enables her to present her work as a form of fictional philanthropy.

Abstract Stanley Kubrick’s anti-war film Full Metal Jacket (1987) dramatically represents US Marine Corps basic training during the Vietnam War as both gruelling and brutalising. The brutal, linguistically aggressive and physically intimidating scenes purport to detail the dehumanising process that Marine Corps recruits were put through in preparation for combat during that period. In the film, the recruits are trained by Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, played by the actor R. Lee Ermey, who is himself an ex-Marine Corps drill instructor (1965–1967) and who also served in Vietnam in 1968. As a result of his experience as an instructor, Ermey was given free rein by Kubrick to write his own dialogue for the abusive barrack room and field training scenes in order to lend the drama an air of authenticity (see Ermey 2017). Within the fictional world of the film, the intense training and disciplinary regime ultimately causes one recruit, Private Leonard Lawrence, to crack psychologically. Private Lawrence is nicknamed ‘Gomer Pyle’ by Hartman upon their first meeting, this name being a direct allusion to the hapless character of the same name who was a US Marine recruit in the sitcom Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C., which ran from 1964–1969 – contemporaneously with the time period in which Full Metal Jacket is set. This insulting allusion is merely the start of a long line of linguistically impolite/aggressive and ultimately physically aggressive interactions which Lawrence/Pyle suffers at the hands of Hartman, both directly and, later in the film as a result of Hartman’s orchestrations, from the other recruits. Under this unrelenting barrage of impoliteness, aggression, and abuse, Lawrence/Pyle eventually shoots Hartman dead before turning his rifle on himself and committing suicide. Thus, the film argues that the dehumanising effect of the basic training, which was ostensibly carried out to toughen up and mentally prepare conscripted recruits for combat in Vietnam, had a profound, brutalising and (potentially) utterly destructive effect on those subjected to it. In this article, we explore the creative linguistic aggression displayed by the character of Hartman. We focus particularly on the reasons underlying the creativity of Hartman’s impoliteness and aggression, and argue that these are essentially to foreground the seriousness of the training regime which the recruits must follow.

The most important element of Damien Hirst's multimedia project "Treasures from the Wreck of Unbelivable" was the exhibition, presented from April 9 to December 3, 2017 in Venice, in the galleries of the Pinault Foundation in Punta della Dogana and Palazzo Grassi. It was completed by several book publications and a 90-minute film of the same title, made available globally on the Netflix online platform on January 1, 2018. The exhibition included over a hundred objects, mainly sculptures, made in various techniques and materials in a wide range of sizes. The film, stylized as a popular science documentary, presents the fictional story of their discovery and exploration at the bottom of the Indian Ocean, and their transport to Venice. It develops the main idea of the exhibition – a fictitious vision of the origin of these objects from an ancient wreck, filled with artistic collections, belonging to a fabulously rich ancient Roman freedman, with the significant name Cif Amotan II (anagram from “I am a fiction”). Realizing this fancy artistic vision, most of the works were made as if they had been damaged by the sea waves and overgrown with corals and other marine organisms. Hirst created a comprehensive and all-encompassing narrative using the principle of "voluntary suspension of unbelief," formulated by Samuel T. Coleridge. The artist sets himself and the viewer on a fantastic journey into the ancient past, taking up subjects central to his ouevre for decades: faith, relations of art and science, transience and death. He does this by means of numerous references to the artistic and mythological heritage of antiquity, not only Graeco-Roman, but also of other great cultures and civilizations. Although the formal and technical aspects of the project will also be discussed, the main goal of the author is to analyze how Hirst used the knowledge of antiquity (classics) to create both the exhibition itself and the mockumentary. The artist made archeology an element binding his narrative together, showing in the film not only how artefacts were obtained from the bottom of the ocean. He also presented a number of tasks that scientists deal with at various stages of the project – from the first discovery, through interpretation and conservation, to the presenting at the museum-like exhibition. Of course, his purpose was not to create a study in the methodology of underwater exploration, but to reflect on the cognitive power of science examining remains of ancient times. By juxtaposing two possible attitudes towards relics of the past, i.e. the strict discipline of the scholar and the imagination of the treasure hunter, he concludes that narratives arising from them will both have the character of a mythical tale. The ontic status of the artefacts themselves, as the things of the past, left in a fragmentary state by the passage of time, sets all the stories related to them within the discourse of faith.

The indigenous cultures all over the world are strongly interwoven with a range of natural components. All these indigenous and aboriginal worlds including Native Americans are known for their holistic tradition as they love and revere a variety of ecological elements such as the Mother Earth, foliage, waterway, deep marine, and downpour. In the Native American fiction Gardens in the Dunes by Leslie Marmon Silko, the author weaves a spectacular narrative to convey the story of nature, home, mother, memory, exile, and return. Silko portrays this strong bonding while depicting the close relationship between Nature andvarious Native American characters. As the Native American culture believes in the deep bonding between its nature and its community members, their varied forms of farming and gardening become integral to their cultural identity. The recurrent recollections of Indigo’s mother, her Grandmother Fleet, Sister Salt, and above all, the image of the Old Garden represent the recreation and reconstruction of her cultural memory and its association with the Mother Nature. The protagonist Indigo’s love for gardens brings back the mythical memory of the Biblical ‘Garden of Eden’ which is the ‘Garden of God’ as described in the Book of the Genesis. The displacement of Indigo from her indigenous garden becomes a representation of the man’s dissociation from nature and Indigo’s homecoming to her native garden denotes man’s perpetual longing to reconcile with Mother Earth. Thus, this paper seeks to analyze the re-establishment of a negotiation between old and new, past and present and most importantly the man and the nature in the backdrop of colonization with reference to Gardens in the Dunes by Leslie Marmon Silko.

In hisMemoirs of anUnfortunate Son of Thespis(1818), the actor Edward Cape Everard recalled a performance of Sheridan'sSchool for Scandalthat was interrupted in its third act by a rowdy bunch of sailors. At the sight of Charles Surface drinking, the sailors allegedly left the auditorium, entered the stage, and accosted the actor playing Charles, “exclaiming ‘My eyes, you're a hearty fellow! Come, my tight one, hand us a glass’” (qtd. in Russell 104). As apocryphal as the encounter seems, it is not the only account of mariners rushing the early-nineteenth century stage to join in with the drama. In her analysis of these anecdotes Gillian Russell comments that though they may have been intended to depict the sailor “as naïve and unsophisticated, unable to make the distinction between fiction and reality. . . it is not surprising that the sailor should have disregarded the rules of mimesis and the distinction between stage and auditorium” (104), for the sailor's life lent itself to, and was structured by, theatricality. Service in “the theatres of war,” or more generally in the “wooden world” of the ship, demanded strict performance of custom and ritual in the forging of social identities and relations, not least of all in the ritualistic initiation ceremonies and corporal punishments that were enacted in front of the amassed audience of the crew (Russell 139–57; see Dening). At sea and in dock sailors entertained themselves with amateur theatricals. On shore, they were keen theatre-goers, and in auditoriums and elsewhere they played up to the characteristics of the sailor in the brazen assertion of an identity that was celebrated in stories, songs, and plays, but frequently also belittled, bemoaned, and victimized, the latter particularly while the press gangs were active.

Pierre Loti was a novelist and a marine officer who visited lots of countries. He gained popularity writing about his travels and travel impressions. This article analyses his travel to Nagasaki back in 1885 where he lived for half a year and had a ‘temporary wife’. His novel written during that travel is called “Madame Chrysanthème”. It’s one of his most extravagant and interesting pieces which made the author world-famous. It reflected common interest in the oriental life typical for that time and it predetermined the image of Japan in the European consciousness of the second half of the 19th century. Pierre Loti wrote about his ambition to make the novel as impressionist as possible determining impressionism not as an intellectual but as a decorative phenomenon related mostly to arts and translation of sensory perception. His interpretation of impressionism was expressed in “Madame Chrysanthème”, which is an attempt to describe the world around us, represented not only by the material world but by the author’s sensory perceptions and feelings. To be exact, this is impressionism in fiction. The world is a product of our sensory experience, and the author’s goal is to fix this experience, which is the sum of his observation and impressions. Pierre Loti creates his work where color plays the main role together with sounds and words. They are a sum total of the elements determining the reality in equal amounts. Stylistically “Madame Chrysanthème” is created according to impressionist canons, with lots of epithets, comparisons, metaphors, the author’s neologisms. The novel is written as a diary where separate episodes in chapters are separated from one another by large white empty gaps. The article discusses similarity of impressionism and the Japanese culture. However, a closer look demonstrates considerable differences between the European and the Oriental minds.

AbstractThe article considers populism not as common ideology but as a common strategy for implementing various distinct ideologies. Constitutional democracy and populist strategy are inherently connected. Populist strategies develop a specific rhetoric which takes root in the features of constitutional democracy. The populist rhetoric manipulates the rule-of-law and the majoritarian pillars of constitutional democracy by convincing a fictional majority that constitutional democracy gives rise to a tyranny of minorities. Populism in action represents the second facet of the populist strategy. It corresponds to a specific constitutional strategy of legal and constitutional reforms aiming at disrupting constitutional democracy. After exposing my theoretical assumption, I move to a comparative study of two countries, France and Hungary, selected according to the most different cases approach. I analyze first how Viktor Orban based his constitutional strategy on a progressive deconstruction of the post-communist legacy. I study then how Marine le Pen’s strategy consisted of a comprehensive reform of the French semi-presidential system via referendum. I finally conclude by recalling the essential role academics have to play in the fight against populism. My last point is a provocation, what if calling populism by its real diversity (fascism, racism and antisemitism) was the most efficient way to fight them?

Abstract. While the idea of extracting deep-seabed resources dates back to as early as the 1960s, it remained pure fiction for decades due to limited technical possibilities and prohibitive costs. In recent years, against the backdrop of changing technical possibilities and a persistently high demand for raw materials, deep-seabed mining (DSM) has returned to the international political agenda. While numerous fact-finding missions engage in mapping the ocean's resources and public–private partnerships prepare to make an active engagement in mining the seabed, the International Seabed Authority (ISA) is entrusted with the development of a legal framework for possible future mining in accordance with the requirements defined under the UN Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS). The preparations for DSM are accompanied and ultimately shaped by a discourse on possible opportunities and risks of mining the deep seabed. The paper at hand traces dominant discursive positions and their narrative structures as a way of explaining the relative success or failure of DSM proponents who speak in favor of mining the seabed and DSM critics who warn against its striking environmental impacts and inestimable risks. We proceed from the observation that the historic discourse on the deep sea beyond national jurisdiction was rooted in what we call “narratives of promise” regarding global procedural and distributive justice, environmental health, and peaceful international cooperation. Our findings show how in today's debates the theme of global marine justice, which dominated the historic DSM discourse, is close to a “nonstory”. DSM is commonly narrated as a merely technocratic and apolitical process that appears to be free of social and environmental conflict. We conclude by arguing that to arrive at more successful critical narratives on DSM will require more pronounced depictions of the negative consequences in particular for humans, exposing the “politics” in DSM policy making and developing more competitive stories on alternatives to DSM.

The paper considers a Statement of Outstanding Universal Value of World Heritage Sites, which is one of the most important of UNESCO documents. The research is aimed at studying its genre characteristics both in terms of form and content. They are illustrated in the paper through the example of the Statement of Outstanding Universal Value of the Galapagos Islands, being one of the major sites on the UNESCO list. Based on discourse analysis of the text, the following interrelated characteristics of its genre have been distinguished: typical content, rigid composition, informativeness, intertextuality, accuracy, laconicism, clarity, persuasiveness, argumentativeness, axiology, expressiveness, imagery, rhetoricalness. The unity of these features distinguishes this genre from others and is determined by extralinguistic factors: the Statement of Outstanding Universal Value is aimed at describing and proving the unique value of the archipelago. The research shows that the genre is characterized by typical content which is developed coherently in accordance with the standard composition of the format. It contains factual, conceptual, and implicit information. To prove the outstanding universal value of the site, both factual and axiological arguments are used. The verbal representation of these features is characterized, on the one hand, by lingual units used in accordance with literary norms and direct meaning, as well as by precision lexicon. On the other hand, it is characterized by metaphors and evaluative lexicon. The key metaphor representing the essence of the archipelago in the document is that of ‘a unique living museum and showcase of evolution’. It is developed through the document in a wide range of contextual evaluative synonyms, epithets, rows of homogeneous phytonyms and zoonyms depicting the variety and special character of the flora and fauna of the Galapagos Islands and the Galapagos Marine Reserve, their unique seismic, volcanic, biological, ecological, geological, evolutionary processes. The intertextuality of the document means its connection with a wide range of the UN documents, as well as fiction, mass media, science.

Fictive swimming activity was induced in isolated spinal cords of adult lampreys Ichthyomyzon unicuspis and Petromyzon marinus by addition of D-glutamate or N-methyl-D,L-aspartate (NMA) to the bathing fluid. Propriospinal interneurons are defined as nerve cells within the spinal cord with projections longer than 1 segment. The hypothesis that propriospinal interneurons contribute to intersegmental coordination during fictive swimming was tested using electrical stimulation, extracellular recording, and separated compartments. Stimulation of the split caudal end of the spinal cord indirectly excited ascending propriospinal interneurons, which enhanced and entrained bursts in rostral contralateral ventral roots. Indirect electrical stimulation of descending propriospinal interneurons could delay and diminish bursts in caudal contralateral ventral roots. Extracellular recordings from the rostral and caudal split ends of the spinal cord sometimes showed spike activities in phase with contralateral or ipsilateral ventral roots. Inhibition of 1-3 segments by spot applications of glycine or gamma-aminobutyric acid (GABA) did not interrupt normal coordination or rostrocaudal phase lag. When a middle region of spinal cord was inhibited in a compartment with GABA or glycine, the caudal spinal cord could entrain the bursts in rostral ventral roots. In a few preparations the caudal region induced antiphasic bursts in previously silent rostral roots through the inhibited region. The maximum separation for caudal-upon-rostral antiphasic entrainment was approximately 20 segments in Ichthyomyzon and 36 segments in Petromyzon. Increased concentrations of an excitatory amino acid in a rostral compartment could produce descending entrainment of bursts in an adjacent caudal compartment at a higher frequency with rostrocaudal phase lag. The rostral-upon-caudal entrainment could still occur through spot applications of GABA or glycine but not through long inhibited regions. Two hypothetical groups of propriospinal interneurons are proposed for the coordination of swimming activities in the isolated spinal cords of adult lampreys. 1) Crossed, ascending interneurons may be excited in phase with nearby motoneurons and may excite and entrain rostral pattern generators on the opposite side. 2) Short, commissural interneurons may be excited in phase with nearby motoneurons and may inhibit contralateral generators.

Patrick O’Brian inspired this work, with his 1934 book of chronicles “Beasts Royal,” where he gives a voice to animals. Therein, among other animals, we find Skogula, a young sperm whale journeying with his family group across the South Seas and his views on the surrounding world, both underwater and on land. This paper tells a story of historical natural events, from the viewpoint of a fin whale that travelled, rested and stranded in the Tagus estuary mouth (Lisbon, Portugal) during the early 16th century. It allows us to move across time and explore the past of this estuarine ecosystem. What kind of changes took place and how can literature and heritage contribute to understand peoples’ constructions of past environments, local maritime histories and memories? In the second part of this essay we present a fictional short story, supported on historical documental sources and imagery research where Lily, the whale, is the main character. Thus, we see the Tagus estuary as perceived through this whale’s-eye view. Finally, we discuss past earthquakes, whale strandings, the occurrence of seals and dolphins and peoples’ perceptions of the Tagus coastal environment across time. We expect to make a contribution to the field of the marine environmental humanities. We will do so both by addressing, by means of this literary approach, the writing of “new thalassographies,” oceanic historiographies and “historicities” and by including all intervening actors—people, animals and the physical space—in the understanding of the past of more-than-human aquatic worlds.

In mollusks, statocyst receptor cells (SRCs) interact with each other forming a neural network; their activity is determined by both the animal's orientation in the gravitational field and multimodal inputs. These two facts suggest that the function of the statocysts is not limited to sensing the animal's orientation. We studied the role of the statocysts in the organization of search motion during hunting behavior in the marine mollusk, Clione limacina. When hunting, Clione swims along a complex trajectory including numerous twists and turns confined within a definite space. Search-like behavior could be evoked pharmacologically by physostigmine; application of physostigmine to the isolated CNS produced “fictive search behavior” monitored by recordings from wing and tail nerves. Both in behavioral and in vitro experiments, we found that the statocysts are necessary for search behavior. The motor program typical of searching could not be produced after removing the statocysts. Simultaneous recordings from single SRCs and motor nerves showed that there was a correlation between the SRCs activity and search episodes. This correlation occurred even though the preparation was fixed and, therefore the sensory stimulus was constant. The excitation of individual SRCs could in some cases precede the beginning of search episodes. A biologically based model showed that, theoretically, the hunting search motor program could be generated by the statocyst receptor network due to its intrinsic dynamics. The results presented support for the idea that the statocysts are actively involved in the production of the motor program underlying search movements during hunting behavior.

The marine mollusk Clione limacina, when swimming, can stabilize different body orientations in the gravitational field. The stabilization is based on the reflexes initiated by activation of the statocyst receptor cells and mediated by the cerebro-pedal interneurons that produce excitation of the motoneurons of the effector organs; tail and wings. Here we describe changes in the reflex pathways underlying different modes of postural activity; the maintenance of the head-up orientation at low temperature, the maintenance of the head-down orientation at higher temperature, and a complete inactivation of the postural mechanisms during defense reaction. Experiments were performed on the CNS-statocyst preparation. Spike discharges in the axons of different types of neurons were recorded extracellularly while the preparation was rotated in space through 360° in different planes. We characterized the spatial zones of activity of the tail and wing motoneurons and the CPB3 interneurons mediating the effects of statocyst receptor cells on the tail motoneurons. This was done at different temperatures (10 and 20°C). The “fictive” defense reaction was evoked by electrical stimulation of the head nerve. At 10°C, a tilt of the preparation evoked activation in the tail motoneurons and wing retractor motoneurons contralateral to the tilt and in the wing locomotor motoneurons ipsilateral to the tilt. At 20°C, the responses in the tail motoneurons and in the wing retractor motoneurons occurred reversed; these neurons were now activated with the ipsilateral tilt. In the wing locomotor motoneurons the responses at 20°C were suppressed. During the defense reaction, gravitational responses in all neuron types were suppressed. Changes in the chains of tail reflexes most likely occurred at the level of connections from the statocyst receptor cells to the CPB3 interneurons. The changes in gravitational reflexes revealed in the present study are sufficient to explain the corresponding modifications of the postural behavior in Clione.

The spinal cord has been well established as the site of generation of the locomotor rhythm in vertebrates, but studies have suggested that the caudal hindbrain in larval fish and amphibians can also generate locomotor rhythms. Here, we investigated whether the caudal hindbrain of the adult lamprey ( Petromyzon marinus and Ichthyomyzon unicuspis) has the ability to generate the swimming rhythm. The hindbrain-spinal cord transition zone of the lamprey contains a bilateral column of somatic motoneurons that project via the spino-occipital (S-O) nerves to several muscles of the head. In the brainstem-spinal cord-muscle preparation, these muscles were found to burst and contract rhythmically with a left-right alternation when swimming activity was evoked with a brief electrical stimulation of the spinal cord. In the absence of muscles, the isolated brainstem-spinal cord preparation also produced alternating left-right bursts in S-O nerves (i.e., fictive swimming), and the S-O nerve bursts preceded the bursts occurring in the first ipsilateral spinal ventral root. After physical isolation of the S-O region using transverse cuts of the nervous system, the S-O nerves still exhibited rhythmic bursting with left-right alternation when glutamate was added to the bathing solution. We conclude that the S-O region of the lamprey contains a swimming rhythm generator that produces the leading motor nerve bursts of each swimming cycle, which then propagate down the spinal cord to produce forward swimming. The S-O region of the hindbrain-spinal cord transition zone may play a role in regulating speed, turning, and head orientation during swimming in lamprey. NEW & NOTEWORTHY Although it has been well established that locomotor rhythm generation occurs in the spinal cord of vertebrates, it was unknown whether the hindbrain of the adult vertebrate nervous system can also generate the locomotor rhythm. Here, we show that the isolated hindbrain-spinal cord transition zone of adult lamprey can generate the swimming rhythm. In addition, the swimming bursts of the hindbrain lead the bursts occurring in the first segment of the spinal cord.

Augmented Reality Installation in public space by Tamiko Thiel, 2016 – 2017: http://tamikothiel.com/gota/. Originally commissioned for the Seattle Art Museum Olympic Sculpture Park in summer 2016. The augmented reality (AR) installation Gardens of the Anthropocene posits a science fiction future in which native aquatic and terrestrial plants have mutated to cope with the increasing unpredictable and erratic climate swings. The plants in the installation are all derived from actual native plants in and around the Olympic Sculpture Park that are tolerant respectively to drought on land or to warming sea waters, and are therefore expected to adapt to the increasing temperatures to come. Beyond this actual scientific basis, however, the artwork takes artistic license to imagine a surreal, dystopian scenario in which plants are "mutating" to breach natural boundaries: from photosynthesis of visible light to feeding off of mobile devices' electromagnetic radiation, from extracting nutrients from soil to feeding off man-made structures, and to transgressing boundaries between underwater and dry land, between reactive flora and active fauna. Gardens of the Anthropocene has been eradicated in Seattle, but as the plants are native also to the San Francisco Bay Area, they have relocated to the Stanford University campus, between Memorial Auditorium and Hoover Tower, around the Hoover Fountain. Also, installations of red algae have been discovered on the East Coast of the USA, in Brooklyn, NY and Salem, MA. Resumen Instalación de Realidad Aumentada en espacio público por Tamiko Thiel, 2016 – 2017: http://tamikothiel.com/gota/. Encargado originalmente para el Parque de Escultura Olímpica del Museo de Arte de Seattle en el verano de 2016. La instalación de realidad aumentada (RA) Jardines del Antropoceno plantea un futuro de ciencia ficción en el que las plantas acuáticas y terrestres nativas han mutado para lidia con los cambios climáticos cada vez más impredecibles. Todas las plantas de la instalación provienen de plantas nativas reales del Parque de Escultura Olímpica y sus alrededores, que son tolerantes a la sequía en tierra o a las aguas marinas cada vez más cálidas, y que por lo tanto se espera que se adapten a las temperaturas en aumento que están por venir. Sin embargo, más allá de esta base científica real, la obra artística se toma la licencia de imaginar un escenario surrealista y distópico en el que las plantas “mutan” para romper barreras naturales: desde la fotosíntesis de la luz visible hasta nutrirse de la radiación electromagnética de dispositivos móviles, desde extraer nutrientes del suelo hasta alimentar estructuras hechas por el hombre, y hasta transgredir fronteras entre el agua y la tierra seca, entre flora radiactiva y fauna activa. Jardines del Antropoceno ha desaparecido de Seattle, pero como las plantas también son nativas de la zona de la bahía de San Francisco, han sido recolocadas en el campus de la Universidad de Stanford, entre el Memorial Auditorium y la Torre Hoover, alrededor de la Fuente Hoover. Además, se han descubierto instalaciones de algas rojas en la Costa Este de EEUU, en Brooklyn, NY y Salem, MA.

This lecture is in some ways the ‘lost’ chapter of The Cambridge History of Australian Literature (2009), one eventually not written because the projected author could find not enough literary material even in that vast Pacific Ocean, or perhaps found – as mariners have – only far separated specks in that ocean. Yet Australian literature about the nation’s Pacific littoral and the islands within the ocean and the ocean itself is varied, considerable, and often eccentric. Our greatest drinking song is Barry Humphries’s ‘The Old Pacific Sea’. The Japs and the jungle are the hallmarks of fiction, poetry and reportage of the Pacific War of 1942-5. New Guinea has attracted such writers as James McAuley, Peter Ryan, Trevor Shearston, Randolph Stow and Drusilla Modjeska. The short stories of Louis Becke are the most extensive and iconoclastic writing about the Pacific by any Australian. Yet the literature of the Pacific littoral seems thinner than that of the Indian Ocean. The map on the title page of Rolf Boldrewood’s A Modern Buccaneer (1894) shows those afore-mentioned specks in a vast expanse of water. What aesthetic challenges have Pacific writing posed and how have they been met? Have the waters of the Pacific satisfied Australians as a near offshore playground but defeated wider efforts of the imagination?

Abstract Typically, the marine mollusk, Clione limacina, exhibits a slow, hovering locomotor gait to maintain its position in the water column. However, the animal exhibits behaviorally relevant locomotor swim acceleration during escape response and feeding behavior. Both nitric oxide and serotonin mediate this behavioral swim acceleration. In this study, we examine the role that the second messenger, cGMP, plays in mediating nitric oxide and serotonin-induced swim acceleration. We observed that the application of an analog of cGMP or an activator of soluble guanylyl cyclase increased fictive locomotor speed recorded from Pd-7 interneurons of the animal’s locomotor central pattern generator. Moreover, inhibition of soluble guanylyl cyclase decreased fictive locomotor speed. These results suggest that basal levels of cGMP are important for slow swimming and that increased production of cGMP mediates swim acceleration in Clione. Because nitric oxide has its effect through cGMP signaling and because we show herein that cGMP produces cellular changes in Clione swim interneurons that are consistent with cellular changes produced by serotonin application, we hypothesize that both nitric oxide and serotonin function via a common signal transduction pathway that involves cGMP. Our results show that cGMP mediates nitric oxide-induced but not serotonin-induced swim acceleration in Clione.

Many mistakenly perceive Star Trek to be, simply, a “Wagon Train to the stars,” a space western/opera that projects the U.S. American frontier into outer space. However, by introducing his starship captain in archetypal terms as a ‘space-age Captain Horation [sic] Hornblower,’ and by making him a descendant of ‘similar [naval] men in the past,’ Star Trek (1966-1969) creator Gene Roddenberry makes it clear that his starship captain is not based on the quintessential cowboy hero found in the U.S. American national imagination (Roddenberry, 1964: 5). In this article, I seek to (re)map the character contours of the principle Star Trek captains and compare them with C. S. Forester’s ‘man alone,’ Horatio Hornblower, as well as with Hornblower’s romanticised predecessors. I will demonstrate how ‘Starfleet’s finest’ fit the role of the sentimental naval officer/hero of the Romantic period. Ultimately, it will become clear that Roddenberry used Horatio Hornblower as an archetypal blueprint to craft the Star Trek captains as interstellar masters and commanders, as well as spaceborne naturalists and scientists, extending the historio-mythical continuum of British maritime heroes into Star Trek’s fictional, yet “historical” future. The “Hornblowers in space” represent the central node in the decidedly transatlantic double consciousness of the Star Trek continuum - a maritime endowment which has largely escaped scholarly attention.

Hainnu, Rebecca. The Spirit of the Sea. Illus. Hwei Lim. Iqualuit, NU: Inhabit Media, Inc., 2014. Print.This volume is another of Inhabit Media’s fine productions of Inuit legends. It tells an old story, which exists in many variations. This version comes from Rebecca Hainnu, who lives in Clyde River, Nunavut. While Hainnu’s previous works have been non-fiction including children’s books on mathematics and tundra plants, she does a fine job of storytelling, as well. Arnaq is a beautiful young woman who is tricked into marrying a fulmar (a kind of bird) when he appears in human form. When her father tries to rescue her, he ends up sacrificing her to the fulmars to save his own life. She sinks to the bottom and becomes the Spirit of the Sea. As Nuliajuq, she controls the sea animals and hunters must appease her to have good hunting and calm seas.Throughout the volume, text appears on one page and an image on the facing page. The text, which is appropriate for upper elementary readers and above, is meant to be read aloud and generally has the sound of a traditional storyteller’s voice. However, there are occasional modern phrases that are incongruous and break the flow. “Eventually, Arnaq succumbed to complete depression”. The text contains some Inuktitut words, which are italicized and listed in the pronunciation guide at the end of the volume.The watercolours by Hwei Lim are beautiful and ethereal. The colours are mainly blues and browns, reflecting the marine environment. The underwater image of Arnaq looking up at the bottom of a boat is particularly effective.The Spirit of the Sea is highly recommended for elementary school libraries, public libraries and libraries specializing in Canadian Indigenous materials. Highly Recommended: 4 stars out of 4Reviewer: Sandy CampbellSandy is a Health Sciences Librarian at the University of Alberta, who has written hundreds of book reviews across many disciplines. Sandy thinks that sharing books with children is one of the greatest gifts anyone can give.

Game of Thrones (GoT) has become the most popular way of referring to a universe that was previously known under the title A Song of Ice and Fire by fans of fantasy novels. Indeed, thanks to its huge success, the TV series is now the most common entry into what is today a complex narrative constellation. Game of Thrones began as a series of five novels written by George R. R. Martin (first published in 1996). It was adapted as a TV series by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss for HBO in 2011, as a comic book series (2011—2014), several video games (Blood of Dragons, 2007; A Game of Thrones: Genesis, 2011; Game of Thrones, 2012; Game of Thrones Ascent, 2013; Game of Thrones, 2014), as well as several prequel novellas, a card game (A Game of Thrones: The Card Game, 2002), and a strategy board game (2003), not to mention the promotional transmedia developed by Campfire to bring the novels’ fans to the TV series. Thus, the GoT ensemble does indeed look like a form of transmedia, at least at first sight.Game of Thrones’ UniverseGenerally, definitions of transmedia assemble three elements. First, transmedia occurs when the content is developed on several media, “with each new text making a distinctive and valuable contribution to the whole. … Each franchise entry needs to be self-contained so you don’t need to have seen the film to enjoy the game, and vice versa” (Jenkins 97-98). The second component is the narrative world. The authors of Transmédia Dans Tous Ses États notice that transmedia stories “are in some cases reduced to a plain link between two contents on two media, with no overall vision” (Collective 4). They consider these ensembles weak. For Gambarato, the main point of transmedia is “the worldbuilding experience, unfolding content and generating the possibilities for the story to evolve with new and pertinent content,” what Jenkins called “worldmaking” (116). The third ingredient is the audience. As the narrative extends itself over several platforms, consumers’ participation is essential. “To fully experience any fictional world, consumers must assume the role of hunters and gatherers, chasing down bits of the story across media channels” (Jenkins 21).The GoT constellation does not precisely match this definition. In the canonical example examined by Jenkins, The Matrix, the whole was designed from the beginning of the project. That was not the case for GoT, as the transmedia development clearly happened once the TV series had become a success. Not every entry in this ensemble unfolds new aspects of the world, as the TV series is an adaptation of the novels (until the sixth season when it overtook the books). Not every component is self-contained, as the novels and TV series are at the narrative system’s centre. This narrative ensemble more closely matches the notion of “modèle satellitaire” conceived by Saint-Gelais, where one element is the first chronologically and hierarchically. However, this statement does not devalue the GoT constellation, as the canonical definition is rarely actualized (Sepulchre “La Constellation Transmédiatique,” Philipps, Gambarato “Transmedia”), and as transmedia around TV series are generally developed after the first season, once the audience is stabilized. What is most noticeable about GoT is the fact that the TV series has probably replaced the novels as the centre of the ensemble.Under the influence of Jenkins, research on transmedia has often come to be related to fan studies. In this work, he describes very active and connected users. Research in game studies also shows that gamers are creative and form communities (Berry 155-207). However, the majority of these studies focused on hardcore fans or hardcore gamers (Bourdaa; Chen; Davis; Jenkins; Peyron; Stein). Usual users are less studied, especially for such transmedia practices.Main Question and MethodologyDue to its configuration, and the wide spectrum of users’ different levels of involvement, the GoT constellation offers an occasion to confront two audiences and their practices. GoT transmedia clearly targets both fiction lovers and gamers. The success of the franchise has led to heavy consumption of transmedia elements, even by fans who had never approached transmedia before, and may allow us to move beyond the classical analysis. That’s why, in that preliminary research, by comparing TV series viewers in general with a quite specific part of them, ordinary gamers of the videogame GOT Ascent, we aim to evaluate transmedia use in the GOT community. The results on viewers are part of a broader research project on TV series and transmedia. The originality of this study focuses on ordinary viewers, not fans. The goal is to understand if they are familiar with transmedia, if they develop transmedia practices, and why. The paper is based on 52 semi-structured interviews conducted in 2012 (11) and 2013 (41). Consumers of fictional extensions of TV series and fans of TV series were selected. The respondents are around twenty years old, university students, white, mostly female (42 women, 10 men), and are not representative outside the case study. Therefore, the purpose of this first empirical sample was simply to access ordinary GOT viewers’ behaviours, and to elaborate an initial landscape of their use of different media in the same world.After that, we focused our analysis on one specific community, a subset of the GOT’s universe’s users, that is, players of the GoT Ascent videogame (we use “gamers” as synonym for “players” and “users”). Through this online participative observation, we try to analyse the players’ attitudes, and evaluate the nature of their involvement from a user perspective (Servais). Focusing on one specific medium in the GOT constellation should allow us to further flesh out the general panorama on transmedia, by exploring involvement in one particular device more deeply. Our purpose in that is to identify whether the players are transmedia users, and so GoT fans, or if they are firstly players. During a three month in-game ethnography, in June-August 2013, we played Aren Gorn, affiliated to House Tyrell, level 91, and member of “The Winter is Dark and Full of Terrors” Alliance (2500 members). Following an in-game ethnography (Boellstorff 123-134), we explored gamers’ playing attitudes inside the interface.The Users, TV Series, and TransmediaThe respondents usually do not know what transmedia is, even if a lot of them (36) practice it. Those who are completely unaware that a narrative world can be spread over several media are rare. Only ten of them engage in fan practices (cosplay, a kind of costuming community, fan-fiction, and fan-vidding, that is fans who write fiction or make remix videos set in the world they love), which tends to show that transmedia does not only concern fans.Most of the ordinary viewers are readers, as 23 of them cite books (True Blood, Gossip Girl, Pretty Little Liars, Les Piliers de la Terre), one reads a recipe book (Plus Belle la Vie), and seven consume comics (The Walking Dead, Supernatural). They do not distinguish between novelisation (the novel adapted from a TV series) and the original book. Other media are also consumed, however a lot less: animation series, special episodes on the Internet, music, movies, websites (blogs, fictional websites), factual websites (about the story, the production, actors), fan-fiction, and cosplay.Transmedia does not seem to be a strong experience. Céline and Ioana respectively read the novels adapted from Plus Belle la Vie and Gossip Girl, but don’t like them. “It is written like a script … There’s no description, only the dialogues between characters” (Ioana). Lora watched some webisodes of Cougar Town but didn’t find them funny. Aurélie has followed the Twitter of Sookie Stackouse (True Blood) and Guilleaume D. sometimes consumes humoristic content on 9gag, but irregularly. “It’s not my thing” (Aurélie). The participants are even more critical of movies, especially the sequels of Sex and the City.That does not mean the respondents always reject transmedia components. First, they enjoy elements that are not supposed to belong to the world. These may be fan productions or contents they personally inject into the universe. Several have done research on the story’s topic: Alizée investigated mental disorders to understand United States of Tara; Guilleaume G. wandered around on Google Earth to explore Albuquerque (Breaking Bad); for Guilleaume D., Hugh Laurie’s music album is part of the character of Gregory House; Julie adores Peter Pan and, for her, Once Upon A Time, Finding Neverland, and Hook are part of the same universe. Four people particularly enjoy when the fictional characters’ couples are duplicated by real relationships between actors (which may explain all the excitement surrounding Kit Harrington and Rose Leslie’s real-life love story, paralleling their characters’ romance on GOT). If there is a transmedia production, it seems that there is also a kind of “transmedia reception,” as viewers connect heteroclite elements to build a coherent world of their own. Some respondents even develop a creative link to the world: writing fan-fiction, poetry, or building scale models (but that is not this paper’s topic, see Sepulchre “Les Constellations Narratives”, “Editorial”).A second element they appreciate is the GOT TV series. Approximately half of the respondents cite GoT (29/52). They are not fundamentally different from the other viewers except that more of them have fan practices (9 vs. 1), and a few more develop transmedia consumption (76% against 61%). To the very extent that there is consensus over the poor quality of the novels (in general), A Song of Ice and Fire seems to have seduced every respondent. Loic usually hates reading; his relatives have pointed out to him that he has read more with GoT than in his entire lifetime. Marie D. finds the novels so good that she stopped watching the TV series. Marine insists she generally reads fan-fiction because she hates the novelisations, but the GoT books are the only good ones. The novels apparently allow a deeper immersion into the world and that is the manifest benefit of consuming them. Guilleaume G. appreciates the more detailed descriptions. Céline, Florentin, Ioana, and Marine like to access the characters’ thoughts. Julie thinks she feels the emotions more deeply when she reads. Sometimes, the novels can change their opinions on a character. Emilie finds Sansa despicable in the TV series, but the books led her to understand her sensibility.Videogames & TransmediaThe vast majority of transmedia support from the GoT universe primarily targets “world lovers,” that is, users involved in media uses because they love the fantasy of the universe. However, only video games allow a personalized incarnation as a hero over a long term of time, and thus a customized active appropriation. This is in fact undoubtedly why the GoT universe’s transmedia galaxy has also been deployed in video games. GOT Ascent is a strategy game edited by Disruptor Beam, an American company specialising in TV games. Released in February 2013, the franchise attracted up to 9,000,000 players in 2014, but only 295,107 monthly active users. This significant difference between the accumulated number of players and those actually active (around 3 %) may well testify that those investing in this game are probably not a community of gamers.Combining role playing and strategy game, GoT Ascent is designed in a logic that deeply integrates the elements, not only from the TV series, but also from books and other transmedia extensions. In GoT Ascent, gamers play a small house affiliated to one of the main clans of Westeros. During the immersive game experience, the player participates in all the GoT stories from an insider’s point of view. The game follows the various GoT books, resulting in an extension whenever a new volume is published. The player interacts with others by PVE (Player versus Environment) or PVP (Player versus Player) alliances with a common chat and the possibility of sending goods to other members. With a fair general score (4,1 on 10), the game is evaluated weakly by the players (JeuxOnLine). Hence a large majority of them are probably not looking for that kind of experience.If we focus on the top players in GoT Ascent, likely representing those most invested, it is interesting to examine the names they choose. Indeed, that choice often reveals the player’s intention, either to refer to a gamer logic or the universe of GoT. During our research, we clearly distinguished two types of names, self-referential ones or those referring to the player’s general pseudonym. In concrete terms, the name is a declination of a pseudonym of more general avatars, or else refers to other video game worlds than GoT. In GoT Ascent, the second category of names, those very clearly anchored in the world of Martin, are clearly dominant.Is it possible to correlate the name chosen and the type of player? Can we affirm that people who choose a name not related to the GoT universe are players and that the others are GoT fans? Probably not obviously, but the consistency of a character’s name with the universe is, in the GoT case, very important for an immersive experience. The books’ author has carefully crafted his surnames and, in the game, assuming a name is therefore very clearly a symbolically important act in the desire to roleplay in that universe. Choosing one that is totally out of sync with the game world clearly means you are not there to immerse yourself in the spirit of GoT, but to play. In short, the first category is representative of the gamers, but the players are not restricted to those naming their avatar out of the world’s spirit.This intuition is confirmed by a review of the names related to the rank of the players. When we studied high-level players, we realized that most of them use humorous names, which are totally out of the mood of the GoT universe. Thus, in 2013, the first ranked player in terms of power was called Flatulence, a French term that is part of a humorous semantics. Yet this type of denomination is not limited to the first of the list. Out the top ten players, only two used plausible GoT names. However, as soon as one leaves the game’s elite’s sphere, the plausible names are quickly in the majority. There is a sharp opposition between the vast majority of players, who obviously try to match the world, and pure gamers.We found the same logic for the names of the Alliances, the virtual communities of players varying from a few to hundreds. Three Alliances have achieved the #1 rank in the game in the game’s first two years: Hear Me Roar (February 2013), Fire and Blood (January 2014), and Kong's Landing (September 2014). Two of those Alliances are of a more humoristic bent. However, an investigation into the 400 alliances demonstrates that fewer than 5 % have a clear humoristic signification. We might estimate that in GoT Ascent the large majority of players increase their immersive experience by choosing a GoT role play related Alliance name. We can conclude that they are mainly GoT fans playing the game, and that they seek to lend the world coherence. The high-level players are an exception. Inside GOT Ascent, the dominant culture remains connected to the GoT world.ConclusionA transmedia story is defined by its networked configuration, “worldmaking,” and users’ involvement. The GoT constellation is clearly a weak ensemble (Sepulchre, 2012). However, it has indeed developed on several platforms. Furthermore, the relationship between the novels and the TV series is quite unprecedented. Indeed, both elements are considered as qualitative, and the TV series has become the main entry for many fans. Thus, both of them acquire an equal authority.The GoT transmedia storyworld also unfolds a fictional world and depends on users’ activities, but in a peculiar way. If the viewers and gamers are analysed from fan or game studies perspectives, they appear to be weak users. Indeed, they do not seek new components; they are mainly readers and do not enjoy the transmedia experience; the players are not regular ones; and they are much less creative and humorous than high-level gamers.These weak practices have, however, one function: to prolong the pleasure of the fictional world, which is the third characteristic of transmedia. The players experiment with GoT Ascent by incarnating characters inserted into Alliances whose names may exist in the original world. This appears to be a clear attempt to become immersed in the universe. The ordinary viewers appreciate the deeper experience the novels allow. When they feed the world with unexpected elements, it is also to improve the world.Thus, transmedia appropriation by users is a reality, motivated by a taste for the universe, even if it is a weak consumption in comparison with the demanding, creative, and sometimes iconoclastic practices gamers and fans usually develop. It is obvious, in both fields, that they are new TV series fans (they quote mainly recent shows) and beginners in the world of games. For a significant part of them, GoT was probably their first time developing transmedia practices.However, GoT Ascent is not well evaluated by gamers and many of them do not repeat the experience (as the monthly number of gamers shows). Likewise, the ordinary viewers neglect the official transmedia components as too marketing oriented. The GoT novels are the exception proving the rule. They demonstrate that users are quite selective: they are not satisfied with weak elements. The question that this paper cannot answer is: was GoT a first experience? Will they persevere in the future? Yet, in this preliminary research, we have seen that studying ordinary users’ weak involvement (series viewers or gamers) is an interesting path in elaborating a theory of transmedia user’s activities, which takes the public’s diversity into account.ReferencesBerry, Vincent. L’Expérience Virtuelle: Jouer, Vivre, Apprendre Dans un Jeu Video. Rennes: UP Rennes, 2012.Boellstorff, Tom. “A Typology of Ethnographic Scales for Virtual Worlds.” Online Worlds: Convergence of the Real and the Virtual. Ed. William Sim Bainbridge. London: Springer, 2009.Bourdaa, Mélanie. “Taking a Break from All Your Worries: Battlestar Galactica et Les Nouvelles Pratiques Télévisuelles des Fans.” Questions de Communication 22 (2012) 2014. <http://journals.openedition.org/questionsdecommunication/6917>.Chen, Mark. 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Sherlock and Transmedia Fandom: Essays on the BBC series. Jefferson: McFarland, 2014.

Meloy, Maile. The Apothecary. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2011. Print.A recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, Los Angeles-based Maile Meloy is an acclaimed author of novels and short stories for adults. In 2007, she was named one of Granta’s 21 Best Young American Novelists. With The Apothecary, Ms. Meloy makes her entrance into book writing for a young adult audience.The Apothecary won the 2011 E.B. White Read-Aloud Award, Middle Reader category (coincidentally, the other winner that year was Wildwood, a book written by the author’s brother). Publishers Weekly, the Chicago Public Library, and Booktrust in the UK all declared The Apothecary as one of the best children’s books of 2011. Set in the mid-1900s, The Apothecary is a work of historical fiction that that takes place during the Cold War era. Fourteen-year-old Janie Scott is followed home from school one day by US Marshals, then her parents suddenly decide to move the family to London. Uprooted from her home in Hollywood, Janie receives an unusual cure for homesickness from the local apothecary. She meets Benjamin, the apothecary’s son, who takes a dim view of his father’s drug store and is much more interested in becoming an agent of the Secret Intelligence Service than aspiring to the profession of apothecary.In a cloak and dagger turn of events, Benjamin’s father is kidnapped and Janie and Benjamin are entrusted with protecting the Pharmacopeia, a book containing alchemical recipes. Along the way, they connect with a young pickpocket named Pip - the intrepid trio search for Benjamin’s father, outmaneuvering Russian spies, and playing a critical role in averting nuclear disaster. The themes of espionage, magic and mystery, with hints of romance will engage a range of readers. Ian Schoenherr’s black and white illustrations herald the start of each chapter and complement Meloy’s sombre and suspenseful tale.Highly recommended: 4 out of 4 stars Reviewer: Maria TanMaria is a Public Services Librarian at the University of Alberta’s H. T. Coutts Education Library. She enjoys travelling and visiting unique and far-flung libraries. An avid foodie, Maria’s motto is, “There’s really no good reason to stop the flow of snacks”.

Bowers, Vivien. Hey Canada!. Toronto: Tundra Books, 2012. Print. Born in Vancouver, Canada, Vivien Bowers received her Bachelor of Arts from the University of British Columbia (BC). She has taught at the elementary school level and currently works as a freelance writer in BC and has written for children and adult audiences alike. She has authored elementary and secondary school materials, non-fiction books and magazine articles. Hey Canada! follows Alice, her grandmother, her cousin Cal, and his hamster, simply named ‘Hampster’, on a car trip across Canada. As the family travels through each province and territory, the reader is introduced to geographic, historical, and culturally significant locations, activities, and foods. As a nod to current technology, the content is narrated from the perspective of seven-year-old Alice, in the form of blog posts with highlight boxes featuring her cousin’s tweets sprinkled throughout the book. A map of Canada shows readers the path travelled by Alice, Cal, Grandma and Hampster as they journey from east to west. Hey Canada! presents colourful, cartoon-style illustrations interspersed with photos. The addition of comic strip styled interludes depicting historical events and fun facts make the content engaging and fun to read. Each province and territory is introduced with an illustration of the provincial flower, bird, and an outline of the province with the capital city highlighted. Unfortunately, the provincial flower for Alberta is incorrectly listed as White Trillium instead of Wild Rose, and the Museum of Civilization is described as being located in Ottawa instead of in Hull, Quebec. Hopefully, these errors will be corrected in the next edition. Readers who enjoy Hey Canada! and who are not familiar with the author’s earlier books may want to check out Wow Canada! and That’s Very Canadian for equally entertaining and informative reading about this country. Recommended: 3 out of 4 stars Reviewer: Maria TanMaria is a Public Services Librarian at the University of Alberta’s H. T. Coutts Education Library. She enjoys travelling and visiting unique and far-flung libraries. An avid foodie, Maria’s motto is, “There’s really no good reason to stop the flow of snacks”.

Halfway through the 2006 memoir comic Fun Home, the reader encounters a photograph that the book’s author, Alison Bechdel, found in a box of family snapshots shortly after her father’s death. The picture—“literally the core of the book, the centrefold” (Bechdel qtd. in Chute “Interview” 1006)—of Alison’s teenaged babysitter, Roy, erotically reclining on a bed in only his underwear, is the most tangible and direct evidence of her father’s sexual affairs with teenage boys, more confronting than his own earlier confession. Through this image, and a rich archive of familial texts, Bechdel chronicles her father’s thwarted desires and ambitions, probable suicide, and her own sexual and artistic coming of age.Bruce Bechdel, a married school teacher and part-time funeral director, was also an avid amateur historical restorer and connoisseur of modernist literature. Shortly after Alison came out to her parents at nineteen, Bruce was hit by a truck in what his daughter believes was an act of suicide. In Fun Home, Bechdel reads her family history suspiciously, plumbing family snapshots, letters, and favoured novels, interpreting against the grain, to trace her queer genealogy. Ultimately, she inverts this suspicious and interrogative reading, using the evidence she has gathered in order to read her father’s sexuality positively and embrace her queer and artistic inheritance from him. In The New York Times Magazine, in 2004, Charles McGrath made the suggestion that comics were “the new literary form” (24). Although comics have not yet reached widespread mainstream acceptance as a medium of merit, the burgeoning field of comics scholarship over the last fifteen years, the 2007 adaptation of Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis into a feature film, and the addition of comics to the Best American series all testify to the widening popularity and status of the form. Memoir comics have established themselves, as Hillary Chute notes, as “the dominant mode of contemporary work” (Graphic 17). Many of these autobiographical works, including Fun Home, recount traumatic histories, employing the medium’s unique capacity to evoke the fractured and repetitive experience of the traumatised through panel structure and use of images. Comics articulate “what wasn’t permitted to be said or imagined, defying the ordinary processes of thought” (Said qtd. in Whitlock 967). The hand-drawn nature of comics emphasises the subjectivity of perception and memory, making it a particularly powerful medium for personal histories. The clear mediation of a history by the artist’s hand complicates truth claims. Comics open up avenues for both suspicious and restorative readings because their form suggests that history is always constructed and therefore not able to be confirmed as “ultimately truthful,” but also that there is no ultimate truth to be unveiled. No narrative is unmediated; a timeline is not more “pure” than a fleshed out narrative text. All narratives exclude information in order to craft a comprehensible series of events. Bechdel’s role as a suspicious reader of her father and of her own history resonates through her role as a historian and her interrogation of the ethical concerns of referential writing.Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity critiques the hermeneutics of suspicion from a queer theory perspective, instead advocating reparative reading as a critical strategy. The hermeneutics of suspicion describes “the well-oiled machine of ideology critique” that has become the primary mode of critical reading over the last thirty or so years, suspiciously interpreting texts to uncover their hidden ideological biases (Felski, Uses 1). Reparative reading, on the other hand, moves away from this paranoid mode, instead valuing pleasure and “positive affects like joy and excitement” (Vincent). Sedgwick does not wholly reject suspicious reading, suggesting that it “represent[s] a way, among other ways, of seeking, finding, and organizing knowledge. Paranoia knows some things well and others poorly” (Touching 129). Felski, paraphrasing Ricoeur, notes that the hermeneutics of suspicion “adopts an adversarial sensibility to probe for concealed, repressed, or disavowed meanings” (“Suspicious” 216). In this fashion, Bechdel employs suspicious strategies to reveal her father’s hidden desires and transgressions that were obscured in the standard version of her family narrative, but ultimately moves away from such techniques to joyfully embrace her inheritance from him. Sedgwick notes that paranoid readings may only reveal that which is already known:While there is plenty of hidden violence that requires exposure there is also, and increasingly, an ethos where forms of violence that are hypervisible from the start may be offered as an exemplary spectacle rather than remain to be unveiled as a scandalous secret. (Touching 139)This is contrary to suspicious reading’s assumption that violence is culturally shunned, hidden, and in need of “unveiling” in contemporary Western culture. It would be too obvious for Bechdel to condemn her father: gay men have been unfairly misrepresented in the American popular imagination for decades, if not longer. Through her reparative reading of him, she rejects this single-minded reduction of people to one negative type. She accepts both her father’s weaknesses and her debts to him. A reading which only sought to publicise Bruce’s homosexual affairs would lack the great depth that Bechdel finds in the slippage between her father’s identity and her own.Bechdel’s embrace of Bruce’s failings as a father, a husband, and an artist, her revisioning of his death as a positive, creative act full of agency, and her characterisation of him as a supportive forerunner, “there to catch [Alison] as [she] leapt,” (Bechdel 232) moves his story away from archetypal narratives of homosexual tragedy. Bechdel’s memoir ends with (and enacts through its virtuoso execution) her own success, and the support of those who came before her. This move mirrors Joseph Litvak’s suggestion that “the importance of ‘mistakes’ in queer reading and writing […] has a lot to do with loosening the traumatic, inevitable-seeming connection between mistakes and humiliation […] Doesn’t reading queer mean learning, among other things, that mistakes can be good rather than bad surprises?” (Sedgwick Touching 146–7).Fun Home is saturated with intertextual references and archival materials that attempt to piece together the memoir’s fractured and hidden histories. The construction of this personal history works by including familial and historical records to register the trauma of the Bechdels’ personal tragedy. The archival texts are meticulously hand-drawn, their time-worn and ragged physicality maintained to emphasise the referentiality of these documents. Bechdel’s use of realistically drawn family photographs, complete with photo corners, suggests a family photograph album, although rather than establishing a censored and idealistic narrative, as most family albums do, the photographs are read and reproduced for their suppressed and destabilising content. Bechdel describes them as “particularly mythic” (Chute “Interview” 1009), and she plunders this symbolic richness to rewrite her family history. The archival documents function as primary texts, which stand in opposition to the deadly secrecy of her childhood home: they are concrete and evidentiary. Bechdel reads her father’s letters and photographs (and their gothic revival house) for sexual and artistic evidence, “read[ing] the text against the grain in order to draw out what it refuses to own up to” (Felski “Suspicious” 23). She interprets his letters’ baroque lyrical flourishes as indications both of his semi-repressed homosexuality and of the artistic sensibility that she would inherit and refine.Suspicion of the entire historical project marks the memoir. Philippe Lejeune describes the “Autobiographical Pact” as “a contract of identity that is sealed by the proper name” of the author (19). Bechdel does not challenge this pact fundamentally—the authoritative narrative voice of her book structures it to be read as historically truthful—but she does challenge and complicate the apparent simplicity of this referential model. Bechdel’s discussion of the referential failings of her childhood diary making—“the troubled gap between word and meaning”—casts a suspicious eye over the rest of the memoir’s historical project (Bechdel 143). She asks how language can adequately articulate experience or refer to the external world in an environment defined by secrets and silence. At the time of her childhood, it cannot—the claim to full disclosure that the memoir ultimately makes is predicated on distance and time. Bechdel simultaneously makes a claim for the historical veracity of her narrative and destabilises our assumptions around the idea of factual and retrospective truth:When I was ten, I was obsessed with making sure my diary entries bore no false witness. But as I aged, hard facts gave way to vagaries of emotion and opinion. False humility, overwrought penmanship, and self-disgust began to cloud my testimony […] until […] the truth is barely perceptible behind a hedge of qualifiers, encryption, and stray punctuation. (Bechdel 169)That which is “unrepresentable” is simultaneously represented and denied. The comics medium itself, with its simultaneous graphic and textual representation, suggests the unreliability of any one means of representation. Of Bechdel’s diaries, Jared Gardner notes, “what develops over the course of her diary […] is an increasing sense that text and image are each alone inadequate to the task, and that some merger of the two is required to tell the story of the truth, and the truth of the story” (“Archives” 3).As the boyishly dressed Alison urges her father, applying scare-quoted “bronzer,” to hurry up, Bechdel narrates, “my father began to seem morally suspect to me long before I knew that he actually had a dark secret” (16). Alison is presented as her father’s binary opposite, “butch to his nelly. Utilitarian to his aesthete,” (15) and, as a teenager, frames his love of art and extravagance as debauched. This clear distinction soon becomes blurred, as Alison and Bruce’s similarities begin to overwhelm their differences. The huge drawn hand shown holding the photograph of Roy, in the memoir’s “centrefold,” more than twice life-size, reproduces the reader’s hand holding the book. We are placed in Bechdel’s, and by extension her father’s, role, as the illicit and transgressive voyeurs of the erotic spectacle of Roy’s body, and as the possessors and consumers of hidden, troubling texts. At this point, Bechdel begins to take her queer reading of this family archive and use it to establish a strong connection between her initially unsympathetic father and herself. Despite his neglect of his children, and his self-involvement, Bechdel claims him as her spiritual and creative father, as well as her biological one. This reparative embrace moves Bruce from the role of criticised outsider in Alison’s world to one of queer predecessor. Bechdel figures herself and her father as doubled aesthetic and erotic observers and appreciators. Ann Cvetkovich suggests that “mimicking her father as witness to the image, Alison is brought closer to him only at the risk of replicating his illicit sexual desires” (118). For Alison, consuming her father’s texts connects her with him in a positive yet troubling way: “My father’s end was my beginning. Or more precisely, […] the end of his lie coincided with the beginning of my truth” (Bechdel 116–17). The final panel of the same chapter depicts Alison’s hands holding drawn photos of herself at twenty-one and Bruce at twenty-two. The snapshots overlap, and Bechdel lists the similarities between the photographs, concluding, “it’s about as close as a translation can get” (120). Through the “vast network of transversals” (102) that is their life together, Alison and Bruce are, paradoxically, twinned “inversions of one another” (98). Sedgwick suggests that “inversion models […] locate gay people—whether biologically or culturally—at the threshold between genders” (Epistemology 88). Bechdel’s focus on Proust’s “antiquated clinical term” both neatly fits her thematic expression of Alison and Bruce’s relationship as doubles (“Not only were we inverts. We were inversions of one another”) and situates them in a space of possibility and liminality (97-98).Bechdel rejects a wholly suspicious approach by maintaining and embracing the aporia in her and her father’s story, an essential element of memory. According to Chute, Fun Home shows “that the form of comics crucially retains the insolvable gaps of family history” (Graphic 175). Rejecting suspicion involves embracing ambiguity and unresolvability. It concedes that there is no one authentic truth to be neatly revealed and resolved. Fun Home’s “spatial and semantic gaps […] express a critical unknowability or undecidability” (Chute Graphic 182). Bechdel allows the gaps in her narrative to remain, refusing to “pretend to know” Bruce’s “erotic truth” (230), an act to which suspicious reading is diametrically opposed. Suspicious reading wishes to close all gaps, to articulate silences and literalise mysteries, and Bechdel’s narrative progressively moves away from this mode. The medium of comics uses words and images together, simultaneously separate and united. Similarly, Alison and Bruce are presented as opposites: butch/sissy, artist/dilettante. Yet the memoir’s conclusion presents Alison and Bruce in a loving, reciprocal relationship. The final page of the book has two frames: one of Bruce’s perspective in the moment before his death, and one showing him contentedly playing with a young Alison in a swimming pool—death contrasted with life. The gaps in the narrative are not closed but embraced. Bechdel’s “tricky reverse narration” (232) suggests a complex mode of reading that allows both Bechdel and the reader to perceive Bruce as a positive forebear. Comics as a medium pay particular visual attention to absence and silence. The gutter, the space between panels, functions in a way that is not quite paralleled by silence in speech and music, and spaces and line breaks in text—after all, there are still blank spaces between words and elements of the image within the comics panel. The gutter is the space where closure occurs, allowing readers to infer causality and often the passing of time (McCloud 5). The gutters in this book echo the many gaps in knowledge and presence that mark the narrative. Fun Home is impelled by absence on a practical level: the absence of the dead parent, the absence of a past that was unspoken of and yet informed every element of Alison’s childhood.Bechdel’s hyper-literate narration steers the reader through the memoir and acknowledges its own aporia. Fun Home “does not seek to preserve the past as it was, as its archival obsession might suggest, but rather to circulate ideas about the past with gaps fully intact” (Chute Graphic 180). Bechdel, while making her own interpretation of her father’s death clear, does not insist on her reading. While Bruce attempted to restore his home into a perfect, hermetically sealed simulacrum of nineteenth-century domestic glamour, Bechdel creates a postmodern text that slips easily between a multiplicity of time periods, opening up the absences, failures, and humiliations of her story. Chute argues:Bruce Bechdel wants the past to be whole; Alison Bechdel makes it free-floating […] She animates the past in a book that is […] a counterarchitecture to the stifling, shame-filled house in which she grew up: she animates and releases its histories, circulating them and giving them life even when they devolve on death. (Graphic 216)Bechdel employs a literary process of detection in the revelation of both of their sexualities. Her archive is constructed like an evidence file; through layered tableaux of letters, novels and photographs, we see how Bruce’s obsessive love of avant-garde literature functions as an emblem of his hidden desire; Alison discovers her sexuality through the memoirs of Colette and the seminal gay pride manifestos of the late 1970s. Watson suggests that the “panels, gutters, and page, as bounded and delimited visual space, allow texturing of the two-dimensional image through collage, counterpoint, the superimposition of multiple media, and self-referential gestures […] Bechdel's rich exploitation of visual possibilities places Fun Home at an autobiographical interface where disparate modes of self-inscription intersect and comment upon one another” (32).Alison’s role as a literary and literal detective of concealed sexualities and of texts is particularly evident in the scene when she realises that she is gay. Wearing a plaid trench coat with the collar turned up like a private eye, she stands in the campus bookshop reading a copy of Word is Out, with a shadowy figure in the background (one whose silhouette resembles her father’s teenaged lover, Roy), and a speech bubble with a single exclamation mark articulating her realisation. While “the classic detective novel […] depends on […] a double plot, telling the story of a crime via the story of its investigation” (Felski “Suspicious” 225), Fun Home tells the story of Alison’s coming out and genesis as an artist through the story of her father’s brief life and thwarted desires. On the memoir’s final page, revisioning the artifactual photograph that begins her final chapter, Bechdel reclaims her father from what a cool reading of the historical record (adultery with adolescents, verbally abusive, emotionally distant) might encourage readers to superficially assume. Cvetkovich articulates the way Fun Home uses:Ordinary experience as an opening onto revisionist histories that avoid the emotional simplifications that can sometimes accompany representations of even the most unassimilable historical traumas […] Bechdel refuses easy distinctions between heroes and perpetrators, but doing so via a figure who represents a highly stigmatised sexuality is a bold move. (125)Rejecting paranoid strategies, Bechdel is less interested in classification and condemnation of her father than she is in her own tangled relation to him. She adopts a reparative strategy by focusing on the strands of joy and identification in her history with her father, rather than simply making a paranoid attack on his character.She occludes the negative possibilities and connotations of her father’s story to end on a largely positive note: “But in the tricky reverse narration that impels our entwined stories, he was there to catch me when I leapt” (232). In the final moment of her text Bechdel moves away from the memoir’s earlier destabilising actions, which forced the reader to regard Bruce with suspicion, as the keeper of destructive secrets and as a menacing presence in the Bechdels’ family life. The final image is of complete trust and support. His death is rendered not as chaotic and violent as it historically was, but calm, controlled, beneficent. Bechdel has commented, “I think it’s part of my father’s brilliance, the fact that his death was so ambiguous […] The idea that he could pull that off. That it was his last great wheeze. I want to believe that he went out triumphantly” (qtd. in Burkeman). The revisioning of Bruce’s death as a suicide and the reverse narration which establishes the accomplished artist and writer Bechdel’s creative and literary debt to him function as a redemption.Bechdel queers her suspicious reading of her family history in order to reparatively reclaim her father’s historical and personal connection with herself. The narrative testifies to Bruce’s failings as a father and husband, and confesses to Alison’s own complicity in her father’s transgressive desires and artistic interest, and to her inability to represent the past authoritatively and with complete accuracy. Bechdel both engages in and ultimately rejects a suspicious interpretation of her family and personal history. As Gardner notes, “only by allowing the past to bleed into history, fact to bleed into fiction, image into text, might we begin to allow our own pain to bleed into the other, and more urgently, the pain of the other to bleed into ourselves” (“Autobiography’s” 23). Suspicion itself is queered in the reparative revisioning of Bruce’s life and death, and in the “tricky reverse narration” (232) of the künstlerroman’s joyful conclusion.ReferencesBechdel, Alison. Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic. New York: Mariner Books, 2007. Burkeman, Oliver. “A life stripped bare.” The Guardian 16 Oct. 2006: G2 16.Cvetkovich, Ann. “Drawing the Archive in Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home.” Women’s Studies Quarterly 36.1/2 (2008): 111–29. Chute, Hillary L. Graphic Women: Life Narrative and Contemporary Comics. New York: Columbia UP, 2010. ---. “Interview with Alison Bechdel.” MFS Modern Fiction Studies 52.4 (2006): 1004–13. Felski, Rita. Uses of Literature. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2008.---. “Suspicious Minds.” Poetics Today 32:3 (2011): 215–34. Gardner, Jared. “Archives, Collectors, and the New Media Work of Comics.” MFS Modern Fiction Studies 52.4 (2006): 787–806. ---. “Autobiography’s Biography 1972-2007.” Biography 31.1 (2008): 1–26. Lejeune, Philippe. On Autobiography. Ed. Paul John Eakin. Trans. Katherine Leary. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989. McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York: HarperPerennial, 1994. McGrath, Charles. “Not Funnies.” New York Times Magazine 11 Jul. 2004: 24–56. Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. Epistemology of the Closet. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008. ---. Touching Feeling. Durham : Duke University Press, 2003. Vincent, J. Keith. “Affect and Reparative Reading.” Honoring Eve. Ed. J. Keith Vincent. Affect and Reparative Reading. Boston University College of Arts and Sciences. October 31 2009. 25 May 2011. ‹http://www.bu.edu/honoringeve/panels/affect-and-reparative-reading/?›.Watson, Julia. “Autographic disclosures and genealogies of desire in Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home.” Biography 31.1 (2008): 27–59. Whitlock, Gillian. “Autographics: The Seeing “I” of the Comics.” Modern Fiction Studies 52.4 (2006): 965–79.

This consideration of British poet, novelist, and critic Iain Sinclair’s ‘bad’ writing begins at the summit of Beckton Alp, a pile of waste in London’s east that has been reconstituted as recreational space. For Sinclair, Beckton Alp functions as a totem signifying the pervasive regulatory influence of Panopticism in contemporary urban culture. It shares the Panopticon’s ‘see/being seen dyad’, which is delineated thus by Michel Foucault in Discipline and Punish: In the peripheric ring [which in this case acts as an analogue for London] one is seen, without ever seeing; in the central tower [for our purposes, Beckton Alp], one sees everything without being seen. (201) In his most recent novel, Dining on Stones (or, The Middle Ground), the prospect from Beckton Alp offers Sinclair the following image of London: Leaning on a creosoted railing London makes sense. There is a pattern, a working design. And there’s a word for it too: Obscenery. Blight. Stuttering movement. The distant river. The time membrane dissolves, in such a way that the viewer becomes the thing he is looking at. (190) The city, following Michel de Certeau, can be read as a text from Beckton Alp, one that appears intelligible, one that ‘makes sense’ (92). But what “sense” is the reader to make of Sinclair’s vision of London, a London characterised by this intriguing (and typically Sinclairean) neologism, obscenery? Obscenery’s etymological origins in the word ‘obscene’ suggest that it is indecent, unruly, offensive. It would seem to encompass everything that hegemonic culture would prefer to keep off-stage and unseen, everything that it considers ‘bad.’ Yet as Sinclair makes clear, it is hardly hidden—it can be seen from the Alp. By all accounts, obscenery proves to be the completely visible manifestation of what is normally segregated, managed and disposed of by disciplinary apparatuses, such as the Panoptic schema, which organise and supervise urban space. In summary, obscenery contends the regulatory power of Panopticism by being visible, obscenely so. Sinclair is careful to avoid a dialectic positing obscenery as the disordered antinomy to the pattern of hegemonic order. Instead, obscenery problematises the differentiations demarcating ‘good’ and ‘bad’ culture. Sinclair’s poiesis also blurs the boundaries between divergent spheres of culture as it oscillates between small press publishing and the mass market. His mimeographed chapbooks and limited edition hardcovers have for the major part of his career been conceived, produced, and disseminated outside the parameters of mainstream culture. An affiliation with the avant-garde British Poetry Revival indicates Sinclair’s dedication to alternative publishing, as does the existence of his own imprints: the punningly named horz commerz, and the Albion Village Press. But his mainstream publications (including Dining on Stones, which was released by multinational publishing house Penguin) complicate this position because although he is published and circulated within the sights of hegemonic literary culture, and therefore subject to the gaze of the Panopticon, Sinclair rejects hegemonic expectations about what comprises literature. He exploits written language, a tool licensed by the Panopticon, for unlicensed praxis. Identifying Sinclair’s cultural production as a type of textual obscenery, or ‘bad’ writing proposes an alternative model of cultural production, one that enables the creative practitioner to loosen the panoptic bonds with which Foucault pinions the individual and productively negotiate the archetypal struggle faced in a capitalist political economy: the conflict between artistic integrity and commercial imperative. In a sense, Sinclair and his circle of collaborators constitute a modern day la bohème—a league of artistic and literary putschists conspiring against the established order of cultural production, distribution, and consumption. As Sinclair commented in an interview: There’s no anxiety. Most of the stuff I have done didn’t have to win anybody’s approval. For me, there wasn’t that question of ‘How do I get published?’ that seems to preoccupy writers now. I used to publish myself. (Jeffries) For Sinclair, hegemonic culture is marching acquiescently, mindlessly to the ‘military/industrial two-step. That old standard… YES was the word.’ (Sinclair, London Orbital 4) If ‘yes’ is the mantra of this type of (false) consciousness, then Sinclair’s contrary creations are asserting a politics of ‘no.’ Sinclair’s refusal to accede to hegemonic attitudes regarding what is ‘good’ writing points to a deliberate decision to preserve what Herbert Marcuse terms ‘artistic alienation’ (Sinclair 63). According to Marcuse, artistic alienation, as distinct from traditional Marxist notions of alienation, should be encouraged in order to preserve the integrity of the work of art as something that has the power to rupture reality. In late era capitalism, reality is the totality of commodity culture, thus art must remain antagonistic to the ubiquity of the commodity form. Or, in Marcuse’s words, ‘art has …magic power only as the power of negation. It can speak its own language only as long as the images are alive which refuse and refute the established order’ (65). Within the panoptic schema, the disciplinary apparatus of capitalism, refusal, or refuse, is equivalent to obscenery. Like raw sewage washing up on the beach, or a split garbage bag lying uncollected in the street, Sinclair’s writing is matter out-of-place. If Panopticism, as Foucault theorises, is to efficiently and effectively implement discipline via real and imagined networks of surveillance that shift constantly between operations extrinsic and intrinsic to the subject, it does not necessarily prevent heterogeneous, transgressive, or subversive practice from emerging. However, it will, by means of this surveillance, draw attention to these practices, classify and segregate them, apply pejorative labels such as ‘bad’, ‘useless’, ‘harmful’, and relegate them to a social or spatial sphere outside the realm of the normative tastes and standards. In this process lies the Panopticon’s vast potential to devise, standardise, and regulate patterns of production and consumption. Practices and production that do not conform to hegemonic conventions are deemed aberrant, and rendered invisible. In a capitalist political economy, where governing institutions and operations function as extensions of systems predicated upon the fetishism of commodities, regulating patterns of consumption—by deciding what can and can’t be seen—imposes control. According to the logic of scopophilic culture, to be ‘unseen,’ by choice or otherwise, necessarily restricts consumption. In this manner, the Panopticon reinforces its role as arbiter of public taste. Obscenery’s visibility, however, rejects panoptic classification. It resists the panoptic systems that police cultural production, not by remaining hidden, or Other, but by declaring its presence. Unlike the commodity, which in its conformity is seamlessly assimilated into consumer culture, obscenery draws attention. Beckton Alp, a sanitised pile of waste rendered useful, palatable, is, in contrast, an example of obscenery averted (see endnote). As Marx explains, for a product to exist fully it must be consumed (91). A book becomes a product only when it is read. Writing that is designed to refuse the act of reading is perverse according to any schema of cultural logic, but particularly according to the logic of an economy driven by consumption. This refusal resonates with particular force within a capitalist schema of cultural production because it is fundamentally contrary to the process of commodification. Sinclair’s texts deny easy, uncritical consumption and subsequently cause a blockage in the process of commodification. In this manner, Sinclair contends the logos of capitalist alchemy. A book that resists being easily read, but is still visible to mainstream culture, constitutes a type of obscenery. Situating Sinclair’s poiesis within the domain of obscenery enables an understanding of why his texts have been judged by some critics and readers as ‘bad,’ difficult, inaccessible, impenetrable, even ‘unreadable’. Practitioners of counter-cultural and sub-cultural art and literature traditionally protect their minoritarian status and restrict access to their work by consciously constructing texts which might be considered ‘shit’; in other words, creating something that is deemed excremental, or ‘bad’ according to hegemonic tastes and standards. They create something that inhibits smooth digestion, something that causes a malfunction in the order of consumption. Stylistically, Sinclair employs a number of linguistic and formal devices to repulse the reader. Unrelenting verbiage and extreme parataxis are two such contrivances, as this exemplary excerpt from Dining on Stones illustrates: HEALTHY BOWELS? No problem in that department. Quite the reverse. Eyes: like looking out of week-old milk bottles. Ears clogged and sticky nose broken. But bowels ticked like a German motor: Stephen X, age unknown: writer. Marine exile. His walk, the colonnade. Wet suits for scuba divers. Yellowed wedding dresses. Black god franchises. Fast food. NO CASH KEPT ON PREMISES. The shops, beneath the hulk of the Ocean Queen flats, dealt in negatives, prohibitions – fear. They kept no stock beyond instantly forgotten memorabilia, concrete floors. Stephen releases a clutch of bad wind. (Sinclair 308) Sinclair’s writing constructs linguistic heterotopias that ‘desiccate speech, stop words in their tracks, contest the very possibility of grammar’ (Foucault, Archaeology xix). His language is clipped, elliptical, arrhythmic. In fact, Sinclair’s prose often doesn’t resemble prose; formally and syntactically, it is more aligned with poetry. It is peppered with paradoxical conceits—‘forgotten memorabilia’—which negate meaning and amplify the inscrutability of his words. His imagery is unexpected, discordant, frequently unsettling, as is his unpredictable register which veers from colloquialisms (‘No problem in that department’; Sinclair 308) to more formal, literary modes of expression (‘Stephen X, age unknown: writer’; Sinclair 308). Sinclair also alienates the reader through the use of digressive narrative, which in its Blakean insistence on cyclical shapes resists the linear structure associated with the shape of rational imagination. In terms of the economy of a teleological narrative, Sinclair’s storytelling in novels like Dining on Stones is wasteful in its diversions. His fictions and non-fictions contain characters and events that are incidental to what only occasionally resembles a plot. The apotheosis of the urge to contend linear forms of narrative is chronicled in Sinclair’s 2002 book London Orbital, a navigation of the M25 that as a circuitous journey has neither defined point of origin nor a locatable terminus. Sinclair’s novels, criticism, poetry, films constitute a hermeneutic circle, insisting that you have a working knowledge of the other texts in order to decipher the single text, and the body of work gives meaning to each discrete text. Acquiring Sinclair’s recondite code—which those who are cognisant with his style are well aware—is not a task for the uncommitted. The reader must assume the role of detective tracking down his poetry in second-hand bookshops. Obscure references that saturate the page must be researched. To read and understand Sinclair requires what sociologist Pierre Bourdieu has called ‘cultural competence’ (2). Bourdieu’s ideas on taste and consumption provide a framework for understanding Sinclair’s textual allegiances, his affinity for other types of textual obscenery—unsanctioned graffiti, small magazine poetry—which are also derided as ‘shit’, as ‘bad’ writing by those who have not acquired the cultural competence necessary to understand their coded information. There is a self-reflexive joke contained in the title Dining on Stones. After all, it is a novel that constantly urges the reader to swallow indigestible text and unsavoury subject matter. Sinclair’s writing continually forces our attentions back to the purlieus of urban culture, to everything that the centrifugal forces of Panopticism have driven to the periphery: social inequality, marginal spatial practice, refuse, shit. Sinclair’s textual obscenery is perceived as ‘bad’, as excremental because it denies mainstream literary audiences the satisfaction of uncomplicated, uncritical consumption. According to the restrictive logic of late era capitalism, Sinclair’s slippery, complex, inaccessible narratives are perverse. But they are also the source of perverse pleasure for those who refuse the inhibitions of conformity. Endnote Visual technology in the service of surveillance has been steadily integrated into the everyday, and, by virtue of its ubiquity, has become ‘unseen.’ Similar to the panoptic technologies described by Foucault, Beckton Alp, ‘a considerable event that nobody notices,’ (Sinclair, Dining on Stones, 179) is also assimilated into the urban landscape. References Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. London: Routledge, 2003. De Certeau, Michel. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: U of California P, 1988. Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Trans. Alan Sheridan. London: Penguin, 1977. The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. London and New York: Routledge, 2002. Jeffries, Stuart. “On the Road.” The Guardian Online 24 Apr. 2004. 28 Apr. 2004 http://books.guardian.co.uk/departments/generalfiction/story/0,,1201856,00.html>. Marcuse, Herbert. One-Dimensional Man. London & New York: Routledge, 2002. Marx, Karl. Grundrisse: Foundations of the Critique of Political Economy (Rough Draft). Trans. Martin Nicolaus. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1973. Sinclair, Iain. Dining on Stones (or, the Middle Ground). London: Hamish Hamilton, 2004. Sinclair, Iain. London Orbital. London: Granta, 2002. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Seale, Kirsten. "Iain Sinclair's Excremental Narratives." M/C Journal 8.1 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/03-seale.php>. APA Style Seale, K. (Feb. 2005) "Iain Sinclair's Excremental Narratives," M/C Journal, 8(1). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/03-seale.php>.

IntroductionI stumble to my feet breathing heavily and, over the roar of a tank, a nearby soldier yells right into my face: “We’re surrounded! We have to hold this line!” I follow him, moving past burning debris and wounded men being helped walk back in the opposite direction. Shells explode around me, a whistle sounds, and then the Hun attack; shadowy figures that I fire upon as they approach through the battlefield fog and smoke. I shoot some. I take cover behind walls as others fire back. I reload the weapon. I am hit by incoming fire, and a red damage indicator appears onscreen, so I move to a better cover position. As I am hit again and again, the image becomes blurry and appears as if in slow-motion, the sound also becoming muffled. As an enemy wielding a flame-thrower appears and blasts me with thick fire, my avatar gasps and collapses. The screen fades to black.So far, so very normal in the World War One themed first-person shooter Battlefield 1 (Electronic Arts 2016). But then the game does something unanticipated. I expect to reappear—or respawn—in the same scenario to play better, to stay in the fight longer. Instead, the camera view switches to an external position, craning upwards cinematically from my character’s dying body. Text superimposed over the view indicates the minimalist epitaph: “Harvey Nottoway 1889-1918.” The camera view then races backwards, high over the battlefield and finally settles into position behind a mounted machine-gun further back from the frontline as the enemy advances closer. Immediately I commence shooting, mowing down German troops as they enter our trenches. Soon I am hit and knocked away from the machine-gun. Picking up a shotgun I start shooting the enemy at close-quarters, until I am once again overrun and my character collapses. Now the onscreen text states I was playing as “Dean Stevenson 1899-1918.”I have attempted this prologue to the Battlefield 1 campaign a number of times. No matter how skilfully I play, or how effectively I simply run away and hide from the combat, this pattern continues: the structure of the game forces the player’s avatar to be repeatedly killed in order for the narrative to progress. Over a series of player deaths, respawning as an entirely new character each time, the combat grows in ferocity and the music also becomes increasingly frenetic. The fighting turns to hand-to-hand combat, or shovel-to-head combat to be more precise, and eventually an artillery barrage wipes everybody out (Figure 1). At this point, the prologue is complete and the gamer may continue in a variety of single-player episodes in different theatres of WW1, each of which is structured according to the normal rules of combat games: when your avatar is killed, you respawn at the most recent checkpoint for a follow-up attempt.What are we to make of this alternative narrative structure deployed by the opening episode of Battlefield 1? In contrast to the normal video-game affordances of re-playability until completion, this narrative necessitation of death is in some ways motivated by the onscreen text that introduces the prologue: “What follows is frontline combat. You are not expected to survive.” Certainly it is true that the rest of the game (either single-player or in its online multiplayer deathmatch mode) follows the predictable pattern of dying, replaying, completing. And also we would not expect Battlefield 1 to be motivated primarily by a kind of historical fidelity given that an earlier instalment in the series, Battlefield 1942 (2002) was described by one reviewer as:a comic book version of WWII. The fact that any player can casually hop into a tank, drive around, hop out and pick off an enemy soldier with a sniper rifle, hop into a plane, parachute out, and then call in artillery fire (within the span of a few minutes) should tell you a lot about the game. (Osborne)However what is happening in this will-to-die structure of the game’s prologue represents an alternative and affectively unsettling game experience both in its ludological structure as well as its affective impact. Defamiliarization and Humanization Drawing upon a phenomenology of game-play, whereby the scholar examines the game “as played” (see Atkins and Kryzwinska; Keogh; Wilson) to consider how the text reveals itself to the player, I argue that the introductory single-player episode of Battlefield 1 functions to create a defamiliarizing effect on the player. Defamiliarization, the Russian Formalist term for the effect created by art when some unusual aspect of a text challenges accepted perceptions and/or representations (Schklovski; Thompson), is a remarkably common effect created by the techniques used in combat cinema and video-games. This is unsurprising. After all, warfare is one of the very examples Schklovski uses as something that audiences have developed habituated responses to and which artworks must defamiliarize. The effect may be created by many techniques in a text, and in certain cases a work may defamiliarize even its own form. For instance, recent work on the violence in Saving Private Ryan shows that during the lengthy Omaha Beach sequence, the most vivid instances of violence—including the famous shot of a soldier picking up his dismembered arm—occur well after the audience has potentially become inured to the onslaught of the earlier frequent, but less graphic, carnage (Bender Film Style and WW2). To make these moments stand out with equivalent horrific impact against the background of the Normandy beach bloodbath Spielberg also treats them with a stuttered frame effect and accompanying audio distortion, motivated (to use a related Formalist term) by the character’s apparent concussion and temporary disorientation. Effectively a sequence of point of view shots then, this moment in Private Ryan has become a model for many other war texts, and indeed the player’s death in the opening sequence of Battlefield 1 is portrayed using a very similar (though not identical) audio-visual treatment (Figure 2).Although the Formalists never played videogames, recent scholarship has approached the medium from a similar perspective. For example, Brendan Keogh has focused on the challenges to traditional videogame pleasure generated by the 2012 dystopian shooter Spec Ops: The Line. Keogh notes that the game developers intended to create displeasure and “[forcing] the player to consider what is obscured in the pixilation of war” by, for instance, having them kill fellow American troops in order for the game narrative to continue (Keogh 9). In addition, the game openly taunts the player’s expectations of entertainment based, uncritical run-and-gun gameplay with onscreen text during level loading periods such as “Do you feel like a hero yet?” (8).These kinds of challenges to the expectations of entertainment in combat shooters are found also in one sequence from the 2009 game Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 in which the player—as an undercover operative—is forced to participate in a terrorist attack in which civilians are killed (Figure 3). While playing that level, titled “No Russian,” Timothy Welsh argues: “The player may shoot the unarmed civilians or not; the level still creeps slowly forward regardless” (Welsh 409). In Welsh’s analysis, this level emerges as an unusual attempt by a popular video game to “humanize” the non-playing characters that are ordinarily gunned down without any critical and self-reflective thought by the player in most shooter games. The player is forced into a scenario in which they must make a highly difficult ethical choice, but the game will show civilians being killed either way.In contrast to the usual criticisms of violent video games—eg., that they may be held responsible for school shootings, increased adolescent aggression and so on —the “No Russian” sequence drew dramatic complaints of being a “terrorist simulator” (Welsh 389). But for Welsh this ethical choice facing the player, to shoot or not to shoot civilians, raises the game to a textual experience offering self-inspection. As in the fictional theme park of Westworld (HBO 2016), it does not really matter to the digital victim if a player kills them, but it should—and does—matter to the player. There are no external consequences to killing a computer game character composed only of pixels, or killing/raping a robot in the Westworld theme park, however there are internal consequences: it makes you a killer, or a rapist (see Harris and Bloom).Thus, from the perspective of defamiliarization, the game can be regarded as creating the effect that Matthew Payne has labelled “critical displeasure.” Writing about the way this is created by Spec Ops, Payne argues that:the result is a game that wields its affective distance as a critique of the necessary illusion that all military shooters trade in, but one that so few acknowledge. In particular, the game’s brutal mise-en-scène, its intertextual references to other war media, and its real and imagined opportunities for player choice, create a discordant feeling that lays bare the ease with which most video war games indulge in their power fantasies. (Payne 270)There is then, a minor tradition of alternative military-themed video game works that attempt to invite or enable the player to conduct a kind of ethical self-examination around their engagement with interactive representations of war via particular incursions of realism. The critical displeasure invoked by texts such as Spec Ops and the “No Russian” level of Call of Duty is particularly interesting in light of another military game that was ultimately cancelled by the publisher after it received public criticism. Titled Six Days in Fallujah, the game was developed with the participation of Marines who had fought in that real life battle and aimed to depict the events as they unfolded in 2004 during the campaign in Iraq. As Justin Rashid argues:the controversy that arose around Six Days in Fallujah was, of course, a result of the view that commercial video games can only ever be pure entertainment; games do not have the authority or credibility to be part of a serious debate. (Rashid 17)On this basis, perhaps a criterial attribute of an acceptable alternative military game is that there is enough familiarity to evoke some critical distance, but not too much familiarity that the player must think about legitimately real-life consequences and impact. After all, Call of Duty was a successful release, even amid the controversy of “No Russian.” This makes sense as the level does not really challenge the overall enjoyment of the game. The novelty of the level, on the one hand, is that it is merely one part of the general narrative and cannot be regarded as representative of the whole game experience. On the other hand, because none of the events and scenarios have a clear indexical relationship to real-world terrorist attacks (at least prior to the Brussels attack in 2016) it is easy to play the ethical choice of shooting or not shooting civilians as a mental exercise rather than a reflection on something that really happened. This is the same lesson learned by the developers of the 2010 game Medal of Honor who ultimately changed the name of the enemy soldiers from “The Taliban” to “OPFOR” (standing in for a generic “Opposing Forces”) after facing pressure from the US and UK Military who claimed that the multiplayer capacities of the game enabled players to play as the Taliban (see Rashid). Conclusion: Affective Friction in Battlefield 1In important ways then, these game experiences are precursors to Battlefield 1’s single player prologue. However, the latter does not attempt a wholesale deconstruction of the genre—as does Spec Ops—or represent an attempt to humanise (or perhaps re-humanise) the non-playable victim characters as Welsh suggests “No Russian” attempts to do. Battlefield 1’s opening structure of death-and-respawn-as-different-character can be read as humanizing the player’s avatar. But most importantly, I take Battlefield’s initially unusual gameplay as an aesthetic attempt to set a particular tone to the game. Motivated by the general cultural attitude of deferential respect for the Great War, Battlefield 1 takes an almost austere stance toward the violence depicted, paradoxically even as this impact is muted in the later gameplay structured according to normal multiplayer deathmatch rules of run-and-gun killing. The futility implied by the player’s constant dying is clearly motivated by an attempt at realism as one of the cultural memories of World War One is the sheer likelihood of being killed, whether as a frontline soldier or a citizen of a country engaged in combat (see Kramer). For Battlefield 1, the repeated dying is really part of the text’s aesthetic engagement. For this reason I prefer the term affective friction rather than critical displeasure. The austere tone of the game is indicated early, just prior to the prologue gameplay with onscreen text that reads:Battlefield 1 is based on events that unfolded over 100 years agoMore than 60 million soldiers fought in “The War to End All Wars”It ended nothing.Yet it changed the world forever. At a simple level, the player’s experience of being killed in order for the next part of the narrative to progress evokes this sense of futility. There have been real responses indicating this, for instance one reviewer argues that the structure is “a powerful treatment” (Howley). But there is potential for increased engagement with the game itself as the structure breaks the replay-cycle of usual games. For instance, another reviewer responds to the overall single-player campaign by suggesting “It is not something you can sit down and play through and not experience on a higher level than just clicking a mouse and tapping a keyboard” (Simpson). This affective friction amplifies, and draws attention to, the other advances in violent stylistics presented in the game. For instance, although the standard onscreen visual distortions are used to show character damage and the direction from which the attack came, the game does use slow-motion to draw out the character’s death. In addition, the game features incidental battlefield details of shell-shock, such as soldiers simply holding the head in their hands, frozen as the battle rages around them (Figure 4). The presence of flame-thrower troops, and subsequently the depictions of characters running as they burn to death are also significant developments in violent aesthetics from earlier games. These elements of violence are constitutive of the affective friction. We may marvel at the technical achievement of such real-time rendering of dynamic fire and the artistic care given to animate deaths and shell-shock depictions. But simultaneously, these “violent delights”—to borrow from Westworld’s citation of Shakespeare—are innovations upon the depictions of earlier games, even contemporary, combat games. Indeed, one critic has almost ashamedly noted: “For a game about one of the most horrific wars in human history, it sure is pretty” (Kain).These violent depictions show a continuation in the tradition of increased detail which has been linked to a model of “reported realism” as a means of understanding audience’s claims of realism in combat films and modern videogames as a result primarily of their hypersaturated audio-visual texture (Bender "Blood Splats"). Here, saturation refers not to the specific technical quality of colour saturation but to the densely layered audio-visual structure often found in contemporary films and videogames. For example, thick mixing of soundtracks, details of gore, and nuanced movements (particularly of dying characters) all contribute to a hypersaturated aesthetic which tends to prompt audiences to make claims of realism for a combat text regardless of whether or not these viewers/players have any real world referent for comparison. Of course, there are likely to be players who will simply blast through any shooter game, giving no regard to the critical displeasure offered by Spec Ops narrative choices or the ethical dilemma of “No Russian.” There are also likely to be players who bypass the single-player campaign altogether and only bother with the multiplayer deathmatch experience, which functions in the same way as it does in other shooter games, including the previous Battlefield games. But perhaps the value of this game’s attempt at alternative storytelling, with its emphasis on tone and affect, is that even the “kill-em-all” player may experience a momentary impact from the violence depicted. This is particularly important given that, to borrow from Stephanie Fisher’s argument in regard to WW2 games, many young people encounter the history of warfare through such popular videogames (Fisher). In the centenary period of World War One, especially in Australia amid the present Anzac commemorative moment, the opportunity for young audiences to engage with the significance of the events. As a side-note, the later part of the single-player campaign even has a Gallipoli sequence, though the narrative of this component is designed as an action-hero adventure. Indeed, this is one example of how the alternative dying-to-continue structure of the prologue creates an affective friction against the normal gameplay and narratives that feature in the rest of the text. The ambivalent ways in which this unsettling opening scenario impacts on the remainder of the game-play, including for instance its depiction of PTSD, is illustrated by some industry reviewers. As one reviewer argues, the game does generate the feeling that “war isn’t fun — except when it is” (Plante). From this view, the cognitive challenge created by the will to die in the prologue creates an affective friction with the normalised entertainment inherent in the game’s multiplayer run-and-gun components that dominate the rest of Battlefield 1’s experience. Therefore, although Battlefield 1 ultimately proves to be an entertainment-oriented combat shooter, it is significant that the developers of this major commercial production decided to include an experimental structure to the prologue as a way of generating tone and affect in a fresh way. ReferencesAtkins, Barry, and Tanya Kryzwinska. "Introduction: Videogame, Player, Text." Videogame, Player, Text. Eds. Atkins, Barry and Tanya Kryzwinska. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2007.Bender, Stuart Marshall. "Blood Splats and Bodily Collapse: Reported Realism and the Perception of Violence in Combat Films and Videogames." Projections 8.2 (2014): 1-25.Bender, Stuart Marshall. Film Style and the World War II Combat Film. Newcastle, UK: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2013.Fisher, Stephanie. "The Best Possible Story? Learning about WWII from FPS Video Games." Guns, Grenades, and Grunts: First-Person Shooter Games. Eds. Gerald A. Voorhees, Josh Call and Katie Whitlock. New York: Continuum, 2012. 299-318.Harris, Sam, and Paul Bloom. "Waking Up with Sam Harris #56 – Abusing Dolores." Sam Harris 12 Dec. 2016. Howley, Daniel. "Review: Beautiful Battlefield 1 Gives the War to End All Wars Its Due Respect." Yahoo! 2016. Kain, Erik. "'Battlefield 1' Is Stunningly Beautiful on PC." Forbes 2016.Keogh, Brendan. Spec Ops: The Line's Conventional Subversion of the Military Shooter. Paper presented at DiGRA 2013: Defragging Game Studies.Kramer, Alan. Dynamic of Destruction: Culture and Mass Killing in the First World War. UK: Oxford University Press, 2007. Osborne, Scott. "Battlefield 1942 Review." Gamesport 2002. Payne, Matthew Thomas. "War Bytes: The Critique of Militainment in Spec Ops: The Line." Critical Studies in Media Communication 31.4 (2014): 265-82. Plante, Chris. "Battlefield 1 Is Excellent Because the Series Has Stopped Trying to Be Call of Duty." The Verge 2016. Rashid, Justin. Terrorism in Video Games and the Storytelling War against Extremism. Paper presented at Hawaii International Conference on Arts and Humanities, 9-12 Jan. 2011.Schklovski, Viktor. "Sterne's Tristram Shandy: Stylistic Commentary." Trans. Lee T. Lemon and Marion J. Reis. Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1965. 25-60.Simpson, Campbell. "Battlefield 1 Isn't a Game: It's a History Lesson." Kotaku 2016. Thompson, Kristin. Breaking the Glass Armor: Neoformalist Film Analysis. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1988. Welsh, Timothy. "Face to Face: Humanizing the Digital Display in Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2." Guns, Grenade, and Grunts: First-Person Shooter Games. Eds. Gerald A. Voorhees, Josh. Call, and Katie Whitlock. New York: Continuum, 2012. 389-414. Wilson, Jason Anthony. "Gameplay and the Aesthetics of Intimacy." PhD diss. Brisbane: Griffith University, 2007.

The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires. — William Arthur WardIntroductionThe first documented use of the term Mentor can be traced back to the 8th century BC poem by Homer entitled Odyssey (Hay, Gerber and Minichiello). Although this original representation of Mentor is contested in the literature (Colley), historically the term mentor has evolved to imply a wise and trusted other who advises, teaches, protects and supports someone younger who is inexperienced and not so knowledgeable with the ways of the world. The mentor within a 21st century construct still aligns to this historical portrayal, however the evolution of society, the influence of technology, the growth of entrepreneurship, and a greater understanding of the impact of our interactions with others has forced us to consider mentoring in contemporary ways. As such, popular culture, through books, film and images, provide many impressions of the mentor and what it means to mentor in both historical and contemporary circumstances. Similarly, popular culture provides us with a variety of impressions of the teacher. Throughout old and new history, teaching is considered to be a honourable profession, one that is complex and involves specific skills and knowledge to be effective (Marsh). Society has high expectations of teachers as they are entrusted with shaping the future generation (Parkay). Although the levels of respect and trust of teachers changes within different cultural circumstances, society allows teachers to be one of the most influential figures in a child’s life. Popular film often picks up on this theme and portrays teachers as inspirational figures, pillars of society and those that can have a major influence over the development of the student’s in their care. Within the brief story that a film provides, teachers are more often than not, positioned as a ‘mentor type’ figure to the students entrusted in their care, who guides and supports them to become who they want to be. This paper explores the constructs of the mentor and mentorship through a popular culture lens. Culture is broadly described as the “bricks and mortar of our most commonplace understandings” (Willis 185) and our understandings are shaped by what we see, hear and do. The paper is framed by and seeks to answer the following question: To what extent is the teacher as mentor portrayed in popular film a realistic image? Accordingly this paper will examine the rise of the teacher as mentor and determine what images are portrayed through the medium of film. In order to answer the question, the paper will briefly examine current literature for the characteristics and roles of mentors and teachers. The paper will then delve into the way that teachers are portrayed in film and will be followed by an examination of a selection of films that portray teachers as mentors. A comparison will be made between the characteristics of mentors and the characteristics that the movie teachers display. Analysis through the use of reader-response theory will provide insight into the extent of the reality of the teacher as mentor that are portrayed. Mentors and Teachers: A Review of Selected Literature Mentoring consists of a series of interactions that can be of a social, intellectual or emotional nature (Lentz and Allen). Mentoring can be described as a helping relationship whereby two or more people work together in order to achieve personal and professional goals (Johnson and Ridley). Effective mentoring is also known to be mutually beneficial to all participants (Ambrosetti, Knight and Dekkers). When scanning the literature there are a number of common descriptors that are used consistently to situate the interactions a mentor undertakes: supporter, guide, advisor, teacher, protector and counselor (Sundli; Hall et al.). Such descriptors indicate that a mentor performs a series of roles that change according to the needs of those being mentored (Ambrosetti and Dekkers). If the mentor has a series of roles to perform, then it is logical that the mentee also will also have a number of roles to play, however these are lnot well documented in the literature. The roles that both mentors and mentees play during a relationship can be identified and underpinned through the three dimensions of mentoring: the relationship itself, the developmental needs of the participants and the integration of the context in which the mentoring is situated (Ambrosetti, Knight and Dekkers). The interactions that a mentor engages in with a mentee span over a number of dimensions and are often reactive in nature. The three dimensions of mentoring can assist in describing a mentor and the roles they play. The relational dimension includes such roles as supporter, protector, friend and counselor. The roles of guide, teacher/trainer, collaborator, facilitator and reflector can be classified as developmental whereas being a role model can be both a developmental role and contextual role (230). There are a number of characteristics that are common to a mentor. Johnson and Ridley summarize them to include the following traits: exuding warmth, listening actively, showing unconditional regard, tolerating idealization, embracing humor, not expecting perfection, being trustworthy, having interpersonal competence, respecting another’s values and not being jealous of the mentee (43-62). The above list of traits are personal and often linked to personality, thus can be connected explicitly to the relational dimension of mentoring. The possession (or non-possession) of such traits can impact on the interactions that occur within mentorship. Accordingly it can be assumed that the characteristics, in conjunction with the roles that mentors play, that not everyone is suited to the role of mentor. Most people have experienced schooling at some stage in their life and is therefore familiar with the role of a teacher. Teaching is one most well known professions and can be described as a “creative act in which teachers continually shape and reshape lessons, events and the experiences of their students”(Parkay 45). The role of a teacher is to teach both knowledge and skills to their learners in order to prepare them as citizens for the future. More specifically, the role of the teacher is to design and deliver learning experiences that cater for and challenge the learners, that develop skills and knowledge both inside and outside of the classroom, and help them become confident, creative and responsible citizens. Despite this important role, the image of teachers is split between two types: one that is bitter, spiteful and egocentric, and the other being caring, accepting and reflective (Connell). We remember teachers according to such categories. The types of characteristics that teachers hold are extensive, however the following encompasses those that are key within the literature. Teachers generally have compassion, empathy and a caring nature. They can be flexible, creative, personable, humorous, positive, knowledgeable, motivational and dependable. Teachers are often well organised people, fair minded and resourceful (Howell). When examining the characteristics of teachers and the traits of mentors, similarities can be seen indicating that a particular type of person may be more suited to being a teacher and/or mentor. Teachers as Mentors in Film Teachers seem to be a popular subject of feature films. Films such as Goodbye Mr Chips (1939), Blackboard Jungle (1955) and To Sir with Love (1967) provide us with insight into the way teachers are portrayed in society and the role they play. Film however, has the specific ability to shape the cultural understanding we develop and allows us to make comparisons to our own experiences and those that are played out in fictional circumstances (Delamarter). While there are some films that provide a negative portrayal of teachers, generally they provide a view that teachers are positive influences on the students in their care.A search of the World Wide Web about the teacher as mentor brings up a treasure trove of film titles that span from the 1930s to the present day. Despite such a choice of titles, the following films have been selected to examine in this paper: Dead Poets Society (1989), Dangerous Minds (1995), Freedom Writers (2007) and the Harry Potter series of films (2001-2011). Selection of these films was based on the following two criteria: 1) they occurred within in a school setting and 2) are embedded within a contemporary theme of struggle where rebellion and/or other teenage angst are highlighted. Reader-response theory will underpin the analysis of the teachers in each of the films selected, so that an answer to the earlier posed question can be illuminated. Broadly speaking, reader-response theory is concerned with how readers, or in this case viewers, “make meaning from their experience with the text” (Beach 1). There are many perspectives on reader-response theory and how one might focus upon when responding to a text. In this instance the author will highlight the transaction that occurs between the reader, the text and the context. The transactions will include the social, cultural, experiential, psychological and textual viewpoints (Beach 8). Firstly, each film will be briefly described. This will be followed by an analysis of the teachers portrayed in the films. Dead Poets Society (1989) is set at a conservative secondary boys academy in the late 1950s and focuses on a group of students completing their senior year. Mr Keating is a new English teacher who uses unconventional teaching methods in the classroom. He inspires his students to ‘seize the day’ and ‘make your lives extraordinary’ and does this through the teaching of poetry. He encourages them to stand on desks during his lessons and to throw out tradition. It is Keating’s messages to his students to question what they believe that permeates the film and inspires his students to pursue what they want to do and become. The film Dangerous Minds (1995) is set in a low socio-economic area, where un-privilege and protecting yourself is a way of life. The teacher in this film is new and young, but is an ex US Marine. The class the film centres on is a difficult one to teach. This teacher uses unorthodox methods to gain the attention and trust of her students. The film makes a point to show us that she makes particular effort to relate the curriculum to the students’ interests in order to engage them in learning. Emphasis is also on the fact that she takes an interest in the students and many become her ‘personal projects’ and helping them to realize who they can become. Freedom Writers (2007) is set in the years directly following the Los Angeles riots of 1992 whereby issues of racism, segregation and inequality along with the changing view of the world is the focus. The students in the classrooms of this film are from diverse backgrounds and un-trusting of the education system. Their teacher is new and young and her first attempts to earn their trust fail until she begins to get to know the students and make links between what is being taught to their own lives. She inspires her class to learn tolerance, apply themselves and pursue further education. In the Harry Potter (2001-2011) series of films, there are several teachers who make an impact upon the young wizards. Although set in a fantasy world, the audience is treated to both inspirational teachers looking to nurture, protect and develop their charges, and teachers who are painted as egocentric and suspicious. Inspirational teachers include Dumbledore and McGonagall who offer subtle life lessons, specific skills and knowledge and protect the young wizards from danger. Egocentric and somewhat suspicious teachers include Snape and Quirrell who look to thwart the wizard’s time at school, however they too offer subtle life lessons to their students. The theme of good versus evil is paramount throughout the film series and the teachers are aligned with this theme.Teachers as Mentors – An AnalysisAlthough only a brief description of each film has been offered, the teachers as mentors to their students is the focus. Mr Keating (Dead Poets Society) and LouAnne Johnson (Dangerous Minds) are both described as unorthodox as they each use teaching methods that are frowned upon by others. However their purposeful and different teaching methods draw their students into their lessons so that life learning can occur. In each film, the unorthodox teaching touches the students in ways unknown to them before and in both cases the students demonstrate intellectual and personal growth. The unorthodox methods provide an avenue for a different relationship that is far from the traditional. In some scenes friendship is hinted at where guiding and supporting the students towards their hopes and dreams is highlighted. Aspects of mentoring can be seen through relational, developmental and contextual domains as the students are supported, guided and provided explicit role modeling. The young teacher in Freedom Writers, Erin Gruwell, uses a teaching approach that includes taking time to get to know her students. This approach, like Keating and Johnson, provides the opportunity to tweak the curriculum to the interests of the students and thus engage them in academic learning. They teach skills and knowledge in ways which relate to the students’ lives and interests. They guide, support the students towards the unfamiliar and facilitate opportunities for success. They help them to set goals and make them realise that they have a future and can be successful in their lives. The transformations that occur due to the teaching approaches used by the teachers cause their students admire and want to be like them. In Harry Potter, teachers Dumbledore and McGonagall are wise in years and life experience. They offer wisdom, protection and guidance to the young wizards throughout the series. These teachers, like Keating, Johnson and Gruwell, are role models in that they represent what life can be like and how best to achieve that life. Snape and Quirell also take an interest in their students, but represent an alternative view of life and learning. The difference between the four Harry Potter teachers can be drilled down to the traits of effective teachers. Two of which emulate the traits and two whom do not readily display any of the traits. Dumbledore and McGonagall can be considered as teacher mentors whereas Snape and Quirell cannot. In each film the student can be seen as central to the teacher as mentor and this in turn influences the way in which they behave. The teachers in these films pass on life lessons through their teaching. Throughout the films the teachers are guiding, supporting, befriending, protecting and training their charges. Interactions that occur between the teachers and the students are followed by a reflective phase by the teachers, whereby solutions to problems are sought or self-realisation occurs. In many instances the films show the teacher learning from the student and thus learning their own life lessons through reflection. From a social and cultural perspective, what is portrayed within the storylines are often close to the reality of what is expected from teachers. In many instances these lead towards a stereotyping of who teachers are and how they behave. However, from an experiential point of view, our expectations of the actions that teachers undertake do not usually take such form. In reality, teachers are busy people with a complex job to do (Connell) and often do not have time to take personal interest in all of their students individually. The teachers within the films chosen seem to have one class to prepare for, whereas in reality, a school teacher will have many classes to consider. Psychologically, some teachers and the style they embrace appeal to a particular a type of student or group of students. In the case of Dead Poets Society, Dangerous Minds and Freedom Writers, the storyline painted the students as those needing a particular type of teacher, someone who would save them from their circumstance and visa versa. The textual perspective was well highlighted by the teachers in the Harry Potter films as the viewer expects to see teachers with rather unusual but interesting teaching styles. However the text (within all films) included insight into mentor characteristics such as warmth, humour, tolerance, respect and unconditional regards. Generally, the films examined highlight two different types of teachers, challenging the categories written about by Connell. The first type of teacher highlighted was one who was seen as being more contemporary. One who is individual, unorthodox, and maybe a little rebellious; this teacher highlights that you need to be ‘different’ to make a difference. The second type was one who aligns to the traditional form of teacher; one who uses their knowledge, wisdom and life experience to break through to their student. Each of the films were underpinned by the relationship, the developmental needs and the context in which the narrative was played out, however the relationship between the students and the teacher was highlighted as being central to the storyline. Thus films of this nature often portray teachers as those who help their students in the emotional sense rather than the intellectual sense (Delamarter). Conclusion Several understandings about the teacher as mentor have been brought to light through the examination of the teacher as mentor in film. Firstly, in revisiting the mentoring definitions offered within this paper, it can be said that the teachers highlighted in the discussed films were mentoring their students in a way unique to the relationship developed between teacher and student. In each instance the teacher worked with their students to identify teaching approaches that would be successful in the context in which they were situated. Each film demonstrated that the teachers were committed to creating a relationship that met the developmental needs of their students. Interestingly, it was observed that the relationships were mutually beneficial in that the teachers grew along with the students with many coming to realisations about themselves through reflection and self thought. Secondly, the teachers within the films were portrayed as playing several important roles within their students’ lives. The teachers were role models inside and outside of the classroom. Each film’s storyline positioned the teacher as an influential other, whether they be portrayed as rebellious and unorthodox, evil and suspicious or inspirational and wise. The teachers in these films can be considered as mentors as they were supporting, guiding, protecting and nurturing the students to become better versions of themselves. However, the question that this article sought to answer was: to what extent is the teacher as mentor portrayed in popular film a realistic image? In looking back at the image the teacher in society and the role that they play in developing citizens of the future, it can be said the image presented has slivers of realism. In the real world, teachers must conform to society’s expectations, educational policies and codes of professionalism. Professional relationships with students do not encompass them in behave a student as a ‘personal project’, although catering to their needs is encouraged within the curriculum. It would be thought that if teachers did not encourage their students to be the best they can be, then they would not be doing their job. Many figures throughout our cultural history have been viewed as a mentor due to the role they play and how these roles align to societal beliefs and values. Thus, the portrayal of mentors and mentorship through a popular culture lens provides insight into our understanding about what mentorship is and how this may develop in the future. Both in the past and present, teachers are seen as inspirational figures and pillars of society, and are often considered a mentor by default. Films portray teachers in a variety of fashions, however there are many films that subtly position the teacher as a mentor to their students and it is this that this article has focused on. 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