Jackson De Vight

When the original Iron Man film debuted in 2008, Disney – while a powerful media conglomerate – was far from the titanic juggernaut it is today. Income was on the upswing, with the company’s amusement parks and network holdings trending upwards, but the studio entertainment and consumer product divisions were largely static in the early 2000s. Ambitious plans for capitalizing on the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) generated a drastic shift in that trend. Even amidst the financial collapse besetting the rest of the US economy, the company’s foray into Marvel intellectual property would help catapult Disney into unquestioned dominance over the next decade. Products from the MCU find their way across nearly every possible medium, from conventional magazines and videogames to social media and exclusive TV series created for the streaming service Netflix. I argue that the MCU is an instantiation of the logics of safety and synergy for the Walt Disney Company as understood through the Marxist materialist lens.

The imperative in business to avoid risk by mimicking patterns of past success to guide future decisions lies at the heart of the logic of safety (Ott and Mack, 2014, p. 40). The Marvel property is a perfect demonstration of how this plays out. When Disney first considered making a foray into Marvel films, the track‐record for successful films of that variety was questionable at best. So, a financially plateauing Disney looked at what worked well in properties like the X‐Men films. Based on their research, they decided to move forward with Iron Man, garnering success that would shape the future of the entertainment industry. Following Iron Man’s release, the company purchased (most of) the Marvel fictional universe of characters and story elements for $4 billion, almost a full tenth of Disney’s total market value at the time, a remarkably successful investment in retrospect (Barnes and Cieply, 2009). To wit, the $42 billion market cap of Disney on the day of the purchase has not fallen below a full $140 billion since October of 2014, 5 years after the deal was finalized. This logic of testing risk and reward has been an aspect of how major studios assess the viability and future of tentpole films for years, but the degree to which Disney has applied the principle of capitalizing on already proven elements in the Marvel franchise is nothing short of staggering. Adjusted for inflation, not one of the films made under the Disney Marvel umbrella has failed to quintuple their production budget at the box office alone.

The second way that Marxist perspectives can help us understand Disney’s acquisition and deployment of the Marvel property is through the pursuit of synergy, demonstrated in this instance through overlapping storylines, multi‐medium products, and strategic market control. Synergy in the context of business refers to a particular profit maximization technique that functions by maximizing the diversity of outlets for projects and investments. In the case of Disney Marvel’s fictional efforts, this synergy is built into the intellectual property as it has for decades; the Marvel comic books have always had crossovers and breakouts between characters, sometimes even going so far as to offer multiple versions of the same character or events via a fictional multiverse approach. This allows Disney to minimize the number of introductory films, which are expensive and relatively risky even for such an enormous company, needed relative to the total number of “worlds,” characters, and storylines covered, which in turn allows them to utilize those characters at will.

This effort goes beyond merely synergy within the realm of story, however, and approaches the very mediums through which society consumes this entertainment. Over the last 9 years, Disney has gone from no Marvel products of any variety to a score of films, half a dozen TV shows under various distributors, Disneyland rides and characters, and enough merchandising and costumes to overwhelm entire Halloween parties. This implicates another key aspect of how media synergy functions, specifically that by utilizing a variety of mediums Disney’s Marvel material is able to pervade entire swaths of society traditionally beyond the reach of cinema. Attend a lecture with a “cool” professor? Marvel memes. See a Buzzfeed personality quiz? It will tell you which superhero you are. Want to describe someone by analogy? Marvel personality. This pervasiveness is the direct result of the breadth and variety of Marvel product dissemination and synergistic market manipulation.

In cinema, as in all markets, there exist unique arenas of competition by which successful companies assert and reify dominance. For television networks, this has traditionally included metrics such as overall ratings and dominance of specific time slots, while for gaming studios it is primarily a question of dominating major annual release seasons and playstyle trends. In cinema, these arenas typically include success in maximizing market share of particular demographics during particularly lucrative seasons. The first six Marvel films were released in May or June, traditional release dates for dominant summer performances, while more recent productions have added similarly lucrative holiday release dates in November, December, and February. What is fascinating about these release dates is that they have allowed Disney, via Marvel itself and the similarly successful Star Wars franchise, massive control over major movie‐going seasons to the point where Disney now owns nine out of the top ten all‐time opening weekend box office earners.

This brings us to the question at the heart of any worthwhile criticism: so what? The Marxist materialist lens emphasizes the influence that material resources and their distribution bear upon the topic at hand, in this case of Disney’s Marvel franchise. The first likely implication is the unparalleled degree to which Disney is shaping taste and production priorities for major films on both the studio’s and audience’s behalf. Trends have always been a part of art, where imitation of successful forms underpins decision‐making, but the scale of this trendsetting is unquestionable. Disney has created a whole new genre of film, the cinematic universe, which has drawn catastrophic failures to replicate from competing studios, and has therein generated a revenue stream which dwarfs any other cinema enterprise in history. This has generated a new norm and standard for filmmaking and will likely lead to a further homogenized offering from the major Hollywood studios. The second likely impact to ensue from the success of the MCU is the highly material consideration of studio ownership. The revenue stream that Disney has access to has enabled them to launch entire media platforms, such as their own streaming service, and outright purchase competitors they could never have leveraged against a decade ago. For instance, by dominating markets previously controlled by 21st Century Fox and utilizing that dominance for massive earnings, Disney was able to complete a purchase of Fox for less than half of Disney’s total market value, while prior to the MCU Disney’s total value was less than half of the eventual Fox purchase price. This continued effort to out‐earn, out‐maneuver, and outright purchase the competition will inevitably shape the financial landscape for cinema as art for decades to come.

REFERENCES

1. Barnes, B. and Cieply, M. (August 31, 2009). Disney Swoops into Action, Buying Marvel for $4 Billion. The New York Times, https://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/01/business/media/01disney.html.
2. Ott, B.L. and Mack, R.L. (2014). Critical Media Studies: An Introduction, 2nd edn. Malden, MA: Wiley‐Blackwell.

Michael Lewis

On March 13, 2016, FOX channel 34 in Lubbock, Texas broadcast live a race that took place at the Phoenix International Raceway. As a sports fan generally and a race fan in particular, I watched this broadcast with great interest and excitement. But as I watched the race, I began to wonder what it was about this broadcast that I found so compelling. Surely, it had something to do with the broadcast itself since I was not actually at the event in person. In this essay, I draw upon a rhetorical perspective to help understand the appeal of the March 13 broadcast. Specifically, I argue that the live broadcast of the race mobilizes the rhetorical devices of genre, form, and narrative to satiate viewers’ desire for danger and excitement. In support of this claim, I define the concepts of genre, form, and narrative and explain how they are employed to activate viewers’ desire while watching the broadcast. But, first, I discuss why it is important to analyze such a broadcast.

A televised NASCAR race is an important media text to study, as it depends heavily on the conventions of media broadcasting to bring the race to the fans at home. Since the late 1990s, NASCAR has grown from being a sport that was popular in the US South to one that is popular across the country and around the world. On average, 7.5 million people tune in to televised races on a Sunday afternoon; the total can be even higher for marquee events such as the Daytona 500. The popularity of these events is further evidenced by the large number of networks that dedicate broadcast time to them. One can, of course, also watch a race at the track. But the focus of this essay is on the televised broadcast because, as a media scholar, I am particularly interested in why NASCAR racing is so appealing to watch on television.

The broadcast of a NASCAR race is a specific genre of media. A genre is a category of media, whether written or spoken, audio or visual, that shares identifiable stylistic and/or substantive elements. The broadcast of a NASCAR race falls broadly within the genres of motor sports or auto racing and within the subgenre of stock‐car racing. As such, most races, including the Phoenix race, display elements of the genre of sports broadcasting or motor sports broadcasting. A few key elements of that genre include, but are not limited to: (1) commentators calling the race and offering analysis and opinions on the race; (2) commentators giving background information about the race, track, and the drivers that are participating; and (3) the strategic placement of commercial breaks, along with how the televised broadcast transitions into and out of those breaks. If anything dramatic happens during a commercial break, when the broadcast returns it immediately shows a replay of that event. All three of these generic elements are present in the NASCAR races that FOX broadcasts each year. The goal of the broadcast, besides showing the race, is to engage and entertain viewers, as this allows for the sale of advertising. Toward this end, form and narrative are key dimensions of the broadcast.

In addition to the appeal created by genre, the broadcast of NASCAR races regularly employs form to entice and excite viewers. According to Kenneth Burke (1931), form is “an arousing and fulfilment of desires. A work has form in so far as one part of it leads a reader, or viewer in our case, to anticipate another part, in a specific sequence” (p. 124). Many people watch a race to fill a desire they are lacking, whether that may be the desire to go fast, to drive, or even to watch a race for the first time and be able to experience the race broadcast in its entirety. Once a spectator starts watching a race, they expect there to be at least one crash during the race and many people will watch until they see the wreck. Some will watch expecting to see an exciting finish and they will have that desire fulfilled or disappointed by the ending. Based on this theory more people are expected to watch a race that will have an exciting finish or many wrecks during the race. Someone rooting for their driver to win is another example of fulfilling a desire. My driver was Jeff Gordon until he retired after last season. My desire to see him race is now going unfulfilled and, consequently, I am less apt to watch an entire race. But for others who have a driver to root for in the race, seeing their driver is satisfying, especially if he wins. Watch our favorite driver win puts us in a good mood, while watching him loose has the inverse effect. During the Phoenix race a desire to see a good ending was filled as there was a battle for the lead all the way up to the finish line, and it was a photo finish. Many fans were pleased with the outcome. In conclusion, a person watches a race to fulfill a desire of watching a good race, wrecks, or watching their favorite driver win.

In addition to form and genre, NASCAR race broadcasts follow a specific narrative to entice viewers to keep watching the race. A narrative is a series of real or fictional events that occur in chronological succession or order. NASCAR races are broadcasted and completed in a very narrative way. I explain the narrative of a NASCAR race by giving a background of what occurs during the race. The story is the actual race and existents, or characters, are the drivers participating in the race, while the narration comes from the announcers on the TV broadcast or the announcers on the radio. The structure of a typical TV broadcast of a NASCAR race begins with the opening ceremonies, which include the national anthem and the command to start engines. Following these events, drivers get into their cars, are told to “start their engines,” and then accelerate for a few laps until green flags are waved and the race begins. During the race anything can happen at any time, debris on track, wreck, stormy weather, any of these could bring out a yellow (or even a red) flag to slow down or stop the race.

Generally there are at least five yellow or red flags during a race. Toward the end of the race the excitement builds as people are trying to take the lead to win the race. Then once the checkered flag waves the race is over and the person in the first position will win the race and then go to victory lane and the TV personnel will interview the other drivers until the winner is in victory lane then the main race broadcast is over, if you are at the track you are seeing this slightly differently than the fans at home, but the race is the same. How the race is presented by the commentators during the race is also an example of narration. The commentators describe to the listener/viewer what is going on around the track to help the viewer develop a deeper appreciation of the unfolding events.

While the commentators are explaining the race, many different camera angles are at the disposal of the broadcaster to show the race. The different camera angles show what is going on in the race from above and on the track and even inside the car. There are many cars in the race equipped with in‐car cameras, which give the viewer the experience of the drivers. This helps the viewer feel as though they are inside the car and part of the race. These are all examples of how a race is made compelling from start to finish.

In conclusion, NASCAR is one of the fastest growing sports in the United States and the world. It is full of fast cars and fast action, which is maybe the reason many people enjoy watching the races. Many people do not have the opportunity to race at the level these drivers race every weekend. So by watching a race someone can fill the desire that one may have of going fast, which is not easily attainable in reality, or at least without the consequences of a speeding ticket. By showing the narration of a race may help someone understand a race if they have never seen the race. The reasoning behind picking the Phoenix race that happened a few weeks ago is that it was one of the more recent races that had many different examples throughout the race, which helps me back up my examples of rhetorical analysis. Also Phoenix is considered my home racetrack since I am from the eastern part of Phoenix. This essay was an overview of how one could view a race from a rhetorical perspective.

REFERENCES

1. Burke, K. (1931). Counter Statement. New York, NY: Penguin Group.
2. NASCAR Phoenix 2016 (March 13, 2016), https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4V1OTobqiM.

Miranda McCreary

In 2015, Viola Davis became the first black woman to receive an Emmy Award for Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series. Her performance as Annalise Keating in the ABC series How to Get Away with Murder continued to bring her acclaim in future seasons. In many respects, this show depicts a complex, intelligent, and powerful black woman through its representation of Annalise and the compelling performance of Viola Davis. In other ways though, the show undermines this positive representation by reinforcing socioeconomic and cultural hierarchies.

These hierarchical divisions are evident, for instance, in the storyline of supporting character Michaela Pratt. Michaela is one of five law students chosen to intern at the law firm of Middleton University professor and attorney, Annalise Keating. Michaela is engaged to rising politician Aiden Walker, and the scene which I analyze in this essay is an interaction between Michaela Pratt and her future mother‐in‐law, Mrs. Walker. On its face, this scene depicts the two characters sitting in a restaurant disagreeing over the signing of a prenuptial agreement. When viewed from a critical cultural perspective, however, I argue that the scene functions representationally to reinforce and justify stereotypical socioeconomic and cultural hierarchies. This ideological reinforcement is achieved through the visual depiction of and symbolic interaction between the two characters, who embody polarities of socioeconomic and cultural status.

The character of Mrs. Walker embodies an upper‐class socioeconomic position, as well as the cultural status of an assimilated, “respectable” black woman. Her upper‐class position and associated values are established quickly in the scene. Mrs. Walker is well dressed, immediately expresses disdain for “sports‐driven universities,” and shares a concise, pointed narrative of her rise to success. She declares that she and her husband built their wealth and success “from the ground up,” starting with one store and growing it into a multinational corporation. Mrs. Walker becomes a token of the ideology of the American Dream, reaffirming the idea that success is guaranteed if you only work hard enough (Ott and Mack, 2014).

Mrs. Walker also embodies assimilation into white upper‐class culture. While she is black, she is presented without any reference to Southern black culture, stripping her of her background and heritage. She is depicted simply as upper class, meaning she has assimilated into the norms of implicitly white upper‐class culture. Moreover, in the scene, she is filmed against a dimly lit but warm, yellow‐toned background; her skin is well illuminated, emphasizing its lighter shade of black. The people at the table behind her are white, but their skin appears a slightly darker shade because of the shadows, making Mrs. Walker’s light black skin appear almost the same shade as theirs. Her “blackness” becomes absorbed into the upper‐class, white setting. Her clothing is also strikingly symbolic – the lower part of the garment is colored completely black, slowly dissipating upward into completely white fabric. Mrs. Walker’s chosen attire subtly reinforces the idea that upward movement is a gradual process of becoming “white” and completely erasing the “black.”

In contrast, the “blackness” of Michaela is a primary visual component of her depiction. Michaela’s darker shade of black skin is emphasized by her dark blue clothing and the almost black background of the restaurant behind her in the camera shots. Like Mrs. Walker, there is also a table behind Michaela, but the table of people serves to highlight the contrast, rather than the commonality, between characters. Michaela’s “blackness” is accentuated through vivid contrast with the two very white faces behind her, and reinforces her difference/non‐assimilation into the white, upper‐class scene.

While Michaela Pratt is visually depicted as black, she is also depicted as an embodiment of a lower socioeconomic status, one that is associated with Southern black cultural identity. This identity is communicated through Mrs. Walker. One way Mrs. Walker emphasizes their different hierarchical positions is through her personal American Dream narrative, which constructs Mrs. Walker as a hardworking, honest individual. By contrast, she accuses Michaela of trying to “waltz in and reap the benefits” of her hard work by marrying her son, creating a narrative of Michaela as a lower‐class, Southern black woman who is not willing to work hard to earn success. By refusing to sign a prenuptial agreement, Michaela symbolically refuses to sign a document that ensures her inability to take the “easy route” to success. This prenuptial agreement functions within the scene as an agreement to abide by the formula of the American Dream narrative: “hard work = success” (Ott and Mack, 2014), and Michaela’s rejection of it serves to justify the socioeconomic and cultural divide between Michaela and Mrs. Walker’s positions.

The designated lower‐class, Southern black positionality of Michaela continues to be expressed by Mrs. Walker as the scene progresses. Toward the end of the scene, Mrs. Walker makes the threat, “You sign, or I will make sure you go back to that nasty, backwoods, bayou swamp you came from, you stubborn bitch!” In response, Michaela attempts to slap her but her wrist is caught and held in Mrs. Walker’s grip. Mrs. Walker rises from her seat and literally talks down to Michaela, delivering the closing statement of the scene: “At least I know I was right about you.” This final message serves to symbolically put Michaela “in her place,” reminding her that her violent reaction reveals her inferior character originating from her socioeconomic and cultural roots. This statement indicates the racial status implicit in her socioeconomic status – the disagreement over the prenuptial was financial, but Michaela’s display of her stereotypical, “unrefined” Southern black culture reinforces Mrs. Walker’s view of her lower socioeconomic status.

Throughout the series though, Michaela is portrayed as middle‐class and assimilated into white, upper‐class norms. She dresses professionally, speaks “proper” English, attends law school, and is an intern for a prominent attorney. Michaela’s lower socioeconomic background and ties to Southern black culture are very rarely mentioned, and she is portrayed as the most driven intern. Michaela is portrayed as actively working toward the American Dream and gradually moving up this hierarchy through her dedicated efforts and assimilation.

Michaela and Mrs. Walker both function in the series as tokens of the ideology of the American Dream at different levels. Mrs. Walker’s identification of Michaela with her lower socioeconomic class and cultural origins during the scene appears especially harsh in light of this. Any emotional discontent the audience feels as a result of the portrayal of Mrs. Walker as antagonist arises not because the division of socioeconomic and cultural status is perceived as flawed, but because Mrs. Walker unfairly labels Michaela. Mrs. Walker places Michaela back within her original lower‐class, Southern black cultural position within the hierarchy, even though we as audience know Michaela has “risen above” this status through hard work and an abandonment of her cultural roots. The audience is still encouraged to see Michaela’s socioeconomic and cultural origin as incompatible with upper‐class, white values and success; however, we are encouraged to sympathize with her because she is still pursuing these values and success.

The visual depiction and interaction of these two characters in the scene then does not offer us a critique of these divisions, but rather communicates and justifies their power in structuring socioeconomic and cultural positions within society. The characters of Michaela Pratt and Mrs. Walker are unable to embrace identities outside of these positions in the hierarchies that structure their environment. While the show How to Get Away with Murder does give us a beautiful example of a leading character that transcends the shallow, stereotypical portrayal of black women in media, it fails to represent black characters that are able to transcend or challenge the socioeconomic and cultural hierarchies that constrain them.

REFERENCES

1. Ott, B.L. and Mack, R.L. (2014) Critical Media Studies: An Introduction, 2nd edn. Malden, MA: Wiley‐Blackwell.
2. Stockstill, D. and Allen, D. (2014). He Has a Wife. In Beers, B, D’Elia, B, Nowalk, S. and Rhimes, S., How to Get Away with Murder. Burbank, CA: ABC Studios.

Kaley West

One of the oldest and most well‐known axioms in the advertising industry is that “sex sells.” Following this mantra, advertisers routinely construct messages that are designed to appeal to consumers’ unconscious and, often, sexual drives. Indeed, when one views a commercial or gazes at a print advertisement, the consumer is invited to participate in their more unconscious sexual yearnings and fantasies (Ott and Mack, 2014, p. 171). This strategy is evident across a surprisingly wide range of products and contexts. In fact, this strategy can even be seen during the Super Bowl, whose advertisements are commonly as anticipated as the game itself. Advertisers often seize upon this unique context to create overtly sexual advertisements designed to leave a memorable impression on viewers.

Carl’s Jr. “Eat Like You Mean It” advertising campaign offers a particularly clear example, and serves as the object of analysis in this essay. During the 2015 Super Bowl, Carl’s Jr. televised an ad that featured famed actress and model Charlotte McKinney along with their new, all‐natural burger. The nearly nude McKinney sweeps through a farmer’s market, much to the surprise and delight of the male attendees. Only in the final moments of this commercial is it revealed that McKinney is clothed, though scantily, as she encounters the new Carl’s Jr. all‐natural burger and consumes it in a highly sexual manner. This ad, I contend, taps into deep‐seated sexual drives to sell its new burger, mobilizing pleasures related to sex, looking, power, and control. In support of this interpretation, I offer a brief overview of psychoanalytic theory and utilize several of its key concepts to analyze the Carl’s Jr. ad. I conclude the essay by speculating about some of the broader social implications.

As an approach to studying media, psychoanalytic analysis seeks to demonstrate how the psychic structures in media texts appeal to the unconscious drives in audiences. Often, this occurs by prominently featuring desires and pleasures that are repressed or otherwise curbed in mainstream society. In this essay, I will draw on the psychoanalytic concepts of scopophilia, voyeurism, fetishism, the male gaze, and fantasy to illustrate how advertisements in particular work to satiate and fulfill deep libidinal impulses. Consider Carl’s Jr.’s “Eat Like You Mean It” ad during the Super Bowl.

Charlotte McKinney strutting around a farmer’s market, supposedly naked, and eating – in an obviously sexual way – a burger invokes both scopophilia and voyeurism, while also fetishizing the food. As Ott and Mack (2014) explain, scopophilia refers to the pleasure in looking (p. 174). This viewing can include film, pictures, or real events. As a viewer of the commercial, one is invited to freely watch the events taking place without actually being present in the situation. Many of the shots throughout the advertisement follow the actress through the view of a bystander, watching as she walks by. The men in the commercial clearly exhibit pleasure in witnessing the actress’s state of undress, visibly halting their actions to watch.

The concept of experiencing pleasure while viewing from a distance refers to voyeurism (Ott and Mack, 2014, p.174). The idea of voyeurism is reinforced by Lacan’s views on desire, which state that one’s desires can never be completely fulfilled (Ott and Mack, 2014, p. 168). Watching from a distance allows the viewer the pleasure that comes from desiring the object without actually obtaining it and realizing its inefficiency to fulfill the desire. This concept is prominent in the commercial through not only the men watching after McKinney, but also through the consumers watching the commercial. While the gaze is occasionally returned to the camera, she merely glances at the spectators with a look of seduction and elevated confidence, suggesting she is above any advances. Placing McKinney on an unattainable level reinforces the pleasure in viewing what one cannot or will not receive.

The food in the advertisement is highly fetishized. Fetishism refers to the structuring of an object as a source of pleasure (Ott and Mack, 2014, p. 174). Though the product being advertised in the commercial does not appear until two‐thirds of the way through, it is immediately set as the focus of pleasure in the sexual way it is depicted being consumed. Close‐up shots highlight McKinney’s mouth as she bites into the unrealistically dressed‐up burger. The way she consumes the burger is portrayed similarly to as if she was making out with the food, entrancing the bystanders as they watch her. In fetishizing the burger, the advertisement encourages the viewers to seek the same pleasure McKinney exhibits as she enjoys the burger.

As in the theory of the male gaze, the commercial invites the viewer to identify as a male and treats McKinney as a sexual object. The male gaze relates the framing of the camera to males who actively look upon the females as passive, sexual objects (Ott and Mack, 2014, p. 176). In this commercial, the male perspective given directly through several camera shots allows the viewer to visually consume McKinney in a similar way she consumes the burger. From McKinney’s introduction in the advertisement, the majority of her body is blocked from view, heavily suggesting nudity. As she progresses through the market, nearly every male she passes turns their gazes to her. Even when McKinney is revealed to be wearing clothing, it is incredibly minimal. Though the concept of her lack of clothing serves to support the all‐natural theme of the new burger, it equally serves to sexualize the actress. Camera shots are included that specifically focus on parts of her body, mainly her breasts and posterior. Shots even include produce such as large cantaloupes and a strangely deformed apple in the shape of a backside to cover up her private parts. The combination of the collected gaze of every male upon McKinney and her state of undress further establishes her as an object of sexual desire. Through the establishment of McKinney as a sexual object, the commercial viewer is encouraged to connect sexual desire for McKinney to desire for the burger.

Charlotte McKinney, a famously sexualized celebrity, and the production of the commercial fuel the fantasy element of this advertisement. A fantasy is a mental representation of wish fulfillment. Through fantasy, media allows the consumer to assume a multitude of perspectives to satisfy the desires specific to personal wishes (Ott and Mack, 2014, p. 181). As a celebrity known for her voluptuous figure, McKinney is an easy candidate for fantasy creation. Through this advertisement, a viewer may identify with the males in the commercial who find pleasure in visually consuming McKinney or with McKinney herself and find pleasure in being the object of lust and beauty. Ideally for the product’s purpose, a viewer would also fantasize about consuming the burger. The structure and production of the commercial strongly supports the fantasy concept. The lighting creates a bright, dream‐like state with an angelic glow around McKinney. Her voice is soft, soothing, and seductive as she narrates the advertisement. The entire production of the commercial is created to simulate a fantastical dream of a perfectly sunny day at the farmer’s market as a naked, angelic woman strolls by in slow motion to find and proceed to sexually consume an impeccable looking burger. Though the fantasy suggests one may not simply attain Charlotte McKinney, one can easily experience a similar pleasure in attaining the Carl’s Jr. burger.

Carl’s Jr.’s 2015 commercial for the all‐natural burger exploits the marketability of sexual desire through the use of several psychoanalytic concepts such as scopophilia, voyeurism, fetishism, the male gaze, and fantasy. All of these approaches to the advertisement suggest a sensual atmosphere heavily influenced by the Freudian sex drive (Eros). The advertisement ties in the pleasure that comes from satisfying nutritional needs with the satisfaction of a more obvious desire of the flesh. This method of coupling sexual desire with satisfying other needs is not uncommon in today’s culture. The abundance of sexual advertisements exemplify our society’s idolization of sex. A consequence of this phenomenon includes the bounty of low self‐esteem people suffer from not being able to identify with the “ideal” body figures or typically heteronormative behaviors portrayed. Society and media use sex to sell but are simultaneously ignoring the ramifications of the “ideal” portrayal of sex.

REFERENCES

1. Carl’s Jr. (2015). Charlotte McKinney – Carl’s Jr. Commercial – Super Bowl XLIX 2015 – The All Natural Burger [Television commercial], https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WlUvQkW4B1k.
2. Ott, B.L. and Mack, R.L. (2014) Critical Media Studies: An Introduction, 2nd edn. Malden, MA: Wiley‐Blackwell.

Katelyn Johnson

Since its release in August 2018, fans have not stopped raving about the Netflix original movie To All the Boys I Loved Before (Acuna, 2018). The film offers a modern spin on romantic comedies typical of the 1990s (Debruge, 2018). Many critics praised the film for its positive depiction of an Asian American character and its pure and happy approach to teenage love (Grady, 2018). While To All the Boys I Loved Before (TATBILB) possesses numerous praise‐worth traits, the show nevertheless communicates some serious patriarchal undertones. Specifically, I contend that To All the Boys I Loved Before perpetuates a series of harmful gender stereotypes that, in turn, encourage female viewers to endure hyper‐masculine behaviors in the hopes of discovering a man’s softer side.

To better understand how the film normalizes hyper‐masculinity, the rest of the essay unfolds in two stages. First, I explore the gender stereotypes present in TATBILB and discuss how these stereotypes work rhetorically to condition viewers to become complacent in a hyper‐masculine culture. Second, I very briefly discuss the implications of this complacency by reflecting on its impact on viewers in their daily lives.

To All the Boys I loved Before is a story about a teenage Asian American named Lara Jean. Lara would rather fantasize about her love life than deal with it, which is why she writes her crushes secret love letters, but never openly admits her feelings. That all changes when her little sister mails all of Lara Jean’s love letters to her crushes. One of those crushes, however, is her sister’s recent ex‐boyfriend: Josh Sanderson. Laura Jean quickly devises a plot with one of the other recipients of her letters, Peter, to convince Josh she did not have feelings for him. By the end of the movie, Peter and Laura confess their unexpected feelings for one another. As the story unfolds, several gender stereotypes emerge that reinforce hyper‐masculinity. For the sake of convenience, I limit my discussion to three of them: women as sexualized objects, gender norms surrounding emotional expression, and moments of masculine vulnerability.

TATBILB connects Lara’s social status with her sexual activity (or lack thereof) throughout the film. In an inner dialogue at the beginning of the story, Lara confirms that she is a virgin, a fact that appears to be widely known. Josh calls Lara Jean “sweet and innocent” when questioning her choice to date Peter. This phrasing frames Lara’s purity as something to be treasured and kept. That Lara’s virginity is associated with purity and goodness is reinforced by her classmates’ positive view and treatment of her in the context of this knowledge.

By contrast, after a video of Lara and Peter allegedly having sex in a hot tub circulates, Lara is bullied and mistreated at school. Lara finds a picture of the video on her locker with the words “It’s always the ones you expect never expect” written in permanent marker hours after the video was leaked. Lara’s reputation is ruined, that is, until Peter stands up for her. Peter’s reputation – unsurprisingly – is unaffected by the video. Lara’s classmates tease her about her behavior, and her confidence and self‐worth subsequently plummet.

The connection between Lara’s perceived sexual activeness and her self‐worth affirms the way that our society often objectifies young women who are sexually active. Despite Peter’s promiscuous activity in the film, Lara is the only one judged and ostracized for her sexual behavior. In fact, Peter’s classmates actually congratulate and praise him for his sexual actions. This reinforces the dangerous and misguided stereotype that sexually active women are promiscuous and impure, while simultaneously suggesting that women’s bodies are passive objects for men to conquer. The double standard regarding how women and men are treated with respect to sexual activity is significant because it can lead to miscommunication, poor self‐esteem, and even violence.

As TATBILB unfolds, its characters only show emotions sanctioned by dominant gender norms. Lara, her sisters, and other women in the show portray a wide range of emotions including sadness, fascination, giddiness, happiness, and even cruelness. The main protagonist may be shy, but viewers are aware of the intense emotions she experiences. Her inability to control her emotions is why she chooses to write letters to her crushes in the first place. Men in the show, by contrast, exhibit a much more limited range of emotions. Peter, for instance, rarely shows any emotion. When he does show emotions, they are limited to confidence and cockiness, or anger and jealousy. When Lara talks with Josh, another boy who receives one of her letters, Peter behaves controlling and jealous. He asks why Lara talks to him, claiming her “snuggling up to Sanderson” would ruin his behavior.

The contrast between Lara’s and Peter’s emotions reinforce gender appropriate forms of emotional expression. While men are stereotypically viewed as more rational than emotional, they are, nevertheless, allowed certain types of emotional expression. Peter engages in these sanctioned modes of expression – anger, jealousy, and overconfidence – because masculine subjects are allowed and even expected to show them. Further, each of these emotions is associated with active ways of being that aim largely at controlling and manipulating others. Lara’s emotional expressions are stereotypically feminine. Sadness, reflexiveness, and even happiness all produce states of inactivity or passivity in subjects.

REFERENCES

1. Acuna, K. (2018, September 4). Fans are Obsessed with a Yogurt Drink Thanks to Netflix’s “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.” Insider, https://www.thisisinsider.com/to‐all‐the‐boys‐ive‐loved‐before‐yogurt‐drink‐yakult‐2018‐9.
2. Bouttier, B., Dunn, D., Johnson, S., T. (2018). To All the Boys I Loved Before [Motion Picture]. United States: Netflix.
3. Debruge, P. (2018, August 17). Film Review: Netflix’s “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.” Variety, https://variety.com/2018/film/reviews/to‐all‐the‐boys‐ive‐loved‐before‐review‐netflix‐1202907345/.
4. Grady, C. (2018, August 24). Netflix’s To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before Might Be the Best Teen Romance of the Decade. Vox, https://www.vox.com/culture/2018/8/19/17756330/to‐all‐the‐boys‐ive‐loved‐before‐review‐netflix.

Robin Duffee

On March 14, 2014, The CW network debuted The 100, a sci‐fi teen drama that chronicles humanity’s struggle for survival after a nuclear apocalypse. The show, which was recently renewed for its sixth season, offers a particularly compelling example of the challenges of queer representation on television. Specifically, I argue that Clarke and Lexa’s love story offers a positive queer representation inasmuch as it avoids the problematic narrative trope of identity‐distress. At the same time, however, The 100’s distancing of its narrative world from today’s cultural context and climate undercuts the progressive qualities of its queer representation. In support of this claim, I offer a brief plot synopsis of the show, highlight its conflicted representation, and comment on its societal implications.

The 100 is set 97 years after a nuclear apocalypse laid waste to Earth, leaving the remains of the planet scorched and radioactive. A small group of survivors was able to board “the Ark,” a life‐support space station, and wait in Earth’s orbit for the planet to become habitable once again. When the Ark began to deteriorate ahead of schedule, the Ark’s leadership decided to send a group of 100 juvenile delinquents to “the Ground” to test the survivability of Earth. Clarke Griffin, an intelligent, idealistic 17‐year‐old girl soon becomes the reluctant but fierce leader of “the 100,” who quickly discover that they were not the only survivors of the nuclear holocaust, and find thousands of “Grounders” living on Earth. The Grounders’ violent, tribal society is made up of twelve clans that were recently united into one Coalition lead by its young, visionary female Commander, Lexa. Eventually, the rest of the survivors who had been living on the Ark join the 100 on the Ground, and become known as “Skaikru.” The relationship between Skaikru and the other Grounder clans is marked by violence and war for the vast majority of the series. As Clarke and Lexa balance a tense diplomatic relationship held together by mutual respect and a desire for a peaceful future, the two women eventually fall into a romantic relationship. Clarke and Lexa’s romantic narrative arc is markedly distinct from that of many other queer characters represented on television today.

Queer representations on television often perpetuate a narrative trope, which I call “identity‐distress,” in which queer characters’ storylines revolve around “problems” or “difficulties” created by their non‐normative identities. Identity‐distress narratives may focus on a queer character’s coming out process, their struggle with societal, familial, or self‐acceptance, or other moments in which their queer identity functions as a “difficulty” driving the plot. Though identity‐distress narratives are not inherently negative (given that they explore real personal and social challenges), their sheer pervasiveness in our media landscape poses two potential representational shortcomings: (1) they implicitly suggest that queer identity is “distressing”; and (2) they fail to offer queer viewers models of queer being that operate outside the stages of identity‐distress, making such forms of being more difficult to envision and enact.

The 100 offers positive queer representation by situating the narrative of Clarke and Lexa’s queer relationship in an apocalyptic setting and departing entirely from identity‐distress narrative themes. The narrative arc of Clarke and Lexa’s romantic relationship does not cover any queer identity‐distress themes. There is no direct discourse about queerness in the show whatsoever. The characters do not come out. When the characters tell others about their queer relationship, there is no surprise, turmoil, or discussion of sexuality. The narrative world of The 100 is not heteronormative, and the show continually deemphasizes “difference” in its representations of queer relationships.

Queer characters in the show are not presented as immune from struggle, of course. But when Clarke and Lexa experience distress, it is unrelated to their queer identities. The 100 removes the locus of distress from queerness and places it on the apocalypse, violence, war, diplomatic relations, and the struggle for survival. Importantly, the show does not present queerness as a source of distress or disruption. Queerness is not apocalyptic; the apocalypse is apocalyptic.

Despite the show’s avoidance of problematic and reductionistic associations of queerness with distress, its representations are not without limitations. The 100 creates a narrative world free of identity‐distress themes in part by removing the narrative from today’s cultural context entirely and working from a new post‐apocalyptic, science‐fiction setting, wiped clean of all traces of heteronormativity and homophobia. By erasing any reference to queer struggle from its narrative, The 100 avoids indicting our contemporary society. The 100 lacks a clearly articulated critique, so audience members are not prompted to think critically about the world in which they live, and the stigma, discrimination, and mistreatment queer folks still face in that world today. The show provides a utopian vision of a society in which queerness is a non‐issue, but does not then include a narrative mechanism that calls viewers to action toward the achievement of that vision in our own society.

The show’s handling of Lexa’s death provides a specific example of how The 100’s complete separation from our cultural context can be problematic. In season three of the show, Lexa was killed by a stray bullet immediately following the scene in which she and Clarke had sex for the first time. Queer fans of the show revolted, because this death exhibited another harmful and pervasive narrative trope, the “bury your gays” trope, in which queer characters are killed off immediately following peak moments of happiness and fulfillment in their lives. In a letter to fans addressing the controversy, Jason Rothenberg, producer of The 100, claimed that “the thinking behind having the ultimate tragedy follow the ultimate joy was to heighten the drama and underscore the universal fragility of life” (Rothenberg, 2016). Here, showrunners failed to consider how the lived experiences of queer fans of the show might impact their interpretation of Lexa’s death. In our current cultural context, many already experience queer life as terrifyingly fragile as the standard. Angry glances, hurtful insults, aggressive threats, horrific violence, and mass shootings consistently remind queer folks of the heightened fragility of their lives (as does the overuse of the “bury your gays” trope and those like it across queer representation in media). These homophobic acts do not exist in the narrative world of The 100, but all television reaches viewers that exist in this world. Therefore, the impact of Lexa’s death could not be contained within the neat boundaries of the narrative world that showrunners built and scrubbed clean of queer history. In this world, the circumstances of Lexa’s death perpetuated the societal script that queer folks can never achieve actualization in life.

Showrunners of The 100 gave queer fans Lexa, a tenacious lesbian warrior who was never burdened by her queer identity, then abruptly buried her immediately following the consummation of her relationship with Clarke. Queer representation on television is extraordinarily complicated and difficult to execute perfectly. Nevertheless, this representation has consequences on the lived experiences of queer folks and remains an important force toward or against equality and acceptance. Queer analysis can shed light on the implications of media representations with a constant eye toward improvement.

REFERENCES

1. Rothenberg, J. (2016, March 24). The Life and Death of Lexa, Medium, https://medium.com/@jrothenberg/the‐life‐and‐death‐of‐lexa‐e461224be1db.

Olivia Austin

Matt Reeves’s 2017 American science‐fiction film War for The Planet of the Apes raked in an impressive $56.5 million at the box office, outpacing most other sequels around this time. While the film is typical of big‐budget Hollywood films, featuring heart‐pounding drama and spectacular visual effects, I suggest that the film carries a social message as well. In this essay, I contend that War for The Planet of the Apes functions as an allegory for the historical struggles of African Americans in the United States. Drawing upon the perspective of symbolic interactionism, I examine a series of key parallels between the film’s depiction of “the rise of the apes” and African American history and culture, highlighting symbolic references to the Civil War, prejudice and discrimination, and the progressive fight for equality. Further, I explain how these representations function for audiences who engage the film. A concluding section examines the social implications of the preceding analysis. But, first, I offer a brief plot synopsis of the film.

The third installment of the Planet of the Apes prequel series depicts a community of highly intelligent primitives led by the chimpanzee Caesar. Colonel McCullough, the leader of a rogue army (Alpha‐Omega) deems these apes to be a threat to mankind, fearing they will take control of the Earth. So to ensure the survival of the human race, he kills Caesar’s family and later captures the ape clan. Caesar sets out to avenge his family and to save his colony. Caesar later learns that the virus that killed much of the human race in previous films has mutated to cause the surviving humans to devolve back into more primitive beings. He further discovers that the colonel has not only been killing not only apes, but also humans that have contracted the virus. Additionally he is hiding himself and a handful of soldiers to their base, at an abandoned weapons depot on a border, to fend off remnants of the actual US army from the North coming to kill him. In the conclusion, Caesar frees his fellow primates from Alpha‐Omega and discovers the colonel has been infected with the virus and thus commits suicide while the US army is at war with his army. The remaining apes flee to a safe ground and Caesar dies from a battle wound.

There is a distinct parallel between the war that is being portrayed in the film and the US Civil War in the 1860s. The setting of this film helps viewers to make this connection by subtly implying a situation in which one side of the US army has taken a group that only differs in the way they look and has captured, imprisoned, devalued, and even killed them. This army also kills their own kind with only the explanation of saving their own kind. The other side of the US army sees how this is wrong and decides to take action. This symbolizes the roles that the North and South played in the Civil War. While trying to escape from the imprisonment by the colonel, the apes use an underground tunnel that leads to safety. This represents the Underground Railroad used by African Americans to escape slavery and achieve freedom. Another important dimension of the film’s historical allegory is its use of “frames.”

According to Irvin Goffman, frames describe “the organization of experience” (Ott and Mack, 2014, p. 273), meaning that frames help shape our understanding of a given situation by the manner in which they describe or name an event. Frames operate according to three key principles: selection, emphasis, and presentation. Selection is the act of “including some details and excluding others” (Ott and Mack, 2014, p. 270), and it can greatly affect our perspective. There is an immediate use of selection in this film by solely including primitives as the oppressed minority. Countless media have portrayed African Americans in a derogatory manner by comparing them to primates. A monkey with great control and power in the film plays the lead role.

The representation of African Americans as ape‐like has a long, dark history in the USA, and it is problematic in this film even if it is intended as a social allegory. For instance, the comparison between ape and African American was used in the largely successful Hollywood classic, King Kong. At the time of King Kong’s production there was a popular rape trial going on in the USA. Nine African American teenagers known as the Scottsboro Boys were accused of raping two young white women. During the case, an image showed the group of accused young men beside a newspaper with the headline “Guilty Rape.” The other half of the picture was filled with a monstrous black simian figure baring its teeth and dragging off a helpless Caucasian female. This image invokes despicable racist stereotypes of black men as savages and violent beasts, and aims at evoking fear and hatred. It is a good example of how images can be used to dehumanize ethnic groups and to perpetuate racial hatred.

In addition to depicting the primates in the film as a minority group, they are repeatedly described by humans in harsh, derogatory terms. One example from the film is an aped named Red, who has betrayed Caesar and the others. He seems to believe he is a part of the Alpha‐Omega army but is clearly thought to be a slave by the humans. Throughout the film he is referred to as “donkey” and is constantly yelled at. Even though donkey is on the Army’s side, he is still treated cruelly and as an outsider. Also, even though the apes have proven to be just at powerful and knowledgeable as the humans, if not more so, the men in the film are constantly emphasizing how the apes are not and never will be human. Humans are in control in the world and the uprising’s success leads the humans to believe their power and social norm is being threatened. This situation can be clearly compared to the constant struggle of discrimination African Americans face from racism. Perhaps the Black Lives Matter movement, African Americans fighting for fair treatment of their race in our society, is the clearest example to help understand that racism is still relevant in our culture and equality continues to be a battle for many African Americans.

Now that the analogs put into play have been recognized, what actual relevance do they have to us an audience? They depict the underlying “social sin” of racism toward African Americans we as a culture fail to consciously recognize in our country. At the end of this film most of the apes escape and are led by their primate ruler to safety. This “happy ending” element instantly invites audiences to feel a sense of contentment. The presentation of the apes escaping to freedom allows the audience to be relieved from the guilt of this racism. With this in mind, I suggest that the film provides catharsis and functions as “equipment for living” (Ott and Mack, 2014, p. 277). The film presents images of a fantasy world that resembles our own and draws attention to unsettled race relations in the present. It further demonstrates the way many people are complicit in and, thus, “guilty” of treating minorities as inferior. The “happy ending” assures audiences that everything will be all right, but does not provide any resources for how we might address the problems of our own time/place. The use of intelligent primates and the constant act of men trying to depress them is symbol for the constant fight of equality the African Americans have endured throughout history. Referring back to the time of slavery during the US Civil War, equality is still an uphill battle for many African Americans in our country today. Though subtle, the discrimination is still a very relevant ideology that our country shares as a social norm.

REFERENCES

1. Ott, B.L. and Mack, R.L. (2014) Critical Media Studies: An Introduction, 2nd edn. Malden, MA: Wiley‐Blackwell.
2. Reeves, M. (director) and Bomback, M. and Reeve, M. (writers). (2017). War for the Planet of the Apes [Motion Picture]. United States: 20th Century Fox and Chemin Entertainment.
3. War for the Planet of the Apes. (n.d.), http://planetoftheapes.wikia.com/wiki/War_for_the_Planet_of_the_Apes.
4. Wulf, D. and Mills, C.W. (February 29, 2016). Comparing Black People to Monkeys has a Long, Dark Simian History, https://www.huffingtonpost.com/the‐conversation‐africa/comparing‐black‐people‐to_b_9345322.html.

Isabell Sanchez

Ever since the premiere of the German Expressionist horror film Nosferatu in 1922, the global media industry has demonstrated a fascination with the mythology of vampires. It explores this mythology again and again through popular television series such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003) and True Blood (2008–2014), as well as feature‐length films such as The Lost Boys (1987) and Interview with a Vampire (1994). Indeed, the broader media landscape has become so vampire‐centric as of late, that it was ripe for parody, which is precisely the opportunity that What We Do in the Shadows seizes upon. Garnering a 96% approval rating from Rotten Tomatoes (2017) and grossing over 3.3 million dollars in the United Sates as a foreign film, What We Do in the Shadows targets viewers who wish to engage with the age‐old tale of vampires in a new and creative way (IMDb, n.d.). In this essay, I argue that the 2014 New Zealand mockumentary film What We Do in the Shadows fosters and promotes transgressive pleasure by satirizing vampire films and their fans through the use of intertextuality (as an open text) and grotesque realism (as a carnivalesque text).

The most well‐known modem take on the vampire tale is the wildly popular Twilight franchise, which grossed over 3.3 billion dollars in revenue across its five films (Box Office History for Twilight Movies, n.d.). By specifically playing on this world‐wide phenomenon, What We Do in the Shadows furnishes audiences with the transgressive pleasure that derives from mocking such a cultural icon. The film uses intertextuality, or “the ways that texts gesture or refer to other texts,” by referring to the common Twilight trope of vampires versus werewolves (Ott and Mack, 2014, p. 290). Invoking this all‐too‐familiar trope, a clan of vampires encounters a pack of werewolves on a night out. As these two groups cross paths, there is an exchange of words, hisses, and howls. But the scene does not lead to the classic brawl that characterizes the Twilight films. Instead, the two groups move past one another and head off to their respective nights of clubbing in the bustling New Zealand nightlife. By subtly referring to, and then violating, a common trope of the Twilight films, What We Do in the Shadows acts as a writerly text and knowingly “winks” at audiences with its gesture to and violation of a common vampire trope; in playfully subverting the genre, the scene creates pleasure for viewers who are “in” on the joke.

Furthermore, by employing the mockumentary style typical of much reality television in popular United States media, What We Do in the Shadows utilizes intertextuality to not only relate to its audience but also to initiate pleasure. At the beginning of the film, the audience can tell each of the characters are trying their best to look good on camera. Viago, the maternal member of the group, tries to get the rest of his flat‐mates to be on their best behavior and seems quite nervous to show the documentary crew around his home. As time goes on, however, he and the rest of the vampire clan get more comfortable on camera – commonly seen throughout other popular reality programs – and allow the crew to capture all aspects of their private lives. Just as in a reality show or documentary, the characters each speak to the camera in confessional style takes and share their personal stories and reactions. Parodic allusion, a type of intertextuality in which the primary text incorporates a caricature or parody of another text, describes what the film implements during these scenes (Ott and Mack, 2014, p. 290). By doing this, the film allows the audience to connect with each of the vampires and often pick a favorite – a format identical to many reality media texts. The film is not criticizing reality television in this sense, but rather allowing the audience to make a connection with the characters as if they were real people rather than actors directed by a script.

In addition to employing intertextuality to foster transgressive pleasures, What We Do in the Shadows implements elements of grotesque realism throughout the film. Abjection, or “that which is discharged or expelled from the body [and] evokes disgust and revolt,” is frequently utilized in the film, especially scenes involving blood (Ott and Mack, 2014, pg. 292). As the film centers around vampires, many scenes feature blood as a focal point. One scene that focuses heavily on abjection involves one of the main characters biting his victim. After he bites, a forceful stream of blood erupts from the victim’s neck, with the character sheepishly remarking he hit the carotid artery by mistake and his plan to put newspapers and towels down to minimize the mess has failed. In many media texts, the appearance of blood is often retracted and typically implied by injury or wound but not truly shown. What We Do in the Shadows not only features blood prominently, but overemphasizes its role in the scene to indulge the audience in a bit of grotesque humor.

Later in the movie, a scene occurs where the vampires, along with their human friend, Sid, run into the pack of werewolves and a fight ensues. The film talks about and shows, albeit censored with pixels, how Sid was disemboweled by the werewolves. Violent scenes such as this tend to leave the audience imagining the horror that would follow such an attack. What We Do in the Shadows, by contrast, not only shows the images, but includes commentary from the vampires and other characters that leave little to the audience’s imagination. These scenes provide a transgressive pleasure to the audience by not only mentioning but also by displaying things typically designated as unviewable.

In complete opposition to the sparkling, perfect‐skinned vampires of the modem era, What We Do in the Shadows celebrates the grotesque body. The vampires themselves are odd‐looking in the sense that they are not what is expected when the word vampire comes to mind. Each of the four main characters look dirty, along with the flat in which they live. Viago conforms the most of all the characters to what is defined as the classical body. He has no facial hair, keeps himself clean and presentable, and seems to take pride in his appearance. In contrast, one of the other characters, Vladislav, has a full beard, long hair, and a tendency to show and discuss his sexual tendencies and exploitations. Deacon, another flat‐mate, has crooked teeth that look like they have not been brushed in a few centuries and wears clothes often covered in dirt, bloodstains, or both. While these vampires do not fit the mold of the classical body – especially as so many modem ones are – none of them demonstrate a true grotesque body until Petyr. Petyr, the oldest of the vampire clan at 8000 years old, has pointed ears, few yellow teeth, and an emaciated figure. He looks more bat than human and provides a stark contrast to the classical body that vampires are often created from. Even from the earliest Dracula films, vampires have been portrayed as suave, charming, and charismatic; however, the scene of Petyr being awakened from his coffin and a pile of skeletal bones on the floor shatters this illusion. Using the grotesque body as a basis for their characters, this film clearly satirizes the common view of the vampire. What We Do in the Shadows celebrates the grotesque body in an effort to provide transgressive pleasure to its audience.

As demonstrated by its approval ratings and critical responses, this film successfully provided pleasure to its audience. Using both intertextuality and grotesque realism, this film not only invites the viewers to access a transgressive pleasure, but to actively partake in the debasing of a popular subculture. Through references to popular vampire and other media texts, vivid depictions of abjections, and celebration of the grotesque body through character portrayals, What We Do in the Shadows relies on audience participation to successfully satirize the vampire craze so prevalent in today’s media. In conclusion, examining this film allows us to understand what caused this film’s success and through an erotic analysis, it was shown that a desire for transgressive pleasure was the driving force behind this film.

REFERENCES

1. Box Office History for Twilight Movies. (n.d.), https://www.the‐numbers.com/movies/franchise/Twilight#tab=summary.
2. Ott, B.L. and Mack, R.L. (2014) Critical Media Studies: An Introduction, 2nd edn. Malden, MA: Wiley‐Blackwell.
3. Rotten Tomatoes. (November 7, 2017). What We Do in the Shadows, https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/what_we_do_in_the_shadows/.
4. What We Do in the Shadows (2014). (n.d.), https://www.imdb.com/title/tt3416742/.

Johan Tuls

In 2005, only 5 percent of US adults used a social media platform according to the PEW Research Center. By 2016, that number had skyrocketed to a staggering 69 percent, and that percentage continues to grow on a daily basis. The significance of this steady increase in social media use cannot be overstated, nor can the influence of the platform itself (and its underlying medium) on shaping its social environment. Among the most prominent social media platforms is Twitter, a microblogging site that allows its users to connect, interact, share, and produce messages with other users. According to PEW, Twitter was used by over a quarter of US adults as of 2016. Taking into account that a quarter of the adult population in the United States uses Twitter on a daily basis, it is paramount to understand how a platform of this magnitude can not only train the brains of those looking at its messages, but also how it can rewire them politically, culturally, and ethically. This is what Twitter does, and while it may be the users who do the messaging, it is the medium that serves as the channel for this promotion and advancement of opinions, which in turn, impacts human consciousness and social organization. Drawing upon the perspective of media ecology, I identify the defining features of Twitter, discuss how the platform trains human consciousness, and consider how it is shaping today’s social environment.

Media ecology suggests that communication technologies and platforms are not merely something in our social environment, but that they function as our social environment itself. The basis for this view is called medium theory, which as Ott and Mack explain in Critical Media Studies: An Introduction, has three central premises. The first premise of this theory is that every medium of communication has a relatively unique and fixed set of features. Twitter’s chief features include instantaneous communication and interactivity, elementary accessibility, a prominent search functionality, and a personalized user profile. There are plenty of sub‐elements within each of these features, but on the surface, these are the four concrete, fixed characteristics of the social medium platform of Twitter. The logic behind of each of these features will be explained in the next portion of this analysis.

In her book The Culture of Connectivity, Jose van Dijck describes the element of instantaneous communication on social media in the following way: “Social scientists and journalists have argued that social media open up a new private sphere or are at least an exciting experiment in mixing private and public” (p. 16). She later cited how communication scholar Zizi Papacharissi argued that social media platforms have introduced a space where boundaries between private and public space have become more and more fuzzy. This is undoubtedly a direct result of the platform’s inherent element of instantaneous communication, which allows users to put their personal lives in the public sphere for everyone around the world to see at a moment’s notice. The difficulty of accessing and being able to instantaneously communicate on Twitter is demonstrably low, considering that all a person needs to know is how to type and press send. Accessibility then ties into a prominent search functionality, which allows users to explore and find information they seek to know more or interact about. Lastly, the personalized profile and user‐friendly interface element encompasses all of the aforementioned features because the platform allows the user to choose how to utilize or personalize the medium to their liking through their profile picture or the people they decide to follow. These are the fixed characteristics of Twitter, as that is the first central premise of medium theory, but the next portion of this critical, ecological analysis intends on diving deeper by looking at the logic behind each of these elements and how they shape human consciousness.

The second premise of medium theory, as it pertains to the social platform of Twitter, is the idea that the fixed characteristics and concrete elements listed above produce a particular type of communication environment. In essence, this is Twitter’s corresponding logic behind its fixed elements of instantaneous communication, accessibility, a search function, and a personalized profile. First, Twitter trains human consciousness with constant connectivity through instantaneous communication. This means that users can post, share, or interact with other users at any place and at any time. As a result, networks are grown and social organizations are formed at the click of a button. Second, Twitter made its interface and accessibility user‐friendly so anyone, not just adults, can understand and use the platform. This not only allows Twitter to expand their consumer market to all ages, but it also expands internationally, as people from all over the world, with different languages, can instantaneously communicate and share ideologies on the same platform. This then ties into the personalized profile, as Twitter created it so users can share posts, which are then shared by their followers, and then their followers and so on, thus forming an endless chain of interaction and connectivity. Last, the prominent search bar function was created so the user can have a real‐time, updated “Google search” experience for the topic they typed in. Everything about Twitter is made to be faster, more efficient, and more connective, but as I’ll explain in the next portion of this analysis, there are some consequences to these factors as in how they transform and shape society.

The third and final premise of medium theory is that the communication environment has consequences for human consciousness and social organization. The benefits of Twitter are clear, as I explained in detail earlier in this analysis, but this medium can both positively and negatively shape its social environment. One of the first consequences that comes to mind with this platform is the idea of impulsive assessment. Impulsive assessment is quite simply the idea of looking at a tweet or post of something and declaring it true or false without much context or logical discernment. This is the primary problem with instantaneous communication and accessibility in that “fake news” can spread like an epidemic with a platform like Twitter. Whether it is the message itself or the user posting the message, credibility and verification is losing a metaphorical battle to timeliness. In fact, according to an Ipsos poll conducted for BuzzFeed News, 75 percent of US adults who were familiar with a fake news headline viewed the story as accurate. With a medium like Twitter where connectivity and instantaneous interaction is paramount, agendas are drawn and fake news is born. As a result, users are heavily influenced politically, culturally, and ethically each time they look at their timeline. Once this influence reaches the user, the social environment splits up into subgroups, or people that interact with others based on selective exposure. This idea of selective exposure is that these people specifically choose to interact with other users depending on their agenda, beliefs, or ideologies, which have proven to be at least somewhat influenced by the social medium of Twitter.

In conclusion, Twitter is unequivocally one of the primary engines of today’s communicative society. From instantaneous interaction to elementary accessibility, the platform is almost a necessity for people to stay connected with each other and the world’s issues in general. However, the internal conflict of timeliness and credibility, pertaining to the war on fake news, does not have an imminent resolution. During the 2016 presidential campaign, a University of Stanford study estimated that the 38 million shares of fake news in their experimental database translated into 760 million instances of a user clicking through and reading a fake news story, or in other words, about three stories read per US adult. This is clear‐cut evidence that Twitter, along with social media in general, serves as a medium that explicitly shapes and influences its social environment. Consequently, this medium’s influence is dependent on the logical discernment of human beings, which as we know, varies significantly in today’s digital and distant society.

REFERENCES

1. Allcott, H. (2017). Social Media and Fake News in the 2016 Election. Journal of Economic Perspectives, 31(2): 211–36.
2. Benevenuto, F., Cha, M., Gummadi, K.P., and Haddadi, H. (2010). Measuring User Influence in Twitter: The Million Follower Fallacy. Association for the Advancement of Artificial Intelligence.
3. Ott, B.L. and Mack, R.L. (2014). Critical Media Studies: An Introduction, 2nd edn. Malden, MA: Wiley‐Blackwell.
4. Pak, A. and Paroubek, P. (2010). Twitter as a Corpus for Sentiment Analysis and Opinion Mining. F‐91405 Orsay Cedex, France. Print.
5. PEW Research Center. (2016). Social Media Facts Sheet. PEW Research Center: Internet & Technology. Web. 2017.
6. Silverman, C. and Singer‐Vine, J. (2016). Most Americans Who See Fake News Believe It, New Survey Says. Buzzfeed News: Ipsos Public Affairs. Web. 2017.
7. Van Dijck, J. (2013). The Culture of Connectivity: A Critical History of Social Media. Oxford: Oxford University Press.