Strict father versus nurturing parent: the Trump v. Clinton show

I've made this point once or twice on Twitter, and I'm sure I can't be the only person in the world to have done so. Yet, I've not come across it from anybody else so far. My apologies, then, to anyone in the news media or the blogosphere who has beaten me to the punch without my noticing.

With my throat now duly cleared... it seems obvious, if you study such things, that the Democratic Party in the US has wholeheartedly embraced the strict father versus nurturing parent model of politics famously developed by George Lakoff. That is, the party has been casting Hillary Clinton, and by implication any federal government that she leads, as a nurturing parent to vulnerable people of all ages. In doing so, it has certainly played up her strengths (and her image) as a literal mother, but there has also been much talk about the future for America's children and about helping vulnerable groups.

I've never before seen this dynamic play out in quite such a stark way. The fact that Clinton is the first female candidate for US President from any major party obviously feeds into what is happening. Like it or not - and I don't especially - it's easy and tempting to cast mature women as mother figures. At the same time, contrast the blustering, bullying, bragging, swaggering persona of Clinton's opponent, Donald Trump, who always seems to be identifying imagined wrongdoers for punishment. Even Trump's manner of parading his adult children at the Republican National Convention feeds into the Lakoff dichotomy: according to Lakoff, the "strict father" is supposed to bring up his children to become ruggedly independent, successful adults in their own right. That's pretty much how the Trump brood are being showcased during this election.

It remains to be seen how it will all play in November. Irrespective of the intellectual plausibility of Lakoff's model, I fully expect Clinton to win the election handily... but I've been wrong before. Six months ago, say, I was confident that Trump would not end up being the Republican nominee; one way or another, I thought, he would be stopped by the GOP establishment before the train got so far. Well, I was wrong about that, and I definitely underestimated something about Trump's abilities and appeal. Mea culpa!

For the record, I'm not keen on any image of the government, or the state, as a fatherly or, more generally, parental figure. If anything, the idea strikes me as slightly creepy. Still, Lakoff seems to have a point about the state - and particular candidates for high office - taking on these sorts of public images.

Again for the record, it seems to me that a Trump presidency might be disastrous on an almost apocalyptic scale. Leaving aside all the other issues now involved in the political circus, I find it very easy to imagine Trump and the people around him making massive blunders in economic planning and foreign policy, among other crucial areas. I don't trust him, or them, to have the right kind of expertise ... or to show any epistemic modesty and due caution when they're needed. More generally, Trump's crazy salad of protectionism, isolationism, and xenophobia seems to me exactly what the US (and along with it, the rest of the world) does not need with its meat.

I don't usually blog about issues of party politics, but for whatever it's worth that's how I view it all from the relative safety of Australia. Apprehensive as I am, though, about the possibility of a President Trump, I'm also fascinated by such an extraordinary clash of political imagery and conceptual models.

Sunday supervillainy (a bit belated) - Thunderbolts 3, or what? (Spoilers)

A few weeks ago, I gave a shout-out to the new Thunderbolts comics series written by Jim Zub, which had reached a point of suspense at the end of its second issue.

Like earlier series featuring the Thunderbolts, this one shows the adventures of a bunch of villains who are only equivocally reformed (some, let's say, more equivocally than others). The Thunderbolts began as a sub-set of the Avengers' sworn enemies, the Masters of Evil, but their modus operandi was to play the role of superheroes as part of a long game. Some of them enjoyed the role, with its associated adulation, but they remained morally flawed individuals.

In this iteration of Thunderbolts, we have a classic line-up of the team: Moonstone; Atlas (the original Power Man, though he is much more formidable these days than originally, since he possesses high-level superhuman strength even at his normal human size, plus the ability to grow larger, even to truly enormous sizes); Mach-10 (the original Beetle, though his high-tech battlesuit has evolved over the years to rival that of Iron Man); and the Fixer.

They're now led by James "Bucky" Barnes - a.k.a. the Winter Soldier - and they have in tow Kobik, a reality-bending Cosmic Cube who manifests as a little girl. All in all, this is a nicely balanced combination of characters. Some of them have enough history with each other - dating back to the Masters of Evil days - to be more or less friends; however, you'd be wise not to trust the friendly feelings of Moonstone in particular. If there's any sense that these supercrooks are a family, it's an unusually dysfunctional one.

Moonstone is actually my favourite among them. Over the years, she's been the mainstay of the team in most of its incarnations. She's a versatile and effective supervillain, gifted with a wide array of powers as well as with intellectual flair. But she is also the closest thing the Thunderbolts have to a genuinely evil character, with her constant scheming and a near-psychopathic level of focus on her own ambitions and objectives. You'd hate to know someone like Moonstone in real life, but as a character in superhero comics she's a continual source of fun and trouble (and she pretty often gets her way). I hope she'll be brought to the Marvel Cinematic Universe at some stage, in all her glory.

Issue #3 of Thunderbolts starts with the showdown previously set in place between the Thunderbolts and a powerful team of Inhumans - led by one of their heavy hitters, Crystal - who view the Thunderbolts as having just massacred a large number of their people. As the Thunderbolts see things, they have, on the contrary, rather brutally put down an alien invasion of Earth. (As we learn, there's some ambiguity about the nature of the giant pods, and the monstrous beings that emerged from them, that we saw in the previous issue - all of which the Thunderbolts destroyed.)

As their fight with the Inhumans begins, the Thunderbolts are disadvantaged by the fact that Moonstone is already badly injured (having been almost killed by Kobik a couple of issues before) and is scarcely able to walk. With Moonstone hurt, and Kobik kept out of the fray for fear of what crazy thing she might do next, the Inhumans seem to have the Thunderbolts outnumbered and outgunned... But the Thunderbolts are a tough bunch, equipped with plenty of technology, fighting skills, and raw strength. Thanks partly to the efforts of the overtowering Atlas, but mainly to the Fixer's sneakiness and technology, they surprisingly get the better of their opponents, then make a fairly clean getaway.

By the end of the issue, Atlas and Mach-10 are enjoying a beer together, offering one to Bucky, and generally celebrating what they see as a good outcome. "So, does that mission go in the 'win' column or what?" Atlas says a bit smugly. But the downside is that they are now squarely on the radar of crimefighting authorities such as S.H.I.E.L.D. and have a growing set of problems. "Let's ... let's call it an 'or what,' okay?" says Bucky, who understands the bigger picture (by contrast, Atlas regards things very simply: from what we've seen so far, he just likes to come out on top in, as he puts it, a good scrap).

Later, Bucky reads Kobik a bed-time story, ending with a moral about the power of the imagination, though for him imagination is, perhaps, a curse rather than a blessing. Meanwhile, the two genius-level baddies, Moonstone and the Fixer, conspire over what to do about the unpredictable Kobik. The Fixer wants to kill her, while the still-recovering Moonstone wants to manipulate her psychologically to get control of her power. (By this point, Moonstone is drifting a little in the direction of full-on "I will rule the world!" megalomania.)

I said that Moonstone is my favourite, but I'm fond of all the Thunderbolts. Atlas is endearing in his way, being one of the most physically powerful characters on the Marvel Universe's version of Earth... but without the intellect or imagination to put his great strength to any ambitious purpose of his own devising. He's always seemed a bit of an unfortunate schmuck, led around by others, rather than a really villainous supervillain.

We all love stories about redemption, and there's plenty of need for it in Thunderbolts. Even the Winter Soldier, the most obviously heroic character on the team, has done terrible things in the past. At the time, he was a mind-controlled assassin, but his knowledge of the "mind-controlled" bit can't take away his pain and remorse. By contrast, Moonstone and the Fixer like playing at being heroes, but they're still villains at heart and quite capable of plotting murder or worse. They're unrepentant of anything they've done. Mach-10, meanwhile, is mechanically very gifted, but like Atlas he shows limited imagination, making the two of them ideal drinking buddies and tag-team partners. So... Mach-10 isn't such a bad guy, and he certainly has great armour - but he's no Tony Stark.

Much of the interest in Thunderbolts lies in the way that genuine redemption often seems to recede, even as Moonstone and the others manage to perform some socially useful deeds and score some impressive wins. While they may get what they want, there's usually something ambiguous or plain undermining in the outcome, and, worse, these anti-heroic characters resort pretty quickly to methods that more conventional heroes wouldn't want to countenance. For at least some of the Thunderbolts, redemption is not out of the question, but nor is it easy to reach for and hold - even for the "nicest" of them.

Saturday self-promotion - "Anthropomorphic superbeings and future human societies"

This paper, which I first delivered over a decade ago in a conference at the University of Melbourne, was never actually published until I recently uploaded a re-edited version onto my Academia.edu site. Feel free to check it out.

It begins:

For as long as recorded human history, myths, legends, and folk tales have described non-human but anthropomorphic beings, some of them with superhuman abilities. In our contemporary context, the recurrent narrative tropes of alien contact and more-or-less rationalised bodily metamorphosis provide storytellers with opportunities to depict confrontations between "normal" humans and powerful anthropomorphic beings. Human, or humanlike, beings with extraordinary powers are now staples of science fiction, and of the popular comic book, television, and movie franchises devoted to the adventures of superheroes. Indeed, the contemporary mythology of superheroes and supervillains displays our fascination with imagined beings who possess great power, yet stand somewhere between us and the transcendent God of the monotheistic theological traditions, or even the ageless, blessed, infinitely resilient gods of Classical mythology. 

Much could be said about the symbolic and cultural meanings that have accrued to anthropomorphic superbeings, and about our evident need to tell stories in which they feature. One context is provided by an age-old question: "What is it to be human?" Or, in Martha Nussbaum's phrasing, "What is it to live as a being situated, so to speak, between the beasts and the gods, with certain abilities that set us off from the rest of the world of nature, and yet with certain limits that come from our membership in the world of nature?" I will return to that, but my eventual target is an elusive question of ethical or political philosophy. I am concerned with the literal prospect that anthropomorphic superbeings could emerge in future societies. What should we make of this possibility? More specifically, should we welcome it, or resist it?

I will argue for a conclusion that I am not entirely pleased about. I believe that technologies of human redesign should generally be tolerated, even by those who find the whole idea bizarre or frightening, but I will argue here that there is a need for some caution. There are some important considerations about what the social and political order can bear. I would prefer to offer a more wholehearted endorsement of the creation of new kinds of anthropomorphic beings, but I have followed to its apparent outcome what I believe to be the logic of the situation.

If your interest is piqued (and you have access), read on!

1

 I will return to that, but my eventual target is an elusivequestion of ethical or political philosophy. I am concerned with the literal prospectthat anthropomorphic superbeings could emerge in future societies. What should wemake of this possibility? More specifically, should we welcome it, or resist it?I will argue for a conclusion that I am not entirely pleased about. I believe thattechnologies of human redesign should generally be tolerated, even by those who findthe whole idea bizarre or frightening, but I will argue here that there is a need forsome caution. There are some important considerations about what the social andpolitical order can bear. I would prefer to offer a more wholehearted endorsement ofthe creation of new kinds of anthropomorphic beings, but I have followed to itsapparent outcome what I believe to be the logic of the situation.

or as long as recorded human history, myths, legends, and folk tales have describednon-human but anthropomorphic beings, some of them with superhuman abilities. Inour contemporary context, the recurrent narrative tropes of alien contact and more-or-less rationalised bodily metamorphosis provide storytellers with opportunities todepict confrontations between "normal" humans and powerful anthropomorphicbeings. Human, or humanlike, beings with extraordinary powers are now staples ofscience fiction, and of the popular comic book, television, and movie franchisesdevoted to the adventures of superheroes. Indeed, the contemporary mythology ofsuperheroes and supervillains displays our fascination with imagined beings whopossess great power, yet stand somewhere between us and the transcendent God of themonotheistic theological traditions, or even the ageless, blessed, infinitely resilientgods of Classical mythology.Much could be said about the symbolic and cultural meanings that haveaccrued to anthropomorphic superbeings, and about our evident need to tell stories inwhich they feature. One context is provided by an age-old question: "What is it to behuman?" Or, in Martha Nussbaum's phrasing, "What is it to live as a being situated, soto speak, between the beasts and the gods, with certain abilities that set us off from therest of the world of nature, and yet with certain limits that come from our membershipin the world of nature?"

1

 I will return to that, but my eventual target is an elusivequestion of ethical or political philosophy. I am concerned with the literal prospectthat anthropomorphic superbeings could emerge in future societies. What should wemake of this possibility? More specifically, should we welcome it, or resist it?I will argue for a conclusion that I am not entirely pleased about. I believe thattechnologies of human redesign should generally be tolerated, even by those who findthe whole idea bizarre or frightening, but I will argue here that there is a need forsome caution. There are some important considerations about what the social andpolitical order can bear. I would prefer to offer a more wholehearted endorsement ofthe creation of new kinds of anthropomorphic beings, but I have followed to itsapparent outcome what I believe to be the logic of the situation.

or as long as recorded human history, myths, legends, and folk tales have describednon-human but anthropomorphic beings, some of them with superhuman abilities. Inour contemporary context, the recurrent narrative tropes of alien contact and more-or-less rationalised bodily metamorphosis provide storytellers with opportunities todepict confrontations between "normal" humans and powerful anthropomorphicbeings. Human, or humanlike, beings with extraordinary powers are now staples ofscience fiction, and of the popular comic book, television, and movie franchisesdevoted to the adventures of superheroes. Indeed, the contemporary mythology ofsuperheroes and supervillains displays our fascination with imagined beings whopossess great power, yet stand somewhere between us and the transcendent God of themonotheistic theological traditions, or even the ageless, blessed, infinitely resilientgods of Classical mythology.Much could be said about the symbolic and cultural meanings that haveaccrued to anthropomorphic superbeings, and about our evident need to tell stories inwhich they feature. One context is provided by an age-old question: "What is it to behuman?" Or, in Martha Nussbaum's phrasing, "What is it to live as a being situated, soto speak, between the beasts and the gods, with certain abilities that set us off from therest of the world of nature, and yet with certain limits that come from our membershipin the world of nature?"

1

 I will return to that, but my eventual target is an elusivequestion of ethical or political philosophy. I am concerned with the literal prospectthat anthropomorphic superbeings could emerge in future societies. What should wemake of this possibility? More specifically, should we welcome it, or resist it?I will argue for a conclusion that I am not entirely pleased about. I believe thattechnologies of human redesign should generally be tolerated, even by those who findthe whole idea bizarre or frightening, but I will argue here that there is a need forsome caution. There are some important considerations about what the social andpolitical order can bear. I would prefer to offer a more wholehearted endorsement ofthe creation of new kinds of anthropomorphic beings, but I have followed to itsapparent outcome what I believe to be the logic of the situation.

or as long as recorded human history, myths, legends, and folk tales have describednon-human but anthropomorphic beings, some of them with superhuman abilities. Inour contemporary context, the recurrent narrative tropes of alien contact and more-or-less rationalised bodily metamorphosis provide storytellers with opportunities todepict confrontations between "normal" humans and powerful anthropomorphicbeings. Human, or humanlike, beings with extraordinary powers are now staples ofscience fiction, and of the popular comic book, television, and movie franchisesdevoted to the adventures of superheroes. Indeed, the contemporary mythology ofsuperheroes and supervillains displays our fascination with imagined beings whopossess great power, yet stand somewhere between us and the transcendent God of themonotheistic theological traditions, or even the ageless, blessed, infinitely resilientgods of Classical mythology.Much could be said about the symbolic and cultural meanings that haveaccrued to anthropomorphic superbeings, and about our evident need to tell stories inwhich they feature. One context is provided by an age-old question: "What is it to behuman?" Or, in Martha Nussbaum's phrasing, "What is it to live as a being situated, soto speak, between the beasts and the gods, with certain abilities that set us off from therest of the world of nature, and yet with certain limits that come from our membershipin the world of nature?"

1

 I will return to that, but my eventual target is an elusivequestion of ethical or political philosophy. I am concerned with the literal prospectthat anthropomorphic superbeings could emerge in future societies. What should wemake of this possibility? More specifically, should we welcome it, or resist it?I will argue for a conclusion that I am not entirely pleased about. I believe thattechnologies of human redesign should generally be tolerated, even by those who findthe whole idea bizarre or frightening, but I will argue here that there is a need forsome caution. There are some important considerations about what the social andpolitical order can bear. I would prefer to offer a more wholehearted endorsement ofthe creation of new kinds of anthropomorphic beings, but I have followed to itsapparent outcome what I believe to be the logic of the situation.

Sunday supervillainy - how to talk about science fictional aliens

I'm currently reading Science Fiction, Alien Encounters, and the Ethics of Posthumanism: Beyond the Golden Rule, by Elana Gomel. I have a number of reasons for enjoying this book, apart from my interest in the topic (including the fact that I'm writing a book that covers some of the same territory). I find many of Gomel's discussions of particular texts involving alien encounters to be accurate and (where they go beyong the facts) plausible. I also like particular aspects of her style and critical approach, not least her rather light and deft use of critical jargon.

Every field of learning or practice relies to an extent on specialised terminology to describe what is theorised and/or the techniques that need to be practised. Professionals in the fields of prose fiction and cinema certainly use specialised terms to communicate with each other, and critics adopt much of this terminology as well as adding some of their own. There's nothing wrong with that, and critics are entitled to write on the assumption that some of this terminology is transparent to their readers. Obviously, however, it makes a difference whether I am writing a movie review in a newspaper (aimed at a popular audience, albeit one with an interest in seeing movies) or whether I'm writing for a peer reviewed journal, where much more can be assumed about my readers' theoretical knowledge and terminological sophistication.

Accordingly, I'm not totally opposed to the use of jargon by literary and cultural critics. Things only go wrong when, for whatever reasons, the use of jargon moves beyond whatever is needed for concise, accurate expression and starts to take on the appearance of writing to impress others, rather than writing to communicate. As it happens, we have inherited much language from over the centuries that is still useful - words and expressions such as "plot", "character", "theme", "narrative suspense", "climax", and so on, and in many cases this kind of language is perfectly adequate for what needs to be said. We also have more sophisticated terminology, such as "narrative viewpoint", with ideas such as "first-person narrator" and "omniscient third-person narration" - this terminology has to be consciously learned (in my experience, it is not necessarily transparent to first-year Arts students), but it is still relatively straightforward. By contrast, a great deal of other language depends on the acceptance of speculative and contestable (not to mention dubious) theories of culture and language, and it is often used more to signal the critic's wider theoretical commitments than to be helpful to readers who don't necessarily share them. Hold that thought for a moment.

Some of the aliens discussed by Gomel could almost be considered supervillains, though I admit to being a bit Procrustean in squeezing this post into my Sunday supervillainy series. (Oh well, sue me!)

A good example of such alien supervillainy is the shapeshifting creature depicted in John W. Campbell's "Who Goes There?", and in the movies based directly on it. In Campbell's original novella, he makes some key choices as to how he will convey the alienness of the alien while protecting the suspense of the narrative. Readers familiar with Campbell's work will appreciate Gomel's point that he was a versatile writer who knew exactly what he was doing in making choices of technique. Against that background, and in a discussion of the superhuman imitative powers of the alien species portrayed by Campbell, Gomel has this to say:

[I]t is also acted out on the level of the novella's narration. "Who Goes There?" has a third-person extradiegetic and omniscient narrator and is marked by a total lack of focalization. The characters' actions are described, and some information on the setting is given. But there is no access whatsoever to any of the characters' interiority. Whether man or monster, we know only what each of them does, not what he feels or thinks.

This sounds right, though I need to go back and re-read "Who Goes There?" to make sure.

Note that Gomel uses some unusual terms (unusual, that is, in everyday English), such as "extradiegetic" (outside the fictional reality constructed by the story), "focalization", and "interiority". By this stage of her book, the terms should be fairly clear even to people who are not otherwise familiar with them, but it is more important that she uses them lightly - they appear in sentences that are otherwise perfectly comprehensible, and they do allow her to communicate accurately and concisely to other people who spend much of their time thinking about fictional narratives.

Also, she is making a point that is actually useful to people wanting to understand more about how professional writers make choices of technique and achieve their effects. I am unhappy with much of the literary and cultural criticism that I read because it is not useful in that sense (and does not appear to proceed from that kind of understanding of art and literature, but rather from some sort of political or quasi-political, theory, combined with an urge to judge art according to how it serves or fails to serve the critic's politics).

I like Gomel's book - at least so far - because it does what I also aim at. It produces synthesis and understanding when discussing cultural products, and in doing so it draws on intimate familiarity with, and reasonably robust theoretical understandings of, the relevant traditions. There is very little sense here of attempting to stand in judgment of art primarily from the perspective of certain current political imperatives. I don't expect critics to throw away their practical and theoretical political commitments entirely, but I do hope to read their work for greater understanding of how art and literature actually work: in particular, how they achieve their effects. This requires a different kind of knowledge and understanding. Whether or not I succeed in particular cases, this is what I aspire to in my own discussions of art and literature.

Saturday self-promotion - editing my ORCID account and a new piece at Academia.edu

ORCID accounts seem to be increasingly relied on in academia these days as a way to gather together diverse information about individuals' work. So, I've been doing some editing to make my own ORCID account a bit more comprehensive. It still has gaps, as well as some ugly repetition, but I'm sure I'll be able to improve it over time.

In addition, as mentioned in the previous post, I've added one item to my page on Academia.edu. (You might want to check out my Academia page if you haven't already; it includes, for example, a full-scale academic CV.) The new item is my paper "What if nothing is sacred? Politics and bioethics without sanctity", previously published last year in Australian Humanist.