Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture: In Search of Good Men 3031221435, 9783031221439

Citation preview

Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture In Search of Good Men

Edited by Sara Martín · M. Isabel Santaulària

Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture “A most timely contribution to Masculinity Studies. While most existing studies focus on notions of toxic masculinity, this collection adopts a truly refreshing approach to the subject by not only questioning hegemonic masculinity, but also by offering new and distinct possibilities of being a man in contemporary society. Drawing on cultural and literary representations, the book provides specific examples that show that “detoxing” masculinity in contemporary society is both possible and desirable, offering much-needed inspiration for change. A must-read for anyone interested in changing masculinities and thus gender relations.” —Josep M. Armengol, Universidad de Castilla-La Mancha, Spain “Is masculinity still in crisis? In this colourful, erudite anthology many of the most eminent masculinity scholars use their richly diverse literary knowledge to answer this question. Their goal is to find ways of finally ridding society of continuing expressions of toxic masculinities by surveying the differing ways in which it is instead possible for people to embrace forms of masculinity that are compatible with building caring relations, whether with oneself or with others. A necessary tonic for our times.” —Lynne Segal, University of London, UK

Sara Martín  •  M. Isabel Santaulària Editors

Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture In Search of Good Men

Editors Sara Martín Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona Barcelona, Spain

M. Isabel Santaulària Universitat de Lleida Lleida, Spain

ISBN 978-3-031-22143-9    ISBN 978-3-031-22144-6 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: ©Eivind Hansen / 500px/Gettyimages This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

To all the good people fighting to detox masculinity and against patriarchy all over the world, and in celebration of friendship.

Acknowledgments

We, the editors, are totally indebted to the authors, who graciously accepted our invitation to contribute to the volume trusting that we fully knew what we were doing. This is a book born of friendship, not only because we, the editors, have been close friends for decades but also because all the contributors have been approached primarily as friends to engage in a common pursuit. We hope to make indeed new friends as the call to detox masculinity and find (and celebrate) good men, in fiction and in real life, spreads. We extend our thanks to our editors at Palgrave, Molly Beck and Marika Lysandrou, for having welcomed our proposal and having aided us in shaping it into the final text. Isabel would like to thank her colleagues at the Departament d’Anglès i de Lingüística, Universitat de Lleida Agnès Guardiola, Emma Domínguez, Enric Llurda, and Glòria Vázquez for their constant support. Sara thanks once more the Departament de Filologia Anglesa i de Germanística, Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, for allowing her to maximize her time for research and writing. We also thank each other for being there at all times, offering totally indispensable professional and personal support. Finally, Isabel thanks Toni and Sara thanks Gonzalo for proving every day that life with a good man is as fulfilling as life can be.

vii

Contents

1 Introduction:  Beyond Toxic Patriarchal Masculinity  1 Sara Martín and M. Isabel Santaulària Part I Literature  19 2 The  Visible-Invisible Good Man in Jane Austen’s The Watsons 21 David Owen 3 Ishmael’s  Detoxing Process: Escaping Domestic Homogeneity in Moby-Dick 39 Rodrigo Andrés 4 From  Brutal to Spiritual Men in T.S. Eliot’s Poetry and Drama: Sweeney and Beyond 55 Dídac Llorens-Cubedo 5 Hybrid  Masculinities in D.H. Lawrence’s “The Blind Man” and Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral” 75 Gerardo Rodríguez-Salas

ix

x 

Contents

Part II Transnational Fictions  93 6 Of  Tender Hearts and Good Men: Reading Australian Masculinity in Tim Winton’s Fiction 95 Sarah Zapata 7 “A  Good Man is Hard to Find”: The Making of Michael ‘Digger’ Digson111 Bill Phillips 8 Black  Masculinities in the Age of #BLM: Zadie Smith’s On Beauty127 Pilar Cuder-Domínguez Part III Fantasy 145 9 “Some  Wizards Just Like to Boast that Theirs Are Bigger and Better”: Harry Potter and the Rejection of Patriarchal Power147 Auba Llompart 10 A  Lover Boy with Battle Scars: Romance, War Fiction, and the Construction of Peeta Mellark as a Good Man in The Hunger Games Trilogy163 Noemí Novell 11 Masculinity  and Heroism in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld: The Case of Good Captain Carrot179 Isabel Clúa Part IV Science Fiction 195 12 Skywalker:  Bad Fathers and Good Sons197 Brian Baker

 Contents 

xi

13 Changing  the Script of “Human Is”: Re-visioning the Good (Hu)Man in Philip K. Dick’s Electric Dreams215 Paul Mitchell 14 Between  Therapy and Revolution: Mr. Robot’s Ambivalence Toward Hacker Masculinity231 Miguel Sebastián-Martín Part V Close to Life 249 15 A  Few Good Old Men: Revising Ageing Masculinities in Last Tango in Halifax251 Maricel Oró-Piqueras and Katsura Sako 16 Let  the Little Children Come to Me: Fred Rogers, the Good Man as TV Educator267 Sara Martín 17 The  Part of the Iceberg That Doesn’t Show: Romance, Good Husbands, and Mr Julia Child283 M. Isabel Santaulària Index299

Notes on Contributors

Rodrigo  Andrés teaches American literature at the Universitat de Barcelona and is co-principal investigator (PI) of the research team “(Un) Housing: Dwellings, Materiality, and the Self in American Literature” funded by the Spanish government. He has authored Herman Melville. Poder y amor entre hombres (Universitat de València 2007), articles in Leviathan: A Journal of Melville Studies and Miranda. Revue pluridisciplinaire du monde anglophone, and chapters in American Houses: Literary Spaces of Resistance and Desire (2022), Differences in Common: Gender, Vulnerability and Community (2014), A Critical Gaze from the Old World (2018) and The Oxford Handbook of Herman Melville (forthcoming). Brian  Baker is Senior Lecturer in English and Creative Writing at Lancaster University. Dr. Baker has worked on science fiction, masculinities and post-war British and American fiction, having had monographs published, including Contemporary Masculinities in Fiction, Film and TV (2015) and also The Reader’s Guide to Essential Criticism in Science Fiction (Palgrave, 2014). He is engaged in a writing project that considers the relation between sound reproduction technologies, subjectivity and mental health in contemporary culture. He completed an MA in Art Practice in 2021 and is pursuing creative and critical projects concerning text and image, of which Argo-0 and An Invention will be published in 2022. Isabel  Clúa is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of Spanish and Spanish American Literature, Universidad de Sevilla, Spain. Her research focuses on the analysis of the mechanisms through which gender and identity are constructed in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-­century xiii

xiv 

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Spanish culture, and on contemporary popular fictions from a Cultural Studies perspective, especially examining genres such as science fiction, fantasy and Gothic literature. She is the editor of the volumes Género y cultura popular (2008) and Máxima audiencia. Cultura popular y género (2011), and has recently had two monographs published: Cuerpos de escándalo. Celebridad femenina en el fin-de-siècle (2016) and A lomos de dragones. Introducción al estudio de la fantasía (2017). Pilar  Cuder-Domínguez  is a Professor in the Department of English at the Universidad de Huelva, Spain. Her research interests are the intersections of gender, genre, nation, and race. Her latest publications are the article “The Legacy of Angélique in Late 20th-Century Black Canadian Drama” (Journal of Postcolonial Writing 2021) and the edited collection Cultural Representations of Gender Vulnerability and Resistance, with M.I.  Romero Ruiz (Palgrave, 2022). She is a team member of the international project “Thanatic Ethics: The Circulation of Bodies in Migratory Spaces” (http://www.cpch.hk/ thanatic-ethics-the-circulation-of-bodies-in-migratory-spaces/). Auba Llompart  has a PhD in English Literature (Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, 2014). She teaches English language and culture at the Department of Translation, Interpreting and Applied Languages at the Universitat de Vic–Universitat Central de Catalunya, where she is also a member of the research group “Gender Studies: Translation, Literature, History and Communication.” Her research interests focus on children’s and YA (young adults) fiction, fairy tales, Gothic studies and gender studies. She has had several articles and book chapters published on these areas and co-edited the collection of essays Contemporary Fairy-Tale Magic: Subverting Gender and Genre (2020). Dídac  Llorens-Cubedo  teaches English and American literature at the Universidad Nacional de Educación a Distancia (UNED), Spain. He authored T.S. Eliot and Salvador Espriu: Converging Poetic Imaginations (2013) and co-edited New Literatures of Old: Dialogues of Tradition and Innovation in Anglophone Literatures (2008). His research focuses on modernism, (neo)Victorianism, and comparative literature across languages and the arts. He coordinates the research project “T.S.  Eliot’s Drama from Spain: Translation, Critical Study, Performance” and publishes the academic blog T.S. Eliot and Drama.

  NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS 

xv

Sara Martín  is Senior Lecturer in English Literature and Cultural Studies at the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, Spain. She specialises in gender studies, particularly masculinities studies, which she applies to the study of popular fictions in English, with an emphasis on science fiction. Her most recent books are Masculinity and Patriarchal Villainy in British Fiction: From Hitler to Voldemort (2020) and Representations of Masculinity in Literature and Film: Focus on Men (2020). She co-edited with Fernando Ángel Moreno a monographic issue on Spanish science fiction for Science Fiction Studies (2017). Dr. Martín has been publishing the blog The Joys of Teaching Literature since 2011. Paul Mitchell  is a Professor in the Department of English, Universidad Católica de Valencia San Vicente Mártir, Spain. He is the author of Sylvia Plath: The Poetry of Negativity (2011), as well as other articles on the work of this poet. More recently, Dr. Mitchell has focused his research on contemporary film and television series. He has had several articles published on new adaptations of Frankenstein, as well as on the Australian film The Babadook. His research projects explore science fiction, Gothic, and posthumanism, particularly in relation to representations of otherness, monstrosity, masculinity, and disability. Noemí Novell  holds a degree in English Literature from the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM) and a PhD in Literary Theory and Comparative Literature from the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona. She is a full Professor at the Department of Modern Languages and Literatures of the School of Philosophy and Letters (UNAM). Dr. Novell is the coordinator of the Seminar on Critical Studies of Popular Culture at the same school and is Mexico’s representative for the Science Fiction Research Association (SFRA). She has had articles published in Mexico and Spain and has collaborated with or coordinated projects in those countries. Maricel  Oró-Piqueras  is an Associate Professor at the Department of English and Linguistics at the Universitat de Lleida, Spain. Her research interests include ageing and old age in contemporary fiction as well as representations of gender and ageing in film and TV series. She is co-­ editor of Serializing Age: Ageing and Old Age in TV Series (with Anita Wohlmann, 2016), Re-Discovering Age(ing): Narratives of Mentorship (with Núria Casado-Gual and Emma Domínguez-Rué, 2019), and Age and Ageing in Contemporary Speculative and Science Fiction (with Sarah

xvi 

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Falcus, forthcoming). She has also had her research published in journals such as the Journal of Aging Studies and The Gerontologist. David Owen  is Senior Lecturer in English Literature at the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona. His publications include Rethinking Jane Austen’s ‘Lady Susan’, critical editions of Hannah More’s The Search After Happiness: A Pastoral and Anna Maria Porter’s Walsh Colville, or, A Young Man’s First Entrance into Life, and the co-edited collection Home and Away: The Place of The Child Writer. His research also concerns war writing; he has co-edited Writings of Persuasion and Dissonance in the Great War and The Spectre of Defeat: Experience, Memory and Post-Memory. Dr. Owen is editor of the Journal of Juvenilia Studies and is vice-chair of the International Society of Literary Juvenilia. Bill Phillips  is Senior Lecturer in English Literature and Culture at the Universitat de Barcelona, with a speciality in poetry. He has had his work published widely on poetry, ecocriticism, postcolonial studies, gender studies and popular fiction, including crime fiction and science fiction. Between 2013 and 2017 he was head of “POCRIF (Postcolonial Crime Fiction: a global window into social realities),” a Spanish government– financed research project on postcolonial crime fiction. His most recent publications have included articles on the American TV series True Detective, Rudyard Kipling’s war fiction and (as editor and contributor) a collection of essays titled Family Relationships in Contemporary Crime Fiction. Gerardo Rodríguez-Salas  is Associate Professor in English Literature at the Universidad de Granada, Spain. He holds an MA in Women’s and Gender Studies from Oxford University. His research interests are the intersections of gender, nation, and race in the literature of New Zealand and Australia. He is the author of three books on Katherine Mansfield and has co-edited the volumes Community in Twentieth-Century Fiction (Palgrave, 2013) and New Perspectives on the Modernist Subject (2018). His most recent articles have appeared in the Journal of Language, Literature and Culture, Australian Literary Studies, Antipodes, and the Journal of New Zealand and Pacific Studies. Katsura  Sako  is Professor of English at Keio University, Japan. She is interested in the intersection of literary studies and ageing studies. She is the co-author and co-editor, with Sarah Falcus, of Contemporary Narratives of Dementia: Ethics, Ageing, Politics (2019) and Contemporary

  NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS 

xvii

Narratives of Ageing, Illness, Care (2021). She has had her work published in journals such as Feminist Review, Women: A Cultural Review and Contemporary Women’s Writing. M. Isabel Santaulària  is Senior Lecturer at the Department of English and Linguistics, Universitat de Lleida, Spain. Her research interests include popular narratives, cultural studies and gender studies. She has had a volume published on serial killer fiction, El monstruo humano. Una introducción a la ficción de los asesinos en serie (2009), and numerous articles in national and international journals such as Lectora, Atlantis, the Journal of Gender Studies, Clues: A Journal of Detection, Victoriographies and the European Journal of English Studies. Miguel  Sebastián-Martín is a researcher and teacher in the English Department at the Universidad de Salamanca, Spain, with a pre-doctoral contract funded by Junta de Castilla y León. During 2021–2022, he was the beneficiary of a visiting scholarship at the University of Oxford, UK, and in 2018 he graduated with a Film and Screen Studies MPhil from the University of Cambridge, UK. His PhD project examines contemporary science fiction television from a perspective that tries to combine narratology, audio-visual aesthetics, and critical theory. His research has been published in Science Fiction Studies, Utopian Studies, and Science Fiction Film and Television. Sarah Zapata  holds a PhD in English Literature and teaches courses on English and postcolonial literature at La Trobe University, Australia. Her research interests include contemporary Australian and postcolonial literature, gender studies, trauma theory and ethics. She has had articles and book chapters published on contemporary Australian Literature, masculinity and identity representations in literature, film and cultural studies, and the intersection of trauma and masculine selfhood as depicted in literary texts.

CHAPTER 1

Introduction: Beyond Toxic Patriarchal Masculinity Sara Martín and M. Isabel Santaulària

Why Masculinity Needs to Be Detoxed (and Good Men Found) Writing from different theoretical stances, the scholars active in Masculinities Studies and Critical Studies of Men and Masculinities (CSMM) have effectively dismantled the assumption that masculinity is fixed, natural, and universal. In the effort to read masculinity “as a highly diverse and fragmented text, not as a fixed essence chained to biology, but rather the outcome of socio-historical and cultural struggle and change”

S. Martín (*) Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, Barcelona, Spain e-mail: [email protected] M. I. Santaulària Universitat de Lleida, Lleida, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_1

1

2 

S. MARTÍN AND M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

(Beynon 2010: 55), masculinity has been “successfully ‘problematized’” (Beynon: 143). Masculinity is now perceived as an unstable and contingent category which constantly needs to respond to challenges, accommodate changes, and negotiate or abdicate notions associated with hegemonic models which had been regarded so far as essential. While this process is, by and large, positive since it opens up space for the development of different masculinities that do not adhere to the patriarchal, white, cisgender, heterosexual traditional paradigm, it has also had the effect of generating the perception that masculinity is constantly in crisis and is, therefore, seen as a problem that demands a reaction instead of as a gendered practice naturally subjected to a necessary transformation, including disempowerment. In turn, despite the multifarious responses to this alleged crisis (or crises), coming both from personal experiences and from discursive practices, in the representational arts they have been mostly articulated through the elusive (in real life) 1990s New Man and the ubiquitous (also in real life) unreconstructed ‘old man’, the embodiment of an enduring nostalgia for stoical, hard traditional men leading now toward dangerous fascist, undemocratic avenues in diverse countries, from the USA to Brazil, passing through Russia. Our concern and governing principle in this book is related to the little visibility given to other, more nuanced, positive representations of masculinity, which are lost in a sea of unrealistic media idealizations of the so-­ called New Man and of angry white men stubbornly holding the wagons as different oppositional forces circle around them, threatening to undo their power. We are much concerned with how little space there is for accommodating new, freer models of masculinity unless the patriarchal edifice that sustains hegemonic masculinity and engenders toxic behaviors is effectively demolished. It is, indeed, the aim of this volume to radically undermine that edifice by presenting goodness as a most potent tool to detox masculinity and thus help men head toward a future in which patriarchal masculinity will have ceased to exist, perhaps even masculinity itself. Most importantly, it seems to us that not enough has been done to distinguish patriarchy (the social organization which privileges men, but also other individuals, according to their degree of power) from masculinity (the gender construction connected with persons that identify as men) and to counteract the negative effects of the former by offering positive models of masculinity. We propose here, therefore, to start detoxing patriarchy-­dominated masculinity by offering a collection of studies of positive representations of men in fictional and non-fictional texts

1  INTRODUCTION: BEYOND TOXIC PATRIARCHAL MASCULINITY 

3

originally in English. This will hopefully allow other researchers in Gender Studies to continue similar anti-patriarchal work and to find other positive representations that might renew the images of masculinities for a future in which patriarchal masculinity will hopefully be abandoned for a new egalitarian model that eschews the obsession with power. If masculinity and patriarchy are differentiated then the way is open for younger men to get rid of toxic models and rebuild their sense of masculinity, even eventually abandoning binary models or gender altogether. The focus falls here on cisgender masculinity simply because this is where the highest degree of toxicity is found, and where it is less common to find alternative models based on goodness, though this does not mean that other forms of masculinity (trans, female, etc.) should not be explored in the collective effort to dismantle patriarchy. In Hegemonic Masculinity: Formulation, Reformulation, and Amplification (2018), James Messerschmidt, Raewyn Connell’s disciple and collaborator, acknowledges the importance of feminist thinkers in the 1970s in identifying male power and privilege as being at the root of all forms of gender inequality. However, he also points at how the feminist attacks against sex-role theory and its deployment of the discourse of science to justify sex difference resulted in a confusing theorization of patriarchy, which got excessively “entangled with biological arguments” (2). This was finally discarded in the 1980s. Connell, like feminist theorists before her, also defined patriarchy as a system of gender domination that “guarantees (or is taken to guarantee) the dominant position of men and the subordination of women” (2005: 77). However, in her groundbreaking volume Gender and Power (1987), she laid the foundation for a study of patriarchy that differed from the postulations made by early feminist theorists, who saw the patriarchal institution as guarded by a unified male front, a homogeneous and unchanging coalition of the willing, so to speak. In line with feminist and pro-feminist critiques in the late 1970s such as Sheila Rowbotham’s (1979) or Paul Atkinson’s (1979) which suggested that “the concept of ‘patriarchy’ was too monolithic, ahistorical, biologically overdetermined, and dismissive of women’s resistance and agency” (Collinson and Hearn 2001: 147), Connell argued that patriarchy is “historically mutable” (1987: 63). Consequently, as the conditions for its maintenance change in response to new challenges, “the kind of masculinity which [can have access to power] also change[s] in response” (2005: 192). Since gender is a cultural construct distinct from biological sex, it follows that masculinity is a social category which is historically

4 

S. MARTÍN AND M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

contingent and continually shifting and, therefore, that there is not just one way of being a man so that we must speak of “multiple (…) masculinities” (1987: 63). These masculinities exist in different positions in the gender order, which is still organized around what Collinson and Hearn term “men’s structured domination” (2001: 153). Against the notion of an immovable patriarchy, Connell developed the controversial concept of hegemonic masculinity, a construction that does not make reference to a fixed masculine type but to a “culturally idealized form of masculine character” (1990: 83), afforded greater privilege in given social and historical conditions. Deriving from Antonio Gramsci’s analysis of how dominant classes sustain leading positions by negotiating consent with subordinated others, Connell contends that hegemonic masculinity also relies on constant negotiation with subordinated groups (women, but also other men) for survival. In her view, this is the way hegemonic masculinity accommodates change since it “folds in elements of competing subaltern masculinities” (DeDauw and Connell 2020: 4). While this principle suggests that hegemonic masculinity is legitimated because it is flexible and adaptable, it also means that it is still a practice that secures men in power. Furthermore, even though hegemonic masculinity enfolds characteristics of subordinated groups, it is mostly “straight, able-bodied, white, and ‘hard’” (2020: 4). Therefore, hegemonic masculinity is not so different from what has been called traditional masculinity and it ultimately guarantees the maintenance of patriarchy. Connell’s definition of the term clearly evinces this condition when she writes that hegemonic masculinity is “the configuration of gender practice which embodies the currently accepted answer to the problem of the legitimacy of patriarchy, which guarantees (or is taken to guarantee) the dominant position of men and the subordination of women” (2005: 77). Even though Connell’s theorization has been extremely influential within the fields of Masculinity Studies and CSMM in order to explain how patriarchy perpetuates itself, there are problems in her formulation of how hegemonic masculinity incorporates change. By ascribing to hegemonic masculinity the capacity to be fluid and shift by absorbing elements of subordinated groups, she “deradicalizes the potential of resistance inherent to subaltern masculinities” (DeDauw and Connell 2020: 4). In her theorizations, therefore, oppositional groups seem to exist to modify the contours of hegemonic masculinity and move gender boundaries but have limited capacity to exact structural change. Furthermore, Connell does not contemplate the material practices of violence associated with

1  INTRODUCTION: BEYOND TOXIC PATRIARCHAL MASCULINITY 

5

misogyny and homophobia which accompany the progress of patriarchy, painting a too generous picture of the processes that ensure its renewal. As Robert Hanke has observed, Apparent modifications of hegemonic masculinity may represent some shift in the cultural meanings of masculinity without an accompanying shift in dominant social structural arrangements, thereby recuperating patriarchal ideology by making it more adaptable to contemporary social conditions and more able to accommodate counter-hegemonic forces, such as liberal-­ feminist ideology and gay/lesbian politics. (1992: 197)

In spite of these shortcomings, Connell’s theoretical production is still fundamental to understand the persistence and durability of patriarchy and of the ideologies that reify gender hierarchies and reinforce men’s dominant status in spite of the crises that arise from distinct changes in hegemonic masculinity. In fact, these crises are mostly conjured up every time hegemonic masculinity is called into question because of changing social conditions that lead to the appearance of new versions of masculinity, so that men feel entrenched and threatened, fearing their debunking from their privileged positions. Consequently, the concept of masculinity in crisis is activated as a knee-jerk reaction to prevent change and to go back to traditional forms of masculinity, which means it is fundamentally “a set of discourses that work to discipline performances of masculinity and often to reinforce traditional patriarchal versions of masculinity” (Albrecht 2015: 9). The combination of enfolding palatable progressive elements and resistance to unpalatable change means that hegemonic masculinity continually regenerates itself, only to perpetuate its old archetypes and gender roles. While some feminists, like Lynne Segal (1990, 2007), are hopeful that the incorporation of progressive elements will facilitate (slow) change into more progressive, anti-patriarchal, and egalitarian forms of masculinity, others, such as Abigail Solomon-Godeau, are more skeptical since all ostensible concessions from hegemonic masculinity are just strategies that allow patriarchy “like the phoenix—an appropriately phallic simile—[to] continually [rise] again, retooled and reconstructed for its next historical turn” (1997: 39). Demetrakis Z. Demetriou provides an illustrative example of the imperviousness to change of hegemonic masculinity in spite of the incorporation of features from apparently subordinated masculinities since the late twentieth century. Instead of opening up hegemonic masculinities to new,

6 

S. MARTÍN AND M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

non-toxic forms of masculinity, society produces hybrid masculinities that carry considerable baggage from a problematic past, but which offer the possibility that future performances of masculinity may be different by assimilating elements from groups which have historically existed outside hegemonic masculinity. This “constant appropriation of diverse elements from various masculinities (…) makes the hegemonic bloc dynamic and flexible” (2001: 348). One of these assimilated elements is the pleasure in consumption usurped from the diverse homosexual masculinities. Even though Demetriou celebrates how homosexual masculinities impact the dominant group, the hybridization he describes helps patriarchal masculinity (the current hegemonic and dominant model) to appear more progressive while having no effect on the hegemonic order. The acceptance of elements from subordinate groups, all in all, is not conductive to change: it simply enhances patriarchy’s capacity for survival. Other scholars have, therefore, examined from which positions effective change may emerge, considering not only the sociology of masculinity but its textual representation. In this sense, an indispensable volume is Brian Baker’s Masculinity in Fiction and Film: Representing Men in Popular Genres 1945–2000 (2008). Baker, a participant in the volume presented here, noted in his monograph that “[w]here masculinity was once a monolithic and unexplored subject in relation to gender studies”, it has become in the early twenty-first century “a lens to focus a discussion of what Raymond Williams called the ‘structures of feeling’ of the second half of the twentieth century” (2008: xii). Peter Ferry’s Masculinity in Contemporary New York Fiction (2014), Maggie McKinley’s Masculinity and the Paradox of Violence in American Fiction, 1950–75 (2015), and Harriet Stilley’s From the Delivered to the Dispatched: Masculinity in Modern American Fiction, 1969–1977 (2018) follow a similar line, considering how the representation of masculinity in US fiction can be taken as an index of the social and cultural history of the nation. Editor Sara Martín’s book, Representations of Masculinity in Literature and Film: Focus on Men (2020a), also follows this trend but from a multidisciplinary angle, extending from Shakespeare to current science fiction. Two other key volumes—also focused on literary representation—combine this exploration with a reflection on which strategies should be followed for actual change in gender relations. Alternative Masculinities for a Changing World, edited by Àngels Carabí and Josep Maria Armengol (2014), seeks to find non-hegemonic models of literary representation that can offer positive role models for change, arguing that “literary works

1  INTRODUCTION: BEYOND TOXIC PATRIARCHAL MASCULINITY 

7

(as creative works) become privileged spaces and sources to imagine alternative ways for men to experience their manhood and their gender relations” (5). Masculinities and Literary Studies: Intersections and New Directions, edited by Armengol et al. (2017), expands the work done in the previous volume to consider the latest advances in this field and to propose new lines of research on the grounds that literary texts “shed new light on some of the most pressing questions within current masculinity scholarship, revealing the deeper connections between social and literary models of men and masculinities” (3). It seems to us, however, that the notion of alternative masculinity needs to be reconsidered in view of the social upheaval caused by the #MeToo campaign, started in October 2017, and the constant references since then to toxic masculinity in the media, academia, and general public conversation. The non-hegemonic, alternative male characters of literature appear to be too atypical to become effective role models, and although highlighting them is a valuable endeavor, the very word ‘alternative’ is too open and too much in need of further definition. It seems, then, particularly urgent to focus specifically on how to counteract the harmful patriarchal behavior that sustains toxic masculinity. In that sense it is interesting to note the change in direction in the most recent work by American sociologist Michael Kimmel, one of the key figures in Masculinities Studies. Whereas his 2013 volume Angry White Men was written in a confrontational style aimed at undermining patriarchal privilege, his later volume Healing from Hate: How Young Men Get Into—and Out of—Violent Extremism (2018) appeals to a very different spirit, seeking to detoxify American masculinity as a necessary step to attack patriarchy’s foundations. The volume we present goes, therefore, one step beyond the notion of alternative masculinity, proposing to rethink Masculinity Studies (or CSMM) from an angle that breaks away from the perception of a perpetual crisis of masculinity and that highlights how the notions of hegemonic masculinity and toxic masculinity have been too fixed on the exploration of dominance and subservience, and too little on the men (and the male characters in fiction) who behave following other ethical personal and socially accepted patterns. The origin of our volume is, actually, a scholarly and personal fatigue with the many negative representations of masculinity and with the scarcity of positive representations that might bolster the anti-patriarchal struggle, despite the evidence that many men are opposing patriarchy and understanding their own masculinity in non-toxic ways. This may seem paradoxical since editor Sara Martín is the author of

8 

S. MARTÍN AND M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

Masculinity and Patriarchal Villainy in the British Novel: From Hitler to Voldemort (2020b), though, precisely, this volume originates in her wish to disconnect masculinity from patriarchy, which, it should be stressed, is a form of social organization based on promoting a power-based hierarchy, and not as it is often believed masculinity itself. The label ‘toxic masculinity’ has the unfortunate effect of suggesting that masculinity itself is toxic, when in actual fact what is toxic is, we insist, patriarchy. Without this distinction it is our impression that many men may wrongly assume that all men are automatically inclined to behave in toxic ways. We think, therefore, that a way out of this dead end is highlighting the opposite value, namely, goodness. We firmly believe that although the question of what defines a good man is practically impossible to answer, it must be asked to start detoxing the study of the diverse masculinities and of masculinity itself.

How This Books Works Following strategies similar to what editors Carabí and Armengol followed in Alternative Masculinities for a Changing World, we, the editors, approached the authors by invitation, knowing about their previous work on gender, to suggest that they find examples of positive masculinities in their own area of research and that they explain, each in their style, how masculinity can be detoxed and where good men can be found. Those examples, we told the authors, could come from any field in Anglophone cultural production, including literature, film, TV, non-fiction, and from any geographical area and historical period, provided the men analyzed were found in representation. By this we mean that we did not exclude real-life figures on condition that they appeared in textual representation (biographies, documentaries, etc.). It was never our intention to have the authors fill in a pre-designed table of contents that could cover in representative ways certain periods, geographical areas, or genres but to build the proposed volume on the basis of what the concepts ‘detoxing masculinity’ and ‘good man’ suggested to our guest authors. We believe that this openness and the rich discussion it has elicited give extra value to the volume, since it gathers together research that covers from the nineteenth to the twenty-first century, from the canonical English novel to current US TV series, passing through the American classics, Modernist drama, transnational literature, fantasy, and science fiction. This wide-ranging, multidisciplinary scope is a

1  INTRODUCTION: BEYOND TOXIC PATRIARCHAL MASCULINITY 

9

central part of our aim to explore how masculinity can be detoxed and to search for good men whenever and wherever they can be found. We would like to stress that, despite the openness of our call, the resulting proposal is, in our view, well balanced. The first four chapters in Part I deal with literary fictions; this is followed by three chapters on transnational fictions in Part II; Part III contains other three chapters on fantasy followed by Part IV with three more chapters on science fiction; finally Part V, which is a bit more miscellaneous, covers aging and real-life men. A single volume cannot obviously cover all of Anglophone culture and we hope that the fields that do not appear represented here (though none have been specifically excluded) can be the object of further research. Part I—‘Literature’—opens with Chap. 2, by David Owen, ‘The Visible-Invisible “Good Man” in Jane Austen’s The Watsons’. Good and bad men in Austen’s novels, Owen argues, are often read in pro- and anti-­ Jacobin terms. The Jacobins are duplicitous, whereas the anti-Jacobins turn out to be trustworthy, deserving of the heroines’ affections. In the novels, similar distinctions hold for masculine behavior that is either detrimental to, or broadly supportive of, women’s emotional and social circumstances. In The Watsons the men are mostly churlish. However, there is a shadowy character who offers distinct ways of understanding gender relations, seeming to promise more egalitarian prospects: this is the visible-­ invisible good man. Owen considers, therefore, how the novella distinguishes between the boorish men who probably peopled Austen’s real world and the ‘good’ man she presents to her readership as a model for change. In Chap. 3, ‘Ishmael’s Detoxing Process: Escaping Domestic Homogeneity in Moby-Dick’, Rodrigo Andrés explains that in Moby-Dick Herman Melville responded critically to how his fellow white Americans of the mid-nineteenth century were elaborating theories of and plans for community living based on the politics of apartheid instead of accepting life as living-with in exposure to difference. At the beginning of the novel, its narrator, Ishmael, escapes that homogeneity and moves from toxic aggressiveness to joy and kindness as a result of his exposure to, and contact with, the very diverse components of a pluralistic community in the form of two heterogeneous living spaces: the Spouter-Inn in New Bedford, Massachusetts, and the whaling ship the Pequod. Melville thus suggests that the domestic spaces that enable expansive encounters with diversity are what men need to combat diminished moral imaginations.

10 

S. MARTÍN AND M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

Dídac Llorens-Cubedo focuses in Chap. 4, ‘From Brutal to Spiritual Men in T.S. Eliot’s Poetry and Drama: Sweeney and Beyond’, on T.S. Eliot’s character Sweeney, who appears in the 1920 collection Poems, the long poem The Waste Land, and the play Sweeney Agonistes. The controversial Sweeney embodies two opposed aspects of masculinity: a brutal, threatening side associated with gender violence but also a spiritual, mystical side. Because of this polar duality, Sweeney sums up most of Eliot’s male characters, including those in his early poems (Bleistein, the “young man carbuncular”) and in his later plays (Harry in The Family Reunion or Colby in The Confidential Clerk). The study of these characters reveals a gradual detoxing of Sweeney’s masculinity, consisting of the attenuation of his brutality and the growth of his spirituality, which conditions later male characters in accordance with Eliot’s choice of illumination and purgation. Chapter 5, ‘Hybrid Masculinities in D.H. Lawrence’s “The Blind Man” and Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral”’, by Gerardo Rodríguez-Salas, offers a comparative analysis within the field of hybrid masculinities of the stories by Lawrence and Carver in order to explore the toxicity of some masculine models expressed through patriarchal entitlement to power and with the aim to retrieve ‘good’ models beyond the stigma and suspicion recently associated to hybridization. Rodríguez-Salas explores a space for redemption within inclusive masculinities and contends that the hybrid or inclusive masculinity epitomized by Robert in Carver’s “Cathedral”—in clear contrast with his counterpart’s orthodox masculinity in Lawrence’s story—is in tune with Bob Pease’s proposal that pro-feminist men, aware of their privilege and socially legitimized oppressive behaviors and their potential in the struggle to transform gender relations, should change dominant masculinities in cultures with diminishing homohysteria. Part II—‘Transnational Fictions’—begins with Chap. 6, Sarah Zapata’s ‘Of Tender Hearts and Good Men: Reading Australian Masculinity in Tim Winton’s Fiction’. As she notes, the subject of masculinity and the exploration of the process of becoming and of being a man, a father, and a son are at the heart of critically acclaimed Australian writer Tim Winton’s oeuvre. Her chapter probes into the representation of male figures in selected works by Winton through the lens of contemporary discourses on masculinity, identity configuration, and ethics criticism. Drawing on Winton’s early works The Riders and The Turning and two of his most recent novels Breath and Eyrie, this study seeks to investigate the ways in which Winton’s

1  INTRODUCTION: BEYOND TOXIC PATRIARCHAL MASCULINITY 

11

works undo standard normative views of manhood through a poetics of masculinity that inscribes sensitivity, tenderness, and vulnerability. Chapter 7, ‘“A Good Man is Hard to Find”: The Making of Michael “Digger” Digson’ by Bill Phillips, examines the fiction by Jacob Ross, an award-winning author and fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, born in the Caribbean island of Grenada. His first crime novel, The Bone Readers, won the inaugural Jhalak Prize in 2017 and this was followed by the sequel Black Rain Falling in 2020. Phillips analyzes the novels’ protagonist, Grenadian police Detective Michael “Digger” Digson, as he struggles to clean up a society in which violence, political corruption, and police brutality are endemic. Against a historical backdrop of colonial oppression and slavery, both the island’s poverty and pleasures are portrayed, but it is the damage toxic masculinity does to social relations in general, and family life in particular, which is central to the novels, with limited hope for change. The tone of Chap. 8, Pilar Cuder-Domínguez’s ‘Black Masculinities in the Age of #BLM: Zadie Smith’s On Beauty’, is, in contrast, more hopeful. She examines the representation of diverse black masculinities in Zadie Smith’s third novel, On Beauty (2005), attending to how they are segregated and policed but also how their borders can be often crossed. The fluidity of those identities is proved through the analysis of the psychological struggle of a mixed-race young man, Levi Belsey, who has to choose the detoxed masculinity that will allow him to feel at home within his own skin and to become a ‘good’ black man in his own terms. Underpinning her analysis is the notion that, in the age of #BlackLivesMatter, black youth struggle under pernicious conditions and that a non-toxic masculinity is one that cultivates a broad ethics of social responsibility. Whereas Part I and Part II deal with realistic fiction (and secondarily drama), Part III and Part IV deal with fantasy and science fiction, respectively. Part III—‘Fantasy’—includes in the first place Chap. 9 by Auba Llompart, ‘“Some Wizards Just Like to Boast that Theirs Are Bigger and Better”: Harry Potter and the Rejection of Patriarchal Power’. Llompart’s chapter reads J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter as a positive model of masculinity whose main asset is his absolute lack of attraction to patriarchal power. In order to challenge previous readings contending  that the series ultimately promotes hegemonic masculinity, she examines the many ways in which, throughout the seven novels, Harry Potter systematically threatens patriarchal masculinities. Although it might be claimed that Rowling is merely substituting one model of hegemonic masculinity by another one equally idealized and constricting, Harry’s characterization as a flawed,

12 

S. MARTÍN AND M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

ordinary boy evades the imposition of unrealistic expectations. The Harry Potter series thus celebrates Harry’s anti-patriarchal masculinity, at the same time that it avoids alienating its readers with an excessively idealized, archetypal hero. In Chap. 10, ‘A Lover Boy with Battle Scars: Romance, War Fiction, and the Construction of Peeta Mellark as a Good Man in The Hunger Games Trilogy’, Noemí Novell explores the characterization of Peeta Mellark from the well-known Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins. Novell proposes that war fiction and romance play a key role in shaping Peeta’s character traits as a pioneering hero that represents a detoxed form of masculinity. While the inversion/subversion of Peeta’s conventional male characteristics has been widely explored, the role of genre in making possible such a configuration has not been sufficiently analyzed. Taking this into account, Novell’s chapter explores the way in which genre aids in the construction of an untraditional hero, alternative to hegemonic masculinity, and suggests that both romance and war fiction are crucial for this construction. Chapter 11, ‘Masculinity and Heroism in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld: The Case of Good Captain Carrot’ by Isabel Clúa, investigates one of the most intriguing instances of male goodness. Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series is known for its parody of the clichés of fantasy and its satirical approach to cultural and political issues. Clúa explores his revisions and parodies of masculinity in the Ankh-Morpork Guard novels, focusing on the character of Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, with whom Pratchett deconstructs the traditional hero while constructing an appealing alternative masculinity. Although Carrot is linked to the trope of the return of the lost heir, he is not a hero who vindicates his identity through a quest that implies confrontation and violence. On the contrary, Carrot is fully aware that his decisions have ethical and political implications and, thus, he decides to serve his fellow citizens as a policeman rather than as a king, approaching power through service rather than authority, and always displaying a goodness which is both natural and, quite possibly, an elaborated mask. Part IV—‘Science Fiction’—opens with Brian Baker’s bold proposition in Chap. 12 ‘Skywalker: Bad Fathers and Good Sons’ that in the Star Wars saga detoxed, good masculinity is ultimately personified by the heroine Rey. Luke Skywalker, the embodiment of good masculinity in the universe which George Lucas invented, cannot but understand the ‘detoxing’ of masculinity as the detoxing of the Jedi ethos and its institutions. The

1  INTRODUCTION: BEYOND TOXIC PATRIARCHAL MASCULINITY 

13

central triangular conflict of the original trilogy is between Luke, Darth Vader, and Obi-wan Kenobi, three Jedi in a patrilinear conflict, but Luke resolves Jedi masculinity at the end of Return of the Jedi through ‘saving’ his father. In the final trilogy, further issues with Jedi masculinity are problematically resolved in the figure of Rey, and by revising masculinity away from action heroics and toward giving. Rey, in becoming Skywalker, is, thus, the Star Wars films’ final multiply gendered embodiment of the ‘good man’. Chapter 13, ‘Changing the Script of “Human Is”: Re-visioning the Good (Hu)Man in Philip K.  Dick’s Electric Dreams’ by Paul Mitchell, discusses the anthology series, Philip K.  Dick’s Electric Dreams (2017), which comprises ten inventive adaptations of the renowned author’s short stories from the 1950s. More specifically, Mitchell argues that, as a television production, the episode “Human Is” literally makes visible Dick’s interrogation of what constitutes the good (hu)man. Scripted by Jessica Mecklenburg and directed by Francesca Gregorini, their depiction of Silas Herrick (Bryan Cranston) as a man who undergoes a profound bodily and psychological crisis remains highly apposite to current conceptions of (de) toxified masculinity. Using science fiction’s capacity for cognitive estrangement, “Human Is” illustrates how television is an important popular medium through which to re-vision our understanding of positive masculinities in the third millennium. Also centered on TV and science fiction, Chap. 14 by Miguel Sebastián-­ Martín, ‘Between Therapy and Revolution: Mr. Robot’s Ambivalence towards Hacker Masculinity’, examines how this television series (2015–2019), generally regarded as a dark dystopia of digital capitalism, contains a utopian counternarrative in its representation of masculinity. Although the series reproduces certain imaginaries of the hacker hero which cater to masculinist fantasies of control, it counterbalances this by decidedly emphasizing the hacker’s vulnerability and interdependence. Thus, Mr. Robot offers an ambivalently dialectical account of hacker masculinity: even though the hacker is still associated to toxic power fantasies, he is also capable of subversive change, potentially inspiring viewers to hack capitalism and patriarchy. By narrating a hacker’s personal and political struggle, the series can thus be interpreted as a powerful critical dystopia, both critical and hopeful toward contemporary masculinity. Finally, Part V—‘Close to Life’—deals with good men considered along the complete trajectory of their lives. In Chap. 15, ‘A Few Good Old Men: Revising Ageing Masculinities in Last Tango in Halifax’, Maricel

14 

S. MARTÍN AND M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

Oró-Piqueras and Katsura Sako consider how this British TV series (2012–2020) questions ideal aging masculinity, expressed in the fit able body that signifies physical and sexual functionality and productive citizenship. Focusing on the main male protagonist, Alan Buttershaw, they analyze the various ways in which the series depicts and narrativizes his caring personality and the vulnerable aging masculinity that he represents, through romantic and intergenerational narratives and in relation to other characters who differently highlight and interrogate hegemonic masculinity. As their analysis demonstrates, Alan is one of the ‘few good old men’, a form of aging masculinity characterized by caring and an openness to vulnerability, qualities that were often repressed in youth. In Chap. 16, ‘Let the Little Children Come to Me: Fred Rogers, the Good Man as TV Educator’, Sara Martín pays homage to Fred Rogers (1928–2003), an outstanding American man and TV personality whose show Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood (1968–1975, 1979–2001) became an iconic feature of US children’s TV. Martín examines how Rogers’s essential goodness and detoxed masculinity is represented in the biography by Maxwell King The Good Neighbor: The Life and Work of Fred Rogers (2018), the documentary by Morgan Neville Won’t You Be my Neighbor? (2018), and the fiction film by Marielle Heller A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (2019). Rogers’s irreproachable, honest dealing with little children shows, in these times when adult men’s interest in children is always viewed with suspicion, that extremely positive role models may emerge from encouraging sensitive men like him to approach little children. Finally, Chap. 17, ‘The Part of the Iceberg That Doesn’t Show: Romance, Good Husbands, and Mr. Julia Child’ by M. Isabel Santaulària, looks outside the script of popular romance to find more progressive approaches to what constitutes an ideal life partner. For this purpose, it concentrates on the husband of famous cuisine TV popularizer Julia Child, Paul Child, as he is portrayed in Norah Ephron’s film Julie & Julia (2009) and in biographical works devoted to his wife. Given Julia’s towering presence and the immensity of her media persona, Paul was literally the man behind the woman, an arrangement with which he was seemingly happy. Underlying this analysis there is an interrogation of romance as a genre that nurtures women’s fantasies of love and lovers and an attempt to work toward an understanding of what constitutes a good, anti-patriarchal man through Paul Child’s supporting and supportive role as a husband. Although the volume started originally as an invitation to find good male characters, taken together the chapters indicate that these are scarce

1  INTRODUCTION: BEYOND TOXIC PATRIARCHAL MASCULINITY 

15

because the process of detoxing masculinity is facing many obstacles. Not even Jane Austen, as David Owen argues, found it unproblematic to place a fully good man as a protagonist; even the much admired Darcy is, at points, churlish. Two hundred years later, this male churlishness is still widespread in fiction, and unfortunately in real life, and although, as the chapters show, there is a constant struggle to establish a better balanced masculinity, the alternatives offered are not always optimistic. In the worst-­ case scenario, as Paul Mitchell shows in his analysis of Dick’s adaptation, only alien possession seems to guarantee that the toxic man can be detoxed. An additional problem—as the cases of Captain Carrot, Peeta Mellark, Fred Rogers, and Paul Child show—is that it is next to impossible to explain what motivates the men who can be called ‘good’ with no hesitation. In that sense, Rowling’s great merit is that she has her hero Harry Potter explicitly reject power in one of the fundamental acts of anti-­ patriarchal resistance in recent fiction, as Auba Llompart explains. If, however, we conclude with Brian Baker that detoxing masculinity leads to degendering the hero, as happens with Rey in Star Wars, this opens new possibilities for which the current gender discourse (or the scholarly field of Gender Studies) is not yet ready. The fast growth of non-binary identities among the youngest generations might be a promising solution to current binary toxic schemes, but before femininity and masculinity are abolished (if they ever are) it is important to complete the process by which ‘good’ rather than ‘toxic’ should be the adjective always attached to masculinity. Beyond the tensions that can be observed between the different contributions, as some authors appear to celebrate isolated pockets of male resistance within an unchanging patriarchy while others aim at exposing how that resistance may thoroughly undermine patriarchal hegemonic masculinity, the editors and the authors share a deep concern about the lack of an overt agenda by men to demolish patriarchy. The general impression is that the more privileged type of man (cisgender, heterosexual, white, middle class) may be now more alert to how patriarchy is damaging the lives of underprivileged individuals but he is not sufficiently aware of his own damage, hence the widespread confusion about which values he should defend and the regrettable embrace of toxicity as a response to the erroneous identification of masculinity with patriarchy. Neither the editors nor the authors believe that the positive examples of masculinity suffice to raise awareness or to uproot patriarchy, but we defend that the detoxed, good men we present here are not exceptions to the generalized rule of an unswerving patriarchy but the wrecking balls that, as we hope, can bring the whole edifice tumbling down.

16 

S. MARTÍN AND M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

References Albrecht, Michael Mario. 2015. Masculinity in Contemporary Quality Television. Farnham: Ashgate. Armengol, Josep Maria, et  al., eds. 2017. Masculinities and Literary Studies: Intersections and New Directions. New York and Abingdon: Routledge. Atkinson, Paul. 1979. The Problem with Patriarchy. Achilles Heel 2: 18–22. Baker, Brian. 2008. Masculinity in Fiction and Film: Representing Men in Popular Genres 1945–2000. London and New York: Continuum. Beynon, John. 2010. Masculinities and Culture. Maidenhead, Berkshire: Open University Press. Carabí, Àngels, and Josep Maria Armengol, eds. 2014. Alternative Masculinities for a Changing World. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Collinson, David, and Jeff Hearn. 2001. Naming Men as Men: Implications for Work, Organization and Management. In The Masculinities Reader, eds. Stephen Whitehead and Frank J. Barrett, 144–169. Cambridge, UK: Polity. Connell, R.W. 1987. Gender and Power: Society, the Person and Sexual Politics. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press and Basil Blackwell. ———. 1990. An Iron Man: The Body and Some Contradictions of Hegemonic Masculinity. In Sport, Men, and the Gender Order: Critical Feminist Perspectives, eds. Michael Messner and Don Sabo, 83–95. Champaign, IL: Human Kinetics Books. ———. 2005. Masculinities. Cambridge, UK: Polity. DeDauw, Esther, and Daniel J. Connell. 2020. Introduction. In Toxic Masculinity: Mapping the Monstrous in Our Heroes, eds. Esther DeDauw and Daniel J. Connell, 3–16. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi. Demetriou, D.Z. 2001. Connell’s Concept of Hegemonic Masculinity: A Critique. Theory and Society 30: 337–336. Ferry, Peter. 2014. Masculinity in Contemporary New York Fiction. London and New York: Routledge. Hanke, Robert. 1992. Redesigning Men: Hegemonic Masculinity in Transition. In Men and the Media, ed. Steven Craig, 185–198. Newbury Park (CA), London, and New Delhi: Sage Publications. Kimmel, Michael S. 2013, 2017. Angry White Men. New York: Nation Books. ———. 2018. Healing from Hate: How Young Men Get Into—And Out of Violent Extremism. Berkeley: University of California Press. Martín, Sara. 2020a. Representations of Masculinity in Literature and Film: Focus on Men. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishers. ———. 2020b. Masculinity and Patriarchal Villainy in the British Novel: From Hitler to Voldemort. London and New York: Routledge. McKinley, Maggie. 2015. Masculinity and the Paradox of Violence in American Fiction, 1950–75. London: Bloomsbury.

1  INTRODUCTION: BEYOND TOXIC PATRIARCHAL MASCULINITY 

17

Messerschmidt, James W. 2018. Hegemonic Masculinity: Formulation, Reformulation, and Amplification. Lanham, Boulder, New York and London: Rowman & Littlefield. Rowbotham, Sheila. 1979. The Trouble with Patriarchy. New Statesman 98 (2344/5): 970–971. Segal, Lynne. 2007, 1990. Slow Motion: Changing Masculinities, Changing Men. London: Virago. Solomon-Godeau, Abigail. 1997. Male Trouble: A Crisis in Representation. London: Thames & Hudson. Stilley, Harriet. 2018. From the Delivered to the Dispatched: Masculinity in Modern American Fiction, 1969–1977. London and New York: Routledge.

PART I

Literature

CHAPTER 2

The Visible-Invisible Good Man in Jane Austen’s The Watsons David Owen

“By Indirections Find Directions Out” In Act 2 Scene 1 of Shakespeare’s Hamlet (c. 1599–1601), Polonius, Chief Counsellor to the new Danish King, offers a series of recommendations to his servant Reynaldo in order to investigate the activities of Laertes, Polonius’s son. Amongst the many pedantic suggestions proffered by the Counsellor, the most renowned is the following: “By indirections find directions out” (l.65). This might be taken as something of a general guideline for all textual enquiry, not least when—as with this chapter—such enquiry obliges us to perceive the shapes to the shadows or, to put it differently, to discern the presence of a particular figure (in this instance, a good man) when the text under discussion seems to be presenting us, by and large, with everything but the boy. And yet, an implicit

D. Owen (*) Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, Barcelona, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_2

21

22 

D. OWEN

presence can be just as powerful as an explicit one and may even act—as I will argue for Austen’s novella—to undermine the disagreeable ideals and modes of what is raucously present and to point us optimistically towards better ways.1

The Watsons Austen is, of course, a far cry from Shakespeare, although toxic masculinity is hardly absent from the works of either writer. My purpose here, however, is not so much—or not only—to trace and enumerate the many instances of masculine toxicity in Austen’s novella but, rather, to point to what I read as an implicit narrative detoxing of questionable behaviour and attitudes in The Watsons through means of a shadowy better version of a man, of whom the text’s female protagonist clearly approves. Stated more broadly, Austen appears to forward an ideal that she presumably favours and thereby offers as an alternative to other forms of toxic male behaviour in this novella, which is in turn condemned by the narrative voice throughout. This is significant, given the importance of this text to Austen’s writing, in spite of its relative obscurity outside the world of Austen studies. Although unfinished,2 The Watsons clinches the author’s move away from her often anarchic and impressionistic juvenilia writing (in which toxic masculinity actually abounds, but which is handled in an ironic and uproarious fashion that lacks the necessary gravitas for a more serious reflection on this); and it directly foreshadows both the themes and the sedateness of approach that we find in her mature fiction.3 That is, The Watsons lays down the foundations for, amongst other concerns, the meditated distaste for certain types of male comportment, and for the assumptions underlying this (namely, that such comportment is disrespectful to women, harmful to society, and crass for everyone concerned, and that it deserves to be roundly censured), which will form a systematic part of Austen’s later authorial perspective on such matters. Jane Austen (1775–1817) began writing The Watsons in 1803 or 1804 and abandoned it probably in 1805, the year her father died.4 It remained unpublished until 1871, over fifty years after Austen’s death, when her nephew James Edward Austen-Leigh added the text to the revised edition of his A Memoir of Jane Austen (originally published in 1869).5 Whilst the transitional nature of this text is often remarked upon positively,6 since it represents a clear departure from most of Austen’s often chaotic and unruly juvenilia writing towards the more elegant style and form of her

2  THE VISIBLE-INVISIBLE GOOD MAN IN JANE AUSTEN’S… 

23

later fiction, an equally frequent comment—one dating from at least the 1930s—is that the unrelentingly pessimistic tone of the novella would appear to reflect Austen’s own intense sadness at the time of writing and that this assuredly motivated her to abandon the project.7 Teleological ideas of this sort are frequently applied to Austen’s early and relatively early work, and The Watsons is clearly no exception. Nevertheless, however compelling such ideas may seem in this instance, they have the defect of assuming that the extant text (never intended for publication, never revised or otherwise prepared for circulation) is essentially what its author would have presented to a reading public, given the opportunity of full editorial intervention. As such, it is often treated critically as a final version rather than the draft work that it most certainly is.8 So the undeniably downbeat mood of this novella in its surviving form should be viewed cautiously: in the theoretical case of Austen ever having wanted to finish this work—in itself an assumption of no small magnitude—its eventual plot development and presiding tone can never be other than matters of speculation.9 This caution should also be carried over into our consideration of the male characters in The Watsons. In the three significant cases that I will discuss more fully, there is ample evidence for toxic masculinity seen through the almost intolerable presumption and arrogance of these men. But a more fully worked-out and edited version of the text might very well have smoothed down many of these characters’ rougher edges and left us with a considerably less hostile outlook. This much needs to be acknowledged from the outset. The Watsons describes events that occur over an approximately two-­ week period in the village of Stanton and “the town of D. in Surrey” (TW 79). It concerns the protagonist, Emma Watson (about 19), who had been separated from her elder brothers and sisters at a very early age and brought up by a wealthy aunt—not an uncommon practice for large families in eighteenth-century England, with Austen’s own family providing an example,10 as does the case of Fanny Price in Mansfield Park (1814)—into a life that was rather more elegant and refined than that of her five siblings. Emma’s aunt has recently re-married, and, as it is no longer convenient for the young woman to remain in that household, she returns to her own family, presided over by Emma’s father, a widowed and now rather bed-­ bound clergyman. In far more straightened circumstances than those she had become accustomed to, Emma is dismayed by the openly competitive husband-hunting of her sisters Penelope and Margaret, whom she clearly finds somewhat vulgar, though she also quickly builds a far happier

24 

D. OWEN

relationship with her eldest sister, Elizabeth. Through the events of a local ball and a family visit, the novella pays particular attention not only to the Watson sisters but also to members of the Osborne family (the neighbourhood aristocracy) and most especially to Lord Osborne; to Tom Musgrave, a dynamic but rather over-bearing young man who is the object of much female attention; to Emma’s brother Robert, an insufferable and well-to­do lawyer, along with his snobbish wife, both of whom are on a visit to the Watson family home; and to Mr Howard, the polite and agreeable vicar in the Osborne’s parish. Robert and his wife ask Emma to accompany them back to their house in Croydon (fundamentally to try to find a husband for her), but—not untellingly—Emma refuses the invitation. The text ends at this point. The question that motivates me in this chapter is how exactly does this novella present a detoxing of the manifold toxicities running through Austen’s narrative? By what means do we come to understand not only the protagonist’s entirely understandable aversion to the demarcating patriarchal views so insistently imposed upon her, but also—and, I would suggest, more significantly as regards the incipient development of the author’s narrative consciousness—how do we become aware of the presiding attitude in this work towards such abusive behaviour? To answer these questions, I will focus on several key instances of toxic conduct, as well as on Emma’s own reaction to this. More specifically, I will also suggest how the narrative voice that orchestrates this text consistently undermines these toxic views, and by doing so seeks to detox the corruptive masculine attitudes that so thoroughly permeate this brief and unfinished novella. As an essential part of this detoxing, I argue that the narrative implicitly draws a contrast between these corrosive attitudes and those shown by a distinct male figure (albeit one that is rather shadowy in this unfinished tale) who embodies the constructive and responsible values of a good man, respectful, dignified, and worthy of Emma’s trust and friendship. It may well be that the text obliges us by indirections to find this man out, but his presence once perceived is undeniable.

What Is Toxic Masculinity for Jane Austen? Before continuing, there is a need to remark the particular difficulty of discussing a somewhat contemporary concern (namely, our current understanding of toxic masculinity, however much the topic has been with us since before the flood) in the context of a novella that was written over

2  THE VISIBLE-INVISIBLE GOOD MAN IN JANE AUSTEN’S… 

25

two centuries in the past. In what meaningful sense can we assume that Austen—the woman, even before the writer—understood the imposition of patriarchal restrictions on herself, on her much-loved sister Cassandra, and on her other female relations and women friends? Is our own resistance to the patriarchy, if this exists, at all in consonance with the resistance shown in Austen’s world (to the extent that this was ever even allowed to express itself)? The matter, in one patently obvious sense, is entirely beyond our ability to glean. Notwithstanding this, inasmuch as Austen’s texts act as faithful soundboxes of a bygone age, reflecting and repeating the often-subliminal anxieties and apprehensions of her own times, it is entirely feasible to question these texts and to assess the ways in which answers to these questions throw light on the understanding that Austen’s society may have had of such issues. All the same, there are caveats to be lodged in this discussion. One such caveat is that expressed by John Tosh, who makes the salient point that our current understanding of ‘masculinity’ runs the risk of over-­ simplifying it, ignoring many aspects that the notion would have denoted to Austen’s world. As Tosh observes: Recent work on the period 1750–1850 [shows that] ‘Masculinity’ stands for a bewildering diversity of approaches: the gendering of public discourse about the state of the nation, the marking of class difference, the experience of sexuality, the exercise of household authority, the rise of the work ethic, and so on. (…) At the level of popular stereotype, no greater contrast could be imagined than that between the uninhibited ‘Georgian’ libertine and his sober frock-coated ‘Victorian’ grandson; if only at the level of social mores there are clearly significant changes to be explained.⁠ (2016: 62)

Related to this is the need to understand how their reshaping over time affects these notions of masculinity. Raewyn Connell rightly reminds us that the binary categories at the heart of this debate have been subjected to the vicissitudes of historical change: “[O]ur concept of masculinity seems to be a fairly recent historical product, a few hundred years old at most. (…). This should be borne in mind with any claim to have discovered transhistorical truths about manhood and the masculine” (2005: 68, my italics). And so, as well as needing to understand that the concept may now refer to a narrower spectrum—as Tosh remarks—we must also accept the inherent difficulty of approaching the issue of masculinity, toxic or not, as if it were a monolithic concept, enduring in saecula saeculorum,

26 

D. OWEN

and impervious to the currents of social change. One conspicuous consequence of this, relevant to The Watsons and to Austen’s work in general, is a call to recognise that, through the unquestionably complex interplay of many historical, social, and cultural factors, what may now appear to us as intolerable masculine conduct and attitudes may well have been perceived in Austen’s day (with greater or lesser resignation) as fairly unexceptional modes of behaviour and thought. Side by side with this, we also have to concede that, in an Austen novel, what may now seem to us to be women’s overly timid response to obnoxious masculine behaviour may, at the time, very well have approached the outer limits of oppositional reaction.

Toxic Masculinity in The Watsons In light of all this, when we turn to discuss toxic masculinity in The Watsons and try to discern ways in which Austen’s narrator seeks to undermine and limit this (as I will argue is the case), the signifiers are therefore not necessarily familiar, nor indeed even evident. An essential observation pertinent to writings that are part of what is broadly termed romantic comedy in the long Regency Era (c. 1795–c. 1837)11 is that this toxicity does not (usually) take the form of overt physical aggression; palpable bodily violence by men against women is largely absent. Instead, toxicity is seen through the insidious imposition of male privilege, patriarchal power, and hegemonic right, and the multiple ways in which these are made evident. It is seen in the ways that women are objectified and perceived as possessions (sometimes valuable, sometimes mere chattels) to be appraised and bargained over. It is seen through the ways that they are turned into prey. It is felt and expressed, by women, through an inability to escape the social spaces—both public and private—in which they are marketed for consumption, spaces in which the toxic male presses home his advantage. Beneath the amiable plots and trivial exchanges of romantic comedy there run far deeper and far more malignant currents. Perhaps because Austen never troubled to conceal these currents more fully in this incomplete work, or perhaps because the text really does express a weariness at the depressing prospects faced by so many women in Austen’s milieu, The Watsons is almost a catalogue of male boorishness. That in itself is of considerable interest (since these things are substantially attenuated, though certainly not absent, in Austen’s later fiction); but it is the narrative drive to undermine and thereby to detox this boorishness that is most remarkable. And, by reading The Watsons in this way, we reshape its reputation as

2  THE VISIBLE-INVISIBLE GOOD MAN IN JANE AUSTEN’S… 

27

an unremittingly dour tale to see it, instead, as a brief illustration of female resistance and inflexibility. Prior to looking at the narrative detoxing that occurs in this novella, and the appearance of positive masculinity to respond to its toxic counterpart, I would first like to draw attention to the actions and perspectives of three characters whose conduct with respect to Emma is particularly noteworthy. These are (principally) Tom Musgrave and, to a slightly lesser extent, Lord Osborne and Robert Watson. Variously, these men impose themselves onto Emma’s company, or stalk her, or attempt to coerce her further attention, or act as genteel pimps, or are disdainful of her circumstances, or maladroitly point out the tenuousness of her situation, or push her inexorably towards the pantomime of husband-hunting. It is in this sense that The Watsons can be read as a catalogue of male boorishness, revealing an incessant series of unkindnesses to which Emma is exposed, all of which signal a seemingly inescapable fate: to be the prize of the man who most successfully bargains for her. We are introduced to Tom who, like many other characters in this novella, is something of a blueprint for a particular type that will frequent Austen’s later novels. Redolent of characters such as John Willoughby (Sense and Sensibility), George Wickham (Pride and Prejudice), or Henry Crawford (Mansfield Park), to name only a few of the men in Austen’s major works of a broadly similar nature, he is attractive and has an easy charm; and yet an air of untrustworthiness hangs about him. Tom is clearly aware of his privileged role in the local marriage stakes (he is the proverbial eligible bachelor; there are several young women in the district of a marriageable age; the women do not have time on their side; the bachelor, however, can afford to delay making his decision). Elizabeth, for whom the status of old maid12 is swiftly becoming likely, plaintively says of him that he is “[a] young man of very good fortune, quite independent, and remarkably agreeable, an universal favourite wherever he goes. Most of the girls hereabout are in love with him, or have been” (TW 80). That Tom appears to play the field can hardly be called toxic behaviour. Where his conduct takes on a disturbing undertone, however, is in his self-­ appointed (and troublingly sycophantic) role as a procurer to Lord Osborne. It is in this role that his sinister disregard for Emma’s own wishes is made evident. It is, in effect, as Lord Osborne’s pimp, that Tom reveals his acquiescence with the objectification of Emma, treats her merely as an item to be obtained, and, under the pretence of genial sociability, pursues this objective unwaveringly. Emma is uncomfortable with Tom but is

28 

D. OWEN

initially unable to protect herself. A highly charged moment that illustrates this comes the night after the ball around which the novella is largely constructed. Emma expects her sister to take her back to Stanton from the house of her friends, the Edwards, where she has spent the night, but is disturbed by the unexpected appearance of Tom insisting that he, instead, should accompany her home: “My reward is to be the indulgence of conveying you to Stanton in my curricle. Though they are not written down, I bring your sister’s orders for the same” (TW 107). In this instance, Emma is saved from Tom by the perceptive intervention of her host, but the threat has made itself felt: she is, in a very real sense, exposed to being assailed and—given the social and economic expectations of her situation—is little able to act in her own defence. Later in the novella, the yet-­ again uninvited Tom appears (an informality with social protocol that no single woman would ever dare to contemplate in those times),13 on this occasion in Stanton, where the Watsons are gathered at home for the evening. Once more, he moves in on his prey. This time, through unsolicited observations regarding Osborne’s predilection for Emma, he gives her to understand that she is now a commodity of interest. That his remarks are made in the intimate setting of Emma’s own sitting room subliminally underlines the point that she has absolutely nowhere to run. On hearing her name mentioned in a short exchange among the company gathered in the Watsons’s front room, Emma asks if she is the subject of their conversation. Tom replies: “Not absolutely (…) but I was thinking of you, as many at a greater distance are probably doing at this moment. Fine open weather, Miss Emma! Charming season for hunting” (TW 128), a remark that reveals Tom’s perturbingly predatory instinct. If Tom’s appeal in this novella is ambiguous for at least a short time, the same cannot be said for Lord Osborne. In our introduction to him we are told that he had “an air of coldness, of carelessness, even of awkwardness about him” (TW 96). Regrettably, these qualities are not his worst. As I have suggested, a version of The Watsons that had been prepared for publication would arguably have led Austen to modify certain aspects of this depiction, but—as it stands—Osborne is distressingly voyeuristic, with a penchant for silently leering at Emma. This behaviour is, in turn, ridiculous, uncomfortable, and threatening. Within two short paragraphs, we are taken from Osborne’s first attempt to look Emma over (“after a time Lord Osborne himself came, and under pretence of talking (…), stood to look at [her]” TW 98) to the image of the stalker sizing up his victim: “On entering the tea-room, in which two long tables were prepared, Lord

2  THE VISIBLE-INVISIBLE GOOD MAN IN JANE AUSTEN’S… 

29

Osborne was to be seen quite alone at the end of one, as if retreating as far as he could from the ball, to enjoy his own thoughts and gape without restraint” (TW 99–100). Although our contact with Osborne is relatively slight, our predominant impression is of this sad figure of a man who spends his time “gaping”.14 This is the case throughout the ball-room scene and is repeated when Tom and Osborne unexpectedly visit the Watsons shortly afterwards. The narrative effect is to create the sensation of a purveyor of goods assessing the quality of the wares on sale. Osborne is wholly indifferent to the effect that such evaluations might have on Emma. For him, she is an object to be viewed, acquired, and possessed, and this is undeniably a reflection of his unthinking concurrence with his own position of masculine privilege. To my mind, one of the most chilling remarks made in this regard is addressed to the ever-attentive Tom shortly before the Osborne contingent leaves the ball; Osborne’s parting instructions are: “Let me see you soon at the castle, and bring me word how she looks by daylight” (TW 104), as if Emma were mere horseflesh to be inspected from all angles and in all lights before any commitments are made. Like the horse, Emma would presumably have very little say in any resulting transaction. Finally, in this trio of masculine delights, the novella introduces us to Emma’s brother Robert.15 He is one of two sons in the Watson family (Sam, the other brother—a trainee surgeon—is mentioned only in passing, though very affectionately). As a successful and wealthy lawyer, Robert is in effect the family’s business manager. In this capacity, Emma is of immediate concern to him. In strictly financial terms, her unexpected return to the family’s keeping is a setback. It had been assumed that Emma would make a very good marriage when living with her wealthy aunt. This has not only proved to be wrong, but she is now also again in the family’s charge and so has returned to compete with three other unmarried sisters in finding a husband. But, in Robert’s first substantial conversation for many years with his youngest sister, one might hope that strictly financial terms would be put aside in favour of kind-hearted sibling concerns for Emma’s welfare and happiness. This is emphatically not the case. In his opening salvo to her, he remarks: “So, Emma (…) you are quite a stranger at home. It must seem odd enough for you to be here. A pretty piece of work your Aunt Turner has made of it! By Heaven! a woman should never be trusted with money. I always said she ought to have settled something on you, as soon as her husband died.”

30 

D. OWEN

“But that would have been trusting me with money”, replied Emma; “and I am a woman too”. “It might have been secured to your future use, without your having any power over it now. What a blow it must have been upon you! To find yourself, instead of heiress of 8000 or 9000 l., sent back a weight upon your family, without a sixpence. I hope the old woman will smart for it.” (TW 122–123)

In two brief exclamations, Robert manages to establish his sterling misogynistic credentials, insult the woman who had provided a comfortable home for Emma over many years, make Emma understand the financial burden she now imposes on her family, remark upon her own lack of money, and draw to her fullest attention the fact that any hopes for a happy future that she might once have entertained have more or less entirely evaporated. This serves to highlight the other side of the arena in which Emma now finds herself. In the left-hand corner, the purchasers assessing her market value; in the right, her manager making it clear that a quick sale to any half-decent buyer is about as much as she can realistically hope for. And above all, Tom, Osborne, and Robert show how Emma, unprotected by the easiness of her former circumstances, is forced to accept the attitudes, attentions, and comportment of men who see her—fundamentally—as an object to be assessed, bargained over, bought, and sold. These men act in undeniably injurious ways throughout their respective interventions, which—given the brief nature of the narrative— weigh heavily on the overall fabric of the novella. Their various exchanges with or about Emma are acutely expressive of her fragile position and, however much the veneer of social respectability may momentarily conceal the real nature of their views, The Watsons insistently reveals the toxic masculinity that surrounds its protagonist.

Remedying Toxic Masculinity in Emma’s World This sorry picture, however, is not the end of the matter. In the midst of this triple onslaught, the text provides us with the counterbalancing elements provided by the presiding narrative perspective, which includes Emma’s own thoughts and words and, most significantly, the shadowy yet consequential figure of Mr Howard, in whose positive masculinity the novella places its hopes of remedy from the toxicity of Messrs Musgrave, Osborne, and Watson.

2  THE VISIBLE-INVISIBLE GOOD MAN IN JANE AUSTEN’S… 

31

It is a narrative axiom, and not simply in Austen’s works, that the protagonist is generally presented in such a way that heightens the attribution of reader sympathy to that figure. So it proves to be in The Watsons. Emma’s own thoughts and words have a special weighting in the novella and are narratively significant in allowing readers to interpret the thoughts and words of other intervening characters. In this respect, she acts as a pointer towards the values inherent in the text itself. And these values, it hardly needs adding, are distinctly in disagreement with the toxic values outlined earlier. The first moment in which this is made transparent is in a comment attributed to Emma but actually articulated by the narrator (in the free indirect style that Austen was beginning to experiment with at this time), reacting against Tom’s wolfish attempt to take Emma home from the Edwards. The text informs us that “Emma felt distressed; she did not like the proposal—she did not wish to be on terms of intimacy with the proposer; and yet, fearful of encroaching on the Edwardses, as well as wishing to go home herself, she was at a loss how entirely to decline what he offered” (TW 107–108). This underlines in absolute clarity Emma’s unease with Tom; it indicates the inappropriateness of his actions. It also hints at the falseness of his apparent civility through causing Emma’s confusion at how to proceed. Shortly after this, when Tom presents himself at the Watsons’s home, the narrative once again sets out a line of defence against the attempts by Tom to corral Emma into his schemes. On asking her opinion of Osborne (in effect, his client), Emma responds: “He would be handsome even though he were not a lord, and perhaps, better bred; more desirous of pleasing and showing himself pleased in a right place.” “Upon my word, you are severe upon my friend! I assure you Lord Osborne is a very good fellow.” “I do not dispute his virtues, but I do not like his careless air.” (TW 109)

These are hardly acidic remarks from Emma, but—within the social decorum of the Regency Era—they are about as plain-speaking a response as are realistically possible from a woman to a man. The words puncture Osborne’s eerie mode of behaviour, show it to be unacceptable, and point by implication to a less threatening, alternative form of conduct. And lest we be left in any doubt about the novella’s over-riding attitude towards the values espoused by Tom (and indeed shared by Osborne), Emma gives voice to the single most significant condemnation of him in her response

32 

D. OWEN

to Elizabeth’s rather plaintive comment: “[Y]ou must have been struck with [Tom] altogether”, to which she replies: I do not like him, Elizabeth. (…) he seems very vain, very conceited, absurdly anxious for distinction, and absolutely contemptible in some of the measures he takes for becoming so. There is a ridiculousness about him that entertains me, but his company gives me no other agreeable emotion. (TW 111)

Clearly, this show of disdain does not—and cannot—limit the very real peril that Tom represents to Emma, but it is a key narrative signal of antipathy towards him, his ideals, and his endeavours, including his machinations on behalf of Osborne. It is a narrative means of calling attention to the fact that this character and those of his ilk are not to be favoured in this novella. Nor does the novella favour the bullying insensitivity of Robert Watson, whose own sense of self-assurance derives not only from his professional and financial status but from his socially validated role as overseer of his sisters’ future lives. As such, what is most telling—and most damning of him—is the way in which he not only fails to show any delicacy towards Emma’s newly and greatly reduced circumstances (which, in themselves, ought to have inspired his fraternal compassion), but also actually steamrollers his way through a list of what he sees as the errors, weaknesses, and foibles that have led to Emma’s return. Here, it is the juxtaposition of his bullish remarks with Emma’s mild but dignified responses that reveal the narrative preference. Speaking of the uncle whose will has been to Emma’s disadvantage, he remarks: “I thought Turner [Emma’s uncle] had been reckoned an extraordinarily sensible, clever man. How the devil came he to make such a will?”, to which Emma answers: My uncle’s sense is not at all impeached in my opinion by his attachment to my aunt. She had been an excellent wife to him. The most liberal and enlightened minds are always the most confiding. The event has been unfortunate; but my uncle’s memory is, if possible, endeared to me by such a proof of tender respect for my aunt. (TW 123, both fragments)

It can therefore come as no surprise that Emma declines Robert’s invitation to his home, a rejection that has as much symbolic value as pragmatic. And thus Emma, the narrator, and the narrative arrangements within the

2  THE VISIBLE-INVISIBLE GOOD MAN IN JANE AUSTEN’S… 

33

novella, counter and foil the various masculine unkindnesses, impositions, and malignancies that are on show throughout. In this way, the narrative signals its opposition to such modes of thought and behaviour. It goes further still, though, by also pointing to an alternative form of masculine comportment in the guise of a character whose presence is very slight, but whose effect on the text is particularly notable. “I should like to know the man you do think agreeable”, Elizabeth enquires of her sister the day after the ball, to which Emma replies: “His name is Howard” (TW 112). Clergyman to the Osborne’s parish, Mr Howard is this novella’s visible-invisible good man. His direct appearance in The Watsons amounts to little more than fifteen lines and is vastly outweighed by that of the toxic gang. But whereas they are consistently objectionable, Howard displays the very opposite qualities to theirs. In stark opposition to the various infelicities shown by Tom, Osborne, and Robert, Howard is never anything other than courteous, serene, and (appropriately) attentive. And by being so, he provides the narrative not simply with a glimmer of relief from the persistently dire sense of pursuit faced by Emma, but also suggests a way in which the novella equips itself with a positive model of masculinity, whose fuller development in a completed version of the text might help Emma attain the respect and dignity so consistently denied her. “His manners are of a kind to give me much more ease and confidence than Tom Musgrave’s” (TW 111), Emma remarks approvingly of Howard, yet also diplomatically understating (and lexically implying) the lack of ease and confidence that Tom inspires in her. The narrative clue to Howard’s importance is, of course, the manner in which he affects Emma, who finds his qualities to be especially appealing. But what are these qualities that so impress her and act to oppose the other men who people this brief story? On this, the novella tells us only the following: “In himself, [Emma] thought [Howard] as agreeable as he looked; though chatting on the commonest topics, he had a sensible, unaffected way of expressing himself, which made them all worth hearing” (TW 103). He is, in short, easy to get along with, sensible, natural. These are not by any means extraordinary qualities; and yet they are the basis for normal, healthy, constructive interaction. He speaks “on the commonest topics”, not on subjects such as those that Tom forces onto his listeners in which the attainment of his own objectives is never far from view, nor on those that Robert indelicately insists upon in spite of his sister’s evident discomfort. Unlike the sinister, voyeuristic Osborne, Howard is engaging and unaffected. Above all, in this briefest of cameos, he never makes Emma

34 

D. OWEN

feel that she is either prey or burden; she feels, instead, comfortable: “[T]here was” we are told, “a quietly cheerful, gentlemanlike air in Mr. Howard which suited her” (TW 101, my italics).

Conclusion The Watsons provides so unclouded a view of the indignities and unhappiness experienced by unmarried middle-class women of limited financial means in Austen’s times that, as we have seen, this is usually assumed (although I would add, at least questionably) to have been the cause of its incompleteness. And, in Emma, we have a disconsolate portrait of a young woman fending off unwanted male attention, being made aware of the liability that she has now become, with no apparent escape from the narrow, pinched world that she has been returned to. This is all exacerbated by the manifold instances of toxic masculinity to which she is directly exposed, in which she is treated as a prize to be won or a problem to be solved, but never as a person with her own views, ideas, and choices. Yet through the shadowy appearance of Mr Howard, the novella also insinuates a discrete, constructive masculinity. Its effect on Emma, its implicit comparison with the toxicity she otherwise faces, and the manner in which it sets our troubled protagonist at ease, all act to suggest that distinct resolutions, distinct ways of living, are possible (something that would become a commonplace in Austen’s later novels). This is not only of value to Emma Watson; it also affirms the worth and consequence to Austen’s world of better, more considerate, and more respectful masculine behaviour.

Notes 1. All Austen’s mature fiction is fundamentally focussed on single, young women finding a suitable male romantic partner. In many ways, The Watsons, by highlighting the suitability of its good man, Howard, and by suggesting the characteristics of this suitability, merely foreshadows the Bingleys, Darcys, Knightleys, or Brandons of the later novels. But whilst this is an obvious function of the love plot, Austen also draws our attention to the nature and dangers of toxic men, and her novella is a significant building block on which this aspect of her subsequent work is based. 2. The surviving text is short, containing just under 18,000 words. Austen never gave the work a title. ‘The Watsons’ was provided as an obvious

2  THE VISIBLE-INVISIBLE GOOD MAN IN JANE AUSTEN’S… 

35

solution to this lacuna by James Edward Austen-Leigh in the first publication of the novella, in A Memoir of Jane Austen (1871). 3. See Sutherland (2012, audio file), who views the novella as something of a watershed that leaves behind Austen’s literary juvenilia interests and begins to bring into play the style and themes of her later writing: “The Watsons is an experiment in turning fiction into life and life into fiction” and a “repository of classic Austen ingredients”. 4. The Watsons is one of Austen’s few extant manuscript works (unlike the original texts of all her mature novels, which have not survived). See Jane Austen’s Fiction Manuscripts: “The untitled and unfinished manuscript consists of two portions and is Jane Austen’s only known work of fiction surviving in manuscript to have suffered physical separation (…)”. (https://janeausten.ac.uk/edition/ms/WatsonsHeadNote.html). These two portions are MS.  MA 1034, Morgan Library & Museum, New  York, and MS.  Eng. e. 3764, Bodleian Library, Oxford. See Le Faye, “Chronology” (2008); Sutherland (2005, passim); and Southam (2001: 63). For further discussion, see Southam (64–65). 5. The revised edition also included the text of the unfinished epistolary novella Lady Susan. For further discussion of Austen-Leigh’s authorial decisions and of the public response to this revised, second edition, see Todd and Bree (in The Watsons, xxxiv–xliv). 6. See Sutherland (2012). 7. See, for instance, Jenkins (1938). 8. Interestingly, this is not the case in comments made on The Watsons by Virginia Woolf (see “Jane Austen” in The Common Reader, 1925), in which one writer perceives and comprehends that the other writer’s text as it stands is still largely in a draft phase, and must therefore be read as such, since this has its own value. 9. According to a note from Austen-Leigh accompanying the text of The Watsons in its first publication (1871), Austen family lore recorded a happy ending. See Austen-Leigh (2002). 10. Austen’s brother Edward (1767–1852) was adopted by Thomas and Catherine Knight, the wealthy but childless patrons of Austen’s father, George. 11. The formal Regency Era covers the period 1811–1820. The long era, as is common for such long attributes in historical and literary studies, recognises a far greater space of cultural transition. 12. A common element in Austen’s fiction is the poignant figure of an unmarried woman approaching 30. On Austen’s opinions regarding the social position of women with respect to marriage, see Monaghan (1981). 13. Time and again, even in this brief and unfinished novella, we see that men could very often and very largely do whatever they wished, socially.

36 

D. OWEN

Even where protocol was seemingly rigid, Austen’s fiction is replete with men who fail to observe social strictures, and for whom no real adverse response is ever forthcoming. Such were the double standards of the time. 14. “Lord Osborne (…) call[ed] Tom Musgrave towards him and s[aid], ‘Why do not you dance with that beautiful Emma Watson? I want you to dance with her, and I will come and stand by you⁠’” (TW 101). When Emma in fact engages to dance not with Tom, but with Mr Howard, Osborne remarks “That will do as well for me, (…) and he was continually at Howard’s elbow during the two dances” (TW 103, original italics). 15. As ever, Austen’s narrator provides the key to how best to read this character. He is self-important, money-focused, and socially ambitious: “Robert Watson was an attorney at Croydon, in a good way of business; very well satisfied with himself for the same, and for having married the only daughter of the attorney to whom he had been clerk, with a fortune of six thousand pounds” (TW 119).

References Austen, Jane. 2008, ?1803/1804. The Watsons. In The Cambridge Edition of the Works of Jane Austen: Later Manuscripts, eds. Janet Todd and Linda Bree, 79–136. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Austen-Leigh, James Edward. 2002, 1871. A Memoir of Jane Austen and Other Family Recollections, ed. Kathryn Sutherland. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Connell, R.W. 2005, 1995. Masculinities. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Jane Austen’s Fiction Manuscripts (Joint AHRC project, University of Oxford/ King’s College London). https://janeausten.ac.uk/index.html. Accessed 1 February 2022. Jenkins, Elizabeth. 1938. Jane Austen: A Biography. London: Gollancz. Le Faye, Dierdre. 2008. Chronology. In The Cambridge Edition of the Works of Jane Austen Later Manuscripts, ed. Janet Todd and Linda Bree, xxi–xxvii. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Monaghan, David. 1981. Jane Austen and the Position of Women. In Jane Austen in a Social Context, ed. David Monaghan, 105–121. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Southam, Brian C. 2001, 1964. Jane Austen’s Literary Manuscripts: A Study of the Novelist’s Development through the Surviving Papers. London: The Athlone Press. Sutherland, Kathryn. 2005. Chronology of Composition and Publication. In Jane Austen in Context, ed. Janet Todd, 12–22. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

2  THE VISIBLE-INVISIBLE GOOD MAN IN JANE AUSTEN’S… 

37

———. 2012. The Watsons: Jane Austen Practising. University of Oxford Podcasts, June 8. https://podcasts.ox.ac.uk/watsons-­jane-­austen-­practising-­0. Accessed 1 February 2022. Tosh, John. 2016. Manliness and Masculinities in Nineteenth-Century Britain: Essays on Gender, Family and Empire. Abingdon: Routledge. Woolf, Virginia. 1925. Jane Austen. In The Common Reader, 76–82. London: The Hogarth Press.

CHAPTER 3

Ishmael’s Detoxing Process: Escaping Domestic Homogeneity in Moby-Dick Rodrigo Andrés

Introduction: A Novel of Escape In his seminal work of literary and cultural criticism Love and Death in the American Novel (1960) Leslie Fiedler argued that, unlike the European novel, whose “subject par excellence” is “love or, more precisely—in its beginnings at least—seduction and marriage”, the American novel was, from its inception, a novel of escape “from society to nature or nightmare out of a desperate need to avoid the facts of wooing, marriage, and child-­ bearing” (25).1 For Fiedler, “the typical male protagonist of our fiction has been a man on the run, harried into the forest and out to sea, down the river or into combat—anywhere to avoid ‘civilization’, which is to say, the confrontation of a man and woman which leads to the fall to sex, marriage, and responsibility” (26). Fiedler supports his thesis with references to Huckleberry Finn, The Last of the Mohicans, The Red Badge of Courage,

R. Andrés (*) Universitat de Barcelona, Barcelona, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_3

39

40 

R. ANDRÉS

the stories by Edgar Allan Poe, Washington Irving’s “Rip Van Winkle”, and classic works by authors from Charles Brockden Brown to William Faulkner or Eudora Welty, Paul Bowles or John Hawkes, including James Baldwin and Norman Mailer. For him, however, one of the texts that most clearly illustrates his thesis is Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick (1851), a novel which he uses as the principal justification of a very provocative statement: “[T]he American eros has not really changed. We continue to dream the female dead, and ourselves in the arms of our dusky male lovers” (29, original italics). Hsuan L. Hsu’s assertion, in 2010, that “[i]n Melville’s writings, mobility gestures toward—even if it seldom delivers—the possibility of escape from the domestic, heterosexual, and economic constraints of national culture” (134) is indicative of how Fiedler’s 1960 reading of Moby-Dick was still influential fifty years later.2 While I celebrate Leslie Fiedler’s analysis as an early critical excavation of the recurrence of homoerotic ideals in some of the major American novels and short stories of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth century, I differ from Fiedler in his reading of Moby-Dick. It is obviously true that the novel’s narrator, Ishmael, escapes from society by going to sea and thus encounters the ocean as unbridled nature. However, my intention in this chapter is to show that Ishmael does not flee “to nature” as Fiedler would have it, but rather toward cohabitation with strangers, both foreign and national. I also argue that this escape is not (only, or necessarily) from the fact of “sex, marriage, and responsibility” with, to, and for a woman, but from the increasingly pervasive discourses and praxes of homogeneity of/in “the domestic” in the mid-nineteenth-­ century United States. The new types of cohabitation with(in) diversity that Ishmael experiences are certainly incomplete, for an all-male inn, first, and a whaling ship, later, are spaces where women are absent. However, it is my contention that, in spite of the absence of women, these all-male domestic spaces do not reinforce the narrator’s initial self-confessed aggressive and violent type of toxic masculinity or foster any misogyny in him. On the contrary, being forced to live with men who are his ethnic, linguistic, cultural, and religious Others triggers, in fact, a necessary detoxing process. The new domestic environments he inhabits teach him, in fact, to unlearn his prejudices and free himself from his fears of human beings who are different from himself. Ishmael progressively stops being aggressive and violent, and learns instead to become a relational person who can establish non-­ hierarchical and non-competitive relationships with, initially, all sorts of

3  ISHMAEL’S DETOXING PROCESS: ESCAPING DOMESTIC HOMOGENEITY… 

41

men. This detoxing process through cohabitation with other men, I argue, results in a definitely happier and hopefully more emotionally mature Ishmael, who may now be also ready to establish new relationships with women and, to contemplate, as he claims, “attainable felicity (…) in the wife, [and in] the heart” (Moby-Dick 369). This chapter is organized in four sections: section “Escaping Toxic Homogeneity” focuses on Chapter 1 of Moby-Dick, “Loomings”, as it is here that the novel’s narrator, Ishmael, explains in some detail the psychological discomfort that drives him to sea. This section analyzes some of the discourses and ideals, as well as actual architectonic and social implementations, of domestic homogeneity that might be at the root of that discomfort. Section “Living-With in Pluralistic Dwellings” focuses on Ishmael’s process of personal transformation throughout the novel, from his acknowledged potential aggressiveness—both other-oriented and suicidal—to friendliness, joy, and affection. Section “Cohabitation: Morality, Ethics, Goodness” posits the connection between cohabitation in pluralistic domestic spaces, on the one hand, and morality, ethics, and goodness, on the other. Section “‘Unhousing’: The Need to Create More Pluralistic Dwellings” argues for reading Moby-Dick in the light of the theoretical concept of ‘unhousing’ as variously articulated by critics Paula Geyh, Sara Ahmed, and Dolores Resano. Together, these four moves suggest that Leslie Fiedler’s claim that “[t]he whole movement of the book [Moby-­ Dick] is from land to sea, from time to timelessness” (382) is incomplete. Ishmael does not escape further into normative masculinity, but rather undergoes a process of radical detoxification. He flees the domestic homogeneity that initially oppresses him, but only moves from aggressiveness to joy and kindness as a result of his exposure to, and contact with, the very diverse components of a pluralistic community in the form of two heterogeneous living spaces: first the Spouter-Inn in New Bedford, Massachusetts, and then the whaling ship the Pequod.

Escaping Toxic Homogeneity Chapter 1 of Moby-Dick, “Loomings”, offers the reader an account of the psychological state that compels Ishmael to leave his household. Ishmael declares that having “nothing particular to interest [him] on shore”, he decides to sail, as a way of “driving off the spleen”:

42 

R. ANDRÉS

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses (…); and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. (MD 21)

Ishmael adds that he feels this urge to go to sea “whenever [he] begins to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin[s] to be over conscious of [his] lungs” (22). This account combines manifestations of both physical and mental symptoms associated with hypochondria, irritation, melancholy, depression, and rage that result not only in Ishmael’s unhappiness but also in his potential aggressiveness, both to others and to himself. Ishmael’s ennui and psychological discomfort are connected to a social discomfort caused by the circulation of certain nostalgic discourses on the domestic in the United States of the mid-nineteenth century that expressed an ideal of ethnic, religious, and ideological homogeneity. This aspiration to domestic homogeneity, I argue, rejected the increasing social plurality of the country, with the domestic understood not only as the ‘household’ but also much more widely as ‘the nation’. Those discourses urged mid-­ nineteenth-­century white Americans to live in suburban residences (cottages, farmhouses, and villas) removed from the cities, and within communities of the like-minded, sharing middle-class aspirations based on ‘the family’. These discourses were reinforced by, among other means, best-selling books such as Catharine Beecher’s A Treatise on Domestic Economy for the Use of Young Ladies at Home and at School (1842) and Andrew Jackson Downing’s The Architecture of Country Houses (1850). As a matter of fact, in the United States of the 1840s and 1850s, plans and actual projects responding to the logic of social homogeneity proliferated. Both faith-based and secular, they attempted to implement some of the main social ideas promulgated by these texts. Some of these plans were developed in the form of single buildings, some as organic phalansteries, and some as planned neighborhoods. Urban historian Dolores Hayden has analyzed the living plans and arrangements of the Shakers, the Oneida Perfectionists, the Fourierists, the Amana Inspirationists, the Harmonists, the Moravians, the Hutterian Brethren, the Koreshan, the Union Colonists, the Millerites, and the Transcendentalists at Brook Farm,

3  ISHMAEL’S DETOXING PROCESS: ESCAPING DOMESTIC HOMOGENEITY… 

43

among others. She has concluded, “The movement for building communitarian towns in the United States began in the late eighteenth century and reached its peak in the 1840s”, and that these communities “strove to perfect their dwellings (…) in order to display material evidence of the superiority of their religious beliefs or their political views” (2003: 50). However, it was in the 1850s, in particular, that American domestic planners became especially interested in the notion of community as sameness and, consequently, as isolation and exclusion of difference: “The picturesque enclave was launched in the 1850s, the product of an era when debates about the construction of community filled the pages of popular magazines and daily newspapers. It came at a time when Americans discussed moving beyond the private house to share space with one’s neighbors and build physical community” (2003: 65–66). These planned communities attempted to materialize some of the aspirations of American nativists. As Kellen Bolt argues, A political movement that flourished in urban centers during the 1840s and ‘50s, American nativism encompassed a range of loosely associated organizations and ideologies that broadly sought to protect US democratic institutions from foreign influences, particularly the Roman Catholic Church. (…) Nativists routinely borrowed from sentimental literary discourses to fabricate an intimate nationality that allowed white, American-born men to join an imagined community that offered its members political, economic, and affective advantages. (10–12)3

In another of her studies, Hayden argues that these “communal groups needed a strong sense of their collective identity if they were going to develop a cohesive community” (1979: 42). In some of these groups, such as the Oneidans, members “piously exhorted each other to develop the ‘we-spirit’ instead of the ‘I-spirit’” (1979: 42) by standardizing buildings, enforcing social commitment, group cohesion, and communion, sometimes even resorting to the effects of “special dress, language, and customs” (1979: 47). Their plans for domestic spaces reflect, as Hayden claims of those of the Perfectionists, “their psychological need to believe that they were not only superior to the rest of the world, but unique” (1979: 197). Frederick Law Olmsted, who designed Riverside, Illinois, for the Harmonists, described the planned community this way:

44 

R. ANDRÉS

The families dwelling within a suburb enjoy much in common (…) and all the more enjoy it because it is in common, the grand fact, in short, that they are Christians, loving one another, and not Pagans, fearing one another, should be everywhere manifest in the completeness, the choiceness, and beauty of the means they possess of coming together (…) and especially of recreating and enjoying them[selves] together on common ground, and under common shades. (In Hayden 2003: 62)

This rhetoric echoes that of the Fourierists, with their insistence on some recurrent concepts—both architectural and social—such as “association”, “harmony”, and “cooperation” (Hayden 2003: 62). The fantasy of homogeneity provided both foundation and mortar to keep these domestic arrangements together. Their visions of domestic homogeneity were built on and reinforced by a fear of difference, both external and internal. In Moby-Dick Melville was responding critically to how his fellow white Americans of the mid-nineteenth century were elaborating theories of and plans for community based on the politics of apartheid instead of accepting life as living-with in exposure to difference. Those politics can be seen in the mid-twentieth-century affluent suburb and, later, in today’s gated communities where residential segregation on the basis of race, religion, and social class follows the logic of what Zygmunt Bauman calls “mixophobia” (2003: 31). As Dolores Hayden points out, “Locating the origins of contemporary suburbia in popular social movements of the 1840s begins to explain why community became an enduring part of the triple dream (house, land, and community)” (2003: 46). According to political scientist Nancy Rosenblum, since that first moment of residential mixophobia “Americans ceaselessly erect religious and secular utopias (…) neighbors elect to join a bounded community of the whole. The whole life, the whole person, is committed in what amounts to a rejection of pluralism. Surveillance and discipline are endemic to perfectionist communities” (Rosenblum 2018: 118). These domestic segregations oftentimes reveal increasingly reactionary processes of snobbery, racism, and progressively diminishing democracy where “extremely narrow views of social coherence” reign (Hayden 2003: 70). One of the results of these increasingly reactionary processes over time is that “[r]esidential segregation is the principal organizational feature of American society that is responsible for the creation of the urban underclass” (Massey and Denton 1998: 9). The dynamics are such that it becomes difficult to know whether homogeneity is the result of prejudice or the cause of it:

3  ISHMAEL’S DETOXING PROCESS: ESCAPING DOMESTIC HOMOGENEITY… 

45

Social scientists puzzle over the microfoundations of prejudice, particularly when it comes to residential segregation. Does prejudice cause segregation? Or is the process reversed, and segregation is motivated by comfort with our affinity group and way of doing things? (The term is “homophily”, or the tendency of people to interact, and live, near others like themselves). (Rosenblum 2018: 125–26)

The early connection between dwellings, “purity”, and race/ethnicity was such that, already in the decade when Moby-Dick was published, some of the intentional communities of the 1850s attempted to build their living spaces combining geometric symbolism “with the phrenological virtues of ‘constructiveness’, and ‘inhabitativeness’ which appealed to communards” (Hayden 1979: 38), as with the octagonal dwelling of Orson Squire Fowler in Fishkill, New York, in 1854. As Hayden points out, the Oneidans, among other collectives, “shared Fowler’s passion for phrenology, which may have led them to his architecture” (1979: 223). And it is important to note that “virtues”—phrenological or otherwise— were themselves racially coded. Here I want to suggest that the narrator of Moby-Dick feels suffocated by the narrow-mindedness of these discourses in defense of homogeneity. Ishmael’s necessity is not to escape from civilization to nature per se—as Fiedler would have it—but to move from living within stifling demographic sameness to cohabiting in human diversity. Ishmael’s psychological recovery does not start when he has left civilization behind and is in the middle of the ocean. If that were the case, we could hypothesize that what heals Ishmael from his aggressiveness is how, on the ocean, sailors are exposed to one natural wonder after another: the breathtaking silence and endlessness of the seascape, stunning sunrises and sunsets, and, of course, the sighting of the largest animals on the entire planet. Or we might attribute Ishmael’s recovery to the experience of wonders in other lands, for the ship—which Michel Foucault (1984) defined as the heterotopia ‘par excellence’—contains, due to its very mobility, the promise of things exotic in distant shores. Ishmael would, of course, be attracted to this promise of wonders, as he recognizes that he is “tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote” and that he loves to sail “forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts” (25). However, Ishmael’s process of recovery does not start on the ocean; it actually begins before he leaves civilization. In fact, his disposition shifts as soon as he is exposed to, and needs to interact with, men who do not look

46 

R. ANDRÉS

like him, do not speak his language, do not pray like him, and who have ethical and social values different from his own. Thus, it is not civilization but the insistence on social homogeneity that was the source of his malaise in the first place. Ishmael’s detoxing begins at the Spouter-Inn in New Bedford, Massachusetts, when he is forced by circumstances to share a bedroom and a bed with Queequeg, a black cannibalistic pagan from the South Seas. In spite of his initial terror and rejection of Queequeg, Ishmael, to his surprise, finds pleasure in sharing a living space with a man from another hemisphere, whose language, religion, ethnicity, skin color, traditions, and values differ from his own. The two become, in Ishmael’s own words, “a cosy, loving pair” (64).

Living-With in Pluralistic Dwellings Ishmael’s healing from toxic aggressiveness to kindness starts when he abandons his community of sameness and begins to inhabit dwelling spaces (a room at an inn, first; a ship, later) which force him to re-­ conceptualize the notion of the domestic as one of exposure to, negotiation with, and cohabitation within—albeit all-male—diversity. By sleeping with and spending much time near his foreign black roommate Queequeg at the Spouter-Inn, Ishmael learns to recognize that he had been “cherishing unwarrantable prejudices” (MD 34) and that “ignorance is the parent of fear” (40). He begins to question his own behavior: “What’s all this fuss I have been making about, thought I to myself—the man’s a human being just as I am: he has just as much reason to fear me, as I have to be afraid of him” (40). Ishmael moves past his initial reading of Queequeg as “a savage” and sees the beauty in him, for “[y]ou cannot hide the soul. Through all his unearthly tattooings, I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils” (61). Herman Melville does not miss the opportunity which Ishmael’s physical description of Queequeg offers to mock the racist discourse of the pseudoscience of phrenology, which, as we saw earlier, informed the segregationist aspirations of contemporary planners of homogeneous living spaces: Whether it was, too, that his head being shaved, his forehead was drawn out in freer and brighter relief, and looked more expansive than it otherwise would, this I will not venture to decide; but certain it was his head was phrenologically an excellent one. It may seem ridiculous, but it reminded me of

3  ISHMAEL’S DETOXING PROCESS: ESCAPING DOMESTIC HOMOGENEITY… 

47

General Washington’s head, as seen in the popular bust of him. It had the same long regularly graded retreating slope from above the brows, which were likewise very projecting, like two long promontories thickly wooded on top. Queequeg was George Washington cannibalistically developed. (MD 61–62)

By comparing the skull of a black “savage” from the South Pacific with that of the Founding Father who served as the first president of the United States, Melville ridicules those toxic discourses that both stem from and perpetuate racism and which equate the domestic with racial homogeneity, whether at the level of actual dwellings or at the level of the national. Ishmael learns to admire Queequeg’s “Socratic wisdom” (62) and recognizes that living with this singular man has tempered his toxic, aggressive masculinity. He finds himself open to experiencing emotions that were unknown to him: “I began to be sensible of strange feelings. I felt a melting in me. No more my splintered heart and maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world. This soothing savage had redeemed it (…) Wild he was; a very sight of sights to see; yet I began to feel myself mysteriously drawn toward him” (62). Ishmael understands that his transformation is due to more than a casual social encounter with difference. He has changed from an initially angry, violence-prone man with suicidal inclinations into a loving man because he and Queequeg have shared domestic space in the Spouter-Inn. And his move from first-person plural to singular suggests that his experience is generalizable: “[S]ee how elastic our stiff prejudices grow when love once comes to bend them. For now I liked nothing better than to have Queequeg smoking by me, even in bed, because he seemed to be full of such serene household joy then” (66). This household experience cures Ishmael of his former mixophobia; in fact, he comes to despise the racist “jeering glances of the passengers (…) who marveled that two fellow beings should be so companionable; as though a white man were anything more dignified than a white washed negro” (71). This experience of living-in with diversity at the Spouter-Inn prepares Ishmael for his second household experience of healing, from aggressiveness and anger to kindness and joy, this time aboard the Pequod, a ship whose crew is, though all male, globally diverse. As a member of the Pequod’s crew, Ishmael interacts not only with Americans who are white, black, Native, Northern, and Southern, but also with men from the South Sea islands, Africa, Persia, the Shetland Islands, and “the Isle of Man, France, Iceland, the Netherlands, the Azores, Sicily and Malta, China,

48 

R. ANDRÉS

Chile, Denmark, Portugal, India, England, Spain, and Ireland” (“Crewmembers of the Pequod” 2017). Ishmael describes them exuberantly: “federated along one keel, what a set these isolatoes were! An Anarchasis Clootz deputation from all the isles of the sea, and all the ends of the earth” (123).4 We see this living-with in diversity working to detoxify Ishmael’s masculinity when he and his fellow sailors manipulate whale spermaceti. Ishmael experiences a second “melting” in(to) affection and kindness: Squeeze! squeeze! squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that sperm till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a strange sort of insanity came over me; and I found myself unwittingly squeezing my co-­ laborers’ hands in it, mistaking their hands for the gentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was continually squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally; as much as to say,—Oh! My dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-­ humor or envy! Come; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness. (368–369)

Inhabiting a radically diverse and pluralistic domestic space—in this case, the ship—enables Ishmael to contemplate a future domestic setting that may bring him happiness: Would that I could keep squeezing that sperm for ever! For now, since by many prolonged, repeated experiences, I have perceived that in all cases man must eventually lower, or at least shift his conceit of attainable felicity; not placing it anywhere in the intellect or the fancy; but in the wife, the heart, the bed, the table, the saddle, the fire-side, the country; now that I have perceived all this, I am ready to squeeze case eternally. (369)

A felicitous domestic space (both at the level of a dwelling and at the level of the nation), therefore, must have its foundations in the acknowledgment of the possibilities of living-with in the world. Only then will a hand that was ready for “pistol and ball” (21)—a “maddened hand (…) turned against the wolfish world” (62)—be able to hold other hands in “abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling” (368–69).

3  ISHMAEL’S DETOXING PROCESS: ESCAPING DOMESTIC HOMOGENEITY… 

49

Cohabitation: Morality, Ethics, Goodness As this chapter is part of a volume that examines the nature and the conditions of the ‘goodness’ of a number of male literary characters, it may be worth contextualizing the discussion of ‘goodness’ in relation to those of ‘ethics’ and ‘morality’ in the work of Herman Melville. In her 2014 lecture “Literature and the Silence of Goodness”, Nobel Laureate in Literature Toni Morrison surveyed canonical American literature and concluded that, in it, “evil has vivid speech; goodness bites its tongue”. For her the rare exceptions to the formula are “sort of puzzles in literary criticism”, and she refers specifically to three Melvillean characters: “[I]t’s Billy Budd [from Billy Budd, Sailor], who can only stutter, (…) it’s Melville’s Bartleby [from ‘Bartleby, the Scrivener’], confining language to repetition”, and it’s the innocence represented by Pip, from Moby-Dick. The specific interest of studying Ishmael, rather than Billy Budd, Bartleby, or Pip, for this chapter is that whereas the latter are good men, Ishmael becomes one as the novel unfolds. Although for some philosophers the terms ‘ethics’ and ‘morality’ may overlap or may even be used synonymously, Avishai Margalit made a clear distinction between the two. In the philosopher’s account, [T]his in turn is based on a distinction between two types of human relations: thick ones and thin ones. Thick relations (…) are anchored in a shared past or moored in shared memory. Thin relations, on the other hand, are backed by the attribute of being human. (…) Thick relations are in general our relations to the near and dear. Thin relations are in general our relation to the stranger and remote. (2004: 7)

For Margalit, “Ethics (…) tells us how we should regulate our thick relations; morality tells us how we should regulate our thin relations (…). Because it encompasses all humanity, morality is long on geography and short on memory. Ethics is typically short on geography and long on memory” (8). Margalit’s distinction perhaps inadvertently reinforces a discourse of homogeneity. By stating that morality “encompasses all humanity”, Margalit seems to equate morality with the kind of very basic human decency that should determine our responsiveness universally to every person on earth. On the other hand, ethics is understood to be a more responsible commitment, guiding our thick relations with family and blood ties and “greatly concerned with loyalty and betrayal” (8). For

50 

R. ANDRÉS

Margalit, therefore, our responsibility to other human beings is gauged by degrees of proximity and distance, which in turn determine both the degree of our exposure to their reality and our potential empathy to it. In the last few decades Judith Butler has repeatedly problematized this type of distinction as, for her, it has been rendered obsolete, mainly, by our living in a world saturated by communications technology. Butler has pointed out that whether we want it or not, we are interpellated—through photographs or images in the newspapers, the TV, the internet, and social media—by the realities and the faces of human beings from regions that are geographically remote to us. That visual interpellation, Butler argues, oftentimes elicits a kind of response from us that is closer to a face-to-face ethical response than to the moral reaction we would have to those realities were we not able to see them. In Butler’s words, “I become somehow implicated in lives that are clearly not the same as my own. And this happens even when we do not know the names of those who make their appeal to us or when we struggle to pronounce the name or to speak in a language we have never learned” (2012: 149). For Butler, therefore, an ethical response can be triggered in us as the result of our domestic space being penetrated by the image of the body of another human being who might come from a reality that is very different from our own. For her, [W]e do not choose with whom to cohabit the earth, we have to honor those obligations to (…) those we may not love, those we may never love, do not know, and did not choose. (…) We live together because we have no choice, and though we sometimes rail against that unchosen condition, we remain obligated to struggle to affirm the ultimate value of that unchosen social world. (2012: 150)

According to Butler’s logic, then, the scale of the domestic is now the entire world, and thus our relations to our global cohabitation should be “ethical” and not simply “moral” as Margalit understood the terms. My intention in this part of the chapter is to claim that in 1851 Herman Melville had already materialized the very abstract notion of “cohabitation of the world” by suggesting that this abstraction can be tested in actual domestic experiences without the intervention of contemporary technologies. In his Moby-Dick all Ishmael needs to do is to move out from the “near and dear” (in Margalit’s words) and into living spaces that posit cohabitation as a deliberate choice to live in human diversity. By plotting Ishmael’s experiences, first at an inn that forces its dwellers to share

3  ISHMAEL’S DETOXING PROCESS: ESCAPING DOMESTIC HOMOGENEITY… 

51

bedroom and bed with somebody different from them, and then on a ship where sailors must live in close quarters with (male) persons from different cultures, religions, languages, and traditions, Melville presents the possibility that those experiences may not hurt the man who undergoes them. On the contrary, they are generative: Ishmael is strengthened by them and, as a result of them, he is redeemed from his former toxic aggressiveness, finally discovering friendliness, kindness, and happiness. Domestic spaces that enable expansive encounters with diversity, therefore, may be what men need to combat not only diminished mental spaces and diminished democracies, but also diminished moral imaginations. The domestic spaces that Melville presents in Moby-Dick are domestic spaces in transit and/or domestic spaces that foster cohabitation with the foreigner and the still-stranger. Those domestic spaces may be the possible material context for a schooling of the moral imagination that may counteract homophily and generate instead the conditions for not only a pluralistic political imagination but a pluralistic understanding of citizenship, combining “the democracy of everyday life” with “the public life of democratic citizens” (Rosenblum 2018: 230). Ishmael’s domestic history illustrates, very clearly, that the size, the scope, the amplitude, and the awe of a man’s dwelling depend not on square meters or on its openness to one’s immediate bio/geopolitical community, but also on its openness to and embrace of the actual world.

“Unhousing”: The Need to Create More Pluralistic Dwellings Reading Ishmael’s journey from toxic aggressiveness to detoxed kindness as the result of his escape from social homogeneity into human diversity contests Fiedler’s classic interpretation of Moby-Dick. In my reading of the novel, one of the aspects that makes it a core text within the canon of American literature resides in its very first, framing chapter, which reveals the importance not only of the natural environment that the protagonist runs away to, but also of the social homogeneity that he runs away from. Contrary to Fiedler’s thesis, the ‘Americanness’ of the novel is not located in its disengagement from the social fabric, but in its very engaged critique of it. Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick diagnoses the American notion of domesticity in the mid-nineteenth century as exclusionary and indicates that the political solution to such narrowness may consist of attempting

52 

R. ANDRÉS

more open living spaces. And, if like Ishmael, we are made miserable by the notion of the domestic as we know it, we should undo it altogether. In this sense, Moby-Dick anticipates Sara Ahmed’s proposal in The Promise of Happiness that “[a] revolution of unhappiness might require an unhousing; it would require not legitimating more relationships, more houses, (…) but delegitimating the world that ‘houses’ some bodies and not others. The political energy (…) might depend on not being in house” (2010: 106). Ahmed’s use of the concept “unhousing” echoes that of Paula Geyh, who in 1993 defined it as “a movement to the margins of the relatively stable structures of society” and as “the deconstructing of a unitary, grounded subjectivity” (1993: 112–13). In a more recent interpretation of the concept, Dolores Resano claims that “akin to a refusal to be interpellated by the hegemonic discourse of the national itself, unhousing results in the construction of new bonds, and habitable domesticities. (…) It is precisely the (…) dissolution of the house that allows (…), or rather forces (…), (the creation of) these alternative, habitable spaces” (2022: 269). In Moby-Dick, Melville asserts the productiveness of the deconstruction of homogeneous domestic space. Rather than a threat to the self, this unhousing is the process through which the masculine self can be strengthened; being moved through exposure to the Other entails growth, both ideologically and politically. Ishmael’s affective education takes place within alternative but literal domestic spaces that are open to human (male) diversity and to the plurality of the world. Living-with diversity equips him mentally for happier houses or, as he phrases it, “attainable (domestic) felicity”. Nancy Rosenblum cautions us that “[c]ommonplace references to globalization, the valorization of cosmopolitanism, universal moral norms that often seem to float high off the surface of everyday relations, media that bring us images from across the world, tempt us to understate the significance of place” (25). Domestic spaces in transit, domestic spaces that foster cohabitation with the foreigner and the still-­ stranger, may be the possible material sites for a schooling of the moral imagination that may, in its turn, generate the affective conditions for a pluralistic political imagination and a global understanding of personal ethics. This may hopefully result in subjects who are rid of toxic masculinities and are, instead, ready and willing to establish healthier relationships with themselves, with other men, and with other women.

3  ISHMAEL’S DETOXING PROCESS: ESCAPING DOMESTIC HOMOGENEITY… 

53

Notes 1. I wish to acknowledge the funding provided by the Spanish Ministerio de Ciencia, Innovación y Universidades/Agencia Estatal de Investigación— MCIN/AEI/ 10.13039/501100011033 (Research Project “(Un)Housing: Dwellings, Materiality, and the Self in American Literature”, ref. PID2020-115172GB-I00, co-IPs Rodrigo Andrés and Cristina Alsina Rísquez). I also thank Cynthia Stretch (Southern Connecticut State University) for her insightful comments to an early draft of this chapter. 2. For analyses of the political valences of the homoerotic relationship between Ishmael and Queequeg, see Martin (1986), Crain (1994), Coviello (2005), Andrés (2007), Looby (2011), and Bolt (2019). 3. For more on nativist ideologies of these decades, see Knobel (1996). 4. “In 1790, Prussian Jean-Baptiste du Val-de-Grace, Baron Cloots (1755–1794), self-named Anacharsis, led a delegation of foreigners representing mankind into the new French National Assembly” (Bryant and Springer 2007: 512).

References Ahmed, Sara. 2010. The Promise of Happiness. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Andrés, Rodrigo. 2007. Herman Melville: poder y amor entre hombres. València: Publicacions de la Universitat de València. Bauman, Zygmunt. 2003. City of Fears, City of Hopes. London: CUCR, Goldsmiths College. Beecher, Catharine. 2012, 1842. Treatise on Domestic Economy for Use of Young Ladies at Home and at School. London: Forgotten Books. Bolt, Kellen. 2019. Squeezing Sperm: Nativism, Queer Contact, and the Futures of Democratic Intimacy in Moby-Dick. ESQ: A Journal of Nineteenth-Century American Literature and Culture 65 (2): 293–329. https://doi.org/10.1353/ esq.2019.0007. Bryant, John, and Haskell Springer. 2007. Explanatory Notes. In Moby-Dick, ed. Herman Melville, 501–570. New York: Pearson Longman. Butler, Judith. 2012. Precarious Life, Vulnerability, and the Ethics of Cohabitation. Journal of Speculative Philosophy 26 (2): 134–151. Coviello, Peter. 2005. Intimacy in America: Dreams of Affiliation in Antebellum Literature. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Crain, Caleb. 1994. Lovers of Human Flesh: Homosexuality and Cannibalism in Melville’s Novels. American Literature 66 (1) March: 25–53. Crewmembers of the Pequod. 2017, February 18. In Search of Moby Dick. https:// insearchofmobydick.wordpress.com/blog/. Accessed 30 December 2021.

54 

R. ANDRÉS

Downing, Andrew Jackson. 1969, 1850. The Architecture of Country Houses. New York: Dover Publications. Fiedler, Leslie. 1992, 1960. Love and Death in the American Novel. New  York: Anchor Books. Foucault, Michel. 1984. Des espaces autres. Hétérotopies. https://foucault.info/ documents/heterotopia/foucault.heteroTopia.fr/. Accessed 27 December 2021. Geyh, Paula. 1993. Burning Down the House? Domestic Space and Feminine Subjectivity in Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping. Contemporary Literature 34 (1): 103–122. https://doi-­org.sire.ub.edu/10.2307/1208504. Hayden, Dolores. 1979, 1976. Seven American Utopias: The Architecture of Communitarian Socialism, 1790–1975. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. ———. 2003. Building Suburbia: Green Fields and Urban Growth, 1820–2000. New York: Vintage. Hsu, Hsuan L. 2010. Geography and the Production of Space in Nineteenth-Century American Literature. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Knobel, Dale T. 1996. America for the Americans: The Nativist Movements of the United States. New York: Twayne. Looby, Christopher. 2011. Strange Sensations: Sex and Aesthetics in “The Counterpane”. In Melville and Aesthetics, ed. Samuel Otter and Geoffrey Sanborn, 65–84. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Margalit, Avishai. 2004, 2002. The Ethics of Memory. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Martin, Robert K. 1986. Hero, Captain, and Stranger: Male Friendship, Social Critique, and Literary Form in the Sea Novels of Herman Melville. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Massey, Douglas S., and Nancy A. Denton. 1998. American Apartheid: Segregation and the Making of the Underclass. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Melville, Herman. 2007, 1851. Moby-Dick. New York: Pearson Longman. Morrison, Toni. 2014, October 29. Literature and the Silence of Goodness. The Humanities Institute of Santa Cruz. https://thi.ucsc.edu/toni-­morrison/. Accessed 21 January 2022. Resano, Dolores. 2022. “A House at Odds with Itself”: Barbara Kingsolver’s Unsheltered. In American Houses: Literary Spaces of Resistance and Desire, ed. Rodrigo Andrés and Cristina Alsina Rísquez, 266–282. Leiden: Brill. Rosenblum, Nancy L. 2018. Good Neighbors: The Democracy of Everyday Life in America. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

CHAPTER 4

From Brutal to Spiritual Men in T.S. Eliot’s Poetry and Drama: Sweeney and Beyond Dídac Llorens-Cubedo

Introduction: How Dual Sweeney Unites Eliot’s Men In 1927 the American poet T.S. Eliot (1888–1965) was baptised into the Church of England, where he would practise as an Anglo-Catholic. Conversion caused his work to be oriented towards spirituality, transcendence, and eternity, as Ash Wednesday (1930) or Four Quartets (1935–1942) exemplify. Earlier poems—up to “The Hollow Men” (1925)—lack this unifying orientation; they are eclectic, bold, and often dramatic in their reliance on scenes and characters. In the collection Poems (1920), Eliot introduced a memorable male character representative of this pre-conversion vein, Sweeney. He would reappear briefly in The Waste Land (1922), and as the protagonist of the unfinished dramatic poem Sweeney Agonistes (1926). In his youth, Eliot knew several people named

D. Llorens-Cubedo (*) Universidad Nacional de Educación a Distancia (UNED), Madrid, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_4

55

56 

D. LLORENS-CUBEDO

“Sweeney”, and happened to like the name (Ricks and McCue 2015: 498), for being distinctly Irish and also for evoking the legendary Victorian murderer Sweeney Todd. Eliot’s Sweeney is largely perceived as “Irish-­ American, Catholic, uneducated, and lower class”, thus reflecting “a specific strain of nineteenth-century New-England anti-Irish sentiment” (Downum 2009: 5, 6). Its creator imagined him as “a man who in younger days was perhaps a professional pugilist, mildly successful; who then grew older and retired to keep a pub” (in Ricks and McCue 2015: 800). Like Sweeney Todd in his barber shop, Eliot’s Sweeney is pictured in eminently homosocial settings. The poems featuring Sweeney characterise him in heterogeneous, contrasting terms: animal, grotesque, monstrous, sexual, aggressive, but also human, civilised, sensitive, intelligent, and spiritual. This essential duality underlies Sweeney Agonistes,1 which, if completed, may have shown a clearer pattern of “pervasive doubling” denoting “dark and light sides to the self” (Smith 1998: 433). Definitions of the character stress combination, opposition, or incoherence of traits: the name “Sweeney” resonates both with “swine” and with “swan” (Downum 2009: 5, 6); he “straddles the human and the subhuman” (Brooker 2002: 429); this man is also “a caricatural embodiment of sensuality mixed with brutality” (Gibert-­ Maceda 1994: 106), showing “a dualistic temperament that vacillates between child-like innocence and murderous rage” (Dowd 2011: 123). Sweeney’s double personality categorises him as a “homo duplex—capable of violence and of culture, of spiralling downward or stretching upward”; at the same time, his multiple “avatars”, foregrounding one attribute or another, categorise him as “a homo multiplex” (Brooker 2002: 432, 433; original italics). Duplicity and multiplicity enhance representativeness, and hence Sweeney has been labelled “a modern everyman” (Dowd 2011: 126). Although the concept of the “everyman” is—even in a Modernist context—primarily masculine, Sweeney’s wide-ranging characterisation brings to mind the mythical blind diviner Tiresias, who lived both as man and as woman, and whom Eliot called “the most important personage” in The Waste Land, “uniting all the rest” (Eliot 2015: 74). The androgynous Tiresias, “old man with wrinkled dugs” (Eliot 2015: 63), contains therefore all Waste Land dwellers, male and female. When it comes to Eliot’s men, Sweeney fulfils a similar role in integrating polar or multiple aspects

4  FROM BRUTAL TO SPIRITUAL MEN IN T.S. ELIOT’S POETRY AND DRAMA… 

57

of maleness realised by other/subsequent characters, poetic and dramatic. Eliot’s faith strengthened after his conversion and his work—first as a poet, then also as a playwright—developed accordingly. I will argue that an important aspect of this development is a gradual detoxing of Sweeney’s masculinity, reflected in later characters and consisting in the attenuation of his brutality and the growth of his spirituality. Two male protagonists of Eliot’s plays—Harry Monchensey in The Family Reunion (1939) and Colby Simpkins in The Confidential Clerk (1953)—embody the success of this purgative process.

Sweeney the Brute Sweeney’s dual nature (brutal physicality vs. sensitivity and spirituality) connects with other characters in Eliot’s work that may stand as his avatars or afterlives. We first encounter Sweeney in the poem “Sweeney Erect”, included in Poems (1920), with a title both suggesting sexual arousal and denoting a hominid rather than a fully developed man or Homo sapiens. This is the only poem offering details of the character’s physical appearance (posture, hair, eyes, and mouth). Sweeney is animalised and caricatured in a curious, highly metaphorical description: Gesture of orang-outang Rises from the sheets in steam. This withered root of knots of hair Slitted below and gashed with eyes, This oval O cropped out with teeth: (…) (Eliot 2015: 36)2

This grotesque and monstrous portrait recalls mythological creatures, such as the Cyclops Polyphemus or the Minotaur, alluded to more or less overtly in the poem; Sweeney’s simian “gesture”,3 on the other hand, connects with Edgar Allan Poe’s “Murders in the Rue Morgue” (1841), where the mysterious murder of two women is finally discovered to have been committed by an orangutan (Brooker 2002: 429, 431). Further, a parenthesis in the same poem introduces a comical contrast between an image by Emerson denoting his humanistic vision of historical progress, and Sweeney’s ungainly limbs:

58 

D. LLORENS-CUBEDO

(The lengthened shadow of a man   Is history, said Emerson Who had not seen the silhouette   Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.)

(Eliot 2015: 37)

Sweeney’s ape-like silhouette allows us to associate him with other characters in Poems. Bleistein, an ostentatious Jewish merchant, appears in a decadent Venetian setting in the poem “Burbank with a Baedecker, Bleistein with a Cigar”, with “a saggy bending of the knees/And elbows, with the palms turned out” (Eliot 2015: 34)—his degrading description being a particularly disturbing example of the antisemitism of Poems. In “Sweeney Erect”, Sweeney is further described as “broadbottomed”, a trait linking him to the “broad-backed” hippo who “rests on his belly in the mud”, and grotesquely ascends to heaven at the end of “The Hippopotamus” (Eliot 2015: 36, 43–44). We find a further instance of Sweeney’s animalisation, and of his position in the evolutionary chain, in the opening lines of “Sweeney Among the Nightingales” (the last of Eliot’s 1920 Poems): Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees Letting his arms hang down to laugh, The zebra stripes along his jaw Swelling to maculate giraffe.

(Eliot 2015: 36, 43–44)

Sweeney is compared to an orangutan or an ape and associated with a hippopotamus; he combines features of the zebra and the giraffe. The title “Sweeney Erect” also highlights sexual potency, defining the character as primarily animal. “Nightingales”, in the title of the poem quoted above, is slang for prostitutes, and “Sweeney Erect” is set in a brothel where, with sudden, awkward movements, Sweeney gets out of bed: The sickle motion from the thighs Jackknifes upward at the knees Then straightens out from heel to hip Pushing the framework of the bed And clawing at the pillow slip.

(Eliot 2015: 36)

4  FROM BRUTAL TO SPIRITUAL MEN IN T.S. ELIOT’S POETRY AND DRAMA… 

59

According to Brooker, “in the context of a brutish man visiting a prostitute”, a jackknife becomes “a nightmarish phallic image”, and “casts a long shadow over Sweeney’s sexual performance and the pain he is capable of inflicting” (2002, 429). Doris is the prostitute in question, Sweeney’s potential victim, and she is disturbingly referred to as “the epileptic on the bed”—epileptic seizures having historically been compared with the convulsions of the sexual climax (Ricks and McCue 2015: 37, 505). Sweeney “knows the female temperament” (Eliot 2015: 37), unlike the protagonist of “The Love Song of J.  Alfred Prufrock”, the poem that opened Eliot’s Prufrock and Other Observations (1917). Prufrock, intimidated by women and incapable of interacting with them, represents “the enervation of the emasculated modern man (…) confounded by the impotence of his masculinity” (Lusty 2014: 7). Conversely, “the young man carbuncular” in The Waste Land shows Sweeney’s uncontrollable sex drive as he forces himself on the typist: “flushed and decided, he assaults at once” (Eliot 2015: 64). Sweeney himself also appears in Eliot’s best-­ known poem, fleetingly before this scene; he is paired with Mrs Porter, alluding to a bawdy popular ballad and suggesting a lewd encounter between both characters. Bestiality and threatening sexuality also characterise Sweeney in Sweeney Agonistes, Eliot’s first play, published as an “unfinished” poem where he experimented with the rhythms of jazz, the spontaneity of music hall, and the ritualism of ancient drama. As in earlier poems, Sweeney is a frequenter of brothels, and Doris (who had already appeared in “Sweeney Erect”) is his companion. In a masterfully rhythmic dialogue, they imagine their life in “a cannibal isle” as a role-play both comical and macabre: sweeney:    

I’ll carry you off     To a cannibal isle. doris: You’ll be the cannibal! sweeney: You’ll be the missionary!     You’ll be my little seven stone missionary!     I’ll gobble you up. I’ll be the cannibal. doris: You’ll carry me off? To a cannibal isle? sweeney: I’ll be the cannibal. doris:     I’ll be the missionary.     I’ll convert you! sweeney:      I’ll convert you!    Into a stew.   A nice little, white little, missionary stew.   (Eliot 2015: 121, original italics)

60 

D. LLORENS-CUBEDO

In “Sweeney Erect”, as noted above, Sweeney was associated with Polyphemus and the Minotaur, “not only carnivorous but cannibalistic” (Brooker 2002: 429). Sweeney’s fantasy of cannibalism also recalls the legend of his namesake Sweeney Todd, the possibly fictional barber of London’s Fleet Street (Eliot sets his play in this city) who murdered his customers to provide his accomplice (Margery or Sarah Lovett, depending on the version) with meat that she would use to make very popular pies (Mack 2007: 80). Although the play’s chorus, made up exclusively of male characters, offers an idyllic portrayal of the cannibal isle, Sweeney insists that life there will consist of “birth, and copulation and death” (Eliot 2015: 122). The term “copulation” reinforces his notion of sex as little more than a vital function: physical, instinctive, and loveless. Doris is apprehensive and repeats that “a woman runs a terrible risk” (Eliot 2015: 124), but Sweeney shockingly entertains a fantasy of femicide, extending it to “any man”: I knew a man once did a girl in Any man might do a girl in, Any man has to, needs to, wants to Once in a lifetime, do a girl in.

(Eliot 2015: 124)

Sweeney then coldly reports the case of a woman murdered by a man he knew, with the male chorus casually joining in. The man killed the woman and kept her body in an antiseptic solution in his bath for two months. During all this time, he kept a normal life, “he took in the milk and he paid the rent”, counting on Sweeney’s support: “I’d give him a drink and cheer him up” (Eliot 2015: 125). The latent violence underlying Sweeney’s relationship with Doris, his identification and complicity with the man who coldly killed a girl, evidence a toxic mixture of desire and violence. Brooker (2002: 425) has convincingly related this aspect with the author’s traumatic experience of the First World War (1914–1818) and of a difficult marriage, both emotionally and sexually. On account of his bestial appearance and behaviour, Sweeney connects with the Freudian id, being “a natural man with simple, brutish instincts” (Downum 2009: 6, 7). The archetype of the “natural man”, which masculinity theorists reject as essentialist (Connell 2005: 45), is an effective imaginative resource for Eliot, whose Sweeney embodies socio-historical and personal angst. However, as we will see, the

4  FROM BRUTAL TO SPIRITUAL MEN IN T.S. ELIOT’S POETRY AND DRAMA… 

61

character also holds a promise of humanity and spirituality, thus showing that Eliot did not fully approve of Sweeney’s toxic masculinity. While one can observe a degree of admiration for Sweeney’s basic nature, his duality and his discomfort with some of his features also suggest a need to aspire to a softer, gentler form of masculinity.

Sweeney, or the Promise of Humanity Several features—however less prominent—characterise Sweeney as human, rational and spiritual. In “Sweeney Erect”, the protagonist’s routine act of shaving denotes an essentially human disposition: “Seeing his own face in the mirror, he [Sweeney] becomes not only self-conscious, but conscious of being human. Shaving off his facial hair, he shows a capacity for transcending his bestiality. Using soap, he demonstrates the ability to cleanse himself” (Brooker 2002: 432). In “Mr. Eliot’s Sunday Morning Service” (Poems), we find Sweeney having a bath, before the poem closes with a statement on the pre-Socratic “subtle schools” of philosophy (Ricks and McCue 2015: 540): Sweeney swifts from ham to ham Stirring the water in his bath. The masters of the subtle schools Are controversial, polymath.

(Eliot 2015: 50)

This quatrain establishes a sharp contrast between the physical and the intellectual, “juxtaposing an ignoramus with scholastics” (Perl 2014: 140). Eliot used quatrains extensively in Poems, emulating the French poet Théophile Gautier, but making each of them a bewildering coalescence of images and allusions. Even though the juxtaposition above is ironic, it associates Sweeney with the poem’s philosophical, theological, and artistic knowledge. Whether or not the Sweeney of Poems is a discerning character capable of thought and sympathy, his lively dialogue with Doris in Sweeney Agonistes unexpectedly comes to a climax of philosophical and mystical depth. Interestingly, in the 1934 London production of the play by the Group Theatre, all characters except Sweeney wore masks, which made him look more human than the others (Ricks and McCue 2015: 803, 804). As Downum argues, “the instinctive, animal-like Sweeney of the

62 

D. LLORENS-CUBEDO

poems becomes the conscious man of the play” who shows signs of “self-­ awareness and deeper knowledge” (2009: 13). For example, when he uses the story of the girl murdered by his friend as a sort of exemplum that allows him to relativize the opposition between life and death. Sweeney tells Doris and the chorus that, after the murder, his friend was uncertain of the state he or his victim were in: He didn’t know if they both were alive or both were dead (…) When you’re alone like he was alone You’re either or neither I tell you again it don’t apply Death or life or life or death Death is life and life is death (…)

(Eliot 2015: 126)

The murderer’s existential loneliness connects with the lover’s confusion and desolation in the “hyacinth garden” episode, in The Waste Land: “I was neither living/nor dead, and I knew nothing” (Eliot 2015: 56), which in turn echoes Dante’s terror when he reaches the centre of hell: “I did not die, and I did not remain alive” (1961: 421).4 Sweeney’s neutralisation of the binary opposition life-death is also at the heart of a classical mystic paradox: earthly life separates from eternity and is therefore a form of death; death, on the other hand, grants access to the eternal, the true life. The Spanish sixteenth-century mystic Saint John of the Cross expressed it thus: “I live yet do not live in me,/am waiting as my life goes by,/and die because I do not die” (de la Cruz 1972: 63).5 In fact, one of the two epigraphs of Sweeney Agonistes is taken from Saint John’s treatise on the mystic journey, Ascent of Mount Carmel: “Hence the soul cannot be possessed of the divine union, until it has divested itself of the love of created beings” (in Eliot 2015: 113). Even though Eliot’s play lacks a definite spiritual orientation in its depiction of modern sordidness, Saint John’s language connects with Sweeney’s paradoxical statements: as mortal death means eternal life, divestiture of human attachments means possession of God’s love. In order to be united with God, the soul must undergo this process of purgation (the via purgativa), which Saint John imagines as a dark night.

4  FROM BRUTAL TO SPIRITUAL MEN IN T.S. ELIOT’S POETRY AND DRAMA… 

63

Saint John’s presence is only subliminal in Sweeney Agonistes—a “pre-­ Christian” text, in Eliot’s own words (Ricks and McCue 2015: 784)—but it became one of the major spiritual influences on Four Quartets, which reflect the poet’s solid faith after his conversion. At several points in this poetic sequence, Eliot resorts to the imagery of darkness and dispossession, as in “Internal darkness, deprivation/And destitution of all property”, or “I said to my soul be still, and let the dark come upon you,/ Which shall be the darkness of God”, from “Burnt Norton” and “East Coker” respectively (Eliot 2015: 182, 188). Negative mysticism, seemingly a foreign body in Sweeney Agonistes, is finally at home in Four Quartets. As Eliot focused on Four Quartets in the disquieting context of the Second World War (1939–1945), his more heterogeneous and experimental poetry (up to the mid-1920s) seemed very far behind. Mays considers this earlier poetry under the label “Sweeney-mode”, defined as “funny, inventive and surprising, and sometimes extravagant”; in comparison with the devotional poetry that would follow, it is “concerned less with salvation than with the world as it is, and consequently it is never sorry for itself or sanctimonious. (…) It is concerned not with the rejection of the world, but with being in the world” (1994: 116, 116–117). The “Sweeney-mode” expires with Sweeney Agonistes, when Eliot is “on the brink of a decision to pursue another course” (Mays 1994: 118). Although he subsequently attempted to complete the play, this decision, which turned him into a religious poet and devoted editor, prevented it: “Sweeney Agonistes marked the beginning of Eliot’s disenchantment with avant-garde poetics and the exploration of modes of composition more in line with his growing persona as ‘the Pope of Russell Square’” (Vericat 2021). Eliot’s avant-garde play remained unfinished, but he would later complete other plays, contemporaneous with Four Quartets or further exploring the theme of Christian experience in an increasingly materialistic and individualistic world. Because of his defining duality or multiplicity, and the multi-referential open texts where he appears, we cannot speak of a redeeming transformation in Sweeney. A narrative thread, however, connects his humanity—comprising intellect, refinement, and mysticism— with Harry in The Family Reunion and Colby in The Confidential Clerk. In the context of Eliot’s post-conversion work, where spirituality is central, these characters realise Sweeney’s potential and undeveloped good nature, purifying his toxic masculinity.

64 

D. LLORENS-CUBEDO

Harry Monchensey and Colby Simpkins, or Sweeney Purified The Family Reunion was Eliot’s first play to have a unified, fully developed dramatic action in a contemporary setting. Both the setting and the characters are upper class: a country estate in the north of England (Wishwood), an elderly dowager (Amy) intent on ensuring its survival through her sons, and a number of other relatives, lethargically comfortable (aunts Ivy and Violet, uncles Gerald and Charles) or ill at ease (aunt Agatha, cousin Mary) in this environment. Amy’s eldest son, Harry, returns to Wishwood coinciding with his mother’s birthday, after years of absence and the recent death of his wife. Amy expects him to marry his cousin Mary and settle down at Wishwood, but Harry appears to be deranged and shocks his relatives when he confesses that he killed his wife, pushing her into the sea from the deck of a liner. The Furies, embodying guilt and anguish, chase Harry down to Wishwood and haunt him during his stay. Eliot found inspiration in Aeschylus’s The Furies, the third play of the Oresteia trilogy, where Orestes is in flight after killing his mother Clytemnestra and the Furies hound him to exact vengeance for his crime. As we saw, one of the two epigraphs in Sweeney Agonistes is from the prose by Saint John of the Cross; the other is from the second play of the Oresteia, The Libation Bearers. It evokes the moment, after the matricide, when Orestes first senses the Furies’ presence and exclaims, “You don’t see them, you don’t—but I see them: they are hunting me down, I must move on” (in Eliot 2015: 113). There is continuity and important connections, therefore, between Eliot’s unfinished play and The Family Reunion, including the pervading sense of existential terror and the shadow of femicide. As Smith notes, “The ‘hoo-ha’s’ in the final chorus of Sweeney Agonistes are converted into the Furies of The Family Reunion. Moreover, the theme of the murdered girl dissolved in a lysol bath in Sweeney’s tale is repeated in Harry’s drowned wife, and the same sense of mystery surrounds the event” (1963: 113–14). Even though Harry’s confession of murder distresses the family, they refuse to believe it, attributing his claim to trauma, strain, or exhaustion. Uncles Charles and Gerald are dull, supercilious, and opinionated, “hollow men” who cause Harry’s pulsating humanity to stand out. In their confusion, they decide to question Downing, Harry’s loyal chauffeur, regarding the circumstances of what they believed to be an accidental death (the tenuous correspondence with Orestes and Pylades might

4  FROM BRUTAL TO SPIRITUAL MEN IN T.S. ELIOT’S POETRY AND DRAMA… 

65

suggest a homoerotic relationship between Downing and his master). The uncles justify their nephew’s crime with conventional patriarchal arguments—an attitude reminiscent of Sweeney’s sympathy for his murderous friend—and even hint that the family should cover it up: Charles. In any case, I shouldn’t blame Harry.   I might have done the same thing once, myself.   Nobody knows what he’s likely to do   Until there’s somebody he wants to get rid of. Gerald. Even so, we don’t want Downing to know   Any more than he knows already,   And even if he knew, it is very much better   That he shouldn’t know that we knew it also.   Why not let sleeping dogs lie?

(Eliot 2004: 297)

If the murder became public, the consequences would be fatal for the family and for Wishwood. As Uncle Charles reminds Harry, he is “the head of the family”, expected to care for his younger brothers and stand as a model for them (Eliot 2004: 313). His gender and class will determine his future; if he becomes Lord Monchensey of Wishwood, he will have to undertake the responsibilities that the role entails. The aunts and uncles, but especially the latter, delimit the area of virile, lordly authority, and responsibility that their nephew would inhabit: Charles.      We must have a ride tomorrow.   You’ll find you know the country as well as ever.   There wasn’t an inch of it you didn’t know.   But you’ll have to see about a couple of hunters. Gerald. And I’ve a new wine merchant to recommend you;   Your cellar could do with a little attention. (Eliot 2004: 292)

In his present state, Harry is not even remotely interested in this life. The plans that his mother has for him include, as noted, a marriage of convenience to his cousin Mary—a traditional, heteropatriarchal course of life that will ensure the continuity of the family and its ancestral home. Harry has always been fond of Mary; she is sympathetic to his distress, and even present when he first sees the Furies at Wishwood. However, exasperated by her insistence that she cannot see them, Harry exclaims: “Can’t you

66 

D. LLORENS-CUBEDO

help me?/You’re of no use to me” (Eliot 2004: 312). The future lord’s rough dismissal of a young woman with a marginal status in the family shows how “violence often underpins or supports authority” (Connell 2005: 77). Harry’s uncles, aunts, and mother are at a loss and unable to help or even understand him. Mary unsuccessfully tries to rescue Harry from his fatalistic anguish, but the spiritual guidance that he needs eventually comes from Aunt Agatha. In conversation with her, Harry realises that his murderous act is only the product of a fevered imagination: “Perhaps/I only dreamt I pushed her” (Eliot 2004: 333). Since Harry insists on wanting to know about his dead father, Agatha reveals that he was in love with her, and he attempted to kill his wife Amy when pregnant with him. The fantasy or plan of killing their wives—Sweeney’s “do a girl in” (Eliot 2015: 124)—is therefore a disturbing link between father and son, resembling the tragic continuity of murder within the House of Atreus in the Oresteia. Uncles Charles and Gerald are uncomplicated personalities, paragons of traditionally British, upper-class masculinity: they received military training and lived once in the colonies; now they belong to a men’s club, ride and hunt, and know the best wines. As Agatha explains, their brother (Harry’s father) was markedly different from them and other men around him—a retiring, sensitive, and artistic man: Agatha. Your father might have lived—or so I see him—   An exceptionally cultivated country squire,   Reading, sketching, playing the flute,   Something of an oddity to his country neighbours,   But not neglecting public duties.   He hid his strength beneath unusual weakness,   The diffidence of a solitary man:   Where he was weak he recognised your mother’s power,   And yielded to it. (Eliot 2004: 331–32)

Amy defines Harry’s father as “a discontented ghost,/in his own house”; she remembers “the humiliation” and “the chilly pretences in the silent bedroom”, the feeling of “forcing sons upon an unwilling father” (Eliot 2004: 340). When she realises the influence that Agatha (her sister, and her husband’s lover) exerts on Harry, she bitterly accuses him of being “a weakling like his father” (Eliot 2004: 340), subject to manipulation by

4  FROM BRUTAL TO SPIRITUAL MEN IN T.S. ELIOT’S POETRY AND DRAMA… 

67

women. Harry and his father reproduce Sweeney’s duality, although its brutal aspect (the impulse of violence against women) is abated, and their sensitivity (artistic, spiritual) categorises them as men who “have a divided, tense or oppositional relationship to hegemonic masculinity” (Connell 2000: 217). Agatha’s spiritual insight dispels Harry’s guilt, as she identifies the proper roots of his agony: he is not an uxoricide but suffers under the burden of a family curse—drawing the men to murderous premeditation—that he is destined to break. In order to do this, as Agatha makes him see, Harry must leave the place and the people who keep that family curse alive: (…) Love compels cruelty To those who do not understand love. What you have wished to know, what you have learned Mean the end of a relation, make it impossible. (…) You must go.

(Eliot 2004: 337)

The demanding love to which Agatha alludes is mystic love, incompatible with Harry’s attachment to those who do not know it, including his mother. The tangential allusion to Saint John of the Cross in Sweeney Agonistes finally translates into dramatic action in The Family Reunion: the prospect of salvation that Agatha reveals to her nephew invites the soul to “divest itself from the love of created beings” (Eliot 2015: 113). Harry will take this path, guided by the Furies, who reappear as kindly Eumenides, “bright angels” he “must follow”, and who will take him “somewhere on the other side of despair” (Eliot 2004: 339). This new course causes Harry to leave the most troubling aspects of a toxic masculinity behind. The Family Reunion ends with Harry embarking on the via purgativa, which was a remote and hazy possibility for Sweeney. Eliot presents a more advanced experience for Colby in The Confidential Clerk, where his recurrent theme of spiritual fulfilment reaches the audience as light comedy—only on the surface. The plot revolves around secret and mistaken identities. Sir Claude has two illegitimate children, Lucasta and Colby; he supports the former without fully recognising her and employs the latter as a replacement for his loyal clerk Eggerson, who is about to retire. Sir Claude expects his wife, Lady Elizabeth, to become fond of Colby and accept him as her son; intriguingly, she gave birth to a son in her youth

68 

D. LLORENS-CUBEDO

whom she gave up for adoption and comes to believe that Colby is that child. Although she is to become engaged to Kaghan, Lucasta is increasingly attracted to Colby—both ignoring the truth about each other. The play resolves when Mrs Guzzard, Colby’s biological mother, reveals the characters’ true relations. Like Harry, Colby has expectations that he is unable to look forward to. He has taken the opportunity to start a promising career in finance beside Sir Claude, with the result that his true vocation for music remains private. Lucasta perceives that Colby has a rich “inner world” or “secret garden”; she is aware that he has given up his dream “to go into business/And be someone like Claude” (Eliot 2004: 472, 473). Far from looking up to Sir Claude, Lucasta even reproaches Colby for choosing a conventional upper-class life, in imitation of her father’s: “Perhaps he’ll adopt you, and make you his heir/And you’ll marry another Lady Elizabeth” (Eliot 2004: 478). Two men (Eggerson and Kaghan) define Lucasta as “rather flighty” and “a man-eating tiger” respectively (Eliot 2004: 454, 479). Colby—a young man in whom the gentler side of Harry, Harry’s father, and even Sweeney finally prevails—differs from Lucasta’s essentialist notion of patriarchal masculinity. She soon realises that Colby, an unusual combination of naivety and wisdom, is not like the typical men whom she normally encounters: Lucasta. Colby, you really are full of surprises! I’ve never met a man so ignorant as you Yet knowing so much that one wouldn’t suspect. Perhaps that’s why I like you.

(Eliot 2004: 471)

When Lucasta tells Colby that people often believe Sir Claude to be in an extramarital relationship with her, he replies, “I never thought of such a thing!”; she then assures that, apart from the unprejudiced Colby, “There are not many men who wouldn’t have thought it” (Eliot 2004: 476), that is, who would not take Lucasta to be Sir Claude’s mistress. Colby’s difference stands out if we set him against Kaghan, the prototype of an ambitious, self-confident young businessman. According to Eggerson, “he’s a man who gets his own way”, and who “can manage” Lucasta “if anyone can” (Eliot 2004: 455). Although he is goodhearted and likeable, he makes conventional sexist comments on women and

4  FROM BRUTAL TO SPIRITUAL MEN IN T.S. ELIOT’S POETRY AND DRAMA… 

69

marriage, all socially acceptable in the 1950s: “I told Colby, never to learn to mix cocktails,/If you don’t want women always dropping in on you”, “To Colby, and a happy bachelor life!”, or “Lucasta’s the most exciting speculation/I’ve ever thought of investing in” (Eliot 2004: 479, 480). Sweeney’s duality is faintly echoed as the contrast between Colby and Kaghan’s masculinity, sensitive and overbearing respectively. Lucasta and Kaghan are made for each other, but she is fascinated with Colby’s singularity. The latter sounds patronising towards Lucasta when he tries to educate her musical taste—perhaps his only lapse into a masculine sense of superiority—but surprises her when he declares, “I suspect that it’s you who are educating me” (Eliot 2004: 471, original italics). Before knowing the truth about their identities as paternal siblings, Lucasta and Colby establish an equal relationship that allows them to show their true selves—a normalised contrast to Harry and Mary, and even more to Sweeney and Doris. Their reciprocal influence leads them to take consequential decisions: Lucasta realises that she loves Kaghan, and Colby realises that he cannot pretend to accept Sir Claude and Lady Elizabeth as adoptive parents. Colby could live his life without emotional attachments, as Kaghan and Lucasta realise. According to Kaghan, “He’s the sort of fellow who might chuck it all/And go to live on a desert island” (Eliot 2004: 480). Lucasta feels that Kaghan needs her, and that they need each other, but Colby is cast in an altogether different mould: “He’s fascinating,/But he’s undependable. He has his own world” (Eliot 2004: 500). In their farewell scene, Lucasta speaks lovingly but candidly to Colby, showing her perceptiveness: (…) You’re either above caring, Or else you’re insensible—I don’t mean insensitive! But you’re terribly cold. Or else you’ve some fire To warm you, that isn’t the same kind of fire That warms other people. You’re either an egotist Or something so different from the rest of us That we can’t judge you. That’s you, Colby.

(Eliot 2004: 502)

The nuanced oppositions in these lines (insensibility-insensitivity, cold-­ fire, Colby-other people/rest of us) are reminiscent of mystical language conveying mysterious truths. They also resonate with the epigraph from

70 

D. LLORENS-CUBEDO

Saint John of the Cross, and with Harry’s decision to break with Wishwood and his relatives. When Colby finds out that his father is not Sir Claude, but “a dead obscure man” and “a disappointed musician”, he decides to leave his adoptive family and current position, and continue his biological father’s life as a way to spiritual fulfilment: “I wish to follow my father” (Eliot 2004: 514, 516), he announces, just as at the end of The Family Reunion Harry decides to follow the Eumenides. Colby accepts Eggerson’s proposal to take the vacant position as organist of his parish in Joshua Park (a name suggesting the blessedness of the Promised Land), and Eggerson (a symbolic father for Colby) predicts that he will soon be “reading for orders” (Eliot 2004: 518). Colby chooses “the humility of parish service rooted in the divine” (Smith 2014: 256), completing the spiritual journey that Sweeney only glimpsed, and Harry barely began. The path chosen by both Harry and Colby requires detachment from people and personal desires—their fraternal, chaste relationships with Mary and Lucasta respectively being consequent upon their commitment. Other characters, unprepared for renunciation, find easier alternatives: Colby’s adoptive family, for example, redefine their relationships on the (Christian) principles of honesty and mutual understanding. Further, not all protagonists created by Eliot are male: Celia Coplestone in The Cocktail Party (1949) also pursues the highest ideal, meeting a sacrificial death as a missionary. However, Harry and Colby’s journeys as enlightened men fulfil Sweeney’s incipient spirituality, unburdened of his brutal masculinity.

Conclusion Sweeney’s characterisation is one of the most distinctive and memorable features of T.S. Eliot’s pre-conversion poems. Sweeney is prototypical of other characters created by Eliot. He is ape-like, brutal and entertains fantasies of cannibalism and femicide. Eliot’s Sweeney poems are imbued with a spirit of experimentation, allowing the poet to be playful and daring. Written in a context of political conflict and personal trouble, they present sordid situations and toxic relationships without clearly implying a condemnatory moral judgement. Sweeney, however, can show a different, less prominent civilised self, as shown by his habits of personal hygiene, his appearance in erudite textual contexts (even if irony is intended), and his exhibiting of a “proto-mysticism”. This mystic facet, embryonic in Eliot’s

4  FROM BRUTAL TO SPIRITUAL MEN IN T.S. ELIOT’S POETRY AND DRAMA… 

71

first play Sweeney Agonistes, will develop fully in his subsequent poetry and drama, as a result of his conversion and strong religious commitment. Eliot pursued a career as a dramatist from the mid-1930s, but he never finished Sweeney Agonistes—among other reasons, because its sordidness and hopelessness seemed incompatible with the religious purpose of his post-conversion work. For his plays of contemporary life, he chooses middle or upper-class settings, contrasting with Sweeney’s underworld (a choice determined by a subtheme of social privilege as a mirage, or by the conventions of drawing-room drama). As regards characters, they are more conventionally and realistically portrayed; many of them are men, and in a leading role. Although Eliot’s emphasis is on transcendence and not on class or gender, as a realist playwright he depicts contemporary society and dramatises cultural aspects of masculinity such as authority, prominence, or relationships with women and other men. Male characterisation in Eliot’s modern plays reflects British society of the mid-twentieth century. Further, the evolution of two of his male protagonists is especially interesting in connection with Eliot’s religious theme. Harry and Colby embark on transformative journeys exemplifying Christian values alternative to the spiritual lethargy of modern life, such as renunciation or community service. In pursuing a path that fulfils Sweeney’s potential benignity, they leave his brutal, toxic masculinity far behind. Acknowledgments  This research has been supported by the project “T. S. Eliot’s Drama from Spain: Translation, Critical Study, Performance (TEATREL-SP),” funded by the Spanish Ministerio de Ciencia, Innovación y Universidades and by the European Regional Development Fund (PGC2018-097143-A-I00).

Notes 1. Although there is no obvious similarity in terms of story or action, Eliot’s title evokes John Milton’s dramatic poem Samson Agonistes (1671), suggesting an ironic connection with the heroic, Biblical character. 2. All the quotes reproduce the original layout, emphasis, and capitalisation (it was Eliot’s practice to capitalise the first word of each verse line). 3. In connection with Sweeney’s Irish origins, we should recall that Victorian satirical journals such as Punch often represented the Irish as monkeys or apes (see Wade 2011). 4. Dante’s original line is “Io non mori’, e non rimasi vivo” (1961: 420), translation by John D. Sinclair.

72 

D. LLORENS-CUBEDO

5. Translation into English by Willis Barnstone. The original lines are “Vivo sin vivir en mí,/y de tal manera espero,/que muero porque no muero” (1972: 62). Very similar lines are also attributed to Saint Teresa of Ávila, a contemporary of Saint John of the Cross.

References Dante. 1961. The Divine Comedy. 1: Inferno. Trans. and ed. John D. Sinclair. New York: Oxford University Press. Brooker, Jewel Spears. 2002. The Great War at Home and Abroad: Violence and Sexuality in Eliot’s “Sweeney Erect”. Modernism/Modernity 9 (3): 423–438. https://doi.org/10.1353/mod.2002.0042. Connell, R.W. 2000. The Men and the Boys. Cambridge, UK: Polity. ———. 2005. Masculinities. Cambridge, UK: Polity. de la Cruz, San Juan. 1972. The Poems of St. John of the Cross. Trans. and ed. Willis Barnstone. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Dowd, Christopher. 2011. The Construction of Irish Identity in America. New York: Routledge. Downum, Dennell M. 2009. Apeneck Sweeney’s Penitential Path. Yeats Eliot Review 26 (1): 2–16. Eliot, T.S. 2004. The Complete Poems and Plays. London: Faber and Faber. ———. 2015. The Annotated Text. The Poems of T.S. Eliot, eds. Christopher Ricks and Jim McCue. London: Faber and Faber. Gibert-Maceda, Teresa. 1994. T.S.  Eliot on Women. Women on T.S.  Eliot. In T.S.  Eliot at the Turn of the Century, ed. Marianne Thormählen, 105–119. Lund: Lund University. Lusty, Natalya. 2014. Introduction: Modernism and Its Masculinities. In Modernism and Masculinity, ed. Natalya Lusty and Julian Murphet, 1–15. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/ CBO9781139097123.001. Mack, Robert L. 2007. The Wonderful and Surprising History of Sweeney Todd: The Life and Times of an Urban Legend. London: Continuum. Mays, J.C.C. 1994. Early Poems: From “Prufrock” to “Gerontion”. In The Cambridge Companion to T.S.  Eliot, ed. David A.  Moody, 108–120. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/ CCOL0521420806.008. Perl, Jeffrey M. 2014. Disambivalent Quatrains. In A Companion to T.S. Eliot, ed. David E. Chinitz, 133–144. Chichester: Blackwell. Ricks, Christopher, and Jim McCue. 2015. Commentary. In The Annotated Text. The Poems of T.S.  Eliot, ed. Christopher Ricks and Him McCue, 349–1228. London: Faber and Faber.

4  FROM BRUTAL TO SPIRITUAL MEN IN T.S. ELIOT’S POETRY AND DRAMA… 

73

Smith, Carol H. 1963. T.S. Eliot’s Dramatic Theory and Practice. From Sweeney Agonistes to The Elder Statesman. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Smith, Grover. 1998. T.S.  Eliot and the Fragmented Selves: From “Suppressed Complex” to Sweeney Agonistes. Philological Quarterly 77 (4): 417–437. Smith, Carol H. 2014. Eliot’s “Divine” Comedies: The Cocktail Party, The Confidential Clerk, and The Elder Statesman. In A Companion to T.S. Eliot, ed. David E. Chinitz, 251–265. Chichester: Blackwell. Vericat, Fabio L. 2021. T.S. Eliot’s Sweeney Agonistes. TEATREL-SP. http://teatrel. linhd.uned.es/paginas/teatrel-­drama-­sweeney.html. Accessed 30 May 2022. Wade, Lisa. 2011. Irish Apes: Tactics of De-Humanization. The Society Pages. https://thesocietypages.org/socimages/2011/01/28/irish-­apes-­tactics-­of-­ de-­humanization/. Accessed 30 May 2022.

CHAPTER 5

Hybrid Masculinities in D.H. Lawrence’s “The Blind Man” and Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral” Gerardo Rodríguez-Salas

Introduction: Detoxing Masculinities “It is most urgent”, Sara Martín contends in her study on Masculinity and Patriarchal Villainy in the British Novel, “to promote alternative models of being a man which reject the power-oriented pull of patriarchy” (2020: 10). “It is about time we glamorize good”, she concludes, “as [a] formidable anti-patriarchal, active tool of (ethical) resistance” (11). For Martín toxic masculinity is not the central issue, but rather the toxicity of the entitlement to power behind all patriarchal behavior. Carol Harrington rejects toxic masculinity altogether as an analytical and scholarly concept— although, after 2016, it has been increasingly used in academic texts (2020: 347–349). Harrington mentions a 2019 e-mail where Shepherd

G. Rodríguez-Salas (*) Universidad de Granada, Granada, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_5

75

76 

G. RODRÍGUEZ-SALAS

Bliss confirmed to her that he coined “toxic masculinity” as a medical term within the mythopoetic men’s movement of the 1980s “to describe his father’s militarized, authoritarian masculinity” (2020: 347). However, recent theorizations of inclusive masculinities, Harrington contends, “suggest shifts away from homophobia and misogyny especially among white, masculine elites” (2020: 350), which leads Harrington to warn of male elites’ strategic condemnation of toxic masculinity as a way to “bolster their power” (2020: 349). With the comparative analysis of D.H. Lawrence’s story “The Blind Man”—written originally in 1918 and later included in his war-themed short story collection England, My England (1922)—and Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral”—the title story of his collection published in 1983— the present chapter aims at exploring the toxicity of masculinity models through patriarchal entitlement to power within the field of hybrid masculinities and to retrieve “good” models beyond the stigma and suspicion recently associated to hybridization.

Rethinking Hybrid Masculinities Hegemonic masculinity has arguably been a conceptual frame in the critical analysis of masculinities. First proposed in the early 1980s in the context of Australian sociology and systematized by Tim Carrigan, Raewyn Connell, and John Lee in their article “Towards a New Sociology of Masculinity” (1985), in 2005 Connell and James M.  Messerschmidt reconsidered hegemonic masculinity as a “pattern of practice” that, not being normal but normative, allows men’s dominance over women and other “subordinated” masculinities (2005: 832). Mike Donaldson effectively summarizes the effects of this “culturally idealised form”: It is exclusive, anxiety-provoking, internally and hierarchically differentiated, brutal and violent. It is pseudo-natural, tough, contradictory, crisis-­ prone, rich and socially sustained. While centrally connected with the institutions of male dominance, not all men practice it, though most benefit from it. Although cross-class, it often excludes working-class, gay and black-­ men. It is a lived experience, and an economic and cultural force, and dependent on social arrangements. It is constructed through difficult negotiation over a life-time. (1993: 645–46)

5  HYBRID MASCULINITIES IN D.H. LAWRENCE’S “THE BLIND MAN”… 

77

Connell, though, Richard Howson contends, views this legitimate model as in dialogue with a plurality of masculinities (2006: 2–3). Indeed, even hegemonic masculinity itself has to be thought of in the plural as there are multiple forms operating “in specific historical and cultural contexts” (Brod 1994: 2). Demetrakis Demetriou coined the term “dialectical pragmatism” to refer to hegemonic masculinity’s strategic appropriation and incorporation of traits from subordinated and marginalized masculinities. The result is a “hegemonic masculine bloc” whereby this hybridization makes hegemonic masculinity “capable of reconfiguring itself and adapting to the specificities of new historical conjunctures” (2001: 355). This strategic reconfiguration is central in understanding hybrid masculinities, which Tristan Bridges and C.J. Pascoe define as “men’s selective incorporation of performances and identity elements associated with marginalized and subordinated masculinities and femininities” (2014: 246). These critics indeed wonder whether recent hybridizations open new, liberating ways or are just contemporary versions of gender and sexual inequality and describe besides the skepticism of critics like Connell and Messerschmidt, who consider that this process of hybridization remains a local variation with no global impact (2016: 246–247). Inclusive Masculinity Theory, in contrast, optimistically argues that hybrid masculinities are not only “culturally pervasive”, but also mark a decrease in gender inequality (2016: 248). Indeed, Eric Anderson, the pioneer of this approach, speaks of inclusivity (rather than hybridity), so that he and Max Morris use the term not to suggest the “full equality of minority groups”, but rather the “increased access to the power that was once confined to heterosexuals through homophobia” (2015: 1202). These practices mark, according to Anderson, “decreased sexism” and “the erosion of patriarchy” (2009: 9). For Anderson and McCormack, this hybridization is possible due to the lower presence of homohysteria in contemporary Western culture, that is, to men’s lessening fear of being socially perceived as gay (Anderson 2009: 7; McCormack 2012: 338). In cultures of diminishing homohysteria, Anderson contends, there are two dominant forms of masculinity: a conservative one, which he calls “orthodox masculinity”, marked by homohysteria, tactile and emotional distance; and “inclusive masculinity”, marked by “emotional and physically homosocial proximity” (2009: 8).1 Anderson insists that none of these forms retains cultural hegemony and, together with Max Morris, he concludes that, in the absence of homohysteria, “multiple masculinities can exist without hierarchy or hegemony”

78 

G. RODRÍGUEZ-SALAS

(2015: 1202). This general claim is challenged by Rachel O’Neill (2015: 100) and by Sam de Boise (2015: 334); the latter perceives inclusive masculinity theory as “actively dangerous” in its suggestion that gender and sexual inequality, through inclusiveness and hybridity, have been superseded. Rosalind Gill (2003: 37) considers the “new man” and the “new lad” as the most pervasive constructions of masculinity in 1980s and 1990s Britain. Nick Rumens summarizes both types: the new man “is generally characterized as sensitive, emotionally aware, respectful of women, and egalitarian in outlook”, while the new lad is “hedonistic, post- (if not anti-) feminist, and pre-eminently concerned with beer, football and ‘shagging’ women” (2017: 249). In contrast to the “inauthentic” and “soft” masculinity of the “new man”, “new laddism” is considered by Imelda Whelehan as a “nostalgic revival of old patriarchy” (2000: 5). Inclusive masculinities are frequently linked to the post-feminist man,2 who is read as a “chameleon figure still negotiating the ongoing impact of feminism on his identity (…) a melting pot of masculinities, blending a variety of subject positions” such as the “new man, the metrosexual, the new father, and the new lad” (Genz and Brabon 2009: 143). This “cacophony” of postmodernist masculinities has been invariably linked to the idea that men and masculinities demand re-negotiating rather than relinquishing men’s power (Rumens 2017: 250). Regardless of whether these postmodernist masculinities are perceived to be in a state of crisis, as was the generalized perception with the mythopoetic movement of the 1980s, or are just part of a strategic adaptation process, Gill warns of the danger of a “post-feminist sensibility” as invisibilizing gender inequality through neoliberalism and camouflage without relinquishing privilege and power, as in the past (2016: 612). Just like Anderson et al., the majority of researchers on hybrid masculinities support their widespread presence nowadays but, unlike Anderson et al., they warn that they “work in ways that perpetuate existing systems of power and inequality in historically new ways” (Bridges and Pascoe 2014: 248). For Michael Messner hybrid masculinities are “more style than substance”, representing changes in the performance of masculinities that do not necessarily undermine traditional power structures (1993: 724–725). Demetriou’s “dialectical pragmatism”—Bridges and Pascoe’s “strategic borrowing” (2014: 252)—goes hand in hand with his distinction between “external hegemony”, which implies the subordination of women, and “internal hegemony” or dominance over other masculinities

5  HYBRID MASCULINITIES IN D.H. LAWRENCE’S “THE BLIND MAN”… 

79

(2001: 344)—or as Morris and Anderson call it “intra-masculine stratification” (2015: 1202). Demetriou’s response to Connell’s hegemonic masculinity explains why the subordination of gay masculinities is a way to maintain the status quo and what Connell calls the “patriarchal dividend” (in Harrington, 2020: 350). Is there space then for redemption within inclusive masculinities? This study contends, as I show next, that the hybrid masculinity epitomized by Robert in Carver’s “Cathedral”—in clear contrast with his counterpart in Lawrence’s story—is in tune with Bob Pease’s proposal that pro-feminist men aware of their privilege and socially legitimized oppressive behaviors and of their potential in the struggle to transform gender relations create “a collective politics of gender among men” so as to change dominant masculinities (2000: 3).

“Mortal Friendship”: Hybrid Masculinities in “The Blind Man” Although Raymond Carver clarified that he had not read Lawrence’s “The Blind Man” before writing “Cathedral” (in Gillison 2000), the similarities between both stories in theme, structure, and plot allow for an interesting comparison within the critical study of masculinities. Blindness is a recurrent motif in both stories with tension caused by love triangles. In “The Blind Man”, Maurice and Isabel Pervin receive the visit of Isabel’s old friend, Bertie Reid. Maurice is a war veteran who was sent back home from Flanders after being blinded during the First World War. He and his pregnant wife, Isabel, live now in an isolated farm in the English Midlands, where he depends on her reviewing books for a Scottish newspaper. In “Cathedral”, set in early 1980s USA, the visiting friend, Robert, is the blind man, while the unnamed couple seems as fragile as the one in “The Blind Man”. The wife used to read for Robert ten years before and they still exchange tapes, which suggest a fluid communication that is missing with her husband—this communication is also present between Isabel and Bertie. In both stories the climax occurs when the two men intimate: in “The Blind Man” they connect in the dark barn, where Maurice feels empowered; in “Cathedral” both men are sitting on the new sofa, while the wife sleeps. “The Blind Man” shows Howson’s plurality of hegemonic masculinities, as the two male protagonists stand for examples of masculinity that

80 

G. RODRÍGUEZ-SALAS

coexist in the context of a militarized early twentieth century. Although the distinction between “new lad” and “new man” is anachronistic for that time, Maurice could epitomize Whelehan’s association of the “new lad” with a nostalgic revival of old patriarchy, while Bertie could stand for the “new man”: sensitive, emotionally aware, respectful of women. Since the story, written in the third person, is focalized on Maurice, he seems to believe in some innate male superiority, similar to the craving of the mythopoetic men’s movement in the 1980s to retrieve their primitive masculinity. Robert Bly encouraged men to make contact with their “Wild Man” since “every modern male has, lying at the bottom of his psyche, a large, primitive being covered with hair down to his feet” (1990: 6). Scott Coltrane spoke of “tribal male bonding” (1994: 42), thus suggesting some metaphorical primitive lineage of men, supporting a strategic homosociality of biological male domination. Jean Lipman-Blumen (1976: 17) and Sharon R. Bird (1996: 125) highlighted emotional detachment, competitiveness, and the sexual reification of women in homosociality, which are key features in Maurice. In “The Blind Man” Maurice’s emasculation is seen in his absolute dependence on Isabel after being blinded and disfigured at war, a loss which is perceived by himself and others as a fissure in his hegemonic masculinity.3 Maurice exchanges his military position at the front for “menial work” at the farm (Lawrence 1990 [1922]: 46);4 Bertie reads Maurice’s blindness as “a great depravation” (58), whereas Isabel perceives Maurice as “a terrifying burden” and “would give anything, anything, to escape” from “that silent house” (47), thus revealing their lack of communication and the irreparable fracture in their relationship. Maurice takes on the role of a dependent child: the words “childish” and “child” are repeated five times in the same paragraph to conclude that “this very dependence enraged him” (55).5 In spite of Isabel’s obvious dissatisfaction with her husband, the story suggests the impossibility that any of the characters may escape from Maurice’s primitive masculinity, as if this ancestral role exuded hypnotic testosterone. Maurice himself looks for compensation for his blindness in a sort of ancestral link with biological masculinity, walking on “heavy limbs, powerful legs that seemed to know the earth” (53). When Isabel visits the dark stable—the place in the story associated with animalized masculinity—she is “afraid” but feels attracted to the “smell of horses, and ammonia, and of warmth”, that “hot animal life” (51). As a result, “Something wild stirred in her heart” (51–52); Maurice stands then for a

5  HYBRID MASCULINITIES IN D.H. LAWRENCE’S “THE BLIND MAN”… 

81

phallic image, “a tower of darkness to her, as if he rose out of the earth” (53). The fear of blindness has been read in Carver’s “Cathedral”—and this idea can be equally applied to “The Blind Man”—as suggesting that “control through vision is an important part of the functioning of the masculine ego” (Bullock 1994: 346). Laura Mulvey elaborates this idea in her seminal study of the male gaze in cinema with the term scopophilia including both “pleasure in looking” (voyeurism) and “pleasure in being looked at” (exhibitionism), whereby the active onlooker invariably reduces the passive recipient of the look to an object and “subject[s] them to a controlling and curious gaze” (2009: 713). Chris J. Bullock concludes that the architectural metaphor that best exemplifies this male control is Jeremy Bentham’s panopticon (1994: 346). This is an idea that David Buchbinder makes extensive to homosociality, which keeps “all males under observation in order to control their behavior to ensure that the criteria of masculinity are observed and maintained”, so that “men are simultaneously panoptic subjects (the agents of the patriarchal panopticon) and panoptic objects (the focus of the surveillance of the patriarchal panopticon)” (2013: 81). In “The Blind Man”, both men seem to be under this invisible surveillance, though Maurice replaces the male gaze with touching which, in contrast with Robert’s in “Cathedral”, serves a similar controlling effect. For Maurice, “It was a pleasure to stretch forth the hand and meet the unseen object, clasp it, and possess it in pure contact” (54). The ultimate goal in touching is not intimacy or communication, but rather possession and control. This is why both Isabel and Bertie are described as under the blind man’s power, as if hypnotized (54, 62). This is Maurice’s way to compensate for his blindness, to feel he is the primitive man who ultimately has control over women and over other masculinities that he perceives as subordinate. Although Lawrence’s story explores the possibility of friendship between the two male protagonists, their encounter is marked by antagonism. Bertie Reid represents a different model of masculinity, but equally privileged in society: “he was a brilliant and successful barrister, also littérateur of high repute, a rich man, and a great social success” (58). Just like Maurice, he feels he has some “incurable weakness”; perhaps, it is hinted, due to impotence or homosexuality, which makes him be “ashamed of himself” because “he could not approach women physically” (58). Regardless of the reason, Bertie “felt himself neuter, nothing” (58) and socially he justifies being a bachelor with the stereotype of the gentleman

82 

G. RODRÍGUEZ-SALAS

which replaces that of the Casanova: “he adored a few good women with constant and unfailing homage, and he was chivalrously fond of quite a number” (58). The fact that Isabel knows Bertie’s weakness (58) suggests his potential to communicate with women, to adhere to an alternative model of masculinity, though he chooses to compete for her as the trophy to bolster his fragile masculinity. However, in contrast with Maurice, Bertie is physically described as “a little dark man” with “odd, short legs” (56). The final scene in the barn has been read by the critics, such as Paul Delany, as reflecting not only the two men’s attempt at communication and friendship, but also as marking Maurice and Isabel’s physical and sealed intimacy (1985: 36–37).6 My analysis, in contrast, reads Maurice’s hybridization as strategic borrowing to pretend a false friendship with Bertie that ends up exposing the latter’s vulnerability. He begins with self-­ deprecation, strategically pointing at his own disfigurement, “more pitiable than shocking” (61), so as to create an atmosphere of confidence and camaraderie. Then he offers to touch Bertie to “know” him, but his strategy is symbolically exposed: “he suffered as the blind man stretched out a strong, naked hand to him. Maurice accidentally knocked off Bertie’s hat” (62). In a culture of high homohysteria, obvious in Bertie’s rejection of tactility, Maurice apparently reinvents his orthodox masculinity, already distorted by his blindness. However, his strategy is clear: the hat, symbolizing Bertie’s social protection, is knocked off, right before Maurice’s physical description of Bertie by means of synecdoches that end up ridiculing him. As a result, “the lawyer”—an ironic way to call Bertie in a context where his social status is useless—“stood almost annihilated”, “under the power of the blind man”, “imprisoned” (62). Bertie “had an unreasonable fear, lest the other man should suddenly destroy him, whereas Maurice was actually filled with hot, poignant love, the passion of friendship” (62). This “mortal friendship” (62) is indicative of a metaphorical duel where Maurice is the winner, “a strange colossus”, while Bertie is compared with “a mollusc whose shell is broken” (63). Maurice’s dialectical pragmatism is, however, temporary: he briefly makes Bertie believe he shares his sensitive side, but this is just a strategy to prove his internal hegemony. Bertie is clearly the loser, looking at Isabel “with a furtive, haggard look” (63), and although Isabel seems to be happy with this false friendship of the two men and holds Maurice’s hand, the suggestion is that they will never connect beyond the physical hypnotism of his pseudo-primitive masculinity. The story proves thus to be a total failure in detoxing masculinities, as

5  HYBRID MASCULINITIES IN D.H. LAWRENCE’S “THE BLIND MAN”… 

83

neither man can escape the toxicity of their respective masculinity models, even when there is a seeming attempt at proximity and physical/emotional connection. Isabel also participates in the hypnotic attraction for her husband’s toxic primitivism, which adds to the feeling of frustration and failure in the story.

“A Regular Blind Jack-of-All-Trades”: Hybrid Masculinities in “Cathedral” Published in the early 1980s, Carver’s story “Cathedral” traces the dichotomy between the husband as a “new lad” who nostalgically revives old patriarchy, objectivizes women, and is into drugs and alcohol, and Robert as a “new man”, sensitive, emotionally aware, and respectful of women. However, in Robert there is a process of hybridization that transcends the controversial image of the “new man” and provides an alternative reading to the stigmatization of contemporary masculinities. The focalization is similar to Lawrence’s story, as in both the predominant viewpoint is the husband’s—third person focalization through Maurice in “The Blind Man”, confessional first-person narrator in “Cathedral”. Similar to Maurice, the husband in Carver’s story stands for orthodox masculinity, lacking intellectual motivation, which might explain the absence of critical thinking that is essential for his prejudiced views. With the visit of the blind man—a total stranger for the husband but a very close friend of his wife—the husband’s masculinity feels threatened and his prejudiced immanence, self-enclosure, and immunity are suddenly exposed, leading in the story to the revelation of what could be perceived as a state of crisis. Robert’s visit follows the logic of the guest that is “wrong, illegitimate, clandestine, liable to expulsion or arrest”, a guest that can turn into a parasite (Derrida and Dufourmantelle 2000: 100). The husband hears his name, which is never revealed, “in the mouth of this stranger, this blind man I didn’t even know!”, a stranger that “was coming over to sleep in my house” (294). Robert’s visit instantly becomes a duel in the husband’s eyes and he soon enters into a metaphorical contest for his wife. Unlike Lawrence, Carver uses blindness to represent alterity. The husband’s orthodox masculinity, linked as noted to immanence and immunity, is broken into by an alternative model of masculinity that feels unsettling. Although the two men are clearly depicted as heterosexual, maybe to cast out the shadow of homosexuality and thus explore alternative models of

84 

G. RODRÍGUEZ-SALAS

masculinity that are not read as homoerotic, the blind man’s tactility is read by the husband as intrusive, maybe as a result of homohysteria. Blindness stands for abjection. Although the husband’s traumas are not revealed, just like Bertie’s weakness is unleashed only when touching Maurice’s scar, in “Cathedral” Robert’s blindness destabilizes the protagonist: “Too much white in the iris, for one thing, and the pupils seemed to move around in the sockets without his knowing it or being able to stop it. Creepy” (297). The story, however, reveals that all his preconceptions about blindness are wrong. The husband confesses that his idea of blindness “came from the movies”, where “the blind moved slowly and never laughed” (292) or from “speculation” (298). Robert breaks all expectations. The husband’s prejudice has also a racist and sexist dimension. When he learns that Robert’s wife, who died of cancer, was named Beulah, he replies: “That’s a name for a colored woman. Was his wife a Negro?” His wife’s reaction exposes his racism: “Are you crazy?”, “What’s wrong with you?” (295). Following the logic of Mulvey’s male gaze, he only understands heterosexual relations as objectivizing women through the look, so he proves to be judgmental with Robert’s relationship assuming that, because he could never see his wife, she must have led “a pitiful life” (295). The result is that he bases all relationships on the aesthetic reification of women; thinking of Beulah he speculates that “her last thought may be this: that he never even knew what she looked like (…) Pathetic” (295–296). Even though the story shows that the real communication happens between the protagonist’s wife and Robert—just as in “The Blind Man” it was between Isabel and Bertie—the immanence of the husband in “Cathedral” leads to dramatic irony as the readers instantly realize that he is the pathetic impersonation of toxic masculinity. In contrast to Isabel’s hypnotic attraction to Maurice’s toxic, testosterone-­ based masculinity, the wife in “Cathedral” openly rejects hegemonic models of masculinity. In the past she had married an Air Force officer but “she didn’t like it that he was part of the military-industrial thing” (293). She attempted to commit suicide, presumably out of dissatisfaction with the officer, at a time during which Robert was her confidant. They exchanged recorded tapes and she “told him everything” (294), including confidences about her divorce. This situation seems to be repeated with her current husband, as she continues exchanging tapes with Robert and the narrator admits that he and his wife “hardly ever went to bed at the same time” (302). In spite of the narrator’s judgment of

5  HYBRID MASCULINITIES IN D.H. LAWRENCE’S “THE BLIND MAN”… 

85

Robert and Beulah as a couple, his wife concludes that they were “inseparable” for eight years (295). Just like the brand-new sofa in the house bought two weeks before, which the narrator does not like as much as the old one, Robert symbolically represents a “new” masculinity that seems to be fulfilling for both men and women, in spite of the narrator’s prejudice. The husband’s rivalry gains momentum during the climactic conversation on the new sofa. The lifetime communication between his wife and Robert makes the narrator feel excluded and his insecurity flourishes. Just like Maurice, he claims his wife’s possession: “I waited in vain to hear my name on my wife’s sweet lips: And then my dear husband came into my life … but I heard nothing of the sort” (299, original ellipsis). Omitting his own name or his wife’s he seems to vindicate his patriarchal entitlement within marriage. Similarly, he never calls Robert by his name—except in dialogue, where he reproduces his wife’s exact words—referring to him as “the blind man” to mark the disability he perceives as a flaw. When he tries to ridicule Robert by calling him “a regular blind jack-of-all-trades” (299), he actually provides the key for the latter’s hybrid masculinity when pointing at Robert’s skill to incorporate different performances positively and selectively as part of his fluid identity. When the wife falls asleep on the sofa between the two men, the narrator’s homosocial competition strikes back. The robe slips away from her legs “exposing a juicy thigh” and he tries to cover it only to recall that Robert is blind: “What the hell! I flipped the robe open again” (302). His insecurity vanishes when he understands that he is playing a safe game, as Robert cannot participate in the exercise of the male gaze. To mark his power and control, he switches the TV on to make Robert feel uncomfortable, but Robert’s reaction is the key for his empathetic hybrid masculinity, as a proleptic clue for the narrator’s lesson about to happen: “It won’t hurt me to learn something tonight. I got ears” (302–303), he notes. The two men watch a documentary about cathedrals, presented as the result of the collaborative work of men from different generations. Although cathedrals gain a phallic dimension in the narrator’s description—“they’re very tall”, “They reach way up. Up and up. Toward the sky”, “They’re really big”, “They’re massive” (304–305)—they become the excuse to explore an alternative, spiritual collaboration for these two men. Robert asks the narrator to teach him to draw a cathedral.7 In his study of “Cathedral”, Bullock uses the architectural metaphor of a castle

86 

G. RODRÍGUEZ-SALAS

by which the masculine ego needs to defend himself from external invasion and the “treason within”, which “turns out to be his own femininity” (1994: 344–345). The self-protecting castle gives way to the cathedral as a spiritual construction where men support themselves like the buttresses support the building. Although the narrator symbolically reaches for a glass that is empty (303) and confesses that he does not believe in anything and that “cathedrals don’t mean anything special to [him]” (305), Robert teaches him a lesson. Instead of the performance of death on the television show—“men dressed in skeleton costumes” (303)—Robert brings the awareness of real death through his widowhood. The narrator loses control—or perceives he is losing it—and the two men engage in collaborative work, drawing a cathedral together. Internal hegemony is symbolically reverted when the blind man “closed his hand over my hand” (306) and “His fingers rode my fingers as my hand went over the paper” (307). Instead of the blind man’s possession of the object in pure contact, as was Maurice’s case, Robert becomes the agent for the prejudiced man’s learning and opening: “It was like nothing else in my life up to now” (307). Instead of the continuous confrontation in the story, the narrator sees for the first time: “My eyes were still closed. I was in my house. I knew that. But I didn’t feel like I was inside anything” (307). Although he cannot verbalize the experience—“It’s really something” (307)—his immanence and immunity are broken by opening up to exploring alterity. The protective but limited house turns into a cathedral through the exploration of the spiritual union with another man, whereby competition is abandoned. This union is a way to suggest alternative, emotional, hybrid masculinities in friendship, beyond homoeroticism. While in Lawrence’s story Isabel symbolically participated in the barn scene with the presence of a gray half-wild cat (60) that resembles her, in Carver the drawing is done with the wife’s ballpoint pens (306), thus suggesting the instrumental role of women in constructing these alternative masculinities, rather than the biological dimension suggested in the cat. While Maurice’s touch has an imprisoning hypnotic effect through possession, Robert’s is equally hypnotizing but it leads to creativity and exploration: drawing in the narrator’s case, poetry in his wife’s. As Bullock states, Robert teaches the husband “the recognition of death, empathy with others, acknowledgment of the value of the dimension of spirit, and acceptance of the aid of the feminine” thus “glimps[ing] a masculinity that is based neither on enclosure nor on control by continual vigilance” (1994: 349). Thus his detoxing is completed.

5  HYBRID MASCULINITIES IN D.H. LAWRENCE’S “THE BLIND MAN”… 

87

Conclusion This study opened with Sara Martín’s claim that it is urgent to promote alternative models of masculinity that “glamorize good” within the framework of “ethical resistance”. The comparative analysis of Lawrence’s “The Blind Man” and Carver’s “Cathedral” has aimed at proving that, in spite of the difficulty to overcome hegemonic or orthodox models of masculinity and the contemporary reticence against hybridization, there is still hope to trace alternative detoxing models in literature. Donaldson’s exclusive, anxiety-provoking, hierarchically differentiated, violent model of masculinity is found in Maurice and the nameless narrator in “Cathedral”, although their confrontation is not openly brutal. The ironic reference to friendship—actually barely hidden rivalry—in Lawrence’s story as mortal and passionate shows Maurice’s homosocial competition behind his seeming condemnation of toxic masculinity. Similarly, in “Cathedral”, the narrator deals with his anxiety-provoking, exposed masculinity, which is broken into by the blind man’s visit through constant competition in what he perceives as a safe game, which reveals his external/internal hegemonic role through sexism, racism, and homophobia. The “new man” and the “new lad” theorized by Gills and Rumens have proved useful categories, even when applied outside their 1980s context, since they are easily adaptable to men’s dichotomies in both stories and show that masculinities’ cyclical traits are anything but new”. Robert, though, blunts his categorization as a “new man”, which opens the door to the exploration of hybridity. Despite the generalized concern in the study of hybrid masculinities that they might perpetuate existing systems of power and inequality, the comparison between the two stories provides in Robert an example of hybridization opening new, liberating ways. Maurice proves his power-oriented patriarchal pull in spite of the fissures in his hegemonic masculinity, as marked by his blindness. Even in a clearly homohysterical culture, he uses his blindness as an excuse to explore tactility with another man and this shocks Bertie, a victim of homohysteria. Maurice thus makes use of strategic borrowing and dialectical pragmatism for survival and adaptation but, unlike Anderson’s optimism, this character does not show decreased sexism or any erosion of patriarchy. On the contrary, this strategic hybridity proves “actively dangerous”, in de Boise’s words, as the ultimate goal is this man’s patriarchal entitlement to power and the annihilation of Bertie’s masculinity, perceived as a threat. Maurice transfers the patriarchal panoptic control of the male gaze to

88 

G. RODRÍGUEZ-SALAS

touch, and thus possesses and controls both Isabel and Bertie, using his hypnotic power associated with a mythical, testosterone-based primitive and toxic masculinity. In “Cathedral”, on the contrary, there is room for optimism in detoxing masculinity practices, but not within the context of inclusive masculinities. Away from the problematic perception of post-feminist masculinities and the cacophony of identities associated with them, Robert might stand for what Pease (2000) calls “profeminist” masculinity, which this study reads as invariably linked with hybridization. Although apparently the narrator can be considered an example of the “new lad” and the revival of old patriarchy—in his drug consumption and need to compete despite his loser condition—and Robert an example of the “new man”— sensitive, emotionally aware, respectful of women, as suggested by the symbolism of the new sofa in the house—Robert goes beyond the narcissism traditionally associated with the “new man”. His hybrid masculine identity implies openness to learning, empathy, and communication with both men and women. He breaks the traditional hierarchy of hegemonic masculinity, as reflected in the tactile encounter with the narrator, when he rides the latter’s fingers, and when the homoeroticism suggested in Lawrence’s story vanishes to suggest an alternative tactility for heterosexual men. Robert does not use touching to possess; instead, his hypnotic effect, unlike Maurice’s, is not associated with biologistic ideas of primitive masculinity but is channeled into creativity: the narrator’s drawing and his wife’s poetry. Indeed, rather than female objectification as in Lawrence’s story, here the competition for the woman changes to her instrumental role in the construction of an alternative, hybrid masculinity, symbolically through the use of her ballpoints for drawing. That we find this model for “good men” in the 1980s, almost 40 years ago, should make us think that detoxing masculinity should not be perceived as a “new” practice—especially since, following hybrid studies of masculinities, we have to be alert of the agenda behind hybridization— though it is certainly about time we glamorize good men.

Notes 1. Sam de Boise considers Anderson’s “orthodox” and “inclusive” masculinities as essentialist, simplistic and ahistorical taxonomies that “severely limit any discussion of intersections of race, class, gender” (2015: 326–327).

5  HYBRID MASCULINITIES IN D.H. LAWRENCE’S “THE BLIND MAN”… 

89

2. Nick Rumens (2017) offers an illuminating approach to post-feminism and post-feminist masculinities. 3. Tracy E. Bilsing explores England, My England as an example of Lawrence’s “response to female authority” and a desperate attempt “to achieve a brotherhood, a male community” (2004: 77–78). 4. From now on, references to Lawrence’s and Carver’s stories will be done parenthetically just with an indication of the page number. To know the edition used in this study, see the reference list. 5. Richard  Wheeler analyzes the love triangle in terms of an unresolved Oedipus complex (1976: 247). 6. Wheeler (1976: 247) and Nills Clausson (2007: 119) also perceive Maurice’s “delusional friendship”. 7. Libe  García Zarranz perceives a homoerotic dimension in this phallic description (28–29). Joseph Benson considers that the narrator’s homophobia is “vaporized” when the homosocial tension between the two men is released (2009: 83).

References Anderson, Eric. 2009. Inclusive Masculinity: The Changing Nature of Masculinities. New York and London: Routledge. Benson, Josef. 2009. Masculinity as Homosocial Enactment in Three Stories by Raymond Carver. The Raymond Carver Review 2: 81–95. Bilsing, Tracy E. 2004. “To Every Man, the War is Himself”: D. H. Lawrence, the Battle of the Sexes, and the Great War. CEA Critic 66 (2/3): 76–91. Bird, Sharon R. 1996. Welcome to the Men’s Club: Homosociality and the Maintenance of Hegemonic Masculinity. Gender & Society 10 (2): 120–132. Bly, Robert. 1990. Iron John: A Book About Men. Boston, MA: De Capo Press. de Boise, Sam. 2015. “I’m Not Homophobic, I’ve Got Gay Friends”: Evaluating the Validity of Inclusive Masculinity. Men and Masculinities 18 (3): 318–339. Bridges, Tristan, and C.J. Pascoe. 2014. Hybrid Masculinities: New Directions in the Sociology of Men and Masculinities. Sociology Compass 8 (3): 246–258. Brod, Harry. 1994. Some Thoughts on Some Histories of Some Masculinities: Jews and Other Others. In Theorising Masculinities, eds. Harry Brod and Michael Kaufman, 82–96. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Buchbinder, David. 2013. Studying Men and Masculinities. London and New York: Routledge. Bullock, Chis J. 1994. From Castle to Cathedral: The Architecture of Masculinity in Raymond Carver’s “Cathedral”. The Journal of Men’s Studies 2 (4): 343–351. Carrigan, Tim, Raewyn Connell, and John Lee. 1985. Toward a New Sociology of Masculinity. Theory and Society 14 (5): 551–604.

90 

G. RODRÍGUEZ-SALAS

Carver, Raymond. 1995, 1988. Cathedral. In Where I’m Calling From: The Selected Stories, 292–308. London: The Harvill Press. Clausson, Nills. 2007. Practicing Deconstruction, Again: Blindness, Insight, and the Lovely Treachery of Words in D. H. Lawrence’s “The Blind Man”. College Literature 34 (1): 106–128. Coltrane, Scott. 1994. Theorizing Masculinities in Contemporary Social Science. In Theorizing Masculinities, eds. Harry Brod and Michael Kaufman, 39–60. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications. Connell, Raewyn, and James W. Messerschmidt. 2005. Hegemonic Masculinity: Rethinking the Concept. Gender and Society 19 (6): 829–859. ———. 2016. Masculinities in Global Perspective: Hegemony, Contestation, and Changing Structures of Power. Theory and Society 45 (4): 303–318. Delany, Paul. 1985. “We Shall Know Each Other Now”: Message and Code in D.H. Lawrence’s “The Blind Man”. Contemporary Literature 26 (1): 26–39. Demetriou, Demetrakis Z. 2001. Connell’s Concept of Hegemonic Masculinity: A Critique. Theory and Society 30 (3): 337–361. Derrida, Jacques, and Anne Dufourmantelle. 2000. Of Hospitality: Anne Dufourmantelle Invites Jacques Derrida to Respond. Stanford, CA: Stanford UP. Donaldson, Mike. 1993. What Is Hegemonic Masculinity? Theory and Society 22: 643–657. García Zarranz, Libe. 2009. Passionate Fictions: Raymond Carver and Feminist Theory. The Raymond Carver Review 2: 20–32. Genz, Stéphanie, and Benjamin A.  Brabon. 2009. Postfeminism: Cultural Texts and Theories. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Gill, Rosalind. 2003. Power and the Production of Subjects: A Genealogy of the New Man and the New Lad. In Masculinity and Men’s Lifestyle Magazines, ed. Bethan Benwell, 36–52. Oxford and Malden: Blackwell and The Sociological Review. ———. 2016. Post-feminism? New Feminist Visibilities in Postfeminist Times. Feminist Media Studies 16 (4): 610–630. Gillison, Samantha. 2000, January 18. Too Close for Comfort: Why Is Raymond Carver’s Masterpiece, “Cathedral”, So Much Like a Little-Known D.  H. Lawrence Story? Salon. https://www.salon.com/2000/01/18/ carver_2. Accessed 2 July 2021. Harrington, Carol. 2020. What Is “Toxic Masculinity” and Why Does It Matter? Men and Masculinities 24 (2): 345–352. Howson, Richard. 2006. Challenging Hegemonic Masculinity. London and New York: Routledge. Lawrence, D. H. 1990, 1922. The Blind Man. In England, My England and Other Stories, ed. Bruce Steele, 46–63. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Lipman-Blumen, Jean. 1976. Toward a Homosocial Theory of Sex Roles: An Explanation of the Sex Segregation of Social Institutions. Signs 1 (3): 15–31.

5  HYBRID MASCULINITIES IN D.H. LAWRENCE’S “THE BLIND MAN”… 

91

Martín, Sara. 2020. Masculinity and Patriarchal Villainy in the British Novel: From Hitler to Voldemort. New York and London: Routledge. McCormack, Mark. 2012. The Declining Significance of Homophobia: How Teenage Boys Are Redefining Masculinity and Heterosexuality. Oxford: Oxford UP. Messner, Michael. 1993. “Changing Men” and Feminist Politics in the United States. Theory and Society 22 (5): 723–737. Morris, Max, and Eric Anderson. 2015. “Charlie Is So Cool Like”: Authenticity, Popularity and Inclusive Masculinity on YouTube. Sociology 49 (6): 1200–1217. Mulvey, Laura. 2009, 1975. Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema. In Film Theory and Criticism, eds. Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen, 711–722. New York City: Oxford University Press. O’Neill, Rachel. 2015. Whither Critical Masculinity Studies? Notes on Inclusive Masculinity Theory, Postfeminism and Sexual Politics. Men and Masculinities 18 (1): 100–120. Pease, Bob. 2000. Recreating Men: Postmodern Masculinity Politics. London: Sage. Rumens, Nick. 2017. Postfeminism, Men, Masculinities and Work: A Research Agenda for Gender and Organization Studies Scholars. Gender, Work and Organization 24 (3): 245–259. Wheeler, Richard P. 1976. Intimacy and Irony in “The Blind Man”. The D.H. Lawrence Review 9 (2): 236–253. Whelehan, Imelda. 2000. Overloaded: Popular Culture and the Future of Feminism. London: Women’s Press.

PART II

Transnational Fictions

CHAPTER 6

Of Tender Hearts and Good Men: Reading Australian Masculinity in Tim Winton’s Fiction Sarah Zapata

Introduction In the works of Tim Winton (b. 1960, Perth), one of Australia’s finest and favourite contemporary authors, the subject of masculinity and the exploration of the process of becoming and of being a man, a father, and a son are fundamental.1 When asked about his depictions of men, fathers, and father figures, Winton usually notes how the men in his family have been a recurrent source of inspiration and that the role models available in his closest circle were “benign males” and “non-violent” though also “ineffectual” (in Taylor 1996: 377). In this sense, Winton describes his father, who was a policeman in Perth and Albany, as “a gentle man, who did the ironing, the washing, and was, I guess, not very manly by Australian standards” (in Wachtel 1997: 68). In this respect, Winton offers non-­traditional depictions of masculinities in order to defy and call into question Australian

S. Zapata (*) La Trobe University, Melbourne, VIC, Australia © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_6

95

96 

S. ZAPATA

cultural and gender norms based on his own personal story rather than any theorisation of gender roles. Similarly, another salient feature in Winton’s narratives is the presence of an ethics and practice of care. Winton’s work has been described as “full of care, in all three senses—of craftmanship, of moral concern, and of sobriety before the facts of life” (Quin and Quin 1997: 7). As Geordie Williamson writes regarding Winton’s work, “he is a voice of sanity and his art is tuned to the possibility of care, even grace” (2018: 17). Drawing on concepts of “taking care”, “being attentive to”, and “caring about” as theorised by Joan Tronto and Virginia Held, this chapter argues that the depiction of sensitive, nurturing, and gentle male characters who display a kind and tender disposition and engage themselves in caring practices in Winton’s narratives provides a means of challenging traditional hegemonic toxic versions of masculinity and paves the way for unorthodox, counter-­ hegemonic male identities. Over the last decades there has been a renewed interest in the study of men and cultural manifestations of masculinity. In the light of the feminist project, Masculinity Studies emerged out of the need to de-universalise and challenge essentialist notions of the male gender as fixed and monolithic (Connell 1995). Masculinity began then to be analysed as socially, culturally, and historically constructed (Butler 1990). In this chapter I draw on Raewyn Connell’s definition of masculinity as “simultaneously a place in gender relations, the practices through which men and women engage that place in gender, and the effects of these practices in bodily experience, personality and culture” (1995: 71) to investigate how Winton’s texts undo standard normative views of manhood through a poetics of masculinity that promotes sensitivity, tenderness, and vulnerability. Far from claiming that Winton’s male characters represent ideal models of manhood, the aim of this essay is to highlight an awareness of these ethical, more gender-equitable, and positive alternatives and how they challenge and move beyond traditional masculine patterns. I further address the way in which Winton’s works foster an ethical agenda through a poetics of openness to, and encounter with, the Other along the lines of Emmanuel Levinas’s ethics of alterity (2004). Levinas’s consideration of the subject’s responsibility towards an opening up to the encounter with the Other resonates particularly with my analysis in this chapter. In a similar way, to address the presence of an ethics and practice of care in the characterisation of Winton’s male protagonists, I engage, as noted, with the work of Virginia Held (2006) and Joan Tronto (1993). In

6  OF TENDER HEARTS AND GOOD MEN: READING AUSTRALIAN… 

97

this respect, I look at the depictions of good, vulnerable, and caring men in his novels The Riders (1994), Breath (2008), and Eyrie (2013) and the short story cycle The Turning (2004).2 Drawing on contemporary debates on masculinity, the first part of the chapter provides a reading of The Riders, where I examine the role of the main male character as a man and father, in a story where a nurturing, unorthodox, and caring version of masculinity is privileged. The second part looks at the portrayals of ethical male figures in Winton’s novels Eyrie and Breath and his short fiction in The Turning, where examples of human goodness and an ethics and practice of care are foregrounded. In my discussion, I probe the ethical aspect of Winton’s narratives through an analysis of the male protagonists’ openness to the suffering and vulnerability of others and their embodiment of a caring, sensitive male identity to argue that his literary representations of men contribute to detoxing masculinity within an Australian context, while further fostering more positive forms of masculine subjectivity that promote gender-equal relationships and non-toxic patterns of behaviour and practices.

The Riders: A Man with “A Big Heart” Winton’s sixth novel The Riders deals with the story of an Australian family which decides to settle down in Ireland after travelling around Europe for a couple of years. The narrative opens with the main protagonist, Fred Scully, refurbishing the cottage they have bought in Count Offaly, Ireland, while his wife Jennifer and their seven-year-old daughter Billie return to Australia to sell their house in Fremantle, Western Australia. However, on the day that Jennifer and Billie are due to arrive, only Billie turns up at Shannon airport, forcing Scully to find out why Jennifer has vanished and to cope with his daughter’s sudden muteness due to the trauma of her mother’s disappearance. Scully’s search for his wife becomes a search for meaning and a quest to renew his damaged masculine identity. When approaching The Riders from a Masculinity Studies perspective, a key question is how the novel reflects and engages with the gender debates taking place in the 1990s, the time when the novel was published. During the last decade of the twentieth century the challenges to the traditional gender order led to a widespread sense of anxiety, confusion, and alienation among men that resulted in a state of identity crisis (Connell 1995, Buchbinder 1994). For Buchbinder, this notion of crisis “presupposes that change is occurring in such a way as to cause discomfort ­and/

98 

S. ZAPATA

or anxiety in those caught up in the change” (1994: 8). The emergence of more fluid and less fixed male identities is explored in the novel foregrounding vulnerability, gentleness, and sensitivity as inherent facets in the construction of the main protagonist’s masculinity. As I contend, the unorthodox masculinity of the central character in The Riders is intertwined with his embodiment of an involved and caring fatherhood, further contributing and paving the way to the construction of a new form of detoxed masculinity. From the outset, Fred Scully’s male identity is clearly set against a hyper-masculine, phallic, hegemonic version of manhood. If we understand hegemonic masculinity as “a man in power, a man with power, and a man of power” (Kimmel 2004: 184, original italics), then Scully epitomises the opposite type. In the opening pages and up to the unexpected disappearance of his wife, Scully is characterised by his embodiment of an alternative, antisexist masculinity as a caring man, husband, and father committed to gender equality. Before moving to Europe, Scully worked part-time doing odd jobs so that he could stay at home and spend more time with his daughter, while Jennifer pursued her career as a public servant. Similarly, in his marriage Scully is a loving and compliant husband who follows his wife and supports her artistic aspirations by playing the role of house husband and being much involved in the household. During the time when the family lived in Paris, Scully recalls, he had to do “shitwork all day so she could write” (139). His greater involvement in childcare and domestic chores is emphasised throughout the narrative corroborating critic Salhia Ben-Messahel’s view of Winton’s novel as deviating “from the old and very common conviction that the woman is the only central element of the household” (2006: 43). In this sense, the narrative emphasises the fact that the male protagonist is mainly located within the domestic space, which clearly points to the disruption of dominant gender constructions. Thus, Scully is involved in domestic tasks such as cooking and cleaning (255) and takes full responsibility for the upbringing of their daughter Billie. Moreover, Scully is described as deeply in love with, and to some extent emotionally dependent on, his wife. The analysis of the central character’s masculinity requires the acknowledgement of the text’s cultural and national context. The crisis of masculinity and the reconfiguration of gender roles previously mentioned are even more significant within an Australian context. The Australian culture has built its national identity upon several popular cultural myths which extol the concept of virility. These national myths of the pioneer, the

6  OF TENDER HEARTS AND GOOD MEN: READING AUSTRALIAN… 

99

larrikin, or the soldier embodied and promoted a hegemonic, toxic version of masculinity. In The Australian Legend, Russell Ward sketches a profile of the specific features ascribed to the myth of the typical Australian male, “a practical man, rough and ready in his manners and quick to decry any appearance of affectation in others. He is a great improviser, ever willing to ‘have a go’ at anything (…) He is a ‘hard case’, sceptical about the value of religion and of intellectual and cultural pursuits generally” (1958: 1–2). Similarly, in her seminal work Women and the Bush: Forces of Desire in an Australian Cultural Tradition, Kay Schaffer has noted that the dominant norms of Australian culture have traditionally been considered “masculine, White, Anglo-Irish and heterosexual” (1988: 12). Hence, popular notions of Australian identity and the ideal national character have been predicated upon the exclusion of women and the supremacy of men, exuding a masculinist bias.3 Although Scully could be regarded as an atypical man, nevertheless his male identity does not exclude some of the typical traits found in the Australian masculine standard. As critic Andrew Taylor contends, “his straightforward honesty and unsophisticated but devoted masculinity, his adeptness with his hands and his willingness to tackle hard outdoors work and improvise, his basic honesty and goodness” are all part and parcel of the protagonist’s masculine national identity (1998: 109). Scully is clearly characterised as an outsider and an outcast throughout the novel. On the one hand, he is regarded as the stereotypical Australian abroad and represents the “Ignoble Savage” (278), the “little convict mate (…) with primitive manners” (133, 136). In The Riders, the Europeans are portrayed as arrogant, snobbish people who disapprove of Scully’s good nature creating a stereotype for him as a “working-class boofhead with a wife who married beneath herself, a hairy bohemian with a beautiful family, the mongrel expat with the homesick twang and ambitious missus” (10). Consequently, the meetings that Scully has with these European others heighten the cultural differences with Australia. Yet, he is regarded as different mainly because he does not conform to normative ideals of masculinity extolled by a patriarchal gender division and the stereotypical representation of the Australian man. For the British expatriate characters living in Greece, Scully’s unconventional model of masculinity does not fit the Australian cultural stereotype of masculine identity. He is constantly pushed to the margins by these characters for being an unconventional, sensitive, and gentle man. Remarkably, the male characters in the novel, especially the expatriates the couple meet in their first trip to

100 

S. ZAPATA

Greece, regard Scully’s optimistic nature and natural goodness as undesirable features in a man, for he is “just unnaturally sanguine, and good-­ natured to the point of irritation” (120). This further reinforces the social and cultural stereotypes and gender expectations deeply ingrained in men regarding their understanding and performance of their masculinity within an Australian context. Scully’s gentle and caring nature is also perceived as weak and ineffectual by other characters in the novel. For instance, Irma, a German tourist they encounter in their trip, laughs at and scorns him for being “soft” and “tender” (305) while demanding him to have “more guts” (216). These remarks echo the widespread cultural and social expectation of “being a man” or “acting like a man” and how (Australian) culture and society construct, define, and influence a certain version of manhood (Gilmore 1990). Significantly, Scully’s male body also becomes a site of difference and otherness, with its rough bodily structure, a “broad nose with its pulpy scar down the left side”, and a “wonky eye” (9) turning his face into “the face of Cyclops” (163). Scully is compared to Victor Hugo’s famous character the Hunchback of Notre Dame, a figure who is also physically deformed but who possesses a good heart, and which Scully’s daughter appreciates. Billie’s identification of her father with the Hunchback, her favourite hero, not only underscores his naïve nature but also his unlovely appearance. By showing a bodily and psychological affinity, these two characters further share the position of monsters or freaks in the narrative.4 Remarkably, the way Marianne, their Parisian intellectual acquaintance, sees Scully is also reminiscent of the discourse on monstrosity: “Tell me about your face, your very sad eye. It makes me think of beasts you know” (281). In this way, in making his monstrous body visible, the narrative clearly places Scully as a man in the place of the Other, in the margins of a dominant, normative understanding of masculinity. Nevertheless, his difference is also rendered in a positive light, mainly through his daughter’s eyes. The little girl stresses Scully’s inherent goodness as she predominantly sees her father’s inner, true self and is unconcerned by his looks. The Riders further addresses the impact of fathering and of the figure of the father on the shaping of Scully’s masculinity. Specifically, a key concern in the novel is Scully’s critical role as a father and the influence of the father-daughter bond on the male protagonist’s sense of self. As I have argued elsewhere (2008), an outstanding aspect of Winton’s “heightened focus on fatherhood is how men construct their identities as fathers and how they perceive their role as providing emotional support for their

6  OF TENDER HEARTS AND GOOD MEN: READING AUSTRALIAN… 

101

children” (48). At the turn of the twenty-first century, the changing nature of society together with women’s shifting social position and changes in gender roles and expectations prompted a significant interest in new patterns of fatherhood (Cabrera et  al. 2000: 127–136). Accordingly, new concepts such as “involved fathering” or “responsible fatherhood” emerged (Collier and Sheldon 2008: 114).5 This new father model differs from the traditional patriarchal father in several aspects for he “is involved with his children as infants, not just when they are older; he participates in the actual day-to-day work of childcare, and not just play; he is involved with his daughters as much as his sons” (Pleck 1987: 93). Similarly, this new conceptualisation of fatherhood is deemed, as Australian sociologists Deborah Lupton and Lesley Barclay claim, “a major opportunity for modern men to express their nurturing feelings in ways that their own fathers supposedly did not” (1997: 1) or could not. This is in clear contrast to a traditional definition of fatherhood that privileges authority, the exertion of power and control, and emotional detachment. In his study The Changing Role of Fathers (1983), Australian psychologist Graeme Russell claims that men who do not identify with the cultural stereotypes of masculinity reject traditional notions of fatherhood to embody alternative roles in childcare and acquire more responsibilities within a domestic context. This is clearly epitomised in Scully, not simply because his presence as a parent is more significant than his wife’s but also because he is more comfortably placed within the household space than the public sphere. Even though Jennifer’s unexpected disappearance forces Scully to be the primary caregiver, it must be noted he had already adopted the role when Billie was born. In The Riders, Fred Scully is portrayed as a tender, involved father from her birth: “He was grateful for those years, to have been the one who had her most days” (55). Hence, his greater involvement in childcare and domestic chores is emphasised throughout the narrative as part of his very self. He is described as highly involved in all aspects of childcare like feeding, bathing (199, 200), dressing (58, 200) his daughter, or brushing Billie’s hair (112, 192, 259). Likewise, Scully is concerned with his daughter’s intellectual and cognitive development, teaching Billie different skills. The girl recalls how her father “taught her how to swim and ride a bike. Before school, he taught her how to read and write” (83–84). In this respect, Scully’s caring fathering is interconnected with his embodiment of qualities so far regarded as feminine and a more unorthodox, benign, and affectionate male identity. Scully is further depicted as an emotionally attached father to his young

102 

S. ZAPATA

daughter, in clear contrast to his wife. He shows great involvement in her daughter’s emotional needs in that he is seen showing his love, kissing and caressing the little girl (26, 125, 285). By portraying the close relationship between Scully and Billie, before and after her mother’s absence, Winton enhances the emotional involvement of his male characters with their offspring, their ability to love and to show their sensitivity, which fosters positive role models and detoxed constructions of masculinity and fatherhood.

Eyrie, Breath, and The Turning: Of Goodness, Care, and Ethical Responsibility There is a common thematic thread running through the narrative of Winton’s novels Eyrie and Breath, and his short story collection The Turning: an attentiveness to the Other and the practice of care that their male protagonists share. In his study Otherwise than Being: or Beyond Essence (2004), Emmanuel Levinas puts forward how ethical responsibility is prompted by the encounter with the Other, or by the face of the Other (2004: 150). By approaching Eyrie’s male protagonist Tom Keely from a Levinasian perspective, Winton’s novel gestures towards ethical responsibility and openness to the Other as a means to pave the way for detoxing masculinity. Drawing also on Virginia Held’s ethical theory, which is grounded on “the truly universal experience of care” and developed “as a moral theory or approach to moral issues” (2006: 30), I consider here the concept of care as both “a practice” and “a value” (Held: 4) as reflected in the narratives in these three volumes. As Held claims, care as practice is manifested in terms of caring relations and the way individuals respond to the demands/needs of others (36). As a value, care “involves attentiveness, sensitivity, and responding to needs” (36). In this light, I argue that Winton’s narratives exhibit an “attentiveness to the other’s point of view” (Held: 31) and to their needs, while caring about and taking care of the Other (Tronto 1993: 127). Winton’s ninth novel Eyrie (2013) delves into the story of Tom Keely, a forty-nine-year-old spokesman for an environmental agency, who has lost his job and his house following the divorce from his wife Faith after she had an affair with a colleague. The narrative opens with Tom trying to reconstruct his life in Western Australia’s Freemantle. After an accidental encounter with his neighbour Gemma, his childhood crush, and her six-­ year-­old grandson Kai, Tom’s moral responsibility towards the boy, who is

6  OF TENDER HEARTS AND GOOD MEN: READING AUSTRALIAN… 

103

like the son he has never had, provides him with a sense of meaning and a purpose in life. At the beginning of the narrative readers meet Tom’s most pessimistic version, but as the story progresses he feels the need to open up and care for Gemma and Kai. The bright but fragile boy is deeply traumatised due to the behaviour of his negligent parents: his mother Carly is in prison for drugs, assault, and thieving, and his father Stewie is a violent man and a drug dealer. As Tom’s mother Doris notes, the poor little boy has “seen too much” (280) already at his early age: “the weight of it (…) You can see it on him” (280). In this section, I address Eyrie’s main protagonist Tom, and to some extent his father, as a caring male figure that may be interpreted as in line with the tenets inscribed in an ethics of care theorised by Held and Tronto. Indeed, the male protagonist’s ethical values and principles are illustrated in Faith’s words to Tom during a phone call: “you’re always crapping on about backing the vanquished” (92). Significantly, in Eyrie the protagonist’s concern for the defeated and vulnerable Other illustrates the definition of “taking care of”, which as an activity includes “everything that we do to maintain, continue, and repair our ‘world’ so that we can live in it as well as possible” (Tronto and Fischer 1990: 4). Tom’s care is brought to the fore when he tries to meet the Other’s needs by helping Gemma, who receives violent threats from Kai’s father. There are multiple references to Tom’s caring attitude towards his neighbours, especially the young boy for whom he becomes a father figure which contrasts with the monstrous thug his biological father is. These gestures include babysitting Kai, playing with the boy, telling him a bedtime story, teaching him new words, and offering a sense of safety and protection. Winton’s novel highlights the power of unselfish gestures of caring and how they can effect a positive change in damaged individuals, as is the case with Kai. Tom’s affective bond and responsibility towards Kai provides him with a new purpose in life and contributes to the potential healing of his own personal losses, particularly that of his father to violence and a criminal life. Tom’s moral character, inherent goodness, and commitment are grounded on the example given by his own parents. Doris and Neville Keely are an instance of the practice of caring for others, whether they are family or not, as shown by their taking their neighbours, the Buck girls, under their wing whenever their father gets drunk and abusive. It is worth noting that the narrative builds on multiple allusions to the protagonist’s father, Neville Keely, who used to work as a mechanic with his friend Wally but suddenly withdrew from the job and turned a born-again preacher

104 

S. ZAPATA

who “went out saving souls with Doris” and was thus “lost to Christ” (121). His own son recalls the years when his father was still alive as a time when “moral giants strode the earth” (292). Neville was well known for his goodness and his willingness to help those in need. Despite Tom’s admiration and worship of his father, he also acknowledges the flaws— Neville overworked and was excessively concerned about helping vulnerable people—which led him to his early death due to a heart attack. Significantly, Tom calls his father “the young bear”, considering him too naïve and good-natured for his own good, a point of view which the narrative sustains. The problem, as Tom grants with regret, is that “This was an era for reptiles, not bears” (127). Despite Neville’s strong physical appearance and hero-like reputation, the protagonist recalls his father’s sensitive side when he explains to Kai that men also cry: “Well, blokes cry too, you know. (…) My dad, said Keely. He cried, you know” (395). In this respect, Tom, who does not refrain himself from crying either, models his masculine identity on his father’s example. In his attempt to protect Gemma and her grandson, Tom assumes a responsibility for the Other beyond the boundaries and links of family, friends, or colleagues. By expressing kindness, concern, and empathy for them, Winton’s protagonist advocates an ethical response to the suffering and vulnerability of the Other. In keeping with this, Winton unsettles and detoxes traditional patriarchal notions of manhood by portraying tender and nurturing male protagonists who refuse to embody a traditional hegemonic masculinity. The category of care and examples of care-related practices are thus central in Winton’s fiction and can be found in other instances in his literary universe, like Vic Lang in the short story collection The Turning or Bruce Pike in Breath. In both cases, these men respond to the precariousness and vulnerability of the Other without being less masculine for that. Winton, in short, endorses care as an essential category for the configuration of non-mainstream versions of masculinity in Australia. In Breath (2008), Winton presents a fifty-year-old paramedic, Bruce Pike, looking back on his younger self and how the testing of limits and the alluring nature of risk-taking in his coming of age shaped the configuration of his identity. The novel chronicles the protagonist’s progression from childhood innocence to transgression and adulthood. Since Bruce’s role as a life-saver is at the core of his sense of identity, in Breath the performance of care and caregiving is closely interwoven with the process of formation of his selfhood. Through the present-day narrator, the novel fosters a poetics of care by foregrounding glimpses of Bruce’s daily

6  OF TENDER HEARTS AND GOOD MEN: READING AUSTRALIAN… 

105

responsibility for others, be it his patients, his mother, or his daughters. His occupation as a paramedic enacts “a reflective understanding of care as the most adequate guide of the resolution of conflicts in human relationships” (Gilligan 1982: 105). Through Bruce’s work, Winton privileges the positive value embedded in “meeting the needs of the particular others” (Held 2006: 10) while stressing the exposure of one’s self and openness to the Other. The act of caring about others is indeed closely connected to the ethical notion of attentiveness (Tronto 1993). Bruce has found a renewed sense of identity by integrating his memories and experiences from the past with his job: “I discovered something I was good at, something I could make my own. I am hell’s own paramedic” (259). His job is the force that keeps Bruce grounded and fully present in the everyday: “I do a good job. When the siren’s wailing I’m fully present. I am the best of me” (262). This bruised character manages to cope with the call of adventure, the pull of adrenaline, through his job as a paramedic, being at the service of others who like himself have flirted with risk. Bruce’s being “fully present” (262) at work illustrates his solicitude, his attentiveness to others as a subject, which reminds the reader of Winton’s ethical agenda. The novel foregrounds thus the performance of attention to others and one’s responsibility, a concern that is explored in Eyrie and The Turning as well. In The Turning, Winton offers a range of toxic constructions of masculinity through diverse examples of men abandoning their families, as well as through alcoholic and violent men. With these men, Winton exposes the deplorable and deeply damaging version of manhood privileged by patriarchal discourses. In contrast to these men, Winton introduces Vic Lang, the male protagonist who appears in most of the stories and how a deeply traumatic childhood and the disappearance of his father shaped his adult life. Vic is depicted as a complex young man haunted by memories and experiences from the past that prevent him from moving forward with his life. The story “Long, Clear View” chronicles Vic’s puberty and the abandonment of his father shortly after his baby sister’s death from meningitis. In this sense, Bridget Grogan argues that Vic “is forced to become his mother’s protector, the ‘defender’ to which the collection so often refers” (2014: 206). In the story “Commission” we are presented with Vic as an adult who finds some respite from his childhood traumas in his job as a defence lawyer working for vulnerable people, “for life’s losers, those needing redemption” (McCredden 2016: 87). Similarly, McCredden notes how as a lawyer Vic Lang “bears the burden of protecting and

106 

S. ZAPATA

redeeming the vulnerable” (2016: 87). Notably, his colleagues call him “The Redeemer” (310). In “Damaged Goods”, another story from The Turning, Gail, Vic Lang’s wife, recalls her husband’s open and dedicated nature as follows: “In any dispute, Vic will instinctively seek out a victim to defend. That’s his nature and it’s become his work as a labour lawyer” (58). In the story “Commission”, the adult Vic has to find his estranged father Bob Lang, who was a corrupt policeman and an alcoholic, since his mother is dying from cancer and requests the presence of her husband. Bob has been living in a mining settlement in the desert for the last twenty-­ seven years, where he has mended his damaged identity, given up alcohol, and calmed down his inner conflicts by helping others. Once father and son meet, a contrite Bob acknowledges his guilt and failure regarding his shameful past. By reuniting his parents Vic extends his wish to save or assist others to his own parents, healing thus the wound left by the father’s abandonment of the family. McCredden argues that father and son are “products of the same family drama, each bearing the scars, but also bearing the same political and ethical understandings” (2016: 64). Yet, despite the shared values and his adolescent traumas, the stories in The Turning suggest that Vic Lang’s good nature, compassion, and empathy prevail in his characterisation despite his father’s negative example, which means that the toxic patterns of masculine behaviour need not be repeated. This, however, is not easy to accomplish. In the last story, “Defender”, Gail and Vic Lang visit some friends who live on a farm. Vic as a lawyer now deals with “drunks and junkies [who] take everything out of you, all your patience, all your time and will” (219). Accordingly, he is at times rendered powerless. In the story, he also suffers from shingles and a nervous breakdown due to the recent death of his parents. Vic has spent his adult life saving others, but that dedication and his traumatic boyhood memories have taken their toll on him. In this respect, the weekend trip becomes a turning point in Vic’s life, as he makes peace with the traumatic issues of his past and accepts that he does not have to be everybody’s saviour all the time, but just be himself and live in the present. In foregrounding attentiveness to the pain and suffering of the Other and taking responsibility for them, or at least attempting to provide help, Winton’s novels and short stories privilege a mode of being characterised by quintessential goodness, kindness, and grounded on an ethics of care. Tom, Bruce, and Vic are clear examples of this.

6  OF TENDER HEARTS AND GOOD MEN: READING AUSTRALIAN… 

107

Conclusion As I have argued, the male characters in Winton’s works embody a nurturing, caring, and ethical masculine subjectivity that unsettles traditional notions of manhood and in particular Australia’s culture of toxic masculinity. By foregrounding these ethical, tender, and more gender-equitable forms of masculinity, Winton’s writings expose a critique of traditional masculine ideals and patterns, moving beyond them. In his novels and short story collections readers are presented with caring, essentially good, and sensitive men in clear contrast to other violent, misogynistic male characters. The Riders’ gentle and nurturing father Fred Scully, the paramedic Bruce Pike in Breath, Eyrie’s caring Tom Keely, or The Turning’s generous defence lawyer Vic Lang are presented as positive male figures in search of answers and in quests for psychic restoration. In portraying male protagonists open to the encounter with the Other, Winton’s narratives foster an ethics and a practice of care. As the previous analysis has shown, Winton’s male figures, more concretely in Breath and Eyrie, seem to exemplify a Levinasian face-to-face encounter with the suffering of the Other. In this context, by highlighting the ethical openness of his male protagonists, Winton re-imagines male ways of being and his works open up diverse possibilities of representing masculine subjectivity. Not only do Winton’s narratives depict (Australian) masculinity as a social and cultural construct, but they also offer new possibilities of masculinity more attuned to current social and cultural shifts. In 2018, some of Winton’s interviews and speeches focused on the damaging influence of toxic forms of masculinity deep-seated in Australian culture.6 For instance, in his article in The Guardian, Winton discusses the toxic role models available to boys in Australian society and laments that there is “a constant pressure to enlist, to pull on the uniform of misogyny and join the Shithead Army that enforces and polices sexism” (2018). Therefore, Winton’s male characters illustrate complex ways of “being” and “becoming”, but more importantly, a more benevolent way of being a man in the world. His works offer men new possibilities of detoxing masculinity by highlighting ways of being open to goodness.

108 

S. ZAPATA

Notes 1. The National Trust in Australia listed Winton among 100 Australian National Living Treasures in 1997 (McGirr 1999: 4). Likewise, in 2003 he was awarded a Centenary Medal for services to Australian Society and Literature and listed among the 100 most influential people in Western Australia in 2006. 2. Winton is a multi-award-winning author active in a variety of genres. Among his considerable production we find, apart from the works here analysed, the novels An Open Swimmer (1982), Shallows (1984), In the Winter Dark (1986), Cloudstreet (1991), Dirt Music (2001), and The Shepherd’s Hut (2018); the short story collections Scission and Other Stories (1985), Minimum of Two (1987); the plays Rising Water (2011), Signs of Life (2012), and Shrine (2013); and non-fiction works, Land’s Edge (1993), Island Home: A Landscape Memoir (2015), and The Boy Behind the Curtain (2016). 3. For a theorisation of the typical Australian standard of masculinity, see Schaffer (1988: 19–22). 4. Halberstam asserts that representations and discourses of monstrosity manifest a fear of the different Other, the monstrous stressing “the difference between an other and a self” (1995: 8). 5. It is worth mentioning that it would be naïve to claim this concept of involved and caring males is new and there have been no nurturing fathers and father figures before the 1990s. On this point, see, for example, Ralph LaRossa’s “The Historical Study of Fatherhood: Theoretical and Methodological Considerations” (2013). 6. See Stan Grant’s interview (Australian Broadcasting Corporation 2018) and Winton’s article (The Guardian 2018).

References Ben-Messahel, Salhia. 2006. Mind the Country: Tim Winton’s Fiction. Crawley, WA: University of Western Australia Publishing. Buchbinder, David. 1994. Masculinities and Identities. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Butler, Judith. 1990. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge. Cabrera, Natasha, Catherine S. Tamis-LeMonda, Robert Bradley, Sandra Hofferth, and Michael E. Lamb. 2000. Fatherhood in the Twenty-First Century. Child Development 7 (1): 127–136. Collier, Richard, and Sally Sheldon. 2008. Fragmenting Fatherhood: A Socio-Legal Study. Portland, OR: Hart Publishing.

6  OF TENDER HEARTS AND GOOD MEN: READING AUSTRALIAN… 

109

Connell, Raewyn. 1995. Masculinities. Berkeley: University of California Press. Gilligan, Carol. 1982. In a Different Voice: Psychological Theory and Women’s Development. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Gilmore, David. 1990. Manhood in the Making: Cultural Concepts of Masculinity. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Grant, Stan. 2018, August 2. Tim Winton Laments the Power of Toxic Masculinity on Young Men. Australian Broadcasting Corporation. https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=zEiPIprMUGo. Grogan, Bridget. 2014. The Cycle of Love and Loss: Melancholic Masculinity in The Turning. In Tim Winton: Critical Essays, eds. Lyn McCredden and Nathanael O’Reilly, 199–220. Perth: University of Western Australia Publishing. Halberstam, Judith. 1995. Skin Shows: Gothic Horror and the Technology Monsters. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Held, Virginia. 2006. The Ethics of Care: Personal, Political and Global. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kimmel, Michael. 2004. Masculinity as Homophobia: Fear, Shame and Silence in the Construction of Gender. In Feminism and Masculinities, ed. Peter Murphy, 182–199. Oxford: Oxford University Press. LaRossa, Ralph. 2013. The Historical Study of Fatherhood: Theoretical and Methodological Considerations. In Fatherhood in Late Modernity: Cultural Images, Social Practices, Structural Frames, eds. Mechtild Oechsle, Ursula Müller, and Sabine Hess, 37–58. Leverkusen: Verlag Barbara Budrich. Levinas, Emmanuel. 2004, 1974. Otherwise than Being, or Beyond Essence. Trans. A. Lingis. Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press. Lupton, Deborah, and Lesley Barclay. 1997. Constructing Fatherhood: Discourses and Experiences. London: Sage. McCredden, Lyn. 2016. Fiction of Tim Winton: Earthed and Sacred. Sydney: Sydney University Press. McGirr, Michael. 1999. Tim Winton: The Writer and His Work. South Yarra, Victoria: Macmillan. Pleck, Joseph. 1987. American Fathering in Historical Perspective. In Changing Men: New Directions in Research on Men and Masculinity, ed. Michael Kimmel, 83–97. Newbury Park, CA: Sage. Quin, Rod, and Robyn Quin. 1997. The Edge of the World: Viewing Notes, 1–11. http://www.filmaust.com.au/programs/teachersnotes/6058_edgeworldnotes.pdf. Accessed 11 October 2021. Russell, Graeme. 1983. The Changing Role of Fathers. Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Schaffer, Kay. 1988. Women and the Bush: Forces of Desire in an Australian Cultural Tradition. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Taylor, Andrew. 1996. An Interview with Tim Winton. Australian Literary Studies 17 (4): 373–377.

110 

S. ZAPATA

———. 1998. Tim Winton’s The Riders: A Construction of Difference. Westerly 43 (3): 99–112. Tronto, Joan. 1993. Moral Boundaries: A Political Argument for an Ethic of Care. New York and London: Routledge. Tronto, Joan, and Berenice Fischer. 1990. Toward a Feminist Theory of Caring. In Circles of Care: Work and Identity in Women’s Lives, eds. Emily K. Abel and Margaret K. Nelson, 35–62. New York: University of New York Press. Wachtel, Eleanor. 1997. Eleanor Wachtel with Tim Winton. Malahat Review 121 (Winter): 63–81. Ward, Russell. 1958. The Australian Legend. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Williamson, Geordie. 2018. Matters Unfinished – Review of The Shepherd’s Hut by Tim Winton. The Australian 10–11: 16–17. Winton, Tim. 1994. The Riders. Sydney: Macmillan. ———. 2004. The Turning. Sydney: Picador. ———. 2008. Breath. Melbourne: Penguin. ———. 2013. Eyrie. Melbourne: Penguin. ———. 2018, April 9. About the Boys: On How Toxic Masculinity Is Shackling Men to Misogyny. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/ books//2018/apr/09/about-­t he-­b oys-­t im-­w inton-­o n-­h ow-­t oxic-­ masculinity-­is-­shackling-­men-­to-­misogyny. Accessed 20 May 2022. Zapata, Sarah. 2008. Rethinking Masculinity: Changing Men and the Decline of Patriarchy in Tim Winton’s Short Stories. Atenea XXVIII (2): 93–106.

CHAPTER 7

“A Good Man is Hard to Find”: The Making of Michael ‘Digger’ Digson Bill Phillips

Introduction: Caribbean Empowerment While the presence of Black populations in the Americas in general is, historically, due to slavery, the present-day situation of many Caribbean islands is significantly different from that of Black communities in the United States. Countries such as Grenada, previously British colonies, are now independent and largely populated and governed by the descendants of slaves. As a result, the potential for challenging toxic masculinities is now almost entirely in the hands of the people of the Caribbean themselves. This empowerment provides the opportunity for the kind of transformation depicted by Jacob Ross in the figure of Michael ‘Digger’ Digson in the novels The Bone Readers (2018) and Black Rain Falling (2020), while in the United States, hegemonic white supremacy still remains a serious obstacle.1

B. Phillips (*) Universitat de Barcelona, Barcelona, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_7

111

112 

B. PHILLIPS

Christopher Breu in Hard-Boiled Masculinities argues in his study of the novels of Black author Chester Himes that “the African American hard-boiled male cannot function in the same largely unmarked manner as his white counterpart” (2005: 148). Traditionally, literary archetypes such as Dashiell Hammett’s Continental Op and Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe are “written in the classic first-person style of most hard-boiled fiction” (2005: 148), but when Himes uses the same technique in If He Hollers Let Him Go, “as a racially marked subject in a white supremacist culture”, his protagonist “can no longer maintain his fantasy of detached objectivity and dispassionate observation. He is clearly not only the subject of the gaze but also its object, and as such he becomes objectified as well as formed subjectively through the lens of various forms of cultural fantasy” (2005: 148–149). Being “both subject and object of the gaze renders [it] impossible to sustain the fantasy of detached and dispassionate subjectivity” (2005: 149). This, argues Breu, is the reason why Himes chose to write his celebrated Harlem novels—which follow the investigations of two Black Harlem police officers—in the third person. Of course, the “detached objectivity and dispassionate observation” that Breu ascribes to traditional first-person hard-boiled narratives are often in reality nothing but a cover for blatant, unexamined prejudice—see, for example, the accumulative racism of Philip Marlowe’s narration in the opening pages of Raymond Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely (1940). This is picked up by Walter Mosley in his first Easy Rawlins novel, Devil in a Blue Dress (1990), in which the Black protagonist provides the first-person narrative, but does so in a far from “detached and dispassionate subjectivity”. On the contrary, Rawlins is so conscious of his racially marked subjectivity that it becomes the dominant theme of the entire Easy Rawlins series of novels. In Jacob Ross’s two novels about Grenadian police detective ‘Digger’ Digson, The Bone Readers and Black Rain Falling, the protagonist is able to narrate his story in the first person without constantly looking over his shoulder for fear of a racist response to his very existence. In the English-­ speaking Caribbean it is white people who are racially marked as demonstrated when, as a young man, Digger walks away from his job in a tourist bar: For two tourist seasons, I peeled back my lips and exposed my teeth, served drinks barefoot in a rainbow-coloured synthetic shirt, wide-brimmed straw hat and pantaloons which no Camaho man would be seen dead in outside of Beach Bum Bar. Then a half-drunk old bull from Germany, red like a

7  “A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND”: THE MAKING OF MICHAEL ‘DIGGER’… 

113

barbecued lobster, closed his hand around my crotch and I punched him in the face. The Englishman who owned the place leaned in close and demanded I apologise, else he fire me without pay. I told him to haul his arse and walked. (TBR 1)

Ross racialises the German tourist with his red face while at the same time emphasising the absurdity of the English bar owner’s policy of dressing his Grenadian staff as Black caricatures. The German and the Englishman are out of place—they are the outsiders, hence Digger’s comment that no Camaho (the main island of Grenada) man would wear such ridiculous clothes—and Digger walks away from them. A similar situation is portrayed later in the novel when Digger’s police colleague, Malan Greaves, is hit in the face by a Frenchman and accepts “a coupla hundred dollars” to forget the incident. Their superior officer, Superintendent Chilman, gives Malan another blow to the face and, raising his fist, explains that “I only hit Malan Greaves with this, fellas. What that Frenchman hit my officer with is completely different. He use the hand of history. If he try it again with any of y’all, you got my permission to shoot him” (TBR 124). Chilman is insisting on his independence as a Grenadian—white supremacy is a thing of the past and must be made to remain so. While remaining conscious of Grenada’s—and by extension the English-speaking Caribbean’s colonial past—the two novels are concerned with the present and, in particular, with an analysis of Grenadian masculinity, both in its most toxic form and in its alternatives. In Black Rain Falling, Grenadian police detective Michael ‘Digger’ Digson briefly flashes back to the course on forensic science he attended in England. It is the last day of class, and the lecturer, Nuala Quinn, has a book in her hand: Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man Is Hard to Find. Quinn is concerned about the kind of policemen her students will become: “There are— roughly—three kinds of policemen: the foot soldier, the priest and the savage” (BRF 164), she proclaims, her “taunting, sing-song Irish voice directed at the back of the room” (164). Her choice of (presumably) Flannery O’Connor’s controversial story in which a man mercilessly and meaninglessly kills a family whose car has just crashed may be relevant: Quinn seems to have few illusions about the moral standing of men, even the “priest does not always do good, but he means to do good” (BRF 165), she insists. Alone among the students, Digger takes the lecturer’s comments to heart and concludes that it was true, policemen were capable

114 

B. PHILLIPS

of being all three. “Or could be” (165), he concludes, leaving, like O’Connor, the door of grace very slightly ajar. When confronted with O’Connor’s classic story, only the most virtuous of readers does not mentally recall the chiastic response “and a hard man is good to find”. Attributed to Mae West, this lascivious inversion of adjectives applies to Digger in the gentlest of ways; he is a loving man and a considerate lover, and despite the oppressive masculine brutality, entitlement, and irresponsibility overshadowing Grenada, Digger is different. He does not behave as most other men behave towards women. Hard, however, also means tough, and Digger is as tough as they come when need be. His aim, like the priest’s, is to do good, though knowingly risking failure. This essay will, therefore, depict Digger’s struggle to navigate the unarticulated moral code he lives by and his determination to do good: to the women in his life, to the islanders he serves, and to the police force he works for. In counterpoint, I will also analyse Digger’s opposite, his colleague Malan Greaves, who represents the kind of toxic masculinity which Digger is determined to combat both in himself and in others.

Fighting Toxic Misogynistic Violence in the Caribbean Digger’s relationships with men are relatively simple: they are either his friends, in which case little need be said of them, or his enemies, in which case they need to be dealt with. This often means giving them a severe beating with the belt which he inherited from his grandmother; its buckle is capable of breaking bones, and this is why the belt is his weapon of choice rather than his regulation sidearm. His enemies—those who receive a well-deserved beating in his view—are irredeemable, their masculinity so toxic they are beyond salvation, and Digger has no pity for them. Readers are introduced to just such an irredeemable man at the beginning of Black Rain Falling when Digger chances on a road accident. A Canadian tourist has been killed, run over by a mini-bus driven by a drunk driver, and her body has been dragged and dismembered over a lengthy stretch of road. Digger does not hesitate to arrest the culprit, a habitually intoxicated policeman named Buso, locking him up in jail, despite his protests that “I’z a officer too” (BRF 5). This earns Digger the enmity of the drunken officer’s colleagues, Skelo, Machete, and Switch. The latter is the “kind of officer that would think nothing of smashing a fella’s face through

7  “A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND”: THE MAKING OF MICHAEL ‘DIGGER’… 

115

a pane of glass or demanding sex from a woman in exchange for not arresting her. The subspecies you found in every police force in the world” (BRF 21). Machete is as bad: “He wore steel-toecap boots, designed to strike bone and break it—the type extrajudicial henchmen used to wear in my mother’s time. The wickedness came off him like smoke” (BRF 124). After Buso is found guilty, Skelo throws a cup of battery acid at Digger’s face, which he manages to duck in time. That night Digger confronts the three men in a beach-front bar, breaking Skelo’s wrist and shoulder with his heavy, buckled belt before doing the same to Machete’s arm and foot. Switch is saved from a similar fate by the intervention of Digger’s colleague, Malan, who defuses the situation. It is no coincidence that this confrontation begins with the killing of a woman, the afore-mentioned Canadian tourist. Almost all violence in the novels—and there is plenty of it—is perpetrated by men against women. In The Bone Readers Digger and fellow detective Kathleen Stanislaus (usually referred to as Miss Stanislaus) investigate the murder of Bello Hunt, the Deacon of a religious cult. It emerges that for years Bello had been raping and impregnating the girls in his care: “all dem children modder not older dan fourteen or fifteen when dem have dem chile” (TBR 130) Miss Stanislaus notes  in disgust. As their investigations continue, the detectives discover that not only had Bello been systematically abusing the girls in his care, but his half-brother Pike, the ‘Watchman’ of the cult, had participated in the same crime and had then murdered those who tried to escape their clutches. Another particularly violent man is Juba Hurst, a drugs trafficker who holds sway over his local community through fear, intimidation, and bribery but who, with the local police in his pocket, remains at large. He is, we learn, a suspected “murdered and enforcer”: Eight cases of serious assault against minors with intent to commit buggery, four attempted murders, fifteen threats to kill, twelve unlawful woundings, nine indecent assaults on a female, two reported cases of detention of a woman against her will—every one of those cases had been retracted a day or two before it went to court. (BRF 14)

This culture of violence against women, personified in the figures of Bello Hunt, Pike, and Juba Hurst, is widespread and deeply embedded in the islands and the two protagonists of the novels—Digger and Miss Stanislaus—are both driven to combat it by their own experiences: Miss

116 

B. PHILLIPS

Stanislaus as a rape survivor (she is one of Juba’s many victims) and Digger because of the death of his mother. Years earlier, in 1999, a schoolgirl had been raped, her body desecrated, and then left exposed to public view. The women of the island rose up in protest in the capital only to be shot down by armed police. Among the dead was Laura Digson, Digger’s mother; her killer was never identified. This violence against women is relentless. Early on in The Bone Readers we learn of an Englishman who has murdered his wife: “English fella used to beat up the woman all the time. They didn think it odd because that’s what fellas here do” (TBR 22) complains Digger’s commanding officer Detective Superintendent Chilman (the father of Miss Stanislaus). After the woman’s murdered body is found Chilman directly blames the island’s culture of violence against women for her death: “Whitefella come here; he see how some of y’all behave with woman, so he think is normal. Y’all give him licence” (TBR 24). To underline the gendered nature of this murderous violence in the next case, Digger investigates the murder of a young Indian girl, found floating in the river. Digger tells his colleague Caran that they need to find the man responsible. “What makes you think is a fella?” asks Caran. “You ever hear a woman kill another woman here?” asks Digger. “Caran shook his head” (TBR 96). It is men who kill women. Jacob Ross’s portrayal of violence in the Caribbean is backed up by statistics: Throughout Caribbean history, provoked and unprovoked violence against women has been the norm for Caribbean men to assert their masculine identities and to assert power and control within male-female domestic relationships (…). Overall, the Latin American and Caribbean rate for documented violence [against women] is twice the global average. (Jeremiah et al. 2013: 228)

With regard to the causes of this violence, the same authors note that: Contemporary Caribbean masculinities are unequivocally tied to European colonization of the region from the 17th through the 19th centuries. The cultural impact of European domination upon Caribbean identities is obvious because colonial practices and institutions are evident in contemporary Caribbean gender and sexual identities. (229–230)

7  “A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND”: THE MAKING OF MICHAEL ‘DIGGER’… 

117

This model of gender and sexual identity is not expressed only through overt, physical violence. According to Hegamin-Younger, Jeremiah, and Bilbro, Caribbean men are often characterised as promiscuous, unwilling to participate in childrearing and housework, and as having multiple partners or engaging in informal polygamy; fertility is associated with masculinity and virility, whereas risk-taking among young men is celebrated. Young women, on the other hand, learn only about sex and sexuality from the viewpoint of religious moral disapproval (2014: 335). This characterisation is confirmed by Goodwill et  al., who, in their study of African American men in the media, describe how such representations “are often laden with stereotypes that depict Black men as violent, criminal, and hypersexual” (2019: 289).

An Example of Toxic Masculinity: Malan These negative representations of men, then, are common throughout the Americas, and the character in the two novels who most closely and fully conforms to this stereotype of Black masculinity is Malan Greaves, a colleague of Digger’s who rises from Detective Constable to Chief Officer, despite his violent unpredictability. Early on in The Bone Readers Digger joins Malan in the arrest of a young man accused of burglary and arson. However, the journey to the young man’s village becomes interminable as Malan is continually stopping along the way: “As soon as he glimpsed a swaying arse ahead, he stopped the jeep in the middle of the road and started a conversation. If the woman ignored him, he sucked his teeth, revved the engine and drove off” (TBR 35). Digger is not impressed. Nor is the formidable Miss Stanislaus. Recruited to the police force by her father, Superintendent Chilman, she immediately responds to Malan’s attempts to intimidate her with a crushing dissection of his personal life: You sure was a wife you want or a lil servant-girl? Because accordin to how I work it out, you almost twice dat girlchile age. She got a baby for you, not so? And you plan to give she another one before she catch breath with this one, just so you could keep she tie down to you. (TBR 62)

Devastatingly perceptive, Miss Stanislaus understands that the young woman Malan exploits both sexually and domestically is not his wife and that he conceals the fact that he is married: “Miss Stanislaus’s eyes dropped to Malan’s hand. ‘You married. But I don’ see no ring. You only wear it in

118 

B. PHILLIPS

your house. Soon as you walk out, you take it off. Too much wimmen out dere who don’ need to know. Right?’” (62). Malan treats women as slaves, forcing them into servitude through dependence, affirming his masculinity through paternity, and coercing them into obedience through violence: “Hear something else, Missa Malan: I bet that young-girl, who keep you lookin pretty, not working. Mebbe she used to work but you make she leave the job. Is the way you like it. Dat girlchile got to depend on you. You even think you better than she. Dat’s why you choose her in the first case.” “You sleep out whenever you want. An de first time she complain about it, what you do to she, eh? Because I bet she don’ question you no more”. (63)

Malan’s subjugation of young women is not confined to his current girlfriend. Digger begins a relationship with a troubled woman named Lonnie, who also turns out to be under Malan’s thrall. Once again, Miss Stanislaus discovers the truth: Sh’was Malan woman before you. Mebbe she love you more, but she just don’t have the strength. S’far as I unnerstan, she was a lil girl when he start interferin wid she. He plant imself in she head from small. He break ‘er out. Miss Longy grow up takin orders from Malan. Mebbe she can’t help it? Mebbe is better so? What happm if you an she married an Malan come round to order she about? Den is murder dat goin happen, not so? On dis islan y’all man use de law to suit y’all self. An ‘s’long as dat don’t change, problem never absolve. (TBR: 233)

Malan himself confirms Miss Stanislaus’s account, warning Digger that he stands no chance with Lonnie: “I should’ve let you know from the time you start with she; it don’t matter which fella Lonnie go with, she still mine. She always go be mine. I know her since she small, yunno” (TBR 236), to which Digger replies, “In some parts of the world man get jail for that. What about your wife?” (237). As far as Miss Stanislaus is concerned, Malan’s behaviour towards women does not stem from his liking of them, but the opposite: “did I not know that Malan didn like wimmen?” she asks Digger: S’matter of fact, he didn even like his wife. “He want to own and control every Camaho woman, Missa Digger. Is why he try to plant imself inside all ove dem. That’s what make him feel he’s a man. In odder words”, she’d

7  “A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND”: THE MAKING OF MICHAEL ‘DIGGER’… 

119

sniffed and brought a tissue to her lips, “Missa Malan sick. And is not just him, is most ov y’all”. (BRF 58)

As far as Malan is concerned, women must be kept in their place, and so as one of the most accurate marksmen in Grenada, he is disturbed to discover that Miss Stanislaus is almost his equal: “If you teach De Woman to shoot like that, you stupid. I not teachin no woman to do nothing better than me” (BRF 207), he declares. Miss Stanislaus is beyond Malan’s comprehension, and her friendship with Digger—which despite a strong underlying current of sexual tension remains one of mutual respect and professional esteem—is nothing but a betrayal of his sex. When, despite himself, Malan falls in love with the beautiful and enchanting Sarona, his defences crumble: “She the first woman I ever tell I love—yunno that?” He chuckled and shook his head. “First woman ever give me back-chat and I don’t want to shut ‘er up. First woman I want round me every minute of de day. Woman bewitch me, and I like it”. (BRF 254)

Digger discovers that Sarona has betrayed Malan and is deeply involved with the criminal gang they are investigating, but Malan refuses to believe him: “What’s your beef, Digger? You fink you kin break me with my woman? You fucking can’t!” (BRF 388). Malan’s misogyny blinds him to the possibility that women might have agency. Digger, clearer-sighted, tries to warn him: “you can’t see it any other way. Woman made for one thing in your mind—that’s all you know” (388). Malan simply cannot conceive that a woman might deceive him. By the end of Black Rain Falling we learn something of Malan’s history, an explanation, in part, for how he became a man of such violence. Forearmed with his backstory, Digger chases him into the slum where Malan was born and grew up, and finds him crying: Malan, hardnut, badjohn. Crying! Malan Greaves—the little fella his mother left with the man she ran away from. The man didn’t go looking for another woman to replace his mother because little Malan Greaves would serve him just as well—that was, until Malan stuck a knife in the fella’s throat and walked. Malan Greaves, trying so hard to prove to himself that he wasn’t what that fella made of him. Still not sure if he was a man because of all that. (BRF 414)

120 

B. PHILLIPS

Ross thus provides the reader with a neatly satisfactory reason for Malan’s anger, violence, and misogyny, as Digger himself recognises: “Is hard to hate a pusson when you know that much about them” (BRF 414). Malan, then, represents exactly the kind of Black masculine stereotype discussed by Goodwill et al. with regard to the Caribbean, but which is also held to be common elsewhere in the Americas. According to Maya Corneille et al. in their study of African American men, “Traditional masculinity expectations have encouraged men to demonstrate dominance through being sexually assertive, controlling sexual relationships, and avoiding displays of emotional vulnerability” (2012: 393). Malan once again fits the description, even to the extent of avoiding displays of emotion until the pressure becomes too much to bear and he breaks down. The role of the father—that most potent of patriarchal figures—as a bully and abuser of others is thus central to Malan’s development. According to Baron K.  Rogers et  al. early research into African American masculinity “put forth a deficit model, focused on the presumed shortcomings of African American men, viewing them as irresponsible and even deviant” (2015: 416). Once again, Black masculinity, in this case in the role of father, is subject to a degree of stereotyping, and it is Malan—or in this case Malan’s father—who again fits this stereotype perfectly, even to the extent of being ‘deviant’ in his abuse of his son.

Digger, the Detoxed Man Ross’s novel, nonetheless, does not showcase Malan Greaves or his father; it is Michael ‘Digger’ Digson who plays the part of protagonist. Malan’s role—the stereotype of Black masculinity—is to play foil to Digger, and significantly it is Digger who—in the tradition of hard-boiled detective fiction—provides the first-person narration of the two novels; it is his subjectivity which prevails. Digger, unlike Malan, has had the advantage of a secure, loving childhood, nurtured and protected by two loving parents, at least for a time. As I have noted, Digger’s mother was killed when he was a young boy, and he was brought up by his maternal grandmother. His father, the police Commissioner, married another woman with whom he had two daughters, and Digger was abandoned, something he cannot forgive: He was the man my grandmother sent me to in my Sunday best when her kitchen garden did not earn enough to buy my things for school. Every

7  “A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND”: THE MAKING OF MICHAEL ‘DIGGER’… 

121

couple of months or so I would walk to his gate in Morne Bijoux, shout a greeting to his Dominican wife who was always there in the veranda combing her hair. She never answered me. “That boy here”, she would say, her hand not missing a stroke. (TBR 42)

Digger hates his father not only for forcing him to beg but also because he holds him responsible, as police Commissioner, for his mother’s death since she was killed, as noted, by police while participating in a protest against the island’s culture of violence against women. Yet Digger is not a toxic man like Malan Greaves. The differences, perhaps, can be accounted for by the fact that Digger was brought up by his grandmother, a powerful woman who not only schooled him in morality and appropriate behaviour but also taught him how to defend himself by training him to use her heavily buckled belt as a non-lethal weapon. In Black Rain Falling Digger explains why he prefers the belt to a firearm: A gun in my hand felt heavier than its weight. It threw me out of myself. In my mind, it was the thing that killed my mother. It was never what I reached for first to save myself. I unhooked my heavy leather belt from the bedroom door and threaded it through my trousers. (2020: 216)

Digger, then, has been brought up in an environment largely free from toxic masculinity, but also free from weakness and vulnerability. Malan, on the other hand, delights in guns and is credited with being the best shot on the island. This is demonstrated on two occasions when he shoots and kills fleeing criminals in speedboats with a high-powered rifle from a great distance and again, rather more pathetically, when he kills a goat on a far-off rock. Ross’s symbolism here is—let us say—entertaining, rather than heavy-handed. What could be more phallic than a gun, and what more masculine than proficiency in its use? No wonder Malan objects to Miss Stanislaus’s expertise as a markswoman. The belt, in contrast, is an instrument properly used as a support. It encircles and embraces—it is the very opposite of the phallic gun and its destructively penetrating bullets; its symbolism is feminine, both sexually and maternally. Its power, however, should not be underestimated, as Digger— taught by his grandmother—is never loath to demonstrate. Apart from his absent father, there is another paternal figure in Digger’s life: Superintendent Chilman. Chilman rescues both Malan and Digger, from petty delinquency in the former’s case, and unemployment in the

122 

B. PHILLIPS

latter’s, effectively acting as a kind of surrogate father to both young men, providing them not only with a job in the police force, but also with training and guidance. Significantly, Malan immediately hates Chilman’s daughter, Miss Stanislaus—symbolically, at least, a sister to him—while Digger develops a close and mutually supportive relationship with her. This difference is one of many that reveals how Digger has chosen a different path to Malan, away from toxic masculinity; his understanding of people, relationships, and social interaction is not dictated by traditional masculine notions of domination and predation, but of service and cooperation. Corneille et al., already quoted in relation to the stereotype of Black masculinity prevailing in earlier studies, go on to argue that there “is also evidence that the rejection of such ideologies may lead to positive outcomes (...) Black men who rejected traditional notions of masculinity reported more attitudes and behaviours associated with health and wellness” (2012: 393–394). Digger exemplifies such a rejection of damaging ideologies, as shown in his attitude towards sex and reproduction. In this context, Corneille et  al. argue that “a masculinity ideology based on toughness, status, and avoiding femininity was related to more sexual partners in the past year, more negative attitudes toward condoms, less belief in male responsibility to prevent pregnancy, and less consistent condom use” (2012: 393). This model, as we have seen, describes Malan with great accuracy. Digger, on the other hand, shows a higher degree of responsibility in his sexual encounters. As his relationship with Lonnie progresses, she suddenly announces that she wants a baby. Digger is shocked, and misinterpreting his response, Lonnie tries to reassure him: “I want to have a child wiv, wiv you. You don’t have to mind it, I will” (BRF 161). Lonnie assumes that his reaction is based on a reluctance to care for the child, but Digger is more concerned about the apparent levity with which she makes the proposal: “Lonnie, hold on. How come we jump from talking about my trouble at work to making baby? (…) It make more sense to hold on, not so?” (161). Lonnie, confounded, flees the house. As noted, Miss Stanislaus tells Digger about Lonnie and Malan and why she behaved as she did: “When Miss Longy come ask you fuh baby is because she feel dat Malan goin leave ‘er alone if she carryin baby fuh you” (TBR 233), she explains. Digger knew nothing about their relationship, yet his reaction to Lonnie was the appropriate one: he instinctively knew that neither of them were ready to take on the responsibility of parenthood. This coincides with Corneille et  al.’s finding that “rejection of traditional masculine

7  “A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND”: THE MAKING OF MICHAEL ‘DIGGER’… 

123

ideology is healthy in the context of intimate relationships” (2012: 397). At the end of The Bone Readers Lonnie and Digger part when she decides to “straighten out myself” (264). Digger asks her to stay and straighten things out together, but Lonnie will not or cannot, and unlike Malan, he makes no attempt to constrain her. As she leaves, Digger reflects “how fear—along with all the ways a fella tried to own or control a woman— might make her stay, but could not make her love him” (264). Digger’s rejection of traditional masculinity is not confined to his attitude towards women, but also in his attitude to work. In his article “Black Men and Black Masculinity”, Alford A.  Young, like Rogers et  al., condemns the stereotypical nature of earlier studies of Black masculinity: “In similar fashion to the 1960s sociological studies, the theoretical underpinnings of much of the research done in the era of the underclass focused on culture. The study of Black males during this time was rooted in the interconnection of crime, violence, and extreme detachment from work” (2021: 441). Once again, Digger does not fit this model, being neither criminal nor workshy—unlike Malan, who makes a living selling fake marijuana resin to unwary tourists before being rescued by Chilman. Academically promising, Digger had hoped to go to university but was denied the possibility when his father refused to finance his education, and so he did his best to become an honest working man until, as seen above, he left his job as a waiter in a beach bar in disgust. Disillusioned after that scene, Digger wanders the streets where he witnesses the murder of a schoolboy by a gang of youths. Digger is the only person to approach the body, knowing that this act of simple humanity will almost certainly lead to his arrest by the police. Despite their mistreatment of him, Digger helps the police identify the culprits and eventually decides to join the force himself: “Killing looked too easy, the taking of that child’s life so sudden and so casual” (TBR 8), he reflects. Digger has, after all, a social conscience, and this leads to his choice of profession. While Chilman becomes, to a certain extent, a father figure, Digger, in turn, accepts a similar role towards others. The gang who killed the schoolboy are not unusual; the drugs trade, which supplies the (mostly white) tourists with cocaine, also exploits teenage boys as drug-runners: For the past coupla years there was a new trend in drug trafficking: young boys without parents or big brothers to control them getting picked up off the streets and sent out mid-ocean in boats to collect a brick or two of

124 

B. PHILLIPS

refined cocaine and return with it—part of the supply chain that kept the tourists happy. (BRF 170)

One of these boys is Jana Ray, an orphan, and Digger, for a while, becomes a kind of father, or older brother to him. Jana Ray, like Digger, is intelligent, well-read, and in different circumstances might have achieved academic success, and Digger lends him books and encourages him to better himself. Jana Ray, however, is murdered by the drug traffickers, not for his association with Digger but for his refusal to hand over the seeds of a particularly potent variety of marijuana that he has developed. Disappointed that Jana Ray had not turned his back on criminality, Digger continues his investigation into the drug trade, only to discover that the young man was not developing a new variety of marijuana as a narcotic but because he had discovered that its oil was a potential cure for the epilepsy that his mother had died of. There is, then, hope that other young men can be saved from crime with Digger’s help.

Conclusions Digger is Jacob Ross’s response to the way “The late-twentieth-century focus on Black males in sociology framed their social behavior and public demeanor in negativity” (Young 2021: 441). Despite the hardship of his upbringing, the absence of a father or a father figure, and the impossibility of receiving the education he deserves, Digger offers an alternative model to the negative stereotype of Black masculinity depicted in much academic research of the twentieth century. We should not assume, however, that the struggle is over. Ross reminds us that history cannot easily be deleted and neo-imperialism remains. In The Bone Readers, Ross recalls the 1983 US invasion of Grenada following fears that a Cuban-backed communist regime was about to take over. Digger’s investigation takes him to the beach where “F16 fighter planes dropped their radioactive bombs. More than thirty years on, clusters of cancer still riddled the villages perched on the hills above it” (TBR 61). The invasion, ordered by President Ronald Reagan (and celebrated in the 1986 Clint Eastwood film Heartbreak Ridge), was condemned by the United Nations. Its General Assembly Resolution 38/7 declared that the UN “deeply deplores the armed intervention in Grenada, which constitutes a flagrant violation of international law and of the independence, sovereignty and territorial integrity of that State”.

7  “A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND”: THE MAKING OF MICHAEL ‘DIGGER’… 

125

Yet, despite these brief but timely reminders of the island’s subjugated past—and vulnerable present—contemporary Grenada is presented, through the figure of Detective Michael Digson, in a positive light. Colonisation and slavery cannot and should not be forgotten, but new challenges face modern-day reformers. These challenges have their origins in an imperialist, slave-holding past, but their resolution in the hands of an independent and forward-looking population. The scourge of traditional Caribbean masculinity, the appalling violence inflicted on women, and the lack of responsible fatherhood are interrogated and dissected by Jacob Ross in these two novels. Two antagonistic figures, Malan Greaves and Michael Digson, represent opposing models of manhood. Malan, despite his toxic masculinity, is portrayed by Ross with great humanity, but the hero is unquestionably Digger, the very paradigm of a hard, good man.

Note 1. Prize-winning author Jacob Ross was born on the Caribbean island of Grenada in 1956 but has lived in the United Kingdom since 1984. An established writer across a wide range of genres, he came to international attention with The Bone Readers and Black Rain Falling, his two crime novels set in Grenada and protagonised by police detective Michael ‘Digger’ Digson. The Bone Readers won the inaugural Jhalak prize in 2016, while Black Rain Falling was included in The Guardian’s 2020 roundup of best crime novels of the year.

References Breu, Christopher. 2005. Hard-Boiled Masculinities. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Corneille, Maya, John E.  Fife, Faye Z.  Belgrave, and Brian Carey Sims. 2012. Ethnic Identity, Masculinity, and Healthy Sexual Relationships Among African American Men. Psychology of Men and Masculinity 13 (4): 393–399. https:// psycnet.apa.org/doi/10.1037/a0026878. Goodwill, Janelle R., Nkemka Anyiwo, Ed-Dee G. Williams, Natasha C. Johnson, Jacqueline S. Mattis, and Daphne C. Watkins. 2019. Media Representations of Popular Culture Figures and the Construction of Black Masculinities. Psychology of Men and Masculinities 20 (3): 288–298. https://psycnet.apa.org/doi/ 10.1037/men0000164.

126 

B. PHILLIPS

Hegamin-Younger, Cecilia, Rohan Jeremiah, and Nicole Bilbro. 2014. Patterns of Caribbean Masculinities and Condom Compliance Among Males in Grenada. American Journal of Men’s Health 8 (4): 335–338. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 1557988313516356. Jeremiah, Rohan D., Peter E.  Gamache, and Cecilia Hegamin-Younger. 2013. Beyond Behavioral Adjustments: How Determinants of Contemporary Caribbean Masculinities Thwart Efforts to Eliminate Domestic Violence. International Journal of Men’s Health 12 (3, Fall): 228–244. http://www. mensstudies.com/jmh.1203.228. Rogers, Baron K., Heather A. Sperry, and Ronald F. Levant. 2015. Masculinities Among African American Men: An Intersectional Perspective. Psychology of Men and Masculinity 16 (4): 416–425. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0039082. Ross, Jacob. 2018, 2016. The Bone Readers. London: Sphere. ———. 2020. Black Rain Falling. London: Sphere. United Nations General Assembly Resolution 38/7. November 2, 1983. Accessed January 17, 2022. https://www.un.org/en/ga/search/view_doc.asp?symbol= A/RES/38/7. Young, Alford A., Jr. 2021. Black Men and Black Masculinity. Annual Review of Sociology 47, 437–457. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-soc091620-024714.

CHAPTER 8

Black Masculinities in the Age of #BLM: Zadie Smith’s On Beauty Pilar Cuder-Domínguez

Introduction: Black Masculinities As Kobena Mercer has reminded us, the representation of black people has been constructed by historical slavery, imperialism, and colonialism “through complex dialectics of power and subordination” (1994: 137). The grammar of representation thus arising consists of derogatory images that often emphasize “the black body as muscle-machine” when it comes to black men (138). These in turn continue to shape the budding identities of African-descended adolescents through endless circulation in a variety of media, from film to photography or advertisements.1 Sociological research carried out in the 1990s among African-Caribbean descended young males in London schools, for instance, concluded that “ethnicity continued to be a powerful formative factor in the structuring of masculinities in the 1990s. Ethnicity articulates with masculinity in a way that tends to accentuate the competitive and even aggressive aspects of

P. Cuder-Domínguez (*) Universidad de Huelva, Huelva, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_8

127

128 

P. CUDER-DOMÍNGUEZ

masculinities” (O’Donnell and Sharpe 2000: 5). The researchers charted how competitiveness guided these young men’s aesthetic choices, ranging from “black macho” (being “hard”) to “black cool” (being “laid back”) as inspired by music and sport celebrities, often from the United States. O’Donnell and Sharpe’s conclusion that their need to display a macho attitude was ultimately rooted in slavery is shared across the board by other researchers, for whom black “machismo becomes a symbol of, and substitute for, the lack of power, rather than constituting an aspect of that power” (Alexander 1999: 409). As a result, current understandings of black masculinity tend to emphasize its double features as “a particular strain of masculinity (…) that is marked by its social feminization and simultaneously by its stereotyped hypermasculinization” (Lemelle 2010: 2). Literature is doubtlessly one major field in which to trace significant changes and identify alternative modes of representation, and black British literature is particularly apposite for this kind of analysis. With powerful precedents in the 1950s and strong roots much earlier,2 black British writing has more visibly emerged into public awareness since the 1980s with the young generation that then came to voice. Their creative watershed was further consolidated in the 1990s with the incorporation of novelists and poets “who moved beyond national recognition to international acclaim” (Low and Wynne-Davies 2006: 1). The growing number of black authors published in the UK to date offers more than sufficient ground to pursue the elusive contours of this subordinate masculinity. However, such a study has not been undertaken quite yet. More than twenty years ago, Claire Alexander bemoaned the dearth of studies on black British masculinities and gender relations (1999: 408). Later publications such as the Companion to Contemporary Black British Culture (O’Donnell 2002) still fail to list an entry on masculinity (or, for that matter, gender), while the most recent attempt to provide a cartography of masculinity in British literature (Horlacher 2011) does include black British writing but only through the insights of male authors, a reductive approach which, in my view, fails to acknowledge black women’s substantial contribution to the discursive production of gendered identities. In addition, I have contended elsewhere (see Cuder-Domínguez 2011) that social anxieties concerning black masculinities (and more specifically as they pertain to the younger generation) have surfaced as a prominent

8  BLACK MASCULINITIES IN THE AGE OF #BLM: ZADIE SMITH’S… 

129

topic in the latest work of authors such as Caryl Phillips, Bernardine Evaristo, and Diana Evans.3 Importantly among these writers, Zadie Smith’s fiction has consistently displayed a strong interest in drafting the construction of non-toxic masculinity, most of all but not exclusively black, to the extent that, by comparison, her female characters have been accused of falling into the stereotypical (Walters 2008). Gender, however, is not the only category at work. Smith’s work to date consistently showcases the dialogical conflict among characters from diverse races, genders, social classes, generations, homelands, and affiliations. This makes her novels remarkably suited to an intersectional analysis that looks into the “various ways in which race and gender interact to shape the multiple dimensions of Black [people’s] experiences” (Crenshaw 1991: 1244). Interestingly, in On Beauty Smith (2005) moved away from her traditional comfort zone (the city of London) and chose a North American location in which to set off the contrastive features of diverse patterns of black masculinity. This is significant insofar as it allowed her to look into the configurations of an even wider range of black constituencies, especially American descendants of enslaved Africans. Thus, this chapter engages in an intersectional and transnational analysis of black identities that is indebted to Paul Gilroy’s black Atlantic paradigm (1993). This is based on a relational understanding of black diasporan cultures in Europe and North America as generated out of displacement, trauma, and subjection, and is consistent as well with Smith’s exploration of the multiple colonial histories and geographies of the former British Empire in her fiction to date. Like Gilroy’s seminal work, with its emphasis on the apparently opposing pair of roots and routes, my goal is to show how black masculinities are segregated and policed in Smith’s novel but also how those borders can be—and indeed are—often crossed. Thus, the first part of the essay reviews a range of masculinities, inquiring into their positioning and practices vis à vis white hegemonic masculinity. The second section focuses on the portrayal of the psychological struggle of a mixed-race young man, Levi Belsey, trying to come to terms with those diverse sorts of black masculinities he is exposed to. Like the Afro-Caribbean adolescents in the sociological study mentioned above, Levi has to choose the detoxed masculinity that will allow him to finally feel at home within his own skin but also to become a “good” black man in his own terms. To paraphrase the title of Diran Adebayo’s 1996 novel, he has to decide what “kind of black” he is, or rather, what kind of black man. I will contend that Levi’s changing

130 

P. CUDER-DOMÍNGUEZ

behaviour can be best understood as an example of “racialized performativity,” characteristic of mixed-race people (Mahtani 2014), and that ultimately his budding political awareness and activism against racial oppression are benchmarks of what has been called a “progressive” black masculinity (Mutua 2006). Underpinning my analysis is the notion that, in the age of #Black Lives Matter, a non-toxic or progressive masculinity is one that cultivates a broad ethics of social responsibility and that is therefore deeply imbricated with the struggle against all forms of oppression: racism, police brutality, violence against women, neo-colonial and extractive practices, and so on. I argue that, in the character of Levi Belsey, Zadie Smith displays a profound understanding of the toxicity surrounding black youth, and she outlines the contours of a detoxed black masculinity in our times.

Fluid Borders: Black Atlantic Identities in Zadie Smith’s On Beauty Smith’s remarkable minute attention to space has been noticed by critics such as David James, for whom her fiction feels “distinctly sectoral, fascinated by the quotidian dramas of suburban districts” (2015: 52). If, as the theorists of space (Bachelard, Lefebvre, De Certeau, Soja) have claimed, all social identities are linked not just to time but also to space, then one needs to examine Smith’s creation of the fictional New England university town of Wellington, which radically departs from her more usual London scenarios (Anjaria 2008: 37). As a matter of fact, cultural and racial difference continue to be extremely relevant even within the staunchly white suburbs of Wellington, where the author places an interracial family made up of Howard Belsey (white British) and Kiki Simmonds (African American) and their three children, Jerome, Zora, and Levi, and through whom she scrutinizes the racialization of space that characterizes many North American urban areas,4 in which neighbourhoods are often racially segregated so that the presence of someone of a different phenotypical appearance will be met with suspicion and even open aggression, as recent events prove. Thus, as Tynan points out, On Beauty is “actively concerned with the process of navigating and constructing identities from sources that are often regarded as incompatible or contradictory” (2008: 74). For an analysis of Levi’s identity quest in any detail it is necessary to first review features of the repertoire of black male identities he is exposed to in the

8  BLACK MASCULINITIES IN THE AGE OF #BLM: ZADIE SMITH’S… 

131

novel’s microcosm, or what Tynan calls the novel’s “confrontation between different epistemologies that inform conflicting ways of understanding the self in relation to concepts such as ‘blackness’” (2008: 84). Howard Belsey’s academic nemesis Sir Monty Kipps, originally from Trinidad, is a “tall, imperious black man” (OB 111), who displays solid Christian principles, a gentlemanly behaviour, and a fashion style more appropriate to the Victorian era than to his, and who firmly believes in meritocracy as the route to success. He resolutely voices his conservative opinions against any “special treatment” for minorities and has passed on his ideas to his son Michael, who defends that “being black was not an identity but an accidental matter of pigment” (44). Interestingly, Sir Monty’s charismatic style is extremely persuasive to the oldest Belsey child, Jerome, who boards with the Caribbean family and is briefly engaged to Monty’s daughter Victoria during an internship in London. Jerome is in fact infatuated with the whole family rather than just with Victoria, perhaps precisely because they stand so clearly and radically against his own family’s politics. Therefore, adopting customs like wearing a golden cross to signal his new religiosity should be understood not just for their own value but for the role they play in antagonizing his father, whose recent infidelity Jerome resents. Overall, Kipps represents the kind of conformity to white privilege and domination that affords some black men a measure of power; by adhering to and upholding the values that support current racialized social structures, he is accepted as the token black man whose very presence supposedly proves the absence of structural racism. In strong contrast to the middle-class orthodoxy of Jerome, Carl Thomas is a young, uneducated working-class African American trying to launch a career as a Spoken Word poet. He stands out in his refusal to accept established forms of (racialized) exclusion and inclusion, for example, by using the college facilities without authorization. Intent in the pursuit of his cultural ambitions, he accepts Professor Malcolm’s invitation to join her poetry class as a discretionary student as well as the lavish praise of a mostly white audience for his performance, which fits well into preconceived liberal images of “the Other” (Taheri 2017: 96) and the white saviour complex that characters such as Professor Malcolm exhibit. For Fernández Carbajal, “Carl belongs to the vindicated black working class; he embraces his free access to culture with the enthusiasm of a generation living on the social achievements of the civil rights and Black Power movements” (2013: 40). Although Carl does his best to resist and challenge other people’s attempt to commodify him for his beauty (he is for a long

132 

P. CUDER-DOMÍNGUEZ

while Zora Belsey’s object of desire) or to pigeonhole him, the system eventually defeats him, and he moves away. Before departing he confronts Zora with the accusation that “You people aren’t even black any more, man—I don’t know what you are. You think you’re too good for your own people. You got your college degrees, but you don’t even live right” (418–419, original italics). Jerome and Carl are liable to classification in relation to the dominant white heterosexual norm and may be arrayed along a continuum that ranges from total submission to hegemonic masculinity to various forms or resistance or outright rebellion. As Patricia Hill Collins has argued: [Representations of black men] equate black male strength with wildness and suggest that an allegedly natural black male strength must be tamed by family, civilization, and if all else fails, the military or the National Basketball Association. The other end of the continuum holds representations of safely tamed Negroes who pose little threat to white society. As domesticated Negroes, representations such as Sambo, Uncle Tom, and Uncle Ben signify castrated, emasculated, and feminized versions of black masculinity whose feminization associates them with weakness. Once the connection is made, men can no longer be considered real men. (2006: 75)

However, there is a further group of black characters in the novel much less distinct than the ones hereto discussed and separated by virtue not only of class but by the wider chasm of their migration, often illegal. In fact, one might argue that the image of the Belseys as an all-white neighbourhood is rather inaccurate. When Kiki Simmonds welcomes Monty’s wife Carlene Kipps to Wellington, she points out “there’s a lot of very recent immigrants too, lot of Haitians, lot of Mexicans, a lot of folk just out there with no place to go” (93). Such non-white presences usually go unremarked because they constitute an invisible underclass. Haitians in particular feature very prominently in the novel as the counter-image of upwardly mobile African Americans such as Kiki herself,5 making them feel self-conscious about their position in terms of class and race. In one of the earliest episodes of the novel, Kiki visits a town festival and stops at a stall where a Haitian man is selling jewellery. To Kiki his accent sounds “brutal, foreign” (43), and even though she tries to bridge their difference, addressing him lightly as “brother”, their small talk is an embarrassing exchange about whether one of them, both, or neither is from Africa. When the man finally identifies himself as Haitian, Kiki lamely says, “And

8  BLACK MASCULINITIES IN THE AGE OF #BLM: ZADIE SMITH’S… 

133

of course it is so difficult, in Haiti, right now” (49), belatedly realizing that she does not really know anything about that country. The expression “that difficult island” (OB 24) applied to Haiti resonates through the novel in slight variations as it travels from the mouth of one character to the next without anyone ever really pinning down what they mean by it, therefore circulating as a free-floating signifier of irreducible difference, of black poverty and squalor. From Haiti also come Pierre, who drives a taxi in Wellington, and Monique, the Belseys’ cleaner, whose name Kiki almost let drop in her conversation at the stall before she caught herself because she “realized she did not want to say the word ‘cleaner’ in this context” (43). Very importantly, Haiti is also the origin of the private collection of art that Monty Kipps owns, the largest “outside that unfortunate island” (113, my italics), as well as of the valuable painting that his wife Carlene unexpectedly leaves for Kiki in her will. As a result, Smith goes beyond a reductive white vs. black binarism and ruminates on how black people may be interpellated by other configurations of class and race and on how some of them might even be complicit in ongoing systems of oppression and exploitation elsewhere. After all, although Levi’s mother demonstrates a strong awareness of her own family’s colonial legacy of enslavement, the feelings of guilt she displays towards those more unfortunate than her do not lead her in any way to actively dismantle a system of oppression that she is very much benefiting from. In contrast, through Kiki and Howard’s youngest child, fifteen-year-old Levi Belsey, to whom I will turn next, Smith drafts a completely different subjective engagement with the wide range of (trans)national black masculinities inhabiting the segregated spaces in the novel.

Racialized Gender Performativity in Urban Spaces: The Case of Levi Belsey The portrayal of Levi Belsey is a good example of the conflict many young African American men experience to achieve a productive masculinity in relation to a value system predicated on toxic white dominance. For Patricia Hill Collins, “ideas about white masculine strength remain normative to the point where black men must struggle to claim legitimate space as men” (2006: 85). One of the most salient obstacles is the fact that what is signified as social power and privilege for white men becomes invested with overtones of violence in the case of black ones. As Hatty

134 

P. CUDER-DOMÍNGUEZ

explains, the history of representations of black men in American society is thick with images of men as violent criminals (2000: 163). This is in fact one of the earliest images superimposed on Levi in the novel. In this town, and particularly in the Belseys’ upper-class neighbourhood, black people stand out and they are often construed as menacing, particularly if they happen to be black men. As the youngest male in the family and the only one still staying at home, Levi Belsey feels most acutely uncomfortable living in a white majority neighbourhood, where he feels targeted for his sex and race. In a bizarre encounter with an “old black woman” later identified as Mrs. Kipps, Levi reflects: “Maybe he should buy a T-shirt that just had on it YO-I’M NOT GOING TO RAPE YOU. He could use a T-shirt like that. Maybe like three times each day while on his travels that T-shirt would come in handy” (80, original capitalized text). While this assertion might sound as a gross exaggeration, it may not be far from the truth at all. When he reaches home that very same day, his older sister Zora spots another lady staring at him with suspicion: “Wow”, she whispered, bringing one hand up to her forehead as a visor, “this one really can’t believe her eyes. Check it out—she’s having some kind of cognitive failure. She’s going to malfunction. (…) Thank you! Yes, move along now—he lives here—yes, that’s right—no crime is taking place— thank you for your interest!” Levi turned around and saw the blushing woman Zora was yelling at, now scurrying by on the other side of the street. (83)

Here the construction of race is inseparable from the construction of gender, as the young black male is not only seen as the likely perpetrator of a crime—“somebody thought I was robbing you again”, he reports to his white father later (84, original italics)—but as a hyper-sexualized person. Here we encounter another formulation of the myth of the black rapist of white women that circulated so widely in post-Civil War America as an excuse to prevent black men’s access to full citizenship:6 Following Reconstruction, the liberty of the freed slave led to the production of a host of new images, in which male sexuality played a prominent role. African American males were often depicted as bestial and brutish, as reflected in films such as The Birth of a Nation (1915), in which a white woman was pursued to her death by an animalistic black male (…). Popular images thus began to play on a fear of the sexual violation of white women and the resultant racial pollution from such ‘unnatural’ couplings. (Hatty 2000: 163)

8  BLACK MASCULINITIES IN THE AGE OF #BLM: ZADIE SMITH’S… 

135

In these examples one can see very clearly how intimately space is connected to the production of racialized identities. This is what Coleman describes as the construction of black men as “unwanted traffic”, according to which skin colour is read as a proxy for dangerousness and often translates into “the criminal element that must be apprehended, prosecuted, and sent away” (2006: 138). In a predominantly black neighbourhood, he continues, black men can be shot while reaching for their wallet or their mobile phone, whereas in a predominantly white area, they can be subjected to other racist practices, like being denied service or a housing opportunity (144). However, Coleman’s analysis falls short of reality in the light of recent events in North America, where police brutality has reached unprecedented heights. In Canadian cities, the police practice of “carding” young black men (i.e. arbitrarily demanding proof of identity) suggests widely spread racial profiling; in that country and even more importantly in the United States, the massive incarceration of black men and the wrongful killing of many of them both by self-appointed white vigilantes and by police has boosted the indignation of black North Americans and nurtured the rise of the Black Lives Matter Movement. Yet, there are degrees of (un)desirability; phenotypically lighter black men can cross those invisible boundaries more easily than darker skinned ones, to the point that some, in passing for white, can challenge existing divides and get access to hegemonic masculinity. Mixed-race people may stride both sides of a racial boundary and inhabit racially ambiguous spaces; their bodies can both challenge the racial norm and adopt it. In African American literature, the mixed-race person has exerted a strong appeal since the nineteenth century. Indeed, Hazel Carby contended that this figure should be analysed and understood as “a narrative device of mediation” (1987: 89), as both a vehicle for and an expression of racial relationships. It is tempting to romanticize multiracial people as a post-­ racial solution to socially constructed borders, but as Mahtani reminds us, this can only be achieved through the “strategic forgetting of complex colonial histories” (2014: 17). I draw here for my analysis of Levi on Mahtani’s research on “racialized performativity”, which in turn adapts Judith Butler’s gender performativity, because, although Smith’s character’s appearance is not ambiguous enough to allow him a successful racial

136 

P. CUDER-DOMÍNGUEZ

crossover, he self-consciously tries on other black identities through two strategies: imitation and empathy. Unlike his older brother Jerome, who falls under the spell of Sir Monty Kipps and the model of the Victorian gentleman that the Caribbean scholar so charmingly embodies, Levi is conveyed as actively searching for a black male body he can fully inhabit. It is in this character that one can observe with all clarity the performativity of race and gender, particularly as Levi tries out and discards several viable black identities. He experiments with his clothes, as many adolescents do, wearing his jeans so low that his mother complains “they are not even covering your ass” (9), and hiding his face underneath different sorts of headwear: skullcap, baseball cap, hoodie, duffel hood, on top of which he adds earphones (6). More strikingly, he also experiments with his speech, which takes on a variety of accents that to his family sound inauthentic and out of place. As he turned twelve, he had adopted a faux Brooklyn accent textually represented through grammatical blunders, including dropping verbs—“where they at” (11)—or double negatives—“I don’t know nothing” (12). While other family members find this altogether puzzling, his older sister Zora scolds him for faking uneducated speech patterns: “It’s the worst kind of pretension, you know, to fake the way you speak—to steal somebody else’s grammar. People less fortunate than you. It’s grotesque” (85). Ironically, Zora misconstrues Levi’s search for authenticity as the worst possible kind of pretence. Such a quest aligns with a relational, non-essentialized perspective on black masculinity, because “it is not only that the performance in any situation is adequate but also that onlookers accept the performance and rank it as adequate” (Lemelle 2010: 12). Thus, Jackson has argued that Levi’s accent shifts have to do with his attempt to ground himself in a specific community: “For Levi Belsey, the sense of where black folk belong—not what they look like—determines his identification or estrangement; it influences his cognitive map of Wellington and directs his behaviour throughout the novel” (2012: 857, original italics). I support Jackson’s point about Levi’s strong connection of place to identity. It is likewise evidenced insofar as, though he may occasionally imitate his mother’s southern drawl (23), Levi associates blackness not to the “simple country folk” (8) that Kiki comes from, but to a wholly urban lifestyle: To Levi, black folk were city folk. People from the islands, people from the country, these were all peculiar to him, obstinately historical—he couldn’t quite believe in them. Like when Howard took the family to Venice and Levi

8  BLACK MASCULINITIES IN THE AGE OF #BLM: ZADIE SMITH’S… 

137

could not shift the idea that the whole place and everybody in it were having him on. No roads? Water taxis? He felt the same way about farmers, anybody who wove anything and his Latin teacher. (81, original italics)

Although Levi remains in many ways a pampered middle-class adolescent, he self-consciously aspires at imitating the speech patterns, appearance, and even behaviour of the black urban underprivileged groups that he communes with in listening to rap and hip-hop. From a pragmatic approach, Levi proves to be as interested in aesthetics as his academic father is, although what he explores is a completely different aesthetics from Rembrandt’s. He naively wants to be “street”, much to his sister Zora’s scorn: “Please. This ain’t America. You think this is America? This is toy-town. I was born in this country—trust me. You go into Roxbury, you go into the Bronx, you see America. That’s street”. “Levi, you don’t live in Roxbury”, explained Zora slowly. “You live in Wellington. You go to Arundel. You’ve got your name ironed into your underwear”. (63, original italics)

Not surprisingly, streetwise young men like the Spoken Word poet Carl Thomas, who can seamlessly move across social boundaries disregarding all authority in the process, manage to capture Levi’s imagination although only for a while, for Levi soon realizes that Thomas is “just the kind of rapper that white folk get excited about” (238) and therefore unsuitable as a role model. Levi’s identification with black youth culture is also played out in his Saturday job in Boston at the hip-hop section of a music store (Grmelová 2012: 80). Through this music he affectively draws the kind of racial pride and masculinity that he is deprived of in his white neighbourhood.7 One Saturday, however, as he is leaving the music store, Levi stumbles onto a group of street vendors mostly from Haiti. He is swept off his feet by their sheer black beauty: “They struck Levi as splendid beings (…)— spring-footed, athletic, carelessly loud, coal-black, laughing, immune to the frowns of Bostonian ladies passing with their stupid little dogs. Brothers” (194). By using the term “brothers”, Levi is tapping into the connection of shared racial oppression, very much as his mother Kiki had unsuccessfully attempted to do in the earlier episode. Felix, the leader of the group, is from Angola and the blackest man Levi has ever seen, thus

138 

P. CUDER-DOMÍNGUEZ

becoming the specific embodiment of blackness he has long been searching for: “You looked at Felix and thought: This is what it’s all about, being this different; this is what white people fear and adore and want and dread” (242, original italics). Levi discovers then and there that it is into this model of black diasporic masculinity that he wants to fit. Thus, the French accent that sounded “brutal” to Kiki a few pages earlier is now music to Levi’s ears. However, Levi is no better informed than Kiki was about the background of these black immigrants, nor better equipped to understand the complexities of their position at the borders of US society. This creates embarrassing situations. When his new friend Choo mentions that he knows some people who work at Wellington College, for instance, he naively assumes they are scholars, but Choo’s friends are cleaners (248). And while Levi tries to sell fake Prada handbags to old white ladies and marvels that they prefer to pay more for a real one, he fails to acknowledge that he himself has forked out without complaint an extraordinary amount of money for the fashionable sneakers he is so proud of, but whose factory price was only $15, according to Choo. Despite this initial naiveté, Smith takes pains to show how Levi’s empathy allows him to develop a certain political awareness as he opens up to learning about the complex colonial histories that these young men embody and how they are still very much in force. Books tell him about “this wretched, blood-stained little island a mere hour’s boat trip from Florida” (355), but more importantly, he learns to see the world from the perspective of his new friends. He awakens to the feelings of humiliation of Choo, a high school teacher of French who, for a pitiful handful of dollars, must “wear a monkey suit and look a monkey and serve them their shrimps and their wine, the big white professors” (360). Like the other Belseys, by the end of the novel Levi too has learnt a powerful lesson and is now more aware of racial and class inequalities and even willing to act against them. His affective alignment with his Haitian friends eventually leads him to steal Carlene Kipps’s valuable painting of Vodou goddess Erzulie in the belief that it had been wrongly taken from Haiti and needed to be returned to its people. His is a misguided attempt to restore power and dignity to those he sees as oppressed, but also evidence that, quite unlike his mother Kiki, he has become aware of other colonial histories and decided to join the struggle against them. Moreover, Levi gathers strength enough to confront his own mother over her hypocritical collusion with existing gender and race power structures, by building her own

8  BLACK MASCULINITIES IN THE AGE OF #BLM: ZADIE SMITH’S… 

139

upward mobility on the labour of other, more disadvantaged black women like Monique: “People in Haiti, they got NOTHING, RIGHT? We living off these people, man. We—we—living off them! We sucking their blood—we’re like ­vampires! You OK, married to your white man in the land of plenty—you OK. You doing fine. You’re living off these people, man!” (…) “So how do you do it?” demanded Levi. “By paying people four dollars an hour to clean? That’s how much you pay Monique, man! Four dollars! If she was American you wouldn’t be paying her no four dollars an hour. Would you? Would you?” (428–429, original capitalized text)

Acting for the right reasons in what is perhaps the wrong way, Levi unwittingly uncovers the fact that Carlene Kipps had left Kiki Simmonds the valuable painting in her will, but her widower had kept it secret. Once the painting is retrieved, however, Kiki is sufficiently chastened by her son’s upbraiding that she decides to sell it and donate the money to the Haitian Support Group. In this sense, I see Levi Belsey as a compelling rendering of what Athena D. Mutua has named “progressive black masculinities”, that is, “the unique and innovative performances of the masculine self that on the one hand personally eschew and ethically and actively stand against social structures of domination. On the other hand they validate and empower black humanity, in all its variety, as part of the diverse and multicultural humanity of others in the global family” (2006: 4).

Conclusion: Towards a Detoxed Black Masculinity Smith’s representation of the Haitian characters in On Beauty has been thought by some to border on the stereotypical. For Fernández Carbajal, Smith’s rendering is, at best, unconvincing and, at worst, a misconstruction of Haitian racial discourses (2013); for Jackson, Smith’s depiction could have come word for word from any newspaper coverage of “boat people” (2012: 859). Even though these characters might be considered underdeveloped, I believe they stand out as the at-first illegible sign of a different kind of blackness, which compels others (Kiki, Levi) to invest them with meaning and ultimately to reassess their own identities. I contend that the appeal Haitians hold for Levi derives from the fact of their outsider-insiderness. They offer a model of subordinate masculinity that may survive and even thrive outside the system, existing in interstitial

140 

P. CUDER-DOMÍNGUEZ

spaces, and feeding on the contradictions of a neoliberal capitalist society. Although their lives are way beyond Levi’s limited sphere of knowledge and experience, he can affectively relate to them by virtue of being biracial, a self-identified black adolescent living in a mostly white area, a different kind of outsider within. By performing what is ultimately a “borrowed” kind of black masculinity, Levi finally seems to grow into his own skin and becomes his own kind of “good” black man. Above all, he has learnt to uncouple strength from dominance and therefore to reject “not only the images currently associated with black masculinities but also the structural power relations that cause them” (Collins 2006: 75). In examining Levi’s racialized performativity in this fiction and how he traverses borders within the range of black Atlantic identities, Zadie Smith unpacks for readers the constructedness of diverse forms of gendered blackness, challenging the fixedness and rigidity of black stereotypes, thus making a strong contribution to the “collective task” of changing representations of black men (hooks 2015: 113). Very importantly, in so doing Smith does not obscure the colonial histories of diverse black constituencies. On the contrary, her rendering of a young black male that takes the initiative for self-education about those other histories despite his privileged background, voicing a politics of solidarity and displaying a strong commitment to social transformation, brings them into sharper focus for a contemporary readership, emphasizing how, though perhaps more subtly, these toxic structures of racial oppression continue to be in place and demand that we take action for social justice. Acknowledgements  This research has been enabled by Grant FFI2017-84555-­ C2-1-P of the research Project “Bodies in Transit: Genders, Mobilities, Interdependencies” funded by MCIN/AEI/10.13039/501100011033 and by “ERDF A way of making Europe”. In addition, the author is grateful to Brian Baker, Christopher Harris, and Amit Thakkar for their invaluable comments on previous iterations of this chapter developed for the Border Masculinities project.

Notes 1. A case in point is the Marvel film Black Panther (2018), featuring black men fighting over the crown to the African kingdom of Wakanda through hand-­ to-­hand combat. 2. For a review of the main features of the field, see Ledent (2009).

8  BLACK MASCULINITIES IN THE AGE OF #BLM: ZADIE SMITH’S… 

141

3. One might also argue that similar worries underpin the rise of young adult fiction by black British women authors, as suggested by Malorie Blackman’s popular Noughts and Crosses book series (started in 2006) or Bernardine Evaristo’s Hello Mum (2010). 4. By racialization of space I mean “the process by which residential location is taken as an index of attitudes, values, behavioural inclinations and social norms of the kinds of people who are assumed to live [there]” (Coleman 2006: 137). 5. Kiki Simmonds is an upwardly mobile African American, thanks to generations of women who have pulled themselves up from slavery and struggled to leave behind poverty. Kiki’s great-great-grandmother was a house slave, her great-grandmother a maid, her grandmother a nurse, and her mother a legal clerk. At the end of this long line of indefatigable women stands Kiki, a hospital administrator living in the lovely home she has inherited in a mostly white, gentrified neighbourhood. 6. On this subject, see among others Carby (1987), particularly Chap. 5. For a review of the history of representations of black men, see bell hooks (2015: 87–113). 7. For more on the progressive and regressive elements in hip-hop black masculinity, see Brown (2006).

References Adebayo, Diran. 1996. Some Kind of Black. London: Abacus. Alexander, Claire. 1999. Black Masculinity. In In Black British Culture and Society, ed. Kwesi Owusu, 407–418. London: Routledge. Anjaria, Ulka. 2008. On Beauty and Being Postcolonial: Aesthetics and Form in Zadie Smith. In Zadie Smith: Critical Essays, ed. Tracey L.  Walters, 31–55. Bern: Peter Lang. Brown, Timothy J. 2006. “Welcome to the Terror Dome”: Exploring the Contradictions of a Hip-Hop Black Masculinity. In Progressive Black Masculinities, ed. Athena D. Mutua, 191–213. New York: Routledge. Carby, Hazel. 1987. Reconstructing Womanhood: The Emergence of the Afro-­ American Woman Novelist. New York: Oxford University Press. Coleman, John O. 2006. Reasonable and Unreasonable Suspects: The Cultural Construction of the Anonymous Black Man in Public Space (Here Be Dragons). In Progressive Black Masculinities, ed. Athena D. Mutua, 137–154. New York: Routledge. Collins, Patricia Hill. 2006. A Telling Difference: Dominance, Strength, and Black Masculinities. In Progressive Black Masculinities, ed. Athena D. Mutua, 73–97. New York: Routledge.

142 

P. CUDER-DOMÍNGUEZ

Crenshaw, Kimberlé. 1991. Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color. Stanford Law Review 43 (6): 1241–1249. Cuder-Domínguez, Pilar. 2011. Masculinities and Intergenerational Strife in Recent Black British Fiction. In Migration, Narration, Communication. Cultural Exchanges in a Globalised World, ed. Alicja Witalisz, 23–30. Bern: Peter Lang. Fernández Carbajal, Alberto. 2013. “A Liberal Susceptibility to the Pains of Others”: Zadie Smith’s On Beauty, Haiti, and the Limits of a Forsterian Intervention. Ariel 43: 35–57. Gilroy, Paul. 1993. The Black Atlantic. Modernity and Double Consciousness. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Grmelová, Anna. 2012. “We Murder to Dissect”: Enjoyment of Beauty versus Theoretical Rigour in Zadie Smith’s On Beauty. Brno Studies in English 38 (1): 77–85. https://doi.org/10.5817/BSE2012-­1-­5. Hatty, Suzanne E. 2000. Masculinities, Violence, and Culture. London: Sage. hooks, bell. 2015, 1992. Black Looks: Race and Representation. New  York: Routledge. Horlacher, Stefan, ed. 2011. Constructions of Masculinity in British Literature from the Middle Ages to the Present. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Jackson, Regina. 2012. Imagining Boston: Haitian Immigrants and Place in Zadie Smith’s On Beauty. Journal of American Studies 46: 855–873. James, David. 2015. Worlded Localisms: Cosmopolitics Writ Small. In Postmodern Literature and Race, ed. Len Platt and Sara Upstone, 47–62. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Ledent, Bénédicte. 2009. Black British Literature. In The Oxford Companion to English Literature, ed. Dinah Birch, 16–22. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lemelle, Anthony J., Jr. 2010. Black Masculinity and Sexual Politics. New York: Routledge. Low, Gail, and Marion Wynne-Davies, eds. 2006. A Black British Canon? London: Palgrave Macmillan. Mahtani, Minelle. 2014. Mixed Race Amnesia: Resisting the Romanticization of Multiraciality. Vancouver: UBC Press. Mercer, Kobena. 1994. Welcome to the Jungle: New Positions in Black Cultural Studies. London: Routledge. Mutua, Athena D., ed. 2006. Progressive Black Masculinities. New York: Routledge. O’Donnell, Alison. 2002. Companion to Contemporary Black British Culture. London: Routledge. O’Donnell, Mike, and Sue Sharpe. 2000. Uncertain Masculinities. Youth, Ethnicity and Class in Contemporary Britain. London: Routledge. Smith, Zadie. 2005. On Beauty. London: Penguin.

8  BLACK MASCULINITIES IN THE AGE OF #BLM: ZADIE SMITH’S… 

143

Taheri, Zahra. 2017. Liberal Fairy Tales: The Tale of the Other in Zadie Smith’s On Beauty. The Explicator 75 (2): 95–98. https://doi.org/10.1080/0014494 0.2017.1312253. Tynan, Maeve. 2008. “Only Connect”: Intertextuality and Identity in Zadie Smith’s On Beauty. In Zadie Smith: Critical Essays, ed. Tracey L.  Walters, 73–89. Bern: Peter Lang. Walters, Tracey L. 2008. Still Mammies and Hos: Stereotypical Images of Black Women in Zadie Smith’s Novels. In Zadie Smith: Critical Essays, ed. Tracey L. Walters, 123–139. Bern: Peter Lang.

PART III

Fantasy

CHAPTER 9

“Some Wizards Just Like to Boast that Theirs Are Bigger and Better”: Harry Potter and the Rejection of Patriarchal Power Auba Llompart

Introduction: Harry as Anti-patriarchal Hero In Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets,1 Harry confronts Tom Riddle, a memory of Lord Voldemort’s former self, and snaps at him: “I’ve seen the real you (…). You’re a wreck. You’re barely alive. That’s where all your power got you. You’re in hiding. You’re ugly, you’re foul!” (Rowling 1998: 233). Harry’s utter disgust at Voldemort’s lust for power and his resulting moral and physical decay is already manifest early on in the series when Harry is still an innocent boy, only to become even more intense as the story progresses and Harry grows into a young man, quite mature for his age. In this chapter I examine the model of masculinity that is celebrated in the Harry Potter novels (1997–2007)2 by looking closely at Harry, the

A. Llompart (*) Universitat de Vic–Universitat Central de Catalunya, Vic, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_9

147

148 

A. LLOMPART

protagonist himself, and how Rowling articulates an important anti-­ patriarchal message through him.3 I argue that the series equates being a good man to an unyielding rejection of patriarchal behaviour, understood as the desire to be in a powerful, privileged position over others. Throughout the seven novels, Harry shows complete disinterest in and even aversion towards powerful patriarchal men, magical objects that bestow unlimited power to their owners and the use of violence. Instead, Harry chooses his friends on the basis of their moral integrity, uses spells and magical objects mostly in self-defence and, most importantly, elects to define himself in radical opposition to the power-hungry villain Lord Voldemort. Harry’s appeal as a positive male role model, however, also lies in the fact that his anti-patriarchal behaviour is not incompatible with his being flawed as a human being and possessing other attractive qualities, traditionally associated with masculinity, such as bravery, leadership and sportsmanship.

Casting Away the Elder Wand: Harry’s Rejection of Power In his seminal collection Ways of Being Male, John Stephens states that “the application of gender studies to children’s texts has focused predominantly on issues of female representation” (2002: x). This ground-­breaking work paved the way for further research on masculinity in children’s and young adult fiction, yet most studies on gender in Harry Potter have continued to concentrate on female characters and femininity.4 As Lauren R. Camacci states, “Far fewer scholars attend to masculinity in the series, and the few who do have begun an important conversation (…) that scholars should continue to plumb” (2016: 28). This chapter seeks to make a contribution to this ongoing debate by focusing on Harry, since previous studies on masculinity in the series do not concentrate on its protagonist, and when they do, they tend to read Harry as a feminized (Gallardo-C. and Smith 2003) or psychologically androgynous character (Adney 2011) rather than as a positive alternative model of masculinity. The debate about masculinity in Harry Potter can be roughly divided into those who adopt a rather critical stance towards Rowling’s texts (Heilman and Donaldson 2009, Camacci 2016) and those who concentrate on how the series actually challenges patriarchal notions of gender (Doughty 2004; Adney 2011; Wannamaker 2012; Martín 2020).

9  “SOME WIZARDS JUST LIKE TO BOAST THAT THEIRS ARE BIGGER… 

149

Although the former acknowledge the complexity and diversity of masculine representations in the novels, they still conclude that what ultimately prevails is a celebration of traditional, hegemonic masculinity. By contrast, Annette Wannamaker contends that while (…) there are aspects of the Harry Potter novels that could be interpreted as supporting hegemonic and patriarchal notions about gender, there is, however, also much in the Harry Potter series that combats dominant ideology. One does not even need to read against the grain of the text because there are complex and contradictory portrayals of gender right on the surface of the text, and evident to even the youngest or most literal-­ minded reader. (2012: 131)

I here align myself with this second branch of criticism and intend to build upon the idea, put forth by Sara Martín, that Rowling “endorses an important anti-patriarchal, anti-fascist message through her hero Harry Potter. His firm rejection of power and his investment in the values of friendship, domesticity, and civic duty suggest that he is the type of good guy readers and audiences should be celebrating” (2020: 12–13). Although Harry’s most obvious anti-patriarchal action is heroically opposing Voldemort— the character who embodies the sense of entitlement to power that Martín identifies as the underlying cause of patriarchal villainy (2020: 10)—there are many other ‘smaller’ and more modest everyday deeds that Rowling’s hero performs that are worthy of attention, for they also pose a challenge to patriarchal masculinity. While it is certainly true that the Harry Potter novels continue to promote and romanticize certain aspects of traditional masculinity—Harry has in fact been read as a return to the Victorian gentleman ideal (Berberich 2011)—what the series never glamorizes is patriarchal power, which, according to Martín, is what we should be paying attention to: “What is toxic and must be rooted out is the sense of entitlement to power behind all patriarchal behaviour, not at all masculinity. It is most urgent, then, to provide alternative models of being a man which reject the power-oriented pull of patriarchy” (2020: 10). Thus, while Rowling’s novels “do not problematize masculinity”, which is “perhaps, one reason for their appeal for boy readers” (Doughty 2004: 253), they do problematize patriarchy. Unlike other works of popular fiction that present a more ambivalent stance towards patriarchal power, in Harry Potter there is a constant reminder of the dangers of being seduced by it, which can also be ascribed

150 

A. LLOMPART

to the cautionary and didactic dimension of fiction aimed at younger readers. As Rebecca Knuth states, English children’s stories have always been “a means of fostering acceptable worldviews”; as she adds, “[t]he worldview [children] were to acquire encouraged them to be ‘good’ according to the way that their society defines a good person” (2012: 1). Like most children’s authors, Rowling also seeks to define and promote goodness in her works, and it is Harry’s consistent indifference to power that turns him into a good boy and eventually a good man, as we can see in the series’ epilogue. According to Heilman and Donaldson, “In the Harry Potter books, boys are stereotypically portrayed, with the strong, adventurous, independent type of male serving as a heroic expression of masculinity, while the weak, unsuccessful male is mocked and sometimes despised” (2009: 155). This, however, is a misreading, as Martín points out: “Harry is often ridiculed and reviled by his male and female peers, the Ministry of Magic, and the media” (2020: 204). Indeed, being the boy who lived and the Chosen One, inheriting money or becoming a successful Quidditch player do not spare Harry from being constantly bullied and ridiculed. Besides, as Wannamaker very well observes, it is quite evident from the texts that “readers are meant to identify with the protagonists being taunted, not with the stereotypically masculine bullies doing the taunting” (2012: 141). Another assumption in Heilman and Donaldson’s reading that I would like to revise here is the idea that heroism in Harry Potter is linked to strength, adventure and independence. Harry is most definitely not strong, at least not in the physical sense. On the contrary, he is described as “small and skinny for his age” (Rowling 1997: 20), much more in line with characters from “Children’s literature and film that take issue with patriarchal discourses of masculinity” and “focus on the male body, replacing the heroic, muscular physique with bodies represented as small and weak” (Flanagan 2010: 36). Although Harry is indeed athletic, his role as a Quidditch player is to catch the Golden Snitch, which does not require physical force but flying skills and an acute sight (an irony in view of his short-sightedness). As Rowling points out, if Harry is the youngest Seeker in a century, this is not so much because of his physical fitness but because “He had a knack for spotting things other people didn’t” (Rowling 1997: 203). In contrast to what Heilman and Donaldson suggest, another way in which Harry distances himself from the patriarchal masculinity of traditional male heroes is by actually not being adventurous and independent.

9  “SOME WIZARDS JUST LIKE TO BOAST THAT THEIRS ARE BIGGER… 

151

In line with these authors, Lena Steveker stresses that “with Harry, a hero is still an essentially solitary man rescuing the world from evil” (2011: 81). This idea has already been contested by Martín, who notes that “Harry may face Voldemort on his own in their final duel, but he is by no means alone” (2020: 221). Wannamaker also claims that “Rowling does not seem to advocate the idea of the lone hero” and instead associates being a loner and refusing to depend on others with Voldemort (2012: 142). Indeed, Harry is always accompanied by his friends and receives external help in practically all his endeavours, which he often accepts gladly and with no shame. On the other hand, whenever Harry feels reluctant to allow others to endanger themselves for him and attempts to journey alone, his friends do not allow him to. Regarding Harry’s adventurousness, although he certainly finds himself involved in a quest in every single book, it is always made clear that this happens despite himself. As he responds when his friends beg him not to go looking for trouble while Sirius Black is on the loose, “I don’t go looking for trouble (…). Trouble usually finds me” (Rowling 1999: 60, original italics). Rowling forcefully stresses that Harry’s status as the Chosen One is not an honour but a tragedy; it is the result of having lost his parents at a very early age and having been marked by Voldemort as his foe. What Harry would truly desire is for nothing of this to have happened so that he could lead a normal life. Furthermore, there is also a sense that if Harry embarks on all these adventures, it is out of civic duty and moral responsibility, not following a self-indulgent thirst for exciting experiences. As he tells Ron and Hermione when they hesitate to go on their first adventure to prevent the Philosopher’s Stone from being stolen, “If Snape gets hold of the Stone, Voldemort’s coming back! Haven’t you heard what it was like when he was trying to take over? There won’t be any Hogwarts to get expelled from! He’ll flatten it, or turn it into a school for the Dark Arts!” (Rowling 1997: 196). It is this deep sense of responsibility that drives Harry to break rules and face perils. Ultimately, therefore, what Harry truly desires is not adventure but a quiet and happy family life, as the Mirror of Erised reveals to us in the very first novel. When he looks into the Mirror, which shows the onlooker’s deepest desire, Harry only sees his family. In contrast, insecure Ron Weasley sees himself holding the Quidditch Cup and the House Cup, a wish that Harry simply cannot understand: “You’re only holding the Quidditch Cup, what’s interesting about that? I want to see my parents” (Rowling 1997:  155). This reinforces once again Harry’s complete

152 

A. LLOMPART

disinterest in fame and social status, and his wish to belong to a family and a community. As Martín notes, Harry’s “reward, as the epilogue shows, is not epic glory and honour but a happy private life as a father and husband—a life as far as possible from the lust for power that leads Voldemort down the darkest path” (2020: 204). This sets a radical contrast between Harry and other solitary, adventurous and ambitious male heroes. Harry’s desire for a loving family and his lack of interest in a high social status are also reflected in the choices he makes when selecting who to surround himself with. In fact, I believe that Harry’s true lesson about anti-patriarchal masculinity has much more to do with his everyday behaviour and the way he treats his peers rather than with his epic battle against Voldemort. It could be argued that even if Harry is an anti-patriarchal hero, he still represents an unattainable model of masculinity insomuch as fighting patriarchy on a large scale and saving the world is out of most average men’s reach. In that sense, Dobby the house-elf makes an important distinction when he and Harry first meet and the boy treats him as an equal: “Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew” (Rowling 1998: 17, original ellipsis). Harry is both hero and ordinary boy, but what interests me here is not so much his heroic greatness, which is unattainable for most real men, but his everyday goodness. Harry values and expresses admiration for male characters who do not live up to the expectations of patriarchal masculinity, such as the Weasleys (father and sons), Hagrid, Dobby or Neville Longbottom. On the other hand, he chooses to distance himself from mostly male, but also some female, characters who occupy a powerful position in or are complicit with Rowling’s patriarchal wizarding and Muggle worlds. In Philosopher’s Stone, Harry could have opted to ally himself with Draco Malfoy, the son of a rich and powerful wizarding family, but chooses instead Ron Weasley, a lower-class boy, as his best friend, dismissing Draco as “the wrong sort” (Rowling 1997:  77). Similarly, when clumsy and insecure Neville Longbottom is bullied by Malfoy, Harry stands up for Neville and declares, “You’re worth twelve of Malfoy” (Rowling 1997:  160). It is therefore clear from early on in the series that the model of masculinity that Rowling endorses is one that is accepting, tolerant and appreciative of non-­ hegemonic, alternative masculinities. Throughout the whole series, Harry chooses his friends not by their power or social status but by their kindness, moral integrity and capacity to love.

9  “SOME WIZARDS JUST LIKE TO BOAST THAT THEIRS ARE BIGGER… 

153

Another aspect of Harry’s characterization which reveals his lack of interest in patriarchal privilege is how he socializes with his female as well as with his male peers. When, in the above-quoted exchange between Harry and Dobby, the latter praises Harry’s greatness, Harry replies, “Whatever you’ve heard about my greatness is a load of rubbish. I’m not even top of my year at Hogwarts, that’s Hermione” (Rowling 1998: 17). Although Harry clearly misunderstands what Dobby means by “greatness” here, Rowling takes this opportunity to show the reader not only that Harry is “humble and modest” (Rowling 1998: 17) but also that he does not feel emasculated in the company of women who show superior talents and abilities. There are other moments in the series in which Harry is quick to point out Hermione’s merit: when she compliments him on being a great wizard, Harry immediately replies, “I’m not as good as you” (Rowling 1997: 208); after Rita Skeeter publishes a libellous news article about them, Harry is “full of admiration for the way [Hermione] was handling the situation” (Rowling 2001:  347). When, in Philosopher’s Stone, Ron boasts about Harry and him saving Hermione from the troll, Harry quickly reminds him that “She might not have needed saving if we hadn’t locked the thing in with her” (Rowling 1997: 132), thus downplaying their feat and deflating Ron’s ego. In fact, this scene is often brought up in discussions about gender in the novels, usually to argue that the series ultimately reinforces traditional gender roles (Camacci, 2016; Heilman and Donaldson, 2009). What these readings overlook, in my view, is that there are many other occasions in the series on which Harry is saved by Hermione, and this is never represented as shameful or emasculating for him. Saving and being saved are not ascribed to one gender in particular in the novels; both genders are represented as capable of saving others and willing to accept that sometimes they will need saving too. Harry’s lack of attraction to power is manifested not only in his personal relationships with people but also in his relation with and use of material goods and magical objects. Harry’s first encounter with a dangerously powerful object occurs in his very first year at Hogwarts when he learns about the Philosopher’s Stone, which can turn metal into gold and produce the Elixir of Life, which grants immortality. As Dumbledore explains, “As much money and life as you could want! The two things most humans would choose above all—the trouble is, humans have a knack of choosing precisely those things which are worst for them” (Rowling 1997:  215). Of course, money and immortality are tightly related to patriarchal power in the saga, and it is not a coincidence that

154 

A. LLOMPART

most characters in the first volume who seek to use the Philosopher’s Stone for their own self-interest are men—Nicolas Flamel, Dumbledore and Quirrell/Voldemort, with the exception of Flamel’s wife Perenelle, suggesting that some women are attracted to power as well (the other main examples would be Dolores Umbridge and Voldemort’s acolyte Bellatrix Lestrange). In contrast to these characters, Harry attempts to find the stone, not for his own benefit but to save the wizarding world from Voldemort’s return. What is more, his disinterest in the stone’s properties also mirrors Harry’s indifference towards symbols of power and status like money and material goods. For example, when Ron feels ashamed to admit that his family cannot afford to buy him an owl, Rowling tells us that “Harry didn’t think there was anything wrong with not being able to afford an owl. After all, he’d never had any money in his life until a month ago” (Rowling 1997:  75), when he could finally enjoy his late parents’ legacy. Undoubtedly, the magical object that is the main symbol of power in the wizarding world is the wand, especially the Elder Wand, believed to be the most powerful of all. As we learn from the beginning, “the wand chooses the wizard” (Rowling 1997: 65), but wands may also shift their allegiance if they are won in battle by a more powerful wizard. They are, therefore, attracted to power, very much like people are. That the wand is a phallic symbol of patriarchal power becomes quite evident when Harry, Ron and Hermione discover the existence of the mighty Elder Wand. Hermione, however, undermines its almost mythical fame and explains that “Wands are only as powerful as the wizards who use them. Some wizards just like to boast that theirs are bigger and better than other people’s” (Rowling 2007:  337). As Hermione’s sassy words suggest, what matters is not so much the wand itself but how its owner uses it. Harry, for instance, uses his wand mostly to protect himself and his loved ones, but we see throughout the series how wands can also be used to manipulate, torture and even kill. Harry’s rejection of the Elder Wand is the ultimate symbolic act of his refusal to become part of patriarchy’s power games. Significantly, when he becomes its owner after defeating Voldemort, Harry decides to dispose of it, noting that “the wand’s more trouble than it’s worth” (Rowling 2007: 600). This reinforces again the message that unlimited power can only bring trouble, as happens to the first brother in Beedle the Bard’s cautionary tale, killed in the night by another wizard who coveted the Elder Wand. According to Martín, “Harry’s truly heroic act is not the

9  “SOME WIZARDS JUST LIKE TO BOAST THAT THEIRS ARE BIGGER… 

155

elimination of the villain, since Voldemort is defeated by his own errors, but his rejection of the Elder Wand—which he only uses to repair his own broken wand” (2020: 208). Martín also adds that [w]hether the Elder Wand is returned to Dumbledore’s tomb, as happens in the seventh final novel, (…) or broken, as shown in the film adaptation, the point made is the same one: Harry is happy enough to be an ordinary wizard, that is to say, an ordinary man in the context of his society, and rejects all temptation to use his political and magical powers beyond what his community allows and he personally desires. (2020: 208)

Thus, Harry eventually prefers the wand that chose him when he was only an innocent boy to the wand that has chosen him for his superiority over other wizards in terms of power. When he wins it Harry declares “wearily” to his friends, “‘I know it’s powerful. (…) But I was happier with mine’” (Rowling 2007:  599). Moreover, Rowling establishes a clear contrast between the Elder Wand, coveted by power-hungry men like Grindelwald, Dumbledore and Voldemort, and the deathly hallow that Harry chooses to keep and use: his father’s Invisibility Cloak, “the true magic of which, of course, is that it can be used to protect and shield others, as well as its owner” (Rowling 2007:  574). Thus, whereas violence, aggression and greed are utterly rejected, the right to protect and defend yourself and your loved ones is vindicated as an acceptable form of self-preservation and survival amidst those who do hunger for power.

Harry, Just Harry: A Good But Imperfect Ordinary Boy As we have seen, Harry defines himself in opposition to patriarchal masculinity, displaying instead “impeccable manners and morals, being charitable and helpful, and generally putting the good of society before personal gains, (…) [showing] generosity, broad-mindedness, decency and chivalry” (Berberich 2011: 143–144). It may well be argued that this nostalgia for gentlemanly masculinity may also turn out to be alienating for men in real life, who may not see themselves reflected in this ideal and may feel pressured to live up to excessively demanding expectations. After all, as Victor Seidler argues, proposing an alternative model of masculinity must be done avoiding “the danger of [its] being too idealized”, lest we end up

156 

A. LLOMPART

replacing one oppressive model of masculinity by another equally constricting one (2014: 221). I believe that with Harry Potter Rowling in fact avoids constructing a masculine model that is too idealized, removed from reality or unattainable for real boys and men. As M. Katherine Grimes puts it, “The comfort to adolescent readers is that Harry is not perfect” (2004: 105). Harry is indeed a role model, but one that, according to Maria Nikolajeva, combines features of both the romantic hero, superior to ordinary humans in that he possesses powers or magical objects, and the mimetic hero, an ordinary person whose superiority lies in its values and moral qualities (2002: 30–33). Harry is a romantic hero insomuch as “There are mystical circumstances around his birth and infant years, and he is displaced and oppressed until suddenly, on his eleventh birthday—the common age of initiation—he is given unlimited power” (Nikolajeva 2002: 32). Yet, at the same time, he is constantly taken down to the mimetic level since he is not a hero of the Superman caliber, but an ordinary clumsy and bespectacled boy. (…) A boy who is disobedient and curious, who is not all brilliant in school but quite average. A boy who has friends and enemies, who needs to eat and sleep (…) at once human and nonhuman, with the same emotions we all know: longing for Mom and Dad, loneliness, insecurity, curiosity about his identity and origin. In this respect, he differs from the traditional romantic hero, devoid of any such sentiments. (Nikolajeva: 32–33)

I find Nikolajeva’s reference to Harry’s sentiments to be of special importance to this debate, as the capacity to express emotions is often brought up in discussions of masculinity in Harry Potter. According to Flanagan, some of the children’s and young adult narratives that attempt to challenge patriarchal discourses of masculinity do so by following the ‘sensitive new man schema’: “a portrayal of sensitive and domesticated masculinity (…) adding new (and traditionally feminine) values to the schema, such as the ability to express emotion openly” (2010: 36). In many ways, Harry fulfils this ‘new man schema’, but far from idealizing it, Rowling’s texts also acknowledge that it may cause anxiety in boys and men living in a patriarchal world that has persistently disentangled masculinity from sensitivity. Camacci stresses how Harry often takes part in homosociality and exhibits an anxiety that he might be perceived as ‘unmanly’ due to his sensitivity: Harry “puts a lot of pressure on himself to appear traditionally

9  “SOME WIZARDS JUST LIKE TO BOAST THAT THEIRS ARE BIGGER… 

157

masculine and to limit displays of non-traditional masculinity” (2016: 33). For example, he “only reluctantly expresses emotion, especially tears. Harry often feels frustrated with himself for crying” and “also often attempts to deny other emotions that might make him seem weak, such as fear, pain and disappointment” (Camacci: 33). It is certainly true that Harry sometimes feels ashamed of his emotions, especially as he enters adolescence. In Prisoner of Azkaban, for example, he is mortified by the idea of being the only one who faints in the presence of the terrifying Dementors. Yet, as Wannamaker highlights, this only reflects the actual difficulties that boys may face while living in a patriarchal society (2012: 123). Indeed, the world that Rowling has created is patriarchal and homosocial, but I concur with Wannamaker’s view that one of the strengths of the Harry Potter world is precisely that it mirrors our own: [T]he portrayal of gender in the Harry Potter series is often ambivalent, and mirrors less an ideal feminist or patriarchal vision of what boys and girls ought to be and more the messy, contradictory reality of what they are. It is within these contradictions that spaces can open up to view gender, specifically masculinity, in the novels in alternative ways. (2012: 130)

Thus, there is certainly homosociality in Harry Potter, and Harry is definitely not immune to it, but the lesson that he has to learn is precisely that the ability to love and show emotions is not a sign of weakness but of moral strength. In fact, Harry’s refusals to express emotions are usually followed by his more experienced (male) mentors telling him that “Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man!” (Rowling 2003:  726) or “There is no shame in what you are feeling, Harry” (Rowling 2003: 725). The novels simultaneously validate (male) sensitivity and portray the difficulties that some men and boys may have to accept it as part of their masculinity. At the very end of the series, Rowling makes it very clear that Harry has learnt this lesson when he finally confronts Voldemort and calmly tells him, “It’s your one last chance, (…) it’s all you’ve got left (…) be a man … try … try for some remorse” (Rowling 2007:  594, original third and fourth ellipses). In this last scene, Harry subverts homosociality and urges Voldemort to “be a man” by embracing an unconventional form of masculinity. The capacity to feel remorse, and emotions in general, which has traditionally been associated with femininity and which Voldemort sees as a sign of weakness, is therefore celebrated in Rowling’s novels as an

158 

A. LLOMPART

acceptable and necessary masculine quality. I distance myself here from previous readings that interpret Harry’s sensitivity as a feminine trait that turns him into a psychologically feminized or androgynous character (Adney 2011) and instead align myself with Wannamaker’s contention that “these unconventional forms of masculinity are masculine characteristics, not feminine, even if they do not fit the mold of hegemonic masculinity” (2012: 144). We must therefore not read them as ‘feminine’, for “when we view non-conventional forms of masculinity as ‘feminine’, we deny men and boys access to aspects of their masculinity that are not hegemonic” (Bird in Wannamaker 2012: 144). Another crucial aspect is that even if Harry hesitates to show his feelings, fears and insecurities in front of other characters, Rowling constantly gives us access to them. For instance, in the Sorting Hat ceremony, Harry feels deeply insecure: “Harry didn’t feel brave or quick-witted or any of it at the moment. If only the hat had mentioned a house for people who felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for him” (Rowling 1997: 89). Similarly, on the day of his first Quidditch match, Harry is so terrified that he is incapable of touching his breakfast (Rowling 1997:135), and he is also paralysed by fear when he is forced to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. Thus, in her narrative, Rowling completely normalizes fear and insecurity as a part of masculinity, to the relief of readers who may be feeling as insecure and inadequate as Harry in certain situations. It must also be noted that, despite his goodness, Harry also feels negative emotions. The texts clarify that being good does not make one immune to anger, hatred, envy, jealousy, competitiveness or even a thirst for vengeance. Harry is often portrayed “want[ing] to beat Slytherin” at Quidditch (Rowling 1998:  125), or feeling “pleased to hear a definite note of panic in Uncle Vernon’s voice” (Rowling 1999: 21) or with “a reckless rage” coming over him (Rowling 1999:  28). Harry is, in fact, quite a mischievous boy: at the very end of Philosopher’s Stone, for instance, he fantasizes with how he is going to scare and blackmail the Dursleys now that he knows that he is a wizard (Rowling 1997: 223). What starts out as childish mischief, however, grows into a more adult and earnest wish that he could hurt his opponents in the later books, when Harry is an adolescent and his connection with Voldemort has grown more powerful. What makes Harry good, though, is that, most often, he chooses not to act upon these feelings; as Dumbledore reminds us, “it is our choices (…) that show what we truly are” (Rowling 1998:  245). There are a few exceptions, though. In Order of the Phoenix, right after

9  “SOME WIZARDS JUST LIKE TO BOAST THAT THEIRS ARE BIGGER… 

159

Bellatrix Lestrange murders Sirius Black, Harry in fact attempts to use the Cruciatus Curse—the torture curse—on her, yelling “SHE KILLED HIM—I’LL KILL HER!” (Rowling 2003: 713, original capitalized text). The spell, however, does not work for him because, as Bellatrix informs him, “You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain—to enjoy it—righteous anger won’t hurt me for long” (Rowling 2003: 715, original italics). Another occasion on which Harry acts upon his spite is in Half-Blood Prince when he gravely injures Draco Malfoy by recklessly using a spell without knowing what it does. Yet, even in these passages, what distinguishes Harry from the sadistic and patriarchal Death Eaters is his capacity to feel remorse for the harm he has inflicted and his total absence of enjoyment of other people’s—even his enemies’—pain. There is therefore an acknowledgement that these feelings are human, though Rowling warns her readers against being carried away by them.

Conclusion In Deathly Hallows, Dumbledore tells Harry that “those who are best suited to power are those who never sought it. Those who, like you, have leadership thrust upon them, and take up the mantle because they must, and find to their own surprise that they wear it well” (Rowling 2007: 575). This encapsulates the paradox that the Harry Potter series poses: in order to prevent patriarchal abuses of power, power needs to be handled by good men (and women), but good men are good precisely because they do not seek power. Thus, the only possible solution that the novels suggest is the collapse of patriarchy, embodied by Voldemort, and the establishment of a new order where there are no such things as Elder Wands or Philosopher’s Stones. Dumbledore’s words also imply an acknowledgement that traditionally masculine qualities—like leadership—are not toxic per se when they are possessed by a good, selfless man like Harry. Thus, through Harry, Rowling firmly establishes that being a good man necessarily involves a rejection of patriarchal power and the toxic men—and some women—who lust for and feel entitled to it, but not a rejection of masculinity or the imposition of an unattainable ideal. All in all, the Harry Potter series constantly reminds us of the dangers of power and presents us with a male character whose heroism lies precisely in his absolute lack of attraction to it.

160 

A. LLOMPART

Notes 1. Subsequent references to Harry Potter book titles will be abbreviated. 2. I here concentrate exclusively on Rowling’s original seven-book series. The play Harry Potter and the Cursed Child (2016), written by Jack Thorne, will not be taken into consideration on the grounds that despite Rowling’s claims that it should be considered canon (see Rowling 2015) since she suggested the plot, it contains too many inconsistencies in relation with the original novels, as well as plenty of out-of-character moments that would confuse rather than enlighten the present discussion. 3. I am well aware of the controversy surrounding J.K. Rowling’s transphobic remarks on Twitter but my position is that they do not invalidate her anti-­ patriarchal discourse in the series, whose last book, besides, was published ten years before the polemic erupted in 2017. In a post published in her blog in 2020, Rowling herself summarized the events and showed a variety of concerns regarding the (in her view) negative impact of trans activism on women’s lives (for a rebuttal of Rowling’s argumentation, see Montgomerie 2020). In any case, although addressed to cisgender (heterosexual) men, Rowling’s anti-patriarchal injunction in the Harry Potter series to eschew power for domination and embrace goodness is, no doubt, of general application beyond this demographic. 4. See Dresang (2004 [2002]), Gallardo-C. and Smith (2003, 2009), Adney (2004), Cummins (2008), Berndt (2011), Heilman and Donaldson (2009 [2003]), to name a few.

References Adney, Karley. 2004. From Books to Battle: Hermione’s Quest for Knowledge and Control in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. The Washington & Jefferson College Review 54 (Fall): 103–112. ———. 2011. The Influence of Gender on Harry Potter’s Heroic (Trans) Formation. In Heroism and the Harry Potter Series, eds. Katrin Berndt and Lena Steveker, 177–192. Farnham: Ashgate. Berberich, Christine. 2011. Harry Potter and the Idea of the Gentleman as Hero. In Heroism and the Harry Potter Series, eds. Katrin Berndt and Lena Steveker, 141–158. Farnham: Ashgate. Berndt, Katrin. 2011. Hermione Granger, Or, A Vindication of the Rights of Girl. In Heroism and the Harry Potter Series, eds. Katrin Berndt and Lena Steveker, 159–176. Farnham: Ashgate. Camacci, Lauren R. 2016. The Prisoner of Gender: Masculinity in the Potter Books. In Wizards vs. Muggles: Essays on Identity and the Harry Potter Universe, ed. Christopher E. Bell, 27–48. Jefferson, NC: McFarland.

9  “SOME WIZARDS JUST LIKE TO BOAST THAT THEIRS ARE BIGGER… 

161

Cummins, June. 2008. Hermione in the Bathroom: The Gothic, Menarche, and Female Development in the Harry Potter Series. In The Gothic in Children’s Literature Haunting the Borders, eds. Anna Jackson, Karen Coats, and Roderick McGillis, 177–194. New York and London: Routledge. Doughty, Terri. 2004, 2002. Locating Harry Potter in the ‘Boy’s Book’ Market. In The Ivory Tower and Harry Potter, ed. Lana A. Whited, 243–260. Columbia and London: University of Missouri Press. Dresang, Eliza T. 2004, 2002. Gender Issues and Harry Potter: Hermione and the Heritage of Gender. In The Ivory Tower and Harry Potter, ed. Lana A. Whited, 211–242. Columbia and London: University of Missouri Press. Flanagan, Victoria. 2010. Gender Studies. In The Routledge Companion to Children’s Literature, ed. David Rudd, 26–38. London and New  York: Routledge. Gallardo-C., Ximena, and C. Jason Smith. 2003. Cinderfella: J.K. Rowling’s Wily Web of Gender. In Reading Harry Potter: Critical Essays, ed. Giselle Liza Anatol, 191–206. Westport, CT: Praeger. Grimes, M. Katherine. 2004, 2002. Harry Potter: Fairy Tale Prince, Real Boy, and Archetypal Hero. In The Ivory Tower and Harry Potter, ed. Lana A. Whited, 89–124. Columbia and London: University of Missouri Press. Heilman, Elizabeth E., and Trevor Donaldson. 2009, 2003. From Sexist to (Sort-of) Feminist: Representations of Gender in the Harry Potter Series. In Critical Perspectives on Harry Potter, ed. Elizabeth E.  Heilman, 139–162. New York and Abingdon: Taylor & Francis. Knuth, Rebecca. 2012. Children’s Literature and British Identity: Imagining a People and a Nation. Plymouth: The Scarecrow Press. Martín, Sara. 2020. Masculinity and Patriarchal Villainy in the British Novel: From Hitler to Voldemort. New York and Abingdon: Routledge. Montgomerie, Katie. 2020, June 16. Addressing the Claims in JK Rowling’s Justification for Transphobia. Medium. https://katymontgomerie. medium.com/addressing-­t he-­c laims-­i n-­j k-­r owlings-­j ustification-­f or-­ transphobia-­7b6f761e8f8f. Accessed 12 September 2022. Nikolajeva, Maria. 2002. The Rhetoric of Character in Children’s Literature. Lanham, Maryland, and London: The Scarecrow Press. Rowling, J.K. 1997. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. London: Bloomsbury. ———. 1998. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. London: Bloomsbury. ———. 1999. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. London: Bloomsbury. ———. 2001, 2000. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. London: Bloomsbury. ———. 2003. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. London: Bloomsbury. ———. 2007. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. London: Bloomsbury. ———. 2015, June 29. [@jk_rowling] The story of #CursedChild should be considered canon, though. @jackthorne, John Tiffany (the director) and I developed it together. Twitter. https://twitter.com/jk_rowling/status/61549860180921139 3?lang=es. Accessed 12 September 2022.

162 

A. LLOMPART

———. 2020, June 10. J.K. Rowling Writes about Her Reasons for Speaking out on Sex and Gender Issues. J.K.  Rowling. https://www.jkrowling.com/ opinions/j-­k-­rowling-­writes-­about-­her-­reasons-­for-­speaking-­out-­on-­sex-­and-­ gender-­issues/. Accessed 12 September 2022. Seidler, Seidler, Victor. 2014. Epilogue – Moving Ahead: Alternative Masculinities for a Changing World. In Alternative Masculinities for a Changing World, eds. Àngels Carabí and Josep M. Armengol, 219–234. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Stephens, John. 2002. In Ways of Being Male: Representing Masculinities in Children’s Literature and Film, ed. John Stephens. New  York and London: Routledge. Steveker, Lena. 2011. “Your Soul Is Whole and Completely Your Own, Harry”: The Heroic Self in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter Series. In Heroism and the Harry Potter Series, eds. Katrin Berndt and Lena Steveker, 69–84. Farnham: Ashgate. Wannamaker, Annette. 2012. Boys in Children’s Literature and Popular Culture: Masculinity, Abjection and the Fictional Child. New  York and London: Routledge.

CHAPTER 10

A Lover Boy with Battle Scars: Romance, War Fiction, and the Construction of Peeta Mellark as a Good Man in The Hunger Games Trilogy Noemí Novell

Introduction In her 1971 essay “What Can a Heroine Do? Or Why Women Can’t Write”, Joanna Russ establishes a series of plots1 that are deemed inadequate for women protagonists because “they are tales for heroes, not heroines” and “Culture is male” (1995: 80). Russ’s assertions are pertinent for Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games because they signal an inversion in the gender roles portrayed in it; that is, even though the trilogy does not correspond to any of the plots sketched out by Russ, it is strongly related to a tale of heroism that at the time of Russ’s article would have

N. Novell (*) Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Ciudad de México, México e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_10

163

164 

N. NOVELL

been conventionally led by a male character. This is not the case of 2008–2010, the years when Collins published The Hunger Games trilogy, and has not been so for several decades now. In fact, according to Jessica Seymour, young adult dystopic fiction, the label commonly used to classify this trilogy, is “a genre that is led almost exclusively by young female protagonists” (2015: 629), showing that Russ’s statements have been challenged for a long time. Additionally, there is a robust tradition of science fiction—the genre that allows the hybridization of the others present in the series—written by women with a feminist agenda that can be traced to its origins as a genre, but that crystallizes from the 1960s onward with authors such as Ursula K. Le Guin, Judith Merril, James Tiptree Jr., or Vonda McIntyre, among others.2 As Tom Henthorne has noted, the Hunger Games trilogy presents a strong mixture of genres, with “Collins herself commenting, ‘People view the books differently—as romance, as dystopian, as action adventure, as political’. She might easily have added that it is a Bildungsroman, a science fiction novel, and a survivor story as well” (2012: 6). Certainly, the trilogy can be read with different generic conventions in mind since “Collins partakes of all these genres, [but] adheres to the conventions of none” (Henthorne: 6). Although it has at its core a love triangle—Peeta and Gale are rivals for the love of Katniss Everdeen, the protagonist and narrator— the overall ambience and plot for this dispute is war. The generic hybridity may not be innovative, for YA fiction usually combines genres, but the uses it is put to by Collins and the function it serves in creating a specific kind of masculinity through Peeta’s characterization are particularly important. Katniss is clearly a warrior hero but the reasons for the prominence of the male protagonist of the story—Peeta Mellark—are less clear, for he appears to be only an inversion of the female secondary characters that used to serve an ornamental function even as the male protagonist’s couple. As I expect to demonstrate in this chapter, Peeta does represent a subversion/inversion of the role that would be usually played by a female character in romance and in war fiction. This particularity has been explored by several critics (Henthorne 2012; Lem and Hassell 2012; Taber, Woloshyn, and Lane 2013; Woloshyn et al. 2013; Guanio-Uluru 2016; Ertsgaard 2021); still, the contribution of genre to this subversion/ inversion has not been sufficiently analyzed. Here, I suggest that the genres of romance and war help to shape Peeta’s positive character traits. I explore the way in which genre conventions influence the gender

10  A LOVER BOY WITH BATTLE SCARS: ROMANCE, WAR FICTION… 

165

construction of Peeta as a good, detoxed man in the novels and the implications of his characterization, the way in which romance and war fiction enable his configuration as a gendered character representative of an alternative to hegemonic masculinity, and the role his relationship with Katniss and his comparison with Gale play in such a configuration. I must stress that this trilogy is narrated through Katniss’s voice and focalized on her; thus, Katniss herself determines her kind of desirable masculinity. Through Katniss’s eyes, then, Collins fashions a pioneering, untraditional hero as an alternative to the dystopian future of masculinity.

Peeta the Lover Boy, or The Hunger Games as Romance Initially, Katniss’s closest friend is Gale Hawthorne. They are hunting partners and, Katniss notes, share a deep intimacy: “In the wood waits the only person with whom I can be myself. Gale. (…) The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. (…)” (Collins 2008: 7). Gale is good-looking, he’s strong enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that they want him. It makes me jealous but not for the reason people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find. (Collins 2008: 12)

Even though Katniss overtly states that she does not have a romance with Gale, they are close enough to fall in love.3 This possibility cannot be immediately pursued because Katniss is sent to the Hunger Games along with Peeta, the baker’s son—a teen boy of “Medium height, stocky build, ashy blond hair that falls in waves over his forehead” (Collins 2008: 31). Each of the twelve Panem districts sends two tributes to the Capitol’s games, a boy and a girl who are ‘reaped’ randomly and sent to fight to the death. When she meets Peeta Katniss realizes that her fellow District 12 tribute is the boy who once gave her bread when she was desperately hungry. She recalls his generosity and daring in helping her, since he risked his mother’s wrath in doing so (Collins 2008: 31–40). However, what determines their relationship is Peeta’s public revelation during the interview before the Games begin, when he is asked about his love life:

166 

N. NOVELL

Peeta sighs. “Well, there is this one girl. I’ve had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I was alive until the reaping. (…) Winning won’t help in my case.” (…) Peeta blushes beet reed and stammers out. “Because … because … she came here with me.” (Collins 2008: 157–158, original third and fourth ellipses)

The expectation that there will be a love story between Gale and Katniss is undermined by Peeta’s confession, which gains him the “lover boy” nickname (Collins 2008:  195) and introduces the motif of the ‘star-­ crossed’ lovers in the Games that ultimately saves him and Katniss from death. The confession also leads to a subtle, ambiguous love triangle with Gale that develops along the trilogy, with many doubts on Katniss’s side. As Lydia Kokkola explains, “The central love interest (…) adheres closely to the adult romance tradition wherein the titillating possibilities of a triangular relationship are explored” (2011: 178), though sex is excluded. Most importantly, Peeta’s revelation determines his and Katniss’s behavior, for they can never get rid of their image as tragic romantic lovers. Furthermore, with his confession, “the boy with the bread” gives Katniss leverage, for as their mentor Haymitch (a former Games winner) states, “He made (her) look desirable” (Collins 2008: 164). Once the revelation and the triangle help situate the narration within the romance genre, the romantic conflict signals a quick passage to adulthood for the protagonists, while at the same time connecting the plot to the background war narrative. Not only are the characters star-crossed because of the war (the arena is only its first stage and the tributes are warriors), but also because there is a third party involved, Gale. According to Pamela Regis (2007: 32), in romance fiction barriers must be overcome before the couple can be together; otherwise, there is no romantic plot at all. In Collins’s trilogy the readers do not know until the end who Katniss’s true love is, Gale or Peeta; in either case, the main obstacle remains: the Hunger Games. The narration ultimately reveals that Peeta is the most suitable partner for Katniss not only because he is generous and kind but also because he is opposed to Gale’s character traits, which respond to hegemonic masculinity. As Perry Nodelman states regarding end-of-the-world narrations, [B]oth boy and girl characters (…) continually deal with a traditionally masculine dilemma—(…) they must forgo the luxury of being soft or tender or worrying about the feelings of others or the morality and legality of their

10  A LOVER BOY WITH BATTLE SCARS: ROMANCE, WAR FICTION… 

167

exceedingly violent actions. Boy or girl, they must be lean, mean, law-­ breaking fighting machines, masculine in the ways that soldiers and warriors have traditionally been masculine—thugs admired for their viciousness. (2009: 11)

Certainly, Gale does not always comply so strongly with stereotypical masculinity. What alters him is his life in rebel District 13, his closeness to President Coin, and above all the possibility of intervening directly in the design of war weapons and strategies, for, as Kord and Krimmer state, “[w]ars (…) are often portrayed as an arena of male maturation. This intimate link between war and masculinity is crucial” (2011: 138). Peeta, instead, does not want to become someone else because of the Games, and is far from interested in war. As he tells Katniss the night before the first game, “‘I want to die myself. (…) I don’t want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I’m not’” (Collins 2008: 171). Once in the arena for the 74th Games, Peeta allies himself with the Careers—the girls and boys from the richer districts trained from early childhood to become tributes—in order to protect Katniss. Unaware of his secret help, Katniss is surprised when, after a harrowing episode, “Sick and disoriented, [she’s] able to form only one thought: Peeta Mellark just saved my life” (Collins 2008:  235, original italics). As Jessica Seymour claims, Peeta’s masculinity is at least partially based on his consideration for people, especially for Katniss: he “performs masculine and feminine characteristics, with a particular emphasis on compassion and caring, which is initially juxtaposed by Katniss herself and then later by her other love interest, Gale Hawthorn” (2015: 634). As “Gender is (…) a relational concept, where ‘masculinity’ (…) frequently relies on a binary relationship with ‘femininity’” (Seymour: 629), Peeta’s care for the others is central to his characterization and is probably what at this stage distinguishes him most distinctly from Gale’s hegemonic masculinity and makes him more ‘feminine’. Back in District 12 as victors, Peeta’s realization that Katniss was faking her feelings for him is a heavy blow and a disappointment central for understanding the relevance of the romance story for the construction of his character. He is annoyed and sad at the revelation: “‘It was all for the Games,’ Peeta says. ‘How you acted.’ (…) His voice isn’t angry. It’s hollow, which is worse” (Collins 2008: 452, 454). Katniss is, however, not sure of her love for either Peeta or Gale: “I can’t explain how

168 

N. NOVELL

things are with Gale because I don’t know myself” (Collins 2008: 453), she concludes. On the way to the Capitol in Catching Fire for the 75th Hunger Games, the Quarter Quell of the past winners in which they are to be tributes again, Peeta and Katniss agree to be friends and, most importantly, they begin to sleep chastely together because of her recurrent nightmares. Certainly, it could be said that in comforting Katniss, Peeta is comforting himself, but it must be noted that he is the one to renew their friendship; respecting this barrier, he never suggests they have sex and only aims to help her. In teen romances, sexual relationships are usually sublimated or, according to Kokkola, repressed (2011: 178). Yet, when Peeta and Katniss later become real friends and allies, his generous personality facilitates the development of their romance and Gale’s erotic appeal starts being undermined as Peeta’s own grows. Interviewed again on live TV before the 75th Games, Peeta gives away the false news that he and Katniss had got married in a private ceremony typical of their district and that she is pregnant. Unlike the first confession—which revealed the truth of his love—this time Peeta lies to protect Katniss by gaining the audience’s sympathy. He demonstrates again both his care for her and his wit. The second stay in the arena proves as productive as it is fatal. On the one hand, Katniss’s closeness quickly turns into love and desire when they kiss: The sensation inside me grows warmer and spreads out from my chest, down through my body, out along my arms and legs, to the tips of my being. Instead of satisfying me, the kisses have the opposite effect, of making my need greater. I thought I was something of an expert on hunger, but this is an entirely new kind. (Collins 2009: 425)

This allows Peeta to show his love for her and even be generous toward his rival: “Peeta’s giving me his life and Gale at the same time. (…) Everything. That’s what Peeta wants me to take from him” (Collins 2009: 424). On the other hand, the new Games provoke the separation of the lovers, an essential stage in romance plots which in this case gives Katniss a chance to defend Peeta before the rebels as a person worth saving due to his intrinsic goodness. When the Capitol takes Peeta prisoner and Katniss is taken to District 13 to become the rebels’ iconic Mockingjay, she gets in touch again with Gale. This revives her previous confused and confusing feelings toward him, which is useful for contrasting Peeta’s and Gale’s

10  A LOVER BOY WITH BATTLE SCARS: ROMANCE, WAR FICTION… 

169

character traits. When the rebels plan how to conquer District 2’s stronghold, Gale suggests that they kill all the people, both civilians and soldiers, leaving them trapped, thus revealing that for him winning the war is more important than “preserving the lives of those in the Nut”, as the mountain where they hide is known. Gale, Katniss realizes, has no “interest in caging the prey for later use” (Collins 2010: 237). While Peeta awaits rescue in the third novel, Mockingjay, a series of interviews and promotional ads in which he is the protagonist are broadcast by the Capitol. These promos show deep changes in his physical and psychological characteristics. First, he tries to convince the rebels to surrender, for which he is deemed a traitor in District 13. Yet, later he manages to warn the district of an imminent attack by the Capitol, which saves the entire population but costs him a harsh punishment. This heroic deed shows Peeta’s struggle against the conditioning which the Capitol is secretly imposing on him, a brainwashing so strong that once Peeta and the other hostages are rescued and taken to District 13 he tries to kill Katniss. The Capitol “has been subjecting him to a rather uncommon technique known as hijacking” (Collins 2010: 209), and Peeta has been brainwashed to believe that Katniss is evil and responsible for his suffering, which devastates her. Peeta’s temporary loss and recovery correspond to another of the stages usually found in romance fiction: the ritual death of the protagonist (Regis 2007: 35). As his hatred for Katniss reveals, Peeta becomes aggressive and metaphorically carries the Capitol within him over to District 13; the Peeta that Katniss knew no longer seems to exist. With his hijacking the Capitol proves that it can use the most invasive methods for sequestering the minds and emotions of people, thus confirming its perversion, dominance, violence, and aspiration to preserve the status quo; Panem appears to be patriarchy incarnated, as Henthorne also postulates (2012: 51) and as cruel President Snow proves. In becoming a mutt (a muttation, in the lore of the trilogy) and transcending this state of subjection, Peeta returns from his symbolic death. His recovery from the Capitol’s abduction of his psyche is even more relevant than his being generous and protective, and it obviously adds to his alternative masculine traits. Peeta’s recovery is prominent because it signifies that a man can get rid of a strong patriarchal conditioning; his resistance can, thus, inspire others to resist the Capitol’s patriarchal cultural and political system (Walby 1990). In the same manner as Katniss symbolizes the rebellion as the Mockingjay, for a while Peeta becomes the

170 

N. NOVELL

handsome face of a Capitol that is rotten in the inside, yet he never really gives in. When Katniss watches in despair Peeta on TV sitting next to President Snow in apparent cooperation, she realizes that the young man is fighting inside: “The foot of his prosthetic leg4 taps out a strange irregular beat. Beads of sweat have broken through the layer of powder on his upper lip and forehead. But it’s the look in his eyes—angry yet unfocused—that frightens me the most” (Collins 2010: 155). Along with his care and generosity, the feat of transcending the Capitol’s brainwashing makes Peeta a character whose bravery lies in his will and capacity to control his violent impulses, which, it must be noted, are not inherent in him but planted by the Capitol as part of his patriarchal reprogramming. Thus, violence, “the crux of masculinity” (Kord and Krimmer 2011: 4), is overcome by Peeta’s alternative, non-violent masculinity by sheer willpower. Again, Peeta’s return to his previous gentle self effectively suggests the inversion of the habitual roles in romance fiction, for the one who usually goes through ritual death is the heroine. Transcending his programming allows him to go back to being a good man and facilitates the resolution of the love story, since Katniss chooses Peeta because he can rescue his real self and become stronger in the process. In fact, Peeta grows into full manhood with his rescue. As Guanio-Uluru (2016: 211) suggests, the fact that Katniss finally chooses Peeta over Gale—and the reason for her decision—points toward a choice by Suzanne Collins of a non-toxic masculinity which is, furthermore, compatible with Katniss’s non-traditional femininity in her roles as hunter and warrior. Gale, on the other hand, also has the chance to resist the false necessity of trampling an already defeated enemy but decides instead to nourish his cultural patriarchal programming. Certainly, he takes care of both his and Katniss’s family during the Games and in the immediate aftermath, when the rebellion takes hold and they are all relocated to District 13, but the war makes him forget that he was once a caregiver and a nurturer. The violent soldier is stronger in him than any other trait or stereotype, and since this is closely related to a conventional, toxic patriarchal masculinity, Katniss rejects him. According to Gale, “Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can’t survive without” (Collins 2010: 385), a description that fits Peeta and must be read in terms of genre. Romance literature is based upon the triumph of love after overcoming a series of obstacles, but the triumph of love also implies finding the best possible partner. In this sense, it is important to examine Katniss’s last words regarding her choice, which echo Gale’s

10  A LOVER BOY WITH BATTLE SCARS: ROMANCE, WAR FICTION… 

171

statement. Both she and Peeta, at last together, suffer from flashbacks and nightmares connected with the horrors endured: But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that [hunger] again. (…) I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale’s fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that. So after, when he whispers, “You love me. Real or not real?” I tell him, “Real”. (Collins 2010: 453)

At first sight, it may appear that Peeta is a consolation prize because his characteristics—being good, kind, loving, caring—are so different from hegemonic masculinity and this is even seen as a handicap. For that reason it is so important that Katniss finally chooses Peeta over Gale, because with this decision she also chooses alternative, detoxed masculinity. The romantic story of Katniss and Peeta—always framed by the violence exerted upon them—concludes in companionship, love, and the possibility of the future. Even so, her decision has been criticized because she “remains caught in a system that rewards forms of emphasized femininity and is ‘saved’ when she returns ‘to her proper sexual role’ by giving birth to Peeta’s children and returning to the home” (Woloshyn et al. 2013: 157). This misses not only how Collins disrupts the codes of romance but also that in her dystopian, war-torn world domesticity is the greatest reward and comfort.

Battle Scars, or The Hunger Games as War Fiction As I mentioned at the beginning, The Hunger Games can be read as war fiction, though in this case a woman, Katniss, is the main warrior. War stories are generally addressed to male readers and deal fundamentally with traditionally masculine issues. Susanne Kord and Elisabeth Krimmer refer to war films, but their comments can be extended to all war fiction: Instead of highlighting physical feats, [war films] praise traditional manly virtues, such as courage, a sense of civic responsibility, and loyalty. (…) Because of its emphasis on service, some critics have characterized the war

172 

N. NOVELL

film as ‘male melodrama’, a genre in which the denial of self and self-sacrifice are presented as forms of empowerment. (2011: 155)

Suzanne Collins appropriates some conventions of war fiction in The Hunger Games. Katniss is not only a survivor from the age of twelve, when her father dies in a mining accident and she becomes her family’s main provider, but also an accomplished warrior who does not flinch in the face of battle (though, being a hunter, she refrains from killing randomly). In a sense, Katniss has been preparing for war since her childhood and is used to surviving in dire conditions. Peeta, instead, may be strong and intelligent, and capable of acquiring or developing abilities to fight and survive, but he is undoubtedly a character that is best suited for the domestic space, which in many combat films was assigned to women, who “made occasional appearances (…) symbolized domesticity—home and family—and were usually included in the roles of wives and mother” (Hatty 2000: 170). His being a baker’s son and eventually a baker himself makes him constantly acknowledge Katniss’s warring prowess, though he does not immediately recognize his own qualities: physical strength and endurance, intelligence, and a capacity for strategy and for building alliances. The arena of the Games, an heir to the coliseum and its gladiators, is a battlefield with twenty-four contenders instead of the habitual two sides. In Catching Fire, the war narration becomes clearer, for once the victors/ tributes are back in the new arena for the 75th Games, most of them are organized into a they/us scheme, like that of a war: “You just remember who the enemy is” (Collins 2009: 314), Haymitch tells Katniss, meaning the Capitol, before insisting to the couple that they must make allies among the rest of the victors/tributes. In Mockingjay, war fiction dominates the narration, and the warlike they/us scheme is raised to full civil war with the rebellion led by District 13. This district is organized militarily under President Alma Coin, because its survival has depended on the order and clarity of all social functions and obligations, and because its inhabitants have been preparing for war for the last seventy-five years, as long as the Capitol believed they had been wiped out. All the inhabitants are considered soldiers ready for war. Gale, who migrates to District 13 after saving all the people he could from the Capitol’s bombardments of his native District 12, becomes a warrior as accomplished as Katniss, but unable to empathize with the civilian population; as noted, he is willing to sacrifice innocent people for the rebellion to win. When Katniss witnesses the double attack in Panem

10  A LOVER BOY WITH BATTLE SCARS: ROMANCE, WAR FICTION… 

173

which kills many children and next the rescuers running to their aid, including her sister Primrose, she realizes how she herself has been involved in it and what Gale has contributed: I’m in Special Weaponry back in 13 with Gale and Beetee. Looking at the designs based on Gale’s traps. That played on human sympathies. The first bomb killed the victims. The second, the rescuers. Remembering Gale’s words. “Beetee and I have been following the same rule book President Snow used when he hijacked Peeta”. (Collins 2010: 418, original italics)

The bombs which Gale designs, which badly burn Katniss herself, are a product of his patriarchal lack of caring but also of his alliance with Coin, a woman who, as District 13’s leader, embodies patriarchy as much as President Snow despite their distinct positions regarding tyranny. Quite tellingly, the strategy applied by Coin and Gale resembles that of “total war”, “the subordination of the whole society to war (…) wherein armed forces and civilians would be confounded (…) the effort will be addressed not only to the enemy army, but against the population” (Henninger and Widemann 2012: 37; my translation). War is not only one of the highest tests of personal manhood but also a full expression of patriarchy in that it consists of the systematic use of violence. Thus, whereas Peeta chooses to rid himself of the traces of patriarchy by overcoming the conditioning of the Capitol, Gale decides to embrace the ancient, patriarchal practice of war because “The opportunity and capacity to dominate Others is integral to hegemonic masculinity. The use of force and violence is viewed as one of the instruments of power and as one of the modes of behavior by which hierarchy is perpetuated in society” (Hatty 2000: 181). Once the war is over, with the rebel victory, Peeta and Katniss go back to District 12 and begin to heal their wounds: “We learn to keep busy again. Peeta bakes. I hunt. (…) We’re not alone” (Collins 2010: 452–453). Gale, incidentally, gets a job in District 2, the same one whose population he wanted to exterminate by sealing the exits of their mountain stronghold, and goes on with his life unscarred and unpunished. Peeta may seem, as noted, a consolation prize, because of the way in which Katniss recounts the reasons for her choice in what I deem, following Tolkien, a eucatastrophic ending of both loss and consolation. Yet, her choice reveals her need for a life of love and not of hate and confirms not only the attractiveness of Peeta’s personality but also that his detoxed masculinity is the

174 

N. NOVELL

desirable one for the narrator and the one privileged by the author of the books. The fact that he bakes and she hunts—and thus, that he seems to belong in the kitchen while she belongs in the woods, reversing their traditionally assigned gender roles—seems to have inclined some readers to see Katniss’s marriage and pregnancy as bothersome, conservative, and out of character, as I have already noted. I cannot agree with this, for several reasons. In the first place, both Katniss and Peeta deserve a new life after what they have gone through; they have become to all effects war veterans. Second, even though marriage and motherhood may seem conservative choices, they also imply hope and responsibility for the future. Furthermore, as John Keegan states, “the culture of the warrior can never be that of civilisation itself” (1994: xvi). In finishing the war and embracing the home, these two characters also embrace civilization, a civilization that they helped to found anew with their fight, for “(a)ll civilisations owe their origins to the warrior” (Keegan 1994: xvi). Following this, marriage and children do not directly imply that a patriarchal male will oppress Katniss and she will comply; on the contrary, Peeta has given all signs and proof that he is anything but that, especially because he overcame the Capitol’s patriarchal brainwashing. In this sense, even though Peeta represents from the beginning a detoxed masculinity, he matures as a detoxed man through his efforts at deprogramming himself. His story of growth— his own bildungsroman, a genre often related to war fiction—tells the tale of overcoming the patriarchal oppressor symbolized by the Capitol and the male within. This is why it is so important that Katniss chooses him— this may be part of eucatastrophe, but it is also the triumph of a new model of male character. Peeta, besides, acts as a well-deserved rest for warring Katniss, as she herself confesses, a comforting role that used to be played by women. The subversion/inversion of roles is confirmed and honored, though, like Katniss’s pregnancies, it may be deemed conservative. This view covertly implies that war is more important than reproduction and domesticity, and that having children or staying at home is of less value than being a warrior involved in a patriarchal conflict. The accusation of conservatism implies that there will always be subordination in a couple, a vision which I dispute because, ultimately, it negates the possibility of equality between women and men due to the superiority attributed to traditionally masculine activities. Additionally, although one of the most pervasive causes for women’s subordination is economic, both Peeta and Katniss have enough

10  A LOVER BOY WITH BATTLE SCARS: ROMANCE, WAR FICTION… 

175

money for themselves, earned as compensation for the Games. This financial independence allows and highlights her free choice. The full relevance of the war narration in the configuration of Peeta’s character—in comparison to Gale’s—and of the couple he forms with Katniss, becomes evident in that they decide to be together and have children many years after the war is over; Katniss, who begins her story aged sixteen, is in her thirties when she writes the books that constitute the trilogy. They have both undergone a process of overcoming the trauma of war and have been able to heal their wounds. As Ertsgaard (2021) points out, Peeta is related to a model of masculinity that favors pacifism over war. Whereas in conventional war fictions the kind of masculinity that is privileged is aggressive, violent, and mostly patriarchal, Peeta’s detoxed masculinity represents an alternative path. In The Hunger Games war fiction is, thus, ultimately used to “demystify the war and the military, (…) and to support pacifism” (Brosman 1992: 88), and to lead to a new way of living together for men and women in loving companionship.

Conclusions In this chapter, I have tried to demonstrate that Peeta is a character constructed as a good man on the basis of genre conventions. Romance narrative is a rather rigid kind of fiction that needs to go through certain well-established stages and whose characters must have certain fixed traits, even though The Hunger Games blends conventions from both teen and adult romance. The same is applicable to war fiction. Interestingly, The Hunger Games subverts both romance and war fiction, because of its female protagonist and narrator, and because of Peeta’s traits, which both subvert and invert the role he would conventionally play in those kinds of texts. Thus, the generic hybridity of the trilogy seems to be closely related to its gender ‘impurities’ and subversions, for it emphasizes and facilitates them: “the imperative to reconcile positions that are mutually exclusive is mirrored in the preference for genre hybrids” (Kord and Krimmer 2011: 5). So, if we further follow Joanna Russ’s ideas regarding genre and gender, we see that Collins has assigned to a woman a conventionally masculine role. Seymour proposes (2015: 628) that as women in YA fiction become more “masculine”, men are “feminized”, and this could be the case of Peeta if we accept that the gender roles in The Hunger Games have been inverted. In conventional and conservative terms, this is undeniable; at least, Taber, Woloshyn, and Lane (2013) disclose that girls’ perception

176 

N. NOVELL

of Katniss and Peeta is that “‘she’s more like a guy’ and ‘he’s more like a teddy bear’”. This interpretation is compatible with the view by Dominguez-Rue, who states that “Many female characters, who initially may appear to be strong role models, often remain constrained by patriarchal norms of emphasized femininity in that they eventually are returned to traditional roles” and “safely brought back to orthodox femininity” (in Woloshyn et al. 2013: 151). The problems with these readings and interpretations are various. The gender roles which Katniss and Peeta assume in performing both masculinity and femininity appear to be interpreted negatively, even though their refusal to comply with their assigned gender behavior makes them complex and attractive characters. Peeta transcends not only his assigned gender performance as a male but also the brainwashing that turned him into a violent person, characteristically patriarchal, much more so if we consider violence as one of the patriarchal traits that the trilogy seeks to transcend. As Seymour and Guanio-Uluru suggest, the conventions of romance (and YA) literature allow Peeta to become soft and acquire conventionally feminine characteristics. However, despite Katniss being so ‘masculine’— as a provider and a warrior—she also possesses traditionally feminine traits; after all, she takes care of Peeta as he takes care of her. Her supposed masculinity is thus hybridized, as is Peeta’s own supposed femininity. This hybridization is made possible not only by romance but also by war fiction, because the warrior of the trilogy is Katniss and she needs—as she herself and Gale state several times—to survive at the end of her fight. The peace that survival requires can only be facilitated by Peeta, who represents a kind of masculinity unrelated to violence, and who has actively fought against the patriarchal oppression of the Capitol both within and without himself. Katniss’s agency is not undermined by her final marriage to Peeta. The criticism that assigns a negative value to motherhood and marriage also implicitly underestimates Peeta’s own hybrid traits. If we expect the characters to remain at war, we are attributing to war a value superior to that of the home, or to civilization, in this case symbolized by the family. The trilogy itself fights against war, and that is why we must read the ending with an emphasis on war fiction rather than on romance, with Katniss and Peeta as traumatized survivors and not just happy lovers; in this way, we understand why it is important for the characters to be finally at peace. Reading the ending only in a romance key reinforces a hetero-normative and conservative view of them as a couple, but Katniss chooses Peeta over

10  A LOVER BOY WITH BATTLE SCARS: ROMANCE, WAR FICTION… 

177

Gale because the latter chooses war and hate, and she wants to live on; following Keegan, she takes the side of civilization. Peeta, in short, may seem soft, lacking in fire, but he represents a crucial step forward in changing our conceptions of what a good man is. Peeta is naturally good from the beginning but, most importantly, he transcends the Capitol’s brainwashing, which implies that he overcomes his cultural patriarchal programming. Transcending and overcoming the old values that dominate Gale are the signs of Peeta’s new masculinity and a promise for the future.

Notes 1. Two women “battle for supremacy”, finding womanhood in nature; woman falls in love with an aristocrat but is obliged to go to war; poetess’s death by drinking; elder woman seduces young man; “Alexandra the Great”; man “loses masculinity” and ends up neurotic and alone; narcissistic and sensual young man is raped by women admirers (1995: 80). Even though men lead the last two plots, contrary to Russ’s statement quoted above, they serve as inversions of plots usually headed by women. 2. For example, see Pamela Sargent’s 1975 anthology Women of Wonder. 3. Along the trilogy, and especially in the first volume, Katniss wonders what Gale may be thinking about her and Peeta, which signifies that she is interested in Gale as a man: “Gale’s not my boyfriend, but would he be, if I opened that door? (…) I wonder what he makes of all this kissing” (Collins 2008: 341). 4. Peeta lost his limb in the 74th Games, but his disability is ignored in the films.

References Brosman, Catharine Savage. 1992. The Functions of War Literature. South Central Review 9 (1) Spring: 85–98. Collins, Suzanne. 2008. The Hunger Games. New York: Scholastic. ———. 2009. The Hunger Games: Catching Fire. New York: Scholastic. ———. 2010. The Hunger Games: Mockingjay. New York: Scholastic. Ertsgaard, Gabriel. 2021. Peeta’s Virtue in the Hunger Games Trilogy. Journal of Feminist Scholarship 18 (Spring): 113–135. https://doi.org/10.23860/ jfs.2021.18.07. Guanio-Uluru, Lykke. 2016. Female Focalizers and Masculine Ideals: Gender as Performance in Twilight and The Hunger Games. Children’s Literature in Education 47: 209–224. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10583-­015-­9263-­1.

178 

N. NOVELL

Hatty, Suzanne E. 2000. Masculinities, Violence, and Culture. Thousand Oaks, London, and New Delhi: Sage. Henninger, Laurent, and Thierry Widemann. 2012. Comprendre la guerre. Histoire et notions. Paris: Perrin. Henthorne, Tom. 2012. Approaching the Hunger Games Trilogy: A Literary and Cultural Analysis. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Keegan, John. 1994. A History of Warfare. New York: Vintage. Kokkola, Lydia. 2011. Virtuous Vampires and Voluptuous Vamps: Romance Conventions Reconsidered in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight Series. Children’s Literature in Education 42: 165–179. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10583-­ 010-­9125-­9. Kord, Susanne, and Elisabeth Krimmer. 2011. Contemporary Hollywood Masculinities: Gender, Genre, and Politics. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Lem, Ellyn, and Holly Hassel. 2012. “Killer” Katniss and “Lover Boy” Peeta: Suzanne Collins’s Defiance of Gender-Genred Reading. In Of Bread, Blood, and The Hunger Games: Critical Essays on the Suzanne Collins Trilogy, eds. Mary F. Pharr and Leisa A. Clark, 118–127. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Taber, Nancy, Vera Woloshyn, and Laura Lane. 2013. “She’s more like a Guy” and “He’s More Like a Teddy Bear”: Girls’ Perception of Violence and Gender in The Hunger Games. Journal of Youth Studies 16 (8): 1022–1037. Nodelman, Perry. 2009. Making Boys Appear: The Masculinity of Children’s Fiction. In Ways of Being Male: Representing Masculinities in Children’s Literature and Film, ed. John Stephens, 1–14. New York: Routledge. Regis, Pamela. 2007. A Natural History of the Romance Novel. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Russ, Joanna. 1995. What Can a Heroine Do? Or Why Women Can’t Write. In To Write like a Woman: Essays in Feminism and Science Fiction. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Seymour, Jessica. 2015. “Murder Me… Become a Man”: Establishing the Masculine Care Circle in Young Adult Dystopia. Reading Psychology 37: 627–649. Walby, Sylvia. 1990. Theorizing Patriarchy. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Woloshyn, Vera, Nancy Taber, and Laura Lane. 2013. Discourses of Masculinity and Femininity in The Hunger Games: “Scarred”, “Bloody”, and “Stunning”. International Journal of Social Science Studies 1 (1): 150–160. https://doi. org/10.11114/ijsss.v1i1.21.

CHAPTER 11

Masculinity and Heroism in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld: The Case of Good Captain Carrot Isabel Clúa

Introduction: Heroism, Goodness, and Masculinity If there is a figure that embodies the concepts of Good and Goodness, this is the archetypal hero. The ethical and affective charge that turns him “into an ideal image that people want to imitate, while unfolding an emotional and appealing effect toward which it is difficult to remain neutral” (Schlechtriemen 2019: 21) has been considered one of its defining characteristics, along with extraordinariness, autonomy, transgression, agonality, and high agency. Moreover, Schlechtriemen adds, a hero “stabilizes the collective. (…) Thanks to the heroic figures, a social group is able to thus articulate and discuss their wishes, values and aspirations” (21). Although classical approaches to the heroic archetype have emphasised the universality of its structure and themes, as renowned author Ursula K. Le Guin has observed “[i]n our hero-tales of the Western world, heroism

I. Clúa (*) Universidad de Sevilla, Sevilla, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_11

179

180 

I. CLÚA

has been gendered: the hero is a man. (…) Since it’s about men, the herotale has concerned the establishment or validation of manhood” (2003: 5–6). Other gendered approaches to the hero archetype, such as that of Pearson and Pope (1981), point out that the archetypal narratives about the hero bolster a normative masculinity linked to violence, strength, and power, even if these attributes are legitimised by aligning with the dominant values of their fictional world.1 In any case, they maintain, “it is not accurate to assume that this macho heroic ideal is the archetypal human pattern. An exploration of the heroic journeys of women—and of men who are relatively powerless because of class or race—makes clear that the archetypal hero masters the world by understanding it, not by dominating, controlling, or owning the world or other people” (Pearson and Pope: 18). These considerations are essential when exploring fantasy fiction where—because of its connections with ancient narratives, such as epic or romance—the predominance of a hero who is “a force for good in the world” (Lissauer 2015) is a major element. The deeds and adventures of the heroes, “the rescuers of people in need, the slayers of monsters and the doers of great deeds” (Lissauer), have determined a dominant narrative model in the genre—focused on the quest narrative—in which the hero faces trials and opponents until the final victory that redeems or renews his community.2 Despite this communal aspect, in fantasy the “heroic quests are extrapolations of [the heroes’] (…) internal struggle to define themselves as men (…) ultimately displaying ever-evolving models of masculinity” (McEnzie 2009: 6). This is visible in some of the genre’s foundational texts. Haberkorn (2007) points to three key referents in the birth of the fantasy hero: Robert E.  Howard’s Conan, Fritz Leiber’s Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, and Tolkien’s multispecies Company of the Ring. Haberkorn notes how each of these examples adds layers to the Campbellian hero model (individuality in Howard, questionable morality in Leiber, collective character and lack of extraordinary gifts in Tolkien) but ignores the gender dimension, which nevertheless provides interesting insights. Conan, for example, is “famous for battles and rage and courage, rather than intelligence or creativity. He is clearly a very physical creature. He also promotes a view of physical strength as superior to intelligence” (Haberkorn: 324); this characterisation fits perfectly with how “The social definition of men as holders of power is translated not only into mental body images and fantasies, but into muscle tensions, posture, the feel and texture of the body” (Connell 1987: 85). Similarly, although Leiber’s heroes are presented as a response

11  MASCULINITY AND HEROISM IN TERRY PRATCHETT’S DISCWORLD… 

181

to Conan, they revisit the figure of the heroic barbarian with powerful muscled heroes (Fafhrd) or the rogue skilled in the use of weapons (Gray Mouser); also, “in the earlier stories, the two pass from place to place and girl to girl” (Maund 2012: 150). This type of characterisation of the vigorous, skilled, individualistic hero is not random but inseparable from the subgenre itself—sword and sorcery—in which they are framed and which frames their own masculinity. Tolkien’s heroes, on the other hand, present different dynamics regarding their exemplary masculinity. Lord of the Rings is part of epic fantasy and, therefore, its main conflict has a collective dimension which restricts the moral variability of its heroes—unlike what happens in sword and sorcery, much more inclined to endow them with a dubious morality. Their exemplarity is paradigmatic insofar as it is developed for the benefit of the common good. Yet, although the Tolkien model is arguably less complex than that of other canonical texts, the nuances of the relationship between heroism and masculinity are numerous. Figures such as the human, royal Aragorn reproduce the heroic archetype described by Rank,3 and most members of the Company of the Ring, whether human or not, display “so-called manly virtues, such as will power, honour, and courage” (Moosse 1996: 3–4). On the other hand, the heroic endeavour is carried out collectively, eschewing the autonomy and self-sufficiency attached to individual masculinity. The hero that stands out, Frodo, is “a small, frightened, and yet enduring hobbit (…) Tied inescapably to domesticity (…)” and “an unlikely hero” (McEnzie 2009: 23), closer to the feminine as traditionally defined. The questioning of the macho heroic ideal is crucial in revisionist fantasy, in which the deconstruction of gender in relation to heroism has been a very significant trend since the irruption of Second-Wave Feminism in the 1960s. Numerous female authors have redefined the notion of heroism by focusing on female heroes, separating attributes such as resolution or physical courage from objectives such as power or domination, and introducing personal fulfilment or the protection of the community as the driving force behind heroic action (Spivack 1987: 8). Arguably, Terry Pratchett’s comic fantasy Discworld series (41 novels, 1987–2015) is part of this revisionist trend. Criticism has focused particularly on the Lancre Witches novels for their capacity to counteract “the traditional vision of the witch as an old and evil hag” and to present “an image of old femininity as valuable, admirable and even heroic” (Santaulària i Capdevila 2018: 59). Characters such as the dwarf Cheery Littlebottom (Feet of Clay) or

182 

I. CLÚA

Polly Perks (Monstrous Regiment) also show that Pratchett approaches gender in sophisticated feminist or pro-feminist ways. His male characters, however, have rarely been analysed from a gendered perspective. Cohen and Hrun, parodies of the Conan-inspired vigorous barbarian, have received much attention in this regard (Bulgozdi 2013; Perschon 2020) but the subversive heroism of other main male characters—such as Rincewind, Vimes, or even the rather villainous Vetinari—has been analysed with no regard for gender. Thus, Smith simply argues that “the Discworld series is peppered with unlikely heroes and challenges to the notion of hero” (2007: 185) whereas other scholars stress Pratchett’s preference for heroes paradoxically defined by cowardice or cynicism. The exception to this model is Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, a man often treated as a naïve and simple character, “the paragon of the hero archetype (…) from his origins as an orphan child found in the woods and raised as a dwarf (and he is still considered one despite being over six-feet high) to his epic charisma” (Lissauer 2015). Carrot, this critic adds, is good and honest in contrast to sly Vimes, whom she considers the paradigm of the heroic character in the Discworld series: heroes “shine and do good because it’s the right thing to do”, whereas the heroic characters are “good because someone has to hold back the darkness” (Lissauer) always threatening to engulf their world. Similarly, Smith’s study of heroism and masculinity in Pratchett’s Discworld focuses on Rincewind, Vimes, and lesser characters like Nobby Nobbs or Colon but barely mentions Carrot, again reduced to being a simple version of the heroic archetype. Indisputably, Carrot’s narrative alludes to the heroic archetype, yet far from merely following it, Pratchett sustainably subverts the notion of the hero predestined to save his community in order to develop an interesting alternative masculine profile based on concepts such as vulnerability, empathy, and the rejection of violence.

A Not So Predictable Hero: Law and Community Leverett points out that Carrot’s “story arc—a foundling child raised outside the kingdom who returns to save it from a horrific evil—fits a pattern established by medieval romance: restoring the rightful heir” (2020: 46). Certainly, this literary reference is present from the very first Watch novel, Guards! Guards! (1989), whose plot focuses on the possible restoration of the rightful heir of Ankh-Morpork (a Republic run by the tyrant Vetinari), though the topic is there thoroughly subverted. The

11  MASCULINITY AND HEROISM IN TERRY PRATCHETT’S DISCWORLD… 

183

conspirators trying to overthrow the city’s government invoke a dragon to precipitate the arrival of a hero who will defeat the monster and then claim the throne. They, of course, just want to crown a puppet that fits the legends and their interests. When the huge dragon materialises, the novel follows Carrot’s arrival in Ankh-Morpork and his accidental incorporation into the flagging City Watch. Hilarious as his entry is, Pratchett manages to hint that he might be the true heir since Carrot “hits several markers of this medieval romance hero” (Leverett: 46). Firstly, Carrot fulfils the requirement of being “handsome and attractive” (46); from his first appearance, his powerful physique and tremendous musculature are emphasised: “When he flexes his shoulder muscles, other muscles have to move out of the way first” (GG 20). Although Carrot Ironfoundersson is his true name, in reference no doubt to his red hair, his first name also alludes to his shape, with a massive chest and narrower hips and legs. The young man’s attractiveness is further exploited from Men at Arms (1993) onwards, when the arrival of Werewolf Watch recruit Angua Von Uberwald—Carrot’s romantic interest—brings out much sensual appreciation of his looks. As a female Watch colleague declares in the novel Thud!, “this one really was attractive”. (TH 115) In addition to his attractiveness, Carrot is “superiorly strong and/or skilled with weapons” (Leverett: 46) although he uses violence sparingly. We glimpse him wielding his spear against the citizens in order to protect the dragon they intend to slash, or fight in a dwarf tavern as he admonishes the dwarfs to write to their mothers and be good sons. In general, Carrot prefers dialogue and mediation, although his physical prowess allows him to control any potentially dangerous situation. Despite his total disregard for personal empowerment, many clues indicate that Carrot is the actual royal heir. He has a crown-shaped birthmark and was found by the dwarfs abandoned among the victims of a massacre along with a (non)magical sword. Besides, Carrot enters Ankh-Morpork as “an outsider, and yet quickly seems to be right where he belongs—the urban equivalent of the hero’s magical symbiosis with his land” (Haberkorn 2007: 331). Still, this archetypal hero breaks traditional patterns. If we compare the Campbellian scheme—whereby the hero is called to adventure and sets out on a journey under the protection of a mentor who usually provides him with an amulet or magical element—and Carrot’s journey, there are many differences. Carrot has no interest in leaving his homeland and the mines where he has been raised by his adoptive dwarf parents; despite his size, he is even surprised to discover that he is not a

184 

I. CLÚA

dwarf and sets off with great reluctance. His first guide is a prosaic merchant who bestows upon him as a gift “a strange, vaguely hemispherical device surrounded by straps” to protect his “vitals” (GG 30) and The Laws and Ordinances of The Cities of Ankh and Morpork. While Campbell’s journey is undoubtedly about becoming an adult, independent man, Carrot must literally learn to be a Man, and thus part of different species, since, to all intents and purposes, he has been raised as a dwarf and this is how he identifies. Carrot’s archetypal hero’s journey includes “restoring and/or enforcing the law for the common Good” (Leverett: 46). This is the most interesting divergence from the classic model since Carrot, who possibly suspects that he might be the true heir, chooses instead to be a law-abiding citizen and an agent of the law to aid his fellow citizens; he “may be a misplaced monarch, destined to be king, but he chooses his place in society—helping people instead of ruling them—and resists his fate” (Haberkorn: 334). This decision is not the result of Carrot’s docility and obedience, although these are presented as part of his characterisation in the first description (by his real father): “‘He’s a good lad, mind you’, said the king. ‘Sound character. Honest. Not exactly brilliant, but you tell him to do something, he don’t rest until he’s done it. Obedient’” (GG 25). Nor is this quite a conformist choice motivated by a lack of commitment to the town or a desire for a simple life, as can be inferred from other passages: “Sometimes it seemed to Vimes that everyone knew that Carrot was the true heir to the redundant throne of the city. It just so happened that he didn’t want to be. He wanted to be a copper, and everyone went along with the idea” (FE 76). His choice is based on strong convictions that completely redefine what it is to contribute to the greater good. In contrast to the autonomy and rampant power of the archetypal hero, allowed to act freely for the sake of the common good, Carrot rejects the idea that good can be found outside the law or in the hands of a single person. In the final image of Guards! Guards! instead of killing the dragon—as would be his heroic destiny—he protects the beast by applying the law. Similarly, he neutralises the dragon’s summoner by literally crushing it with the weight of the law so that, finally, the gift bequeathed by his first mentor— the voluminous ordinances of Ankh-Morpork—becomes useful. This attitude, maintained throughout the series, is an essential character trait. Haberkorn argues that characters such as Carrot and Vimes operate in the realm of the political, that is, of what is proper to the city (polis), a term

11  MASCULINITY AND HEROISM IN TERRY PRATCHETT’S DISCWORLD… 

185

that shares its etymology with police. This connection is raised by Carrot himself in Men at Arms, as Vimes recalls: The lad might be simple, but he was so simple that sometimes he saw things that the subtle missed. (…) Policeman, for example. He’d said to Vimes one day, while they were proceeding along the Street of Small Gods: Do you know where “policeman” comes from, sir? Vimes hadn’t. “Polis” used to mean “city”, said Carrot. That’s what policeman means: “a man for the city”. Not many people know that. (MAA 169)

Carrot’s concern for the citizens and the polis underlines the channelling of the individual and all-powerful figure of the hero into a regulated position and a code of conduct subjected to community values, which is unprecedented in the heroic tradition. The passage quoted above also hints that the simplicity of the character is misleading, as wily Sergeant Colon notes: Carrot often struck people as simple. And he was. Where people went wrong was thinking that simple meant the same thing as stupid. Carrot was not stupid. He was direct, and honest, and good-natured and honourable in all his dealings. (…) He got on well with people, even while arresting them. (MAA 40)

Few authors defend sincerity, kindness, and honesty so openly, while at the same time subtly criticising the cynicism of a society that belittles these attributes. Throughout the series, Pratchett underlines Carrot’s uncomplicated adherence to these values. He also establishes that his goodness is not just a natural inclination but a choice underpinned by a strong determination, as Vimes implies in Jingo, silently admiring one of Carrot’s actions: (…) that’s just what I would have done. But I’d have done it because I’m not a nice person. Carrot is a nice person, he’s practically got medals for it, surely he wouldn’t have. … And he knew that he would never know. Somewhere behind Carrot’s innocent stare was a steel door. (Jingo 38, original ellipsis)

This “steel door” is Carrot’s renunciation of domination over others, based on an equal appreciation of his fellow citizens. This is striking not only because, as noted, Carrot is the heir apparent of Ankh-Morpork but

186 

I. CLÚA

also because Vimes, the son of the man who ended the monarchy by killing the last king, Carrot’s own father, shares the same point of view. Thus, Carrot’s firm adherence to political values is neither passive nor simple and even borders confrontation. When the Patrician Vetinari proposes his promotion to Captain in Men at Arms, Carrot shows some resistance: “(…) But I will not command the Watch, if that’s what you mean.” “Why not?” “Because I could command the Watch. Because … people should do things because an officer tells them. They shouldn’t do it just because Corporal Carrot says so. Just because Corporal Carrot is … good at being obeyed.” Carrot’s face was carefully blank. (MAA  347, original italics and ellipses)

After this conversation, Pratchett reintroduces the theme of the restoration of the monarchy: the plot revolves around one Edward d’Eath’s efforts to seek out the rightful heir of Ankh-Morpork and Vetinari suggests the young man’s suitability for office. After questioning the narratives associating predestination with breath-taking simplicity—“All that is nothing but sword-in-a-stone nonsense. Kings don’t come out of nowhere, wave a sword and put everything in its place. Everyone knows that” (MAA 348), Carrot declares—he rejects the Patrician’s insinuations, stressing once again to the tyrant’s face that power cannot come through dominating the citizens: “You can’t treat people like puppet dolls. No, sir. Mr. Vimes always said a man has got to know his limitations. If there was a king, then the best thing he could do would be to get on with a decent day’s work—” (349). Carrot’s canniness and ambiguous stance towards an identity he simultaneously ignores and acknowledges proves that he is neither simple nor naïve, but, as Vetinari concludes, remarkably political. Carrot, nonetheless, still fulfils the task of renewing the land which the archetypical hero narrative assigns him. He chooses to carry out this mission by restoring the reputation of the city’s Watch, as I show next.

Charisma, Care, and Vulnerability Carrot’s initial image as an imposing mass of muscles gradually gives way to another element as his main characteristic: charisma. This can be understood as a relatively common heroic feature, although it is a complex attribute as an unstable relational quality depending on recognition and

11  MASCULINITY AND HEROISM IN TERRY PRATCHETT’S DISCWORLD… 

187

requiring constant interaction with others (Ebertz 2019). Carrot’s characterisation is all the more significant because it abounds in personality traits linked to the relational and the affective. Because of its emotional implications, charisma has a dangerous potential since it describes the capacity to affect people, as Vimes states in Feet of Clay reacting to another character’s comment: “But he’s got that sword of his, and the birthmark shaped like a crown, and … well, everyone knows he’s king. It’s his krisma.” Charisma, thought Vimes. Oh, yes. Carrot has charisma. He makes something happen in people’s heads. He can talk a charging leopard into giving up and handing over its teeth and doing good work in the community, and that would really upset the old ladies. (FOC 83–84, original ellipsis)

Pratchett insistently portrays Carrot’s charisma as subjugating magic though this quality is greatly nuanced, especially thanks to City Watch colleague Angua. An interesting conversation between her and Vimes reveals the boundaries between the charismatic leadership of politicians, which Vimes distrusts, and Carrot’s genuine interest and openness towards others. In Jingo Angua argues to Vimes that Carrot cares for people, not as a calculating politician like Vetinari might care; Carrot, she claims, “makes space in his head for people. He takes an interest, and so people think they’re interesting. They feel … better when he’s around” (Jingo  273, original ellipsis). Carrot’s trust in others has been justified by his being an optimist and therefore a flat character; in contrast, Haberkorn (2007) describes Vimes, a pessimist, as a realistic character. Yet, Carrot’s unflinching optimism does contribute to the process of improving the city and its citizens. The expression “respect for the community” invoked by a disbelieving Vimes becomes in Carrot’s hands an interesting programme of social reintegration, assistance to the elderly, and re-educating troubled youth through sport. Carrot’s total confidence in humanity—and beyond if we think of the other Discworld species—is, for instance, fundamental in the peaceful resolution of the conflict between Klatch and Ankh-Morpork. Thanks to his charisma, Carrot invites the Klatchians to lay down their arms and entertains both armies with an improvised football match, channelling clashing virility into a harmless game and incidentally exposing the ludicrousness of male competitiveness. Carrot’s faith in people enhances confidence and optimism, qualities often mistaken for naivety and

188 

I. CLÚA

simplicity; here they become a transformative tool consistent with Carrot’s archetypal role as regenerator of the realm. Another essential issue is the dissociation of the young man’s leadership from power. Angua believes that Carrot “could lead armies”: Just because he thinks that everyone’s really decent underneath and would get along just fine if only they made the effort, and he believes that so strongly it burns like a flame which is bigger than he is. He’s got a dream and we’re all part of it, so that it shapes the world around him. And the weird thing is that no one wants to disappoint him. It’d be like kicking the biggest puppy in the universe. It’s a kind of magic. (MAA 225–226)

Carrot’s “magical” rejection of domination aligns him with the heroic figures typical of feminist revisionist fantasy who exhibit traits such as empathy, care, or vulnerability, traditionally understood as feminine. This affective dimension is perceived in Carrot, too, in the caring letters to his dwarf parents and, above all, in his relationship with Angua. “You couldn’t wish to meet a more caring man”, she tells herself, feeling so overwhelmed that she wishes “he had some decent human quality, like selfishness” (FOC 252–253). The romance between Angua and Carrot, more present in the later Watch novels, shows the interweaving of Carrot’s private, even intimate, dimension with the collective, communal dimension. That Angua is a lycanthrope proves Carrot’s lack of speciesist prejudice, which has hindered the inclusion of minorities in the Watch. While Vimes and other agents express a slight reluctance towards a new inclusive programme, Carrot accepts it naturally (though he strongly dislikes the undead, to whom Angua is related). Still, his ability to consider any living (or undead) being a person is manifest. The speciesist issue, nonetheless, becomes relevant to Carrot and Angua’s romance because her lycanthropy generates mistrust, which places Carrot in a conflictive situation: “Carrot didn’t mind. But he minded that other people minded. He minded that even quite friendly colleagues tended to carry a bit of silver somewhere on their person. She could see it upsetting him. She could see the tensions building up, and he didn’t know how to deal with them” (FOC 50). Angua’s acceptance of Carrot’s kindness also creates tensions between them because it diverges from her previous experience with other men, and she simply does not know how to manage Carrot’s exemplary behaviour.

11  MASCULINITY AND HEROISM IN TERRY PRATCHETT’S DISCWORLD… 

189

From Angua’s point of view, the issue of species difference merges with the question of gender, so Carrot’s acceptance of her lycanthropy fosters at many points a reflection on the standards governing romantic relationships. In Jingo, she reflects, disillusioned with the men she has been romantically involved with so far, that: (…) when Carrot said things, you knew that he felt that everything was now settled until further notice, so if she made any comment he’d be genuinely surprised that she’d forgotten what it was he had said and would probably quote date and time. And yet all the time there was this feeling that the greater part of him was always deep, deep inside, looking out. No one could be so simple, no one could be so creatively dumb, without being very intelligent. It was like being an actor. Only a very good actor was any good at being a bad actor. (Jingo 118)

Although Carrot appears to be idealised his attitude is consistent with his own biography—being raised as a dwarf gives him an open mind about species’ identities—and is consistent with his own value system, based on believing that people are inherently good. Yet, as Angua perceives, and so does Vimes, there is always a suspicion that Carrot is performing a type of masculinity too good to be true. Or the other way round: it is hard for them to fully trust in his goodness. The relationship with Angua offers other moments in which Carrot’s heroism and exemplary masculinity are interestingly rewritten and modified. In The Fifth Elephant, the trope of the damsel in distress who has to be saved by her lover is subverted when Angua escapes to her native Uberwald and Carrot abandons his responsibility in the city, resigning from the command of the Watch, to follow her. The approach may seem a little bit awkward, as Carrot seems to express a concern that can be understood as unwanted protection based on an underestimation of Angua’s abilities and autonomy. However, the novel soon reverses the cliché and Carrot’s foray into Uberwald ends with him lost and helpless, needing to be rescued by Angua and her company of wolves when he is on the verge of collapse. This passage is the first of several occasions in this novel on which Carrot is shown to be vulnerable and dependent on Angua’s considerable physical gifts, although this new dimension of the character reaches its climax in the fight between Carrot and Wolfgang, Angua’s brother, who seriously injures the young guard, breaking his arm and leaving him badly wounded. Gavin, a wolf whose relationship

190 

I. CLÚA

with Angua suggests something more than friendship, comes then to the rescue. This introduces a new aspect, amorous rivalry, into the narrative though, once again, this possible source of conflict is assumed by Carrot in an ambiguous way, so that we do not know whether he candidly believes that there is nothing between Angua and Gavin or whether he wants to believe this is the case. When someone informs him that they are old friends, “There was nothing but the usual completely open honesty anywhere in Carrot’s expression” (FE  349). Carrot dismisses the possibility of a love triangle, shying away from confrontation and trusting his partner, thereby reinforcing their relationship among equals. Carrot’s reaction to Gavin’s tragic end when he dies saving him4 shows how the lack of rivalry with other males is complemented with respect and fraternity, as well as empathy towards Angua. Carrot fetches Gavin’s remains to bury him properly and refuses to replace Angua’s friend as the alpha male in the pack, despite having physically imposed himself on the other wolves. Angua reflects that: Doubt was a luxury for species that did not live one meal away from starvation. They still had a Gavin-shaped hole in their minds and Carrot had stepped into it. Of course, it wouldn’t last long. But it didn’t need to. He always, always finds a way in, she thought. He doesn’t think about it, he doesn’t plot, he simply slides in. I saved him because he couldn’t save himself, and Gavin saved him because … because … because he had some reason … and I’m almost, almost certain that Carrot doesn’t know how he manages to wrap the world around him. Almost certain. (FE  437, original ellipses)

While the absence of rivalry with Gavin is inscribed on the romantic arena, Carrot’s reluctance to play leader is also relevant in the relationship with other male authority figures, especially his superior, Vimes. As noted, Carrot and Vimes function as antagonists since they are linked, respectively, to the lineage of the deposed king and to the assassin who murdered him; likewise, critics have highlighted the abysmal differences between them regarding heroism, with Vimes displaying much more ambiguous ethical values which bring him closer to the counter-heroic. However, their differences never develop as conflict but as negotiation, so that the two characters evolve by influencing each other, establishing a bond of respect and complicity. Thus, for example, although Vimes’s initial cynicism about Carrot’s rigorous application of the law generates tensions,

11  MASCULINITY AND HEROISM IN TERRY PRATCHETT’S DISCWORLD… 

191

both positions are modified. Carrot partially accepts Vimes’s vision and learns to moderate his rigid application of the law, whereas Vimes learns to make Carrot’s particular use of the law for the common good his own, for example, by proposing to arrest the armies of Klatch and Ankh-Morpork in order to neutralise the war about to be unleashed in Jingo. When Vimes is told that no army commander can be arrested by the Watch, Carrot comes to his defence, arguing that they could charge the enemy “with behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace, sir. I mean, that’s what warfare is” (Jingo  334). His face “split in a manic grin” (334), Vimes orders Carrot to arrest Ankh-Morpork’s army, too. This complicity between the two characters translates into an extraordinary balance between disagreement and mutual affection. Carrot’s respect for Vimes is expressed at times as absolute loyalty which even leads him to disobey direct orders when he thinks these undermine his superior’s position, but also as maturity and growth, as Vetinari observes when both men are promoted: “I think you’ve learned a lot from Cap— Commander Vimes, captain” (MAA 349). The bond is no less important for Vimes, who protects Carrot many times; for example, when Vetinari is poisoned, he diverts the Patrician’s guard away from Carrot to prevent him from being suspected because of his royal blood. Above all, Vimes learns to appreciate the work of the Watch and his own role as a policeman, thanks to the young man. In that sense, Carrot’s overwhelming presence does not generate rivalry or competition between him and Vimes. In this way, Pratchett undoes the narrative of antagonism between king and revolutionary, commander and subordinate, old and young. In Jingo, a foreigner watching Carrot acting as referee of a football match insists that he “is your king”, a statement which Vimes resists with his habitual irony: “Carrot’s a copper, same as me.” “A man like that could inspire a handful of broken men to conquer a country.” “Fine. Just so long as he does it on his day off.” (Jingo 344)

The bond between Carrot and Vimes thus offers a model of a relationship between men that develops from a mutual respect which, despite leaving room for disagreement, constitutes an excellent and unusual image of fraternity and solidarity. In short, beyond his performance at the service of the city, the emphasis on Carrot’s affective and relational qualities

192 

I. CLÚA

modulates the image of the hero and generates interactions on different levels—love, friendship, professional—that stand out for their egalitarian character.

Conclusion Although the archetypical hero has been challenged, there are still representations of heroism that celebrate traditional masculinity. Thus, power, courage, autonomy, and other values conventionally considered components of exemplary masculinity become the core of heroism while other traits, like empathy or kindness are neglected. This is why rewritings and revisions of the hero are so important in constructing a renewed imaginary of the masculine. Consistent with the general lines of Terry Pratchett’s work in the Discworld comic fantasy series, based on the revision of traditional fantasy tropes, Carrot offers a rich reformulation of the heroic archetype which has, however, been barely noted by critics. The subversion of the heroic is carried out by rethinking key elements of masculinity: on the one hand, the hero’s own autonomy is self-restricted by applying a political attitude that is based on the belief in equality among all individuals. This attitude, moreover, operates in the private sphere, so that relationships (be they romantic, friendly, or professional) are also defined by their egalitarian character. Pratchett not only recomposes the archetype, but also develops a proposal that revalues characteristics such as kindness, empathy, and care for others. Although these characteristics have been assigned to the feminine sphere, he manages to construct with Carrot a male character who goes beyond generic boundaries without ceasing to be a hero in every sense of the word, and who is, above all, a good man.

Notes 1. Bröckling considers that heroes are “morally regulated deviants. Their deeds may bring them into conflict with what is right and lawful, but their exemplariness is beyond question” (2019: 40). 2. This is, in general terms, the narrative structure proposed by Campbell (1949), who links it to processes of individuation, hence supposedly the status of a universal, generally appealing narrative. 3. Rank (1909) proposes a narrative where the hero is predestined by birth to occupy a position of power. To prevent this fate, he is abandoned and, later,

11  MASCULINITY AND HEROISM IN TERRY PRATCHETT’S DISCWORLD… 

193

miraculously saved and raised by putative figures. When he reaches maturity, he returns home and fulfils his destiny, attaining glory and regaining his position as a king or leader. 4. In the last confrontation with Wolfgang, Angua and Vimes become Carrot’s rescuers.

References Bröckling, Ulrich. 2019. Negotiations of the Heroic. Helden, Heroes, Héros: E-Journal zu Kulturen des Heroischen 5: 39–44. https://doi.org/10.6094/ helden.heroes.heros./2019/APH/05. Bulgozdi, Imolda. 2013. “Barbarian Heroing” and its Parody. New Perspectives on Masculinity. In Conan Meets the Academy: Multidisciplinary Essays on the Enduring Barbarian, ed. Jonas Prida, 193–212. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Campbell, Joseph. 2004, 1949. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Connell, Raewyn W. 1987. Gender and Power: Society, the Person and Sexual Politics. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press. Ebertz, Michael N. 2019. Charisma and “the Heroic”. Helden, heroes, héros. E-Journal zu Kulturen des Heroischen 5: 45–55. https://doi.org/10.6094/ helden.heroes.heros./2019/APH/06. Haberkorn, Gideon. 2007. Cultural Palimpsests: Terry Pratchett’s New Fantasy Heroes. Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts 18 (3): 319–339. Le Guin, Ursula K. 2003. Earthsea Revisioned. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Leverett, Emily Lavin. 2020. Carrot Ironfoundersson: Medieval Romance, Narrative Causality and the Ethics of Choice in Terry Pratchett’s Guards! Guards! In Terry Pratchett’s Ethical Worlds, eds. Kristin Noone and Emily Lavin Leverett, 45–56. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Lissauer, Gabrielle. 2015. The Tropes of Fantasy Fiction. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Epub. Maund, Kari. 2012. Reading the Fantasy Series. In The Cambridge Companion to Fantasy Literature, eds. Edward James and Farah Mendlesohn, 147–253. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. McEnzie, Sean David. 2009. Custodial Heroes, Moral Soldiers, and Willing Sacrifices: Heroic Masculinity in Modern Epic Fantasy. MA Dissertation, University of Regina, Regina. Moosse, George L. 1996. The Image of Man: The Creation of Modern Masculinity. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pearson, Caroline, and Katherine Pope. 1981. The Female Hero in American and British Literature. New York: R.R. Bowker.

194 

I. CLÚA

Perschon, Mike. 2020. Conan the Nonagenarian: Beyond Hyborian Hypermasculinity with Terry Pratchett’s Cohen the Barbarian. In Terry Pratchett’s Ethical Worlds, eds. Kristin Noone and Emily Lavin Leverett, 27–44. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Pratchett, Terry. 1989. Guards! Guards! London: Transworld. ———. 1993. Men at Arms. London: Transworld. ———. 1996. Feet of Clay. London: Transworld. ———. 1997. Jingo. London: Transworld. ———. 1999. The Fifth Elephant. London: Transworld. ———. 2005. Thud! London: Transworld. Rank, Otto. 2004, 1909. The Myth of the Birth of the Hero: A Psychological Exploration of Myth. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press. Santaulària i Capdevila, Isabel. 2018. Age and Rage in Terry Pratchett’s “Witches” Novels. European Journal of English Studies 22 (1): 59–75. https://doi.org/ 10.1080/13825577.2018.1427201. Schlechtriemen, Tobias. 2019. The Hero as an Effect: Boundary Work in Processes of Heroization. Helden, Heroes, Héros. E-Journal zu Kulturen des Heroischen 5: 17–26. https://doi.org/10.6094/helden.heroes.heros./2019/APH/03. Smith, Eve. 2007. Heroes. In An Unofficial Companion to the Novels of Terry Pratchett, ed. Andrew M.  Butler, 185–188. Oxford: Greenwood World Publishing. ———. 2016. Engaging with Comedy as Social Conscience in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld. PhD Dissertation, Liverpool John Moores University, Liverpool. Spivack, Charlotte. 1987. Merlin’s Daughters. Contemporary Women Writers of Fantasy. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press.

PART IV

Science Fiction

CHAPTER 12

Skywalker: Bad Fathers and Good Sons Brian Baker

Introduction: Detoxing the Jedi In their article “Anakin Skywalker, Star Wars and the Trouble with Boys”, Pamela Bettis and Brandon Sternod assert, “As a whole, the Star Wars epic represents the continual construction and reconstruction of masculinity since World War II [in the United States]” (2009: 21). They suggest that the figures of Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, and Han Solo represent one-dimensional archetypes that recuperate the white, hegemonic masculinity of toughness, activity, and heteronormative social relations in the 1950s. While I agree that Lucas has a tendency to import deeply problematic narrative formulas from the cinematic past—most notoriously in the racial coding of the Gungans and the Trade Federation in The Phantom Menace (1999)—I think that this itself over-simplifies the representations of masculinity in the Star Wars texts and in particular the homosocial and affective bonds that are presented therein, not least in the figures of the Jedi Order.

B. Baker (*) Lancaster University, Lancaster, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_12

197

198 

B. BAKER

To this end, my first locus of investigation in this chapter will be the triangle formed between Anakin Skywalker/Darth Vader, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Luke Skywalker. In a parallel formulation to that of Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick in Between Men (1985), who wrote of the “erotic triangle” formed between two homosocially connected men and the mediating female romantic interest who acts as a conduit for their relationship, here I will develop an analysis of the patrilinear triangle between the three, with Luke acting as a mediator, or perhaps resolution, between ‘light’ and ‘dark’ forebears. Within the parameters of the ‘original’ trilogy of Star Wars (1977), The Empire Strikes Back (1980), and Return of the Jedi (1983), Luke Skywalker constructs a detoxified (though heroic) masculinity through his recuperation of Jedi discipline, but also his ability to ‘save’ his father, Darth Vader. However, in the ‘prequel trilogy’ and in series such as The Clone Wars, the narration of Anakin’s turn to the Dark Side to become Darth Vader reveals the foundational problems of Jedi discipline and Jedi masculinity, problems that cannot be resolved within the parameters set up in the first three films. Luke then acts as the apex of a further triangular relation, between himself, his nephew Ben Solo/Kylo Ren, and his mentee Rey (Palpatine/ Skywalker) in the ‘sequel trilogy’ of The Force Awakens (2015), The Last Jedi (2017), and The Rise of Skywalker (2019). What is crucially different about this secondary triangle is that Rey (Daisy Ridley) is female, and although she turns out to be the granddaughter of Emperor Palpatine, she has a close relationship with both Luke (Mark Hamill) and Leia (Carrie Fisher). This, and the rejection of Jedi masculinity outlined by Luke in The Last Jedi, indicates the revised importance of a female or feminine lineage and influence, and also a revision of what ‘good’ masculinity might mean within the Star Wars universe. Rey’s assumption of the Skywalker name at the end of The Rise of Skywalker although she is not entitled to it by blood resolves ethical conflicts and tensions not through patrilinear ‘destiny’ and masculine ‘confrontation’, but through masculine sacrifice and a kind of re-birth. What is important to stress here is that Luke Skywalker, the embodiment of good masculinity in the Star Wars universe, cannot but understand the ‘detoxing’ of masculinity as the detoxing of the Jedi ethos and its institutions. For all the inclusion of female Jedi Masters in later iterations of the franchise, it is the central triangular conflict of the original trilogy, between Luke, Darth Vader, and Obi-wan Kenobi, three Jedi in a patrilinear conflict, which dominates both those three films and the

12  SKYWALKER: BAD FATHERS AND GOOD SONS 

199

prequel trilogy. Luke does resolve Jedi masculinity at the end of Return of the Jedi, but the enactment of the prequel trilogy, beginning with The Phantom Menace, places the blame for Anakin’s turn to the Dark Side squarely, I feel, at the feet of the Jedi themselves. The Force Awakens begins to work through this different set of problems by introducing Rey (in the secondary triangle noted earlier), problems which Luke cannot resolve in and of himself. Although Luke’s solution to finally detoxing the Jedi is to withdraw into exile, to give up his lightsaber and burn the Jedi scriptures, this cannot account for a figure like Ben Solo/Kylo Ren (Adam Driver), the son of Leia and Han Solo, whose “turn to the Dark Side” and (mis) use of his Jedi training cannot be countered by passivity and withdrawal. The final trilogy detoxifies masculinity by combining with the feminine in the figure of Rey, thereby to revise masculinity away from action heroics and toward giving. Rey, whose name is genderless (unlike Luke or Leia), who becomes ‘Skywalker’ at the end of the final film of the sequence of nine, is woman and man, feminine and masculine, Palpatine and Skywalker, wearing in the final film a clearly identifiable version of Luke’s Tatooine garb in Star Wars/A New Hope. At the end of The Rise of Skywalker she hears and embodies all the Jedi, male and female, that have gone before; and she lives because the life-force of Ben Solo has passed into her.

Return of the Jedi: Patrilineal Tensions Until the release of The Force Awakens (2015), the Star Wars story ended chronologically, at least in terms of film and TV, with the events of Return of the Jedi (1983). The ‘prequel trilogy’ of The Phantom Menace (1999), Attack of the Clones (2002), and Revenge of the Sith (2005) narrated the events prior to the original Star Wars film (aka Episode IV: A New Hope). The various Clone Wars animated film and TV series (2003–2020) sat in the gap between Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith, while Star Wars Rebels (2014–2018), another animated series, was set between the end of Revenge of the Sith and the beginning of Star Wars/A New Hope. For the 1997 theatrical re-release of Return of the Jedi, George Lucas appended a sequence showing several different worlds from the films, including Tatooine, Naboo, and Coruscant, celebrating the death of the Emperor and the fall of the Empire with singing, dancing, and fireworks. Return of the Jedi still feels like a natural end-point to the story, because it does achieve resolution within the parameters set up in the previous two

200 

B. BAKER

films: Anakin is redeemed by his son Luke, as is the model of Jedi masculinity. This sense of an ending is complicated, however. Throughout Return of the Jedi, Luke is dressed in black, his garb aligning him with Vader. As the last Jedi after Yoda’s death, he is somewhat separate from the rest of the Alliance. An inheritor of the Old Republic and its ways, mediated through Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda, Luke is connected to the Empire in ways that even his sister Leia, once an Imperial Senator, is not. As Will Brooker notes in his BFI Classic on Star Wars, “Luke speaks the Empire’s language. He was, after all, planning to leave home to join the Imperial Academy, before presumably following Biggs’s example and jumping ship for the Rebellion; he knows how to play the game” (2009: 72). Even here, the Jedi and Empire are connected in ways difficult to unpick. After Return of the Jedi, though, the story of how Anakin gets to be Vader so problematizes Jedi masculinity that it no longer offers the possibility of resolving the key ethical issues of the narrative. The films of the sequel trilogy have to look elsewhere, as I will explore in this chapter. What is crucial to the filmic narrative of Star Wars throughout its canonical iterations is patrilinear descent.1 Luke is Vader’s son; Ben Solo/ Kylo Ren in the sequel trilogy is Vader’s grandson; Rey is Emperor Palpatine’s granddaughter. The connection between Vader and Luke is different from that of Vader and Leia, who only meet in Star Wars/A New Hope (where she is tortured following his orders) and not thereafter, and she does not know about her father until Luke tells her in Return of the Jedi. As I have noted, when Luke first appears in Return of the Jedi, he is different from his former selves. Gaining entry to Jabba the Hut’s palace to rescue Han Solo, he announces himself as a Jedi Knight, indicating that in the gap between the films, he has completed his training. His hair is darker; he is self-possessed and self-controlled. The young Luke of Star Wars/A New Hope, with his white Tatooine garb and loose blonde hair, has been superseded by an older, wiser, better trained, and purposeful Luke. After the struggle at the end of The Empire Strikes Back, where Luke had seen his own face inside Vader’s mask in a vision and had to deal with the revelation that Vader was his father (and that Obi-Wan had lied to him), this is a Luke whose struggles with the Dark Side are over. There is no chance that he will be tempted by the Emperor like his father had been. He has emerged into a model of ‘detoxified’ masculinity that, at this point of the Star Wars saga, is aligned unproblematically with achieving Jedi status.

12  SKYWALKER: BAD FATHERS AND GOOD SONS 

201

The internal conflict is over for him but he does sense struggle within Vader. When he surrenders himself to the Empire toward the end of the film, he says to his father: “I know there is good in you. (…) That was why you couldn’t destroy me.” The response is telling: “Obi-Wan once thought as you do. You don’t know the power of the Dark Side. I must obey my master” (Kasdan and Lucas 1997: 77–78). This confession of powerlessness is Vader’s first indication of vulnerability. “I feel the conflict within you”, Luke continues. “Let go of your hate.” With an unusual note of regret in actor James Earl Jones’s voice, Vader replies: “It is too late for me, son” (Kasdan and Lucas 1997: 78). Vader emotionally responds to Luke’s moral certainty that some good remains in his father, no matter the enormity of the crimes he may have committed, and thereby proves Luke right. In a sense, Luke intuits the presence of Anakin within Vader, the remnant of the “good man” and “good friend” that Obi-Wan speaks of in Star Wars/A New Hope and Return of the Jedi. “I’ve accepted the truth that you were once Anakin Skywalker, my father”, Luke declares (Kasdan and Lucas 1997: 78). What we have presented to us here is Anakin as residuum, perhaps, or prisoner, the good held back or within the masked villainy of Vader. ‘Darth Vader’ is but a costume; it still hides the soft, damaged ‘good’ Anakin within. Luke seemingly has expelled the Dark Side from his being, but he understands the complexity of his father’s psyche and attempts to ‘turn’ him back to the good. The ‘good’ has not perished or been destroyed. Throughout Return of the Jedi, ‘good’ is a crucial word when used about Anakin, Vader, and (by implication) the embodied morality of the Jedi. Its use, however, falls into a binary, which tends to over-simplify the tensions at play with a fractured psychology like Vader’s. As Nick Jamilla writes in “Defining the Jedi Order”, Lucas himself (…) speaks of dualities—good-evil, God-Satan, yin-yang. (…) Good generally refers to selfless behaviors that benefit the individual and/or others—to use Lucas’s vocabulary, “love” and “compassion”. Evil is simply the opposite of good. Lucas describes the Dark Side of the Force as negative emotions: “fear”, “anger”, “aggression”. (Jamilla 2012: 135)

Anakin was good, but Vader is now evil. The temporal shift implied in this binary, emphasized by Obi-Wan’s discussion with Luke, de-emphases the motif of struggle that Luke insists and in fact relies upon. On Degobah, when Luke is visited by Obi-Wan’s ‘Force ghost’, they enter a dialogue

202 

B. BAKER

about the half-truth Kenobi told Luke related to the fate of his father, back in Star Wars/A New Hope. “The good man who was your father was destroyed [by Vader]”, says Kenobi. “So what I told you was true—from a certain point of view.” Again insisting on the past tense, Obi-Wan says, “He was a good friend” (Kasdan and Lucas 1997: 43). What we are presented with here, of course, is a retconning of events to join up the as-yet unmapped story outlined in Star Wars/A New Hope with how it developed in Empire and Jedi. Unsurprisingly, Luke is somewhat incredulous: “A certain point of view?” he exclaims, as might the audience. But when Luke avers that “[t]here is still good in him”, Obi-Wan insists “He’s more machine than man now … twisted and evil” (Kasdan and Lucas 1997: 44, original ellipsis). It is noteworthy that Obi-Wan resorts to “evil” when describing Vader, the moral and binary opposite of good, as Jamilla notes, to present a one-­ dimensional appreciation of Vader’s condition. For Obi-Wan, there is no Anakin left in Vader, and the idea of the “machine” suggests a robotic adherence to the Emperor’s will that Vader himself echoes later. Obi-­ Wan’s certainty, however, leaves no room for change or, indeed, agency. When Luke confesses that he won’t be able to kill his father, Obi-Wan declares that all is therefore lost. He does not believe that Luke can “turn” his father back, because he does not believe that good can exist in a conflictual state within Vader or in tension with the Dark Side. Obi-Wan’s moral universe is ineluctably binary: either ‘good’ or the ‘Dark Side’ wins. Luke’s more intuitive sense of the conflict within Vader—communicated through the language of the feelings that Obi-Wan initially encouraged Luke to trust in Star Wars/A New Hope but apparently of little weight here—provides not only a more nuanced and open model of psychical non-integration in Vader, but also the opportunity to change familial ‘destiny’. Both Anakin Skywalker (Vader) and Luke are subject to opposing patrilinear forces. For Luke, though, the path of goodness is, in a sense, the more ‘natural’ one, as he has not suffered the kind of traumatic childhood rupture from love and nurture that Anakin experiences. At the beginning of Star Wars/A New Hope, Luke lives with his Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen Lars, and although he rubs up against Lars’s desire to keep him on Tatooine “for another season” (later decoded as Lars’s fear that Luke will grow into a second Anakin), it is clear that he has come to early adulthood in a loving and caring environment. Their deaths come at a point when he wanted to leave Tatooine and propel him on his journey. He mourns them

12  SKYWALKER: BAD FATHERS AND GOOD SONS 

203

only briefly; the loss of Obi-Wan seems to affect him much more profoundly. For Luke, to ‘fall’ into the Dark Side is to be ‘tempted’: the language signifies the emphasis of a sinning diversion from the ‘good’ path, whereas Anakin’s path into darkness is generated by fear, anger, and trauma associated with loss. For Luke, the Dark Side is external, and temptation embodied in the monstrous figure of the Emperor; for Anakin, the darkness is internal and is produced in part by the very conditions which lead him to becoming a Jedi in the first place.

Anakin Skywalker: Before Evil Anakin Skywalker is, within the Star Wars universe, a figure split multiple times. I have noted his psychological disconnections above. Whereas Luke Skywalker has only been played by Mark Hamill, Anakin has been played by Jake Lloyd as a boy in The Phantom Menace; by Hayden Christensen in Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith; by Sebastian Shaw in Return of the Jedi; and voiced by Mat Lucas and Matt Lander in the animated Clone Wars TV series. As Vader, David Prowse was the man in the suit, and James Earl Jones provided the dubbed voice in Star Wars/A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi. Anakin/Vader has therefore been presented to us, in various guises and media, by nine different actors: these seven, plus two others (Spencer Wilding, Daniel Naprous) taking the Prowse role for Rogue One (2016). Anakin/Vader is then a dispersed subject, part human and part machine, his voice variously American and English, black and white, his body either small and vulnerable or large and imposing. He is a subject composed of multiple parts: in several films we see his naked, helmetless head atop his black machinic bodysuit or, in Revenge of the Sith, the process by which Anakin’s ruined organic body is rebuilt into the ‘man-machine’ Vader. Partly due to the infelicities of casting and the implied time-gaps in-between the prequel films, our experience of Anakin is itself dislocated, discontinuous; there seems little to connect the innocent blond boy we first see to the glowering child-killer in Revenge. It is this discontinuity, perhaps, which has led to such difficulty in parsing the various shifts in Anakin’s emotional landscape. His teenage pursuit of Padmé Amidala, who he first met when he was a child, seems in Attack of the Clones to be particularly poorly motivated, even creepy. The idea that he is seeking a mother-substitute for his mother Shmi, who is

204 

B. BAKER

kidnapped and dies at the hands of Tusken Raiders in Attack, is not worked through effectively, and Christensen struggles to handle the romantic scenes with any deftness. The transition between the brash teenage Padawan and the adult warrior of Revenge is really only explicated later in The Clone Wars animated series. Anakin/Vader is not whole in any respect. However, it is his discovery by Qui-Gon Jinn, who uproots him from Tatooine and his mother (another rupture/dislocation) and promises to train him as a Jedi, which really ensures his path to the Dark Side. Jack Halberstam insists in Skin Shows (1999) upon the multiplicity of the monster. Describing Dracula, he writes: “He is monster and man (…) he is repulsive and fascinating, he exerts the consummate gaze but is scrutinized in all things, he lives forever but can be killed. Dracula is indeed not simply a monster but a technology of monstrosity” (88). Halberstam could almost be describing Vader, but the Sith Lord is even more multiple, as I noted above: part-machine, English and American, black and white, with multiple names, multiple representations (although presented iconically by the helmet and mask). Vader is literally a monstrous Jedi, produced from the incompatible and conflicting imperatives of Jedi ethics and practice, shattered and made of incongruent parts. By the end of The Rise of Skywalker, Ben Solo has to abandon his mimicry of that monstrosity and embrace his own goodness (and pass it on to Rey); and Rey, as I will suggest later, detoxifies Jedi subjectivity by themselves becoming multiple, inverting the logic of monstrosity that structures and produces Vader. Where Vader (and Luke) are physical cyborgs, men-machines, in her gendered multiple subjectivity, Rey becomes the ultimate good man. There is a fundamental aporia at the heart of Jedi ethics, the seeming repository of the ‘good’ in the Star Wars universe. This is to do with the relation of the Jedi Knight to others. Essentially, the Jedi are trained to abandon affective bonds when entering the order as children. As Sara Martín states in her article on Anakin and Obi-wan, “the Jedi Code is a formidable tool of sexual repression” (2019: 44), with the sources for this affective stricture located in Lucas’s appropriations from knightly or Templar sources. In my reading (though it is not stated explicitly in the source texts, unsurprisingly), this repression and taboo has much more to do with the emotional proximity between Jedi Master and Padawan. Although this is couched in terms of spiritual Enlightenment and openness to all life, the Jedi’s monkish asceticism masks the essential taboo that must pertain between master and pupil: that affective bonds must never progress toward romantic or sexual feelings or desire. This is true of both

12  SKYWALKER: BAD FATHERS AND GOOD SONS 

205

homosocial and heterosocial Jedi/Padawan pairs. However, this disavowal of affect does not and cannot truly preclude an emotional closeness that, in Obi-Wan’s response to Qui-Gon’s death, or in Anakin’s battle with Obi-Wan, turns quickly to rage and hatred. As Martín notes, should he have left the Order, Anakin would have been the twenty-first Jedi to do so for these reasons, though none before had become an adult Jedi. As Roger Kaufman observes in “Homosexual Romance and Self-realization in Star Wars”, a provocative reading of “passionate” affect in the film series, One striking characteristic of the alien galactic civilization portrayed in the Star Wars saga is the prominence of strongly committed, intimate same-sex partnerships, as exemplified by the age-old master/apprentice training paradigm of the Jedi Knights. We also find such ardent affiliations among the dark Sith Lords and in many other communities of the vast multi-planet society. (2012: 101)

Even if we set aside the Anakin/Padme romance, the disavowal of affective bonds by the Jedi is shown to be, in practice, impossible to maintain and police. Therefore, they remain unspoken and unacknowledged. As Kaufman further argues: [W]ith the sole exception of Anakin, none of the male Jedi Knights are ever shown to have any sort of sexual or amorous involvements with women, such liaisons actually forbidden in the Order. Yet, based on the current examination, this monastic life appears to be anything but chaste. Instead, what is intimated are compelling same-sex romantic encounters that greatly accelerate psycho-spiritual growth. (2012: 105)2

In The Clone Wars, it is revealed that Obi-Wan once experienced romantic feelings for the Mandalorian woman Satine Kryze, showing that Anakin is not alone in his predicament. Martín works this out to good effect in her article, noting that in The Clone Wars animated series, Obi-Wan’s confession of this moment (buried deep into the “little seen” sixth season of The Clone Wars) reveals not just the multiple affective bonds that must be negotiated (and rejected) by the Jedi, but also Obi-Wan’s own moral inflexibility and lack of emotional insight (2019: 45–46). As the prequel trilogy progresses, the Jedi have to be both morally upright ‘knights’ who emblematize the ‘old ways’ as well as super-warriors who organize and front the Republic’s armies. From diplomats and ‘peacekeepers’, they become Generals. The Jedi must love and disavow love;

206 

B. BAKER

they must fight and embody the ways of peace; they must be politicians and priests. In Attack and Revenge, it is this secrecy that Anakin and Padme must operate behind to prevent their own love and marriage from becoming publicly known, which ultimately leads Anakin toward paranoia and suffering. Little wonder that Anakin falls to the Dark Side in trying to negotiate such incompatible imperatives. In Revenge of the Sith Anakin, although unable to articulate the basic moral problems of the Jedi, understands that their uprightness has ossified into censoriousness and inflexibility, that their abilities as warriors compromise their status as peacekeepers, and that they are a part of the Republic’s failing political and moral structures, not apart from and above them. As Jamilla notes, the Jedi “have a clear relation to the state—one founded on advising it, defending it, and even propping it up” (2012: 128); they are unable to (fore)see a political path beyond the failing status quo. This is most evident in the confrontation in Revenge of the Sith during the lightsaber battle between his mentor and Anakin. In a pause, Anakin declares that to him, “[T]he Jedi are evil”, and Obi-Wan shouts back, “[T]hen you are lost!” Obi-Wan is incapable of deflecting Anakin’s thoughts at this point because he too falls into binary thinking. As Martín notes, “Obi-Wan only understands stark moral categories of black and white, which is why he can only see Anakin as good or evil. He deals in absolutes” (2019: 46). “Then you are lost!” is actually one of the most striking lines of the film, but it points out Obi-Wan’s failure as a mentor or surrogate father to Anakin, and also his failure to think with any degree of political sophistication. Even here, could he try to show Anakin where he has gone wrong? Ask why he feels that way? Or even concede that Anakin may have a point? Instead, he only repeats that he has “failed” Anakin. Perhaps the Jedi reliance on feelings over rational thought undoes them both here. There is no positive connection, only hatred, anger, and suffering. Anakin has become what the Jedi needed him to be, the warrior nonpareil; unfortunately, the warrior-prince finds a most toxic ‘father’ in Palpatine and brings about the doom of the Jedi that made him. An example of the moral myopia the Jedi have fallen into comes at the beginning of Anakin’s own journey to being a Jedi, in The Phantom Menace. Twice, on Tatooine, Qui-Gon tells Shmi Skywalker, an enslaved woman, that he is no Moses and is “not there to free slaves”. In fact, Qui-­ Gon is content to leave Shmi to her fate and take Anakin with him. If not ‘evil’, this is at least an act with quite an unpleasant moral dimension and certainly delimits the sense of Jedi ‘good’. Jedi training, and in particular

12  SKYWALKER: BAD FATHERS AND GOOD SONS 

207

the younglings’ removal from their families, is the site of psychological trauma, the ground zero of the deep problems caused by the prohibition on affective bonds. Quite the most affecting scene in the film is when the child Anakin runs back to Shmi and tells her that he can’t do it, he can’t leave. “Will I ever see you again?” he asks, to which Shmi has no answer. It is a heart-breaking thing to ask for an eight-year-old and causes lasting trauma for Anakin. This is, in a sense, the film’s primal scene of suffering and repression and the reason why, much later, Anakin can say “the Jedi are evil”: the trauma of being wrenched from his mother remains unhealed. The Jedi prohibition against affective bonds, which is compromised all the time between Master and Padawan, locks Anakin into a lonely, loveless subjecthood in which anger, delusion, and paranoia can easily fester. In The Phantom Menace, when Anakin stands before the Jedi Council, Yoda says that he sees fear in Anakin. “Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering”, Yoda says, emphasizing the last word. For Anakin, suffering in fact precedes all of these things: it is not a consequence. A freed slave, who has been abruptly separated from his mother, has no father or siblings, and whose substitute father-figure Qui-Gon has been killed, Anakin has suffered all manner of trauma, which the Jedi simply do not understand. It appears that he talks to Obi-Wan about his bad dreams, but all his Master can do is offer homilies about clearing his mind. Anakin needs therapy, and all the Jedi can offer is discipline. In a way, Anakin’s struggle with authority, submission, and the Master is one that must surely afflict all Jedi/Padawan relationships. The denial of affection for the Jedi, who enter a kind of celibate priesthood, has, in Anakin, found its terminal return of the repressed, an explosion which destroys the Order itself. Revenge of the Sith is a nod, of course, to the original, abandoned title of Return of the Jedi, but in a sense Return of the Sith would have made just as much, if not more sense than Revenge. Anakin represents the return of all those things the Jedi have repressed over many years. Rather than being the Chosen One, Anakin is ultimately the embodiment and emanation of the affective exclusions and denials of the Jedi. This leads inevitably to suffering and violence, which is indeed Anakin’s ‘destiny’.

208 

B. BAKER

The Rise of Skywalker: Detoxing Patrilinear Evil The next generation of the Skywalker family is explored in the sequel trilogy of The Force Awakens (2015), The Last Jedi (2017), and The Rise of Skywalker (2019). Here, instead of revisiting the sins of the fathers, the next generation articulates its sense of patrilinear succession through bonds to uncles and grandfathers. We do not really know who Rey’s parents are, even though we see them fleetingly, but we do come to know who her grandfather is, Emperor Palpatine; and while Ben Solo (aka Kylo Ren) is estranged from his mother, Princess Leia, and kills his own father, Han Solo, his own grandfather, Darth Vader, and his uncle, Luke Skywalker, enact the opposing poles of good/evil or light/dark. In one of their dreamlike, telepresent meetings across space, Ren/Solo tells Rey that to move on in life, you have to “kill” your parents, mistaking adult rites of passage for actual patricide, though it is really Luke with whom he is in conflict. When Rey finds Luke in exile in The Last Jedi, she tells him that “there is no light left” in Kylo Ren, a markedly different statement to the one Luke makes about his own father in the original trilogy. In that, she is wrong, which marks out her own callowness, just as her understanding of the Force is initially limited to thinking about power, lightsabers, and moving rocks with the mind. Just as Luke has “closed [himself] off from the Force”, so Rey—another orphan—has not yet opened herself up to the potential for good both in the Universe and in Solo/Ren. When she seeks out Luke, it is to try to persuade him to re-establish the Jedi Order to counter the neo-Imperial First Order. In a wonderfully symbolic comedic moment, when she hands Luke his old lightsaber, he throws it over his shoulder behind him and stalks off. However, Luke’s understanding of the failure of the Jedi is itself limited. “It’s time for the Jedi to end”, he tells Rey; “the Force doesn’t belong to the Jedi. Their legacy is failure, hypocrisy, hubris.” None of this is incorrect, but even Luke finds himself closed off to the “truth” about affective bonds and the centrality of love (not just spirituality) to human— and other—relationships. In the shape of Rey and Solo/Ren, grandson and granddaughter, Skywalker cousins, and in the kiss of life that Ben Solo gives Rey to revive her from death at the end of The Rise of Skywalker, this is finally acknowledged, not in the ham-fisted way of Attack and Revenge and the sickly Anakin/Padme romance, but in a moment of giving rather than taking. It is important to note that this giving of life-force means that

12  SKYWALKER: BAD FATHERS AND GOOD SONS 

209

something of Ben passes into Rey; his life and hers become entwined, and Rey becomes a multiple subject, a Skywalker. Part of Luke’s rejection of Jedi ethics and training—even though he still wears his Jedi garb and exiles himself to the planet where ancient Jedi scripture is stored and maintained—has to do with his failure to mentor Ben Solo successfully. As Ben’s Uncle, Luke aspires to establish the same relationship we saw between himself and Obi-Wan, but in fact he repeats the relationship between his mentor and Anakin, replicating the failure of non-paternal authority. As with Anakin, the failure of the Jedi ethos of self-discipline and repression comes from within: “I was no match for the darkness rising in him”, Luke confesses. The consequence for Luke’s view of the Jedi is itself personalized and internalized. However he blames himself for Ben’s ‘fall’ into being Kylo Ren, and this is shown in the thrice-­ narrated ‘confrontation’ between Luke and Ben told by the former (twice) and the latter (once) to Rey. Luke transfers his desire to ‘confront’ Vader— to confront the Dark Side—to a desire to inappropriately ‘confront’ the young Ben, his errant pupil. Like Obi-Wan with Anakin, there seems no other mode of communication available but a recourse to ‘confrontation’, to force, to a lightsaber battle, man to man. Why doesn’t Luke just speak to Ben? Is it because to do so would require a display of feelings, of the affective bonds between Uncle and nephew, which in Jedi ethics are disavowed? Even here, Luke struggles to see the institutional, rather than personal, reasons for his ‘failure’: “I’d failed because I was Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master, a legend”, he says. For Luke to have said that he had failed because he was a Jedi Master would be closer to the truth, but perhaps this would put him too close to Anakin. Like Obi-Wan before him, at the moment of crisis, Luke is only able to think about his relation with his Padawan in terms of personal or moral failure, rather than the institution that bound them all. The difference between Luke and Anakin is that if Luke has any ‘dark’ emotions, these are to do with shame, guilt, and self-­ blame. They are not directed outward like Anakin’s fear and anger, but within, and this results in his self-imposed exile. However, rather than simply being an index of ‘failure’, we can read this as a sign of Luke’s own goodness. Without anger, hatred, or malevolence, Luke’s failure seems to repeat Obi-Wan’s, in that he was unable to mentor his ‘nephew’ and instead produced a monstrous version of Jedi masculinity. Luke cannot redeem himself, as he had redeemed his father and, so, it falls to Rey to do that for him.

210 

B. BAKER

Rey is able to succeed by both accepting these affective bonds (with Ben) and ultimately negating the patrilinear imperative when confronting her grandfather, the Emperor. Notably, however, unlike the diverse confrontations among the men—Obi-Wan and Vader, Obi-Wan and Anakin, Luke and Vader, and even Luke and Solo/Ren, though this is in fact a diversionary and unreal ‘battle’—this does not end in a lightsaber fight. Only one attacks. Crossing the two lightsabers she wields, Rey uses them as a shield to reflect and divert the Emperor’s Force-lightning bolts, which actually destroy him, rather than her actions. Although Rey becomes adept at channeling the Force, she embodies Luke’s wish that the Jedi no longer ‘own’ the Force. She undergoes no prolonged training with Luke or Yoda to become a Jedi and does not replace Luke as the ‘last Jedi’, even though she becomes the last Skywalker (by election rather than by biology or patrilinear succession—it becomes something she does rather than something she is). The return of the Jedi is not the solution it seemed to be to Rey in her search for Luke, nor in Luke’s own trajectory to overthrow the Emperor and save his father by the end of Return of the Jedi. The solution is that the Force should be known and felt by everyone. “It’s all true”, as arch-cynic Han Solo says in The Force Awakens; by the time of his death, even he feels the Force. In the final moment of sacrifice and redemption, Ben Solo gives his life for Rey’s, just as Vader does for Luke in destroying the Emperor at the end of Return of the Jedi. There, Anakin is ‘saved’ by Luke, but dies in sacrificing his life for his son; at the end of The Rise of Skywalker Ben Solo dies, thereby redeeming himself, though his life-force also passes into Rey. Ben Solo, the son named for Obi-Wan ‘Ben’ Kenobi, does not restore the balance of the Force or redeem the Jedi. Instead, he steps outside the imperatives of Jedi masculinity, of mastery and martial prowess, of repression and disavowal, to gently pass his own life on to and into another. It is this anti-heroic revision of masculinity, a reversal of the ‘confrontations’ between Luke and Vader and Obi-Wan and Anakin, that is key to detoxifying masculinity in the sequel trilogy. ‘Good’ masculinity is redefined through acts of sacrifice and passing on or giving away. Through Ben Solo’s passing on of his life-force, Rey is reborn and thus becomes a ‘skywalker’: not only the granddaughter of Palpatine, but also, through Ben’s vital spirit, the grandson of Vader. Where Vader’s multiplicity is monstrous, Rey’s suggests a new and different kind of order (and Order).

12  SKYWALKER: BAD FATHERS AND GOOD SONS 

211

Conclusion As a ‘good man’, Luke must ultimately reject the repression-based structures of Jedi masculinity as incomplete and self-destructive, and as ultimately the pathway toward a ‘fall’ to the Dark Side. Luke is not a Jedi because he is good, and nor does goodness alone make him a Jedi. His struggle with his own perceived ‘failures’, as well as those of the Jedi Order, signifies that he does not embody the inflexibility and hubris that culminate in the Jedi’s destruction. His goodness is, in the original trilogy, based on his ability to see the goodness in others, especially (and even) in his father, Darth Vader. His inability to see the goodness in Ben Solo must ultimately be corrected by Rey, whose connection with Kylo Ren finally ‘turns’ him back to being Ben before his own sacrificial death. In my reading, Ben Solo in a sense lives on, not as a ‘force ghost’ but as part of a revised and re-gendered Rey. Though provoking many negative reactions among critics and audiences, Ben Solo’s ‘death’ is a symbolic act of giving away, of sacrifice, which finally aligns him with Luke and with Anakin, who is ‘saved’ at the end of Return of the Jedi by overthrowing the Emperor at the cost of his own life. Perhaps it might have been better for Ben Solo to have survived, to live alongside Rey, but I suspect his crimes (like Anakin’s) do not allow that within the moral framework of the Star Wars universe. Instead, the sequel trilogy must turn outside the original problem of paternity and its resolution in Jedi masculinity to resolve the issues produced in the prequel films and The Clone Wars. Rey is born a Palpatine but, in the sequel films, becomes a Skywalker, a conjunction symbolized in the crossed fabric she wears on her chest and in the shape of the lightsabers she defeats Palpatine with. Anakin was meant to be “the Chosen One, to bring balance to the Force”, as Obi-Wan cries in pain and suffering at the end of Revenge of the Sith, but it is Rey who finally brings balance to the Star Wars universe, and in becoming Skywalker, is the Star Wars films’ final multiply gendered embodiment of the ‘good man’.

Notes 1. The characterization of Luke Skywalker I am discussing here focuses on the three ‘original’ films and the two sequels The Last Jedi and The Rise of Skywalker, in which he features. Before The Force Awakens, what happens after Return of the Jedi was narrated in a very large body of novels and other texts which were known as the Expanded Universe and which produced

212 

B. BAKER

very different timelines to those established in the now canonical films. The Expanded Universe was reduced to the status of ‘Legends’, secondary to Lucas’s narrative. Much of this is explored in a series of essays in Star Wars and the History of Transmedia Storytelling, edited by Sean Guynes and Dan Hassler-Forest (2018), notably the essay on Rogue One and fandom by Gerry Canavan. 2. Elsewhere in this article, Kaufman makes a case for reading Luke and Vader’s relationship as being driven by an incestuous and passionate libido. In her BFI Classic on The Empire Strikes Back (2021), Rebecca Harrison offers a similarly provocative reading of Darth Vader as a “queer father” enticing the “not-quite-straight” Rebel Luke toward the “deviant” Dark Side.

References Bettis, Pamela, and Brandon Sternod. 2009. Anakin Skywalker, Star Wars and the Trouble with Boys. THYMOS: Journal of Boyhood Studies 3 (1): 21–38. https://doi.org/10.3149/thy.0301.21. Brooker, Will. 2009. Star Wars. London: BFI/Palgrave. Guynes, Sean, and Dan Hassler-Forest, eds. 2018. Star Wars and the History of Transmedia Storytelling. Amsterdam: Amsterdam UP. Harrison, Rebecca. 2021. The Empire Strikes Back. London: BFI/Palgrave. Jamilla, Nick. 2012. Defining the Jedi Order: Star Wars’ Narrative and the Real World. In Sex, Politics, and Religion in Star Wars: An Anthology, eds. Douglas Brode and Leah Deyneka, 127–140. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press. Kasdan, Lawrence, and George Lucas. 1997. Star Wars: Return of the Jedi. London: Faber. Kaufman, Roger. 2012. Homosexual Romance and Self-Realization in Star Wars. In Sex, Politics, and Religion in Star Wars: An Anthology, eds. Douglas Brode and Leah Deyneka, 101–115. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press. King, Geoff, and Tanya Krzywinska. 2000. Science Fiction Cinema: From Outerspace to Cyberspace. London: Wallflower. Martín, Sara. 2019. Obi-Wan Kenobi and the Problem of the Flawed Mentor. Foundation 132: 37–53. Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. 1985. Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire. New York: Columbia University Press. Star Wars: The Force Awakens. 2015. Directed by J.J.  Abrams. USA.  Disney. Lucasfilm Ltd. Star Wars: The Last Jedi. 2017. Directed by Rian Johnson. USA.  Disney. Lucasfilm Ltd. Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker. 2019. Directed by J.J.  Abrams. USA.  Disney. Lucasfilm Ltd.

12  SKYWALKER: BAD FATHERS AND GOOD SONS 

213

Star Wars—Episode I: The Phantom Menace. 1999. Directed by George Lucas. USA. Lucasfilm Ltd. Star Wars—Episode II: Attack of the Clones. 2002. Directed by George Lucas. USA. Lucasfilm Ltd. Star Wars—Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. 2005. Directed by George Lucas. USA. Lucasfilm Ltd. Star Wars—Episode IV: A New Hope. 1977. Directed by George Lucas. USA. Lucasfilm Ltd. Star Wars—Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back. 1980. Directed by Irvin Kershner. USA. Lucasfilm Ltd. Star Wars—Episode VI: The Return of the Jedi. 1983. Directed by Richard Marquand. USA. Lucasfilm Ltd.

CHAPTER 13

Changing the Script of “Human Is”: Re-visioning the Good (Hu)Man in Philip K. Dick’s Electric Dreams Paul Mitchell

Introduction: Re-visioning Philip K. Dick The ten standalone episodes in Philip K. Dick’s Electric Dreams (hereafter, Electric Dreams), an anthology television series1 first broadcast in 2017, are each based on different short stories that the celebrated author published between 1953 and 1955. This eclectic approach gives spectators (many of whom might be unfamiliar with Dick’s shorter fiction) a sense of the dominant motifs within his work at that time, from narratives about alien invasions to alternate realities, and futuristic dystopias. These concerns are still germane to the modern world, given our ongoing search for extraterrestrial life, the latest developments in VR,2 cybernetics, or biotechnologies, as well as the pragmatic anxieties that we feel about how the (mis)use of such capabilities might impact upon twenty-first-century social existence. To this extent, at least, Csicsery-Ronay is correct when he

P. Mitchell (*) Universidad Católica de Valencia San Vicente Mártir, Valencia, Spain © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_13

215

216 

P. MITCHELL

suggests that “reality in the postmodern age has imitated Dick’s fiction to an unnerving degree” (1992: v). The years since Dick’s death in 1982 have produced a wealth of critical materials that prove the continued relevance of his writing. Yet, two observations are pertinent to the current analysis. Firstly, that, in the majority of cases, these analyses prioritize Dick’s novels (particularly those from the 1960s) at the expense of his short stories, which are often myopically dismissed as juvenilia (Easterbrook 1995: 20); and secondly, that they generally view his work from three predominant, though not mutually exclusive, perspectives: the political-postmodern, the religious-metaphysical, and the biographical-psychological (Canaan 2013). While all such readings are undeniably valid, there remains a lack of detailed attention to Dick’s work from a Gender Studies perspective. Indeed, Csicsery-Ronay’s lament (from 1992) that Dick’s texts have not received more detailed scrutiny by feminist critics remains relatively true in the twenty-first century. Despite Palmer noting that his stories express “often painful and hostile feelings about women” (2003: 87), only a few analyses to date have discussed Dick’s depictions of (sometimes toxic) masculinity. Moreover, of those that do (including Hayles 1997; Hoberek 1997; and Holliday 2006), none so far have explored his short stories in relation to the ‘good man’, a motif that allows for an alternative construction of masculinity.3 In fact, most critics hold to the belief that gender is not of primary importance in Dick’s writing. Holliday, for example, accuses Dick of inconsistency because, while providing a damning critique of the socioeconomic conditions in the post-war USA, he fails to show the same resistance toward hegemonic gender ideologies (2006: 284). Rather than masculinity then, the critical consensus regards Dick as a writer who is concerned with the ‘human condition’, as though this were so conceptually self-contained that it could exist independently of gender (or other such variables). Indeed, Palmer’s comment about Dick’s “The Hanging Stranger”—a story that features in Electric Dreams under the title “Kill All Others”—is noteworthy in this regard. In the text, the word ‘men’ is used as a collective noun (which, thereby, renders women invisible), so that, when the town’s male and female residents have their bodies invaded by aliens, they become “Pseudo-men. Imitation men” (Dick 2017b: 62). However, to take Dick at face value here, as Palmer does when he comments that the story expresses “[his] sense of the precariousness of typical America life” (2003: 99), is to close off a rich vein of analysis about hegemonic masculinity—a concept that, following Hanke, I

13  CHANGING THE SCRIPT OF “HUMAN IS”: RE-VISIONING THE GOOD… 

217

define as “a particular version or model of masculinity [to which] women and others (….) are subordinated” (1992: 190). In effect, Palmer’s analysis blindsides the masculinism that is intrinsic to Dick’s prescient interrogation of late capitalism (Hoberek 1997: 381). Thus, rather like Lorber’s suggestion that gender inequality must first be made visible before it can be challenged (1994: 10), the task that faces critics of Electric Dreams is to illustrate how the series visualizes Dick’s work in terms of its “counterhegemonic practices” (Messerschmidt 2018: 142).

Re-visioning “Human Is” Although space constraints limit the number of episodes from Electric Dreams that I can discuss here, my close reading of episode 6, “Human Is”, illustrates the series’ consistent interest in exploring the ideological, emotional, and bodily changes that Dick’s male protagonists undergo. I argue that, as a television production, Electric Dreams literally makes visible Dick’s often implicit questioning of what constitutes the good (hu) man. Although the gender politics in some of Dick’s early shorter fiction can seem rather anachronistic nowadays, such as his description of 1950s suburban living in “Exhibit Piece” and “Sales Pitch”,4 the portrayal in “Human Is” of Silas Herrick (Bryan Cranston) as a man who experiences a profound personal crisis remains highly apposite to current conceptions of (de)toxified masculinity. Before beginning my analysis, I would like to stress that I use ‘masculinity’ as a “singular-plural” (Beynon 2002: 2)— that is, as an indication of the term’s lack of uniformity, its intrinsic idiosyncrasy, instability, and fragmentation. Following Cornwall and Lindisfarne (1994), therefore, my discussion of “Human Is” illustrates how, in parallel with the displacement of Dick’s literary fiction into television drama, the episode depicts Silas’s masculinity as a ‘dislocation’ of hegemonic values. I contend that “Human Is” is, therefore, a ‘re-vision’5 because it looks back (to Dick’s original text) while also enacting new interpretations of his work. This occurs particularly in relation to what Seidler terms “an embodied alternative masculinity” (Carabí and Armengol 2014: 221)—an empowering way for men to be attuned to the needs of those with whom they are intimate. More specifically, I believe that, during the episode, Silas undergoes a process of detoxification that questions the cultural coding of masculinity in terms of physical dominance and aggression. Instead, when Silas becomes a good (hu)man, his strength is aligned with his capacity to be affectionate and kind. While “Human Is”

218 

P. MITCHELL

clearly valorizes this transformation, it does so in a particularly qualified way. After all, Silas’s more sensitive demeanor only emerges after his body is possessed by an alien being, a typical sf motif that gives literal form to Seidler’s notion of an embodied alternative masculinity. However, the episode encourages us to read this hybridization as a symbolic act, so that Silas’s less toxic demeanor results from him being psychologically ‘othered’ by a traumatic experience. My reading of “Human Is” insists upon a critical bifocality, whereby surface-level narrative—or “‘what’ happens” (Branigan 1992: 116) in the episode—is distinguished from those more embedded narrational techniques (such as camera work, lighting, costume, and viewpoint) that impact upon “‘how’ [a story] is witnessed and known” (Branigan: 116). By applying this distinction, I propose a “top-down” (Branigan: 37) interpretation of “Human Is” to emphasize that spectators make sense of the events on screen through their implicit understanding of how narration impacts upon narrative. While several episodes from the Electric Dreams series extensively overhaul their urtexts, “Human Is” only selectively modifies Dick’s story to amplify his original exploration of (de)toxified masculinity. Thus, if, as Suvin suggests, sf operates through a process of “cognitive estrangement” (2016: 15)—by which the temporally remote (or the not-­ now) is inexorably connected to the now of the contemporary moment— then “Human Is” uses Dick’s nearly seventy-year-old vision of futurity as a prism through which to refract important aspects of embodied alternative masculinity in the early twenty-first century. In doing so, sf television becomes a medium through which we can explore “our own historical present” (Jameson 2007: 345). “Human Is” is one of only two episodes in Electric Dreams that were written and directed by women (Jessica Mecklenburg and Francesca Gregorini, respectively).6 The narrative centers on a troubled marriage, an important motif in Dick’s fiction from the early 1950s and one that recurs in stories like “Beyond the Door” and “Of Withered Apples”.7 Largely faithful to the narrative details of Dick’s 1955 text, despite the changes that are made to the protagonists’ names, Silas and Vera (Essie Davis) live on Terra in the year 2520. A play upon both ‘Earth’ and ‘terror’, the planet’s name suitably conveys how these characters are cognitively estranged by the futuristic dystopia in which they live. Silas and Vera were “paired by the state” following a “procreation mandate” (35:01), a circumstance that has led their relationship to become (dys)functional, rather than romantically intimate or mutually beneficial.

13  CHANGING THE SCRIPT OF “HUMAN IS”: RE-VISIONING THE GOOD… 

219

As with the use of the word ‘human’ in “The Hanging Stranger”, most commentators on “Human Is” regard the episode’s title as being unproblematic, arguing that the narrative explores the nature of species identity. These include both Dick himself—for whom the story expresses “my early conclusions as to what is human” (1999b: 394)—and Mecklenburg, who suggests that “Human Is” conveys “a fundamental truth (…) to be human is to love” (2017: 164). The story certainly provides an early example of Dick’s interest in the “What is human?” motif that, at the time, was “a pretty damn good new idea in sf”, but which he would later do “to death” (Dick 1999b: 395). However, Mecklenburg’s screenplay also puts explicit emphasis on the (dis)connection between Silas’s public status as a prominent figure in the Terran military and his private role as a husband to Vera—a narrative dimension that is lacking in Dick’s story. In doing so, the creators of “Human Is” use sf television drama, a genre that, historically, has been highly oriented toward male spectatorship, as a medium through which to explore the characteristics of embodied alternative masculinity. In pursuing this argument, my analysis focuses on several revisions that Mecklenburg’s teleplay makes to the original story as I believe that, from these, we can better appreciate how (de)toxified masculinity— which is an implicit motif in Dick’s text—becomes more visible by its adaptation on the contemporary television screen. My intention, therefore, is to re-focus Palmer’s judgment that the story is “a parable” (2003: 88) through the lens of Gender Studies. In doing so, I will illustrate how “Human Is” provides a science-fictional rumination on what constitutes the good (hu)man.

Re-visioning Silas’s Toxic Masculinity As in Dick’s original story, in which Jill’s request to have her young nephew come live with her is gruffly denied by her husband (Lester), children are also conspicuous by their absence from Mecklenburg’s screenplay. This lack serves to exaggerate the hermetic sterility of Silas and Vera’s marriage, two people who inhabit the same cavernous apartment but who maintain almost completely distinct lives. By using low-key lighting to cast ominous shadows onto the gray stone walls of their home, cinematographer David Katznelson visually conveys the lack of emotional warmth between the couple. Both take refuge from each other in their separate bedrooms, while Vera also makes a surreptitious trip to a sex club in the Maze where she satiates her frustrated desires. “Human Is” implicitly

220 

P. MITCHELL

equates Silas’s lack of sexual interest in his wife with a toxic, masculine culture in which allegiance to the Terran state takes precedence over interpersonal relations. Symbolically, this sublimation of the erotic into patriotism is enacted in the episode’s opening monologue when Silas “pledge[s] [his] loyalty” (00:54) to Terra. While “Human Is” depicts duty and selfabnegation as masculinized principles that have been inculcated in the social psyche, the jaundice-tinted labyrinth into which Vera descends to seek out sexual fulfillment is positioned on the lowest stratum of the hivelike dystopia in which she lives, a symbolic representation of how sensuality (as counterhegemonic) has been banished from the upper echelons of Terra’s regimented, patriarchal society. Implicit in the story of “Human Is”, therefore, is the notion that, in order to become a good man, Vera’s husband must also learn to embrace a more sensual mode of existence. Silas’s displays of ruthlessness and dominance, hypermasculine ideals that feature repeatedly in male-oriented action-adventure television shows, reflect the masculinist values of Terra’s bellicose culture. Unlike in Dick’s story, in which Lester is a scientist who specializes in toxins, Silas is a “level one colonel” (32:57) who, therefore, plays a key role in the very state mechanism that, for Connell, has been crucial to the historical development of hegemonic masculinity in Western civilizations (2006: 213). In this way, “Human Is” re-visions Dick’s depiction of Lester’s white-collar work—a form of non-manual labor that is often experienced as emasculation (Hoberek 1997: 387)—with Silas’s truculent chauvinism. While the character is “tense and disconnected” (38:05) in the domestic sphere, his bravery in combat and the homosocial loyalty that he has to the male troops under his command reflect his “prototypical warrior masculinity” (Baker 2015: 36). Ironically, therefore, Silas feels more ‘at home’ when he is engaged abroad on a military operation than when he is in his home with Vera. In addition, he willingly accepts the self-sacrifice that his public role might entail, dispassionately telling his wife that “[i]f my life should end (…) then I know I will have given everything to the state” (05:21). However, if the episode’s surface-level hero narrative is typical of how (sf) television often constructs militarized masculinity (Fiske 2011: 147), “Human Is” also problematizes this ideological coding through its use of focalization—a narrational technique that is crucial to the episode’s oppositional depiction of the good (hu)man. Branigan defines focalization as that “which involves a character (…) actually experiencing something through seeing and hearing it” (Branigan 1992: 101, original emphasis). While the mechanism of “internal focalization” creates insight into a

13  CHANGING THE SCRIPT OF “HUMAN IS”: RE-VISIONING THE GOOD… 

221

character’s “deeper thoughts” (Branigan: 103)—a viewpoint that is consistently denied to the spectators of “Human Is”—“external focalization” refers to how our understanding of on-screen events is harnessed to, and dependent upon, a specific character’s interpretation of what is happening (103). In “Human Is”, director Gregorini repeatedly orientates spectators toward Vera’s perspective and, by doing so, we witness with her how Silas becomes transformed from being bullish and sarcastic into a kind, sensitive, and affectionate husband. It should be noted that a similar effect is created in Dick’s original story. Although told through omniscient thirdperson narration, readers are supplied with a consistent insight into Vera’s experience, rather than that of Lester. Nevertheless, in both versions of “Human Is”, the effect is the same: we understand that Silas’s initially disrespectful behavior toward his wife is antithetical to the more positive masculinity that he begins to display as the narrative progresses. The television adaptation of “Human Is” noticeably refuses to indulge the masculine spectacle of honorific military conflict that is associated with Silas’s (and Terra’s) worldview. There is only one brief scene in which he is seen to be engaged in combat and, significantly, it is at the point when his troops are about to be defeated. Moreover, this incident is not presented to us directly, so that we are positioned on the battlefield with Silas. Rather, it is filtered to us through a television screen on which Vera and her fellow Terrans watch the unfolding events. As well as critiquing how sf (television) often glorifies intergalactic warfare by immersing spectators in its violent diegesis, this narrational device also distances us from Silas’s perspective. Instead, the spectatorial gaze is aligned with Vera so that we are encouraged to view her husband’s aggressive and domineering behavior as being diametrically opposed to that of the good (hu)man. Despite (or perhaps because of) being a “courageous and unwavering leader” (01:36), Silas is depicted as a man who cannot tolerate anyone to question his authority. He is shown to have an overbearing, sometimes threatening, attitude to those he deems to be inferior, such as at the beginning of the episode, when he grabs Vera by the wrist and then verbally berates her. This tense, domestic standoff is captured in an exchange of rapid over-the-­ shoulder shots that depict Silas from a slightly lower angle, a visual signifier of his physical dominance over his wife. Yet, as most of the episode is focalized through Vera’s externalized perspective, we are inclined to view Silas’s demeanor here (and elsewhere) as destructively toxic. He “never misses an opportunity to undermine [her]” (07:19), while also selfishly insisting that Vera’s existence always “revolves around him” (16:16).

222 

P. MITCHELL

When in public, Silas shows his capacity to play the role of the courteous husband by maintaining a civil attitude toward his wife. In the privacy of their home, however, he intimidates and belittles her, mocking Vera’s lack of experience in the masculine arena of the battlefield. One of the most interesting re-visions that Mecklenburg and Gregorini make in “Human Is” relates to how toxic masculinity is depicted in ecological terms, a narrative dimension that is absent from Dick’s original story. Following the argument with her husband that is mentioned above, Vera goes to her bedroom where she puts on an oxygen mask, a telling action that symbolizes how her unhappy marriage stifles her capacity to breathe. However, beyond the domestic sphere, Terra’s whole ecosystem has become poisonous because the planet’s atmosphere lacks sufficient hydrogen to sustain human life. From the bleak sterility of the landscape— which is glanced through occasional establishing shots—we can assume that this problem has arisen from Terra’s anthropocentric industrial practices, an environmental mismanagement that has prioritized resource extraction over policies driven by nurture and conservation. In fact, only a five-months’ supply of decontaminated air remains, a dramatic revelation that prompts the planet’s most senior military official, General Olin (Liam Cunningham), to convene an emergency meeting of the Terran elite. Unlike Jill, the housewife in Dick’s original story who meekly obeys her husband as he irritably commands her to “hurry and get [his] things together” (Dick 2017a: 168), Vera has an important role as a military “director” (37:38). By re-visioning Dick’s text in this manner, Mecklenburg’s screenplay invites us to see the state’s employment policies as equitable and meritocratic, values that are more in accordance with contemporary demographics than with Dick’s experience of life in the 1950s. In addition, at the beginning of the episode, Olin lauds Vera as a “formidable” woman (01:44) whose decisive action on a previous mission saved many casualties. This show of respect ostensibly demonstrates his benign (patriarchal) authority. Indeed, as Olin displays a calmer and more considerate attitude toward others (although, admittedly, we never see him alone with his wife), he may seem to embody those qualities of alternative masculinity that Silas lacks. To this extent at least, we might be tempted to conclude that “Human Is” identifies Silas’s toxic behavior as a personal aberration, rather than being a defining characteristic of militarized masculinity. Nevertheless, Mecklenburg’s screenplay offers a counter-­ reading to this viewpoint by having Olin patronize Vera with the cliché that “behind every successful man is a great woman” (01:40), an implicit

13  CHANGING THE SCRIPT OF “HUMAN IS”: RE-VISIONING THE GOOD… 

223

suggestion that her principal role is in support of her husband. Visually, this notion is reinforced by the characters’ costumes because those (men and women) who wear pale blue uniforms (including Vera) are inferior to hawkish officials like Olin and Silas whose tunics are dark blue. In this sense, they are stylized, to borrow from Connell’s categorization, in a way that makes them appear “subordinated” (2006: 80). However, even more revealing of the underlying belligerence that the general shares with his colonel, both male protagonists pointedly reject the measured, expert advice that Vera offers in her role as a military strategist. Vera argues that a sustainable solution to the geopolitical crisis that confronts Terra would be to “tap the resources of a planet without inhabitants” (04:51) or to “negotiat[e], finding ways we can share the resources” (06:19). “Human Is” ideologically aligns this eminently sensible approach with those non-hegemonic values of respect for and tolerance of other life forms that are then repudiated by other characters’ toxic masculinity. Noticeably, the hostility that is inherent to such an attitude is not exclusive to Terran men, as Vera’s female colleague, Yaro (Ruth Bradley), demonstrates when she insists that “we need an aggressive plan of action” (16:29). Silas, though, is by far the most vocal of Vera’s critics, angrily condemning her peaceable strategy as “insanity” (06:19). Instead, he proposes a typically pugnacious plan to invade Rexor IV, a planet that has abundant hydrogen reserves. This plot development, ironically, subverts the long-­ standing sf motif of the alien as aggressor. Nevertheless, Silas still disparages the non-human “metamorphs” (33:50) who inhabit Rexor IV as “not people” but “a vicious species” that is “cruel and uncompromising” (04:56), an insult that, later, finds an echo in Olin’s description of them as “ruthless, conniving beings with no empathy or moral code” (36:57). In a key scene that exposes how such macho-militaristic posturing blinds both men to the hypocrisy of their prejudices, Olin sanctions Silas’s covert mission to massacre the Rexorians and steal their hydrogen supplies. “They have what we need”, Silas says, “and we secure it now before they can mobilize” (06:28). At one point, the two white, socially privileged male protagonists are framed in a medium shot while, in the background, Vera occupies the space between them, the voice of diplomacy who is silenced by her husband’s genocidal rhetoric. Later in the story, Olin displays the same toxic lack of compassion when he orders the “activat[ion]” of a “warhead” (14:35) that will allow for the safe return of the stolen hydrogen, while knowingly sacrificing the lives of the soldiers who have secured it.

224 

P. MITCHELL

Re-visioning Silas: Embodied Alternative Masculinity While the toxic masculinity displayed by Silas and, to a lesser extent, Olin, is identified with the hegemonic values of Terra’s militaristic dystopia, “Human Is”, nevertheless, also hints at the trauma that underlies the former’s problematic behavior. In contrast to Lester who, in Dick’s original story, is thrilled by the chance to take a “trip” (2017a: 168) to Rexor IV, Silas is fully aware of the psychological damage that he will endure. In the incident mentioned earlier where he berates Vera for her lack of combat experience, Silas’s bravado momentarily slips when he reveals how his “ears ring at night” and that he sees “the lives of [his] comrades extinguished before [his] very eyes” (02:36). That the revelation of this emotional suffering is vocalized during a scene in which Silas verbally and physically intimidates his wife poignantly illustrates how he (perhaps unwittingly) responds to his own trauma by victimizing others. Silas’s refusal to seek treatment is illustrated by Vera’s frustrated comment that he does not “want to talk about it”, despite being entitled to a “level one psychologist” (27:12). By implication, what Silas witnesses when he closes his eyes effectively renders him passive and vulnerable. Put another way, these traumatic flashbacks threaten to de-masculinize him, according to Terra’s hegemonic gender norms, in the same way that submitting himself to ‘the talking cure’ would also do. Through this revelation, “Human Is” encourages us to view Silas’s behavior not only in terms of the link between toxic masculinity and emotional repression, but also as being symptomatic of how his responses are negatively conditioned by post-traumatic stress disorder—an aspect of the story that is absent from the urtext. While our awareness of Silas’s psychological damage somewhat mitigates our attitude toward him, the character’s transformation into a less toxic version of himself is dramatically enacted upon his return from Rexor IV. He admits that he is “different now” (41:24), a statement that turns out to be highly ironic when we discover that his body might have been invaded by a Rexorian metamorph. This plot twist re-instates the sf motif of the invasive alien, which Mecklenburg adopts directly from Dick’s story. However, the television adaptation also trains our eyes specifically on the sight of Vera’s husband who, following the combat injuries that he sustained on Rexor IV, is now bed-ridden and bodily traumatized. The loss of his physical capacities here exposes what Kac-Vergne refers to as the “vanity and hubris of the male hero who believes that he can save the world by himself” (2018: 191). At the same time, this scene discursively

13  CHANGING THE SCRIPT OF “HUMAN IS”: RE-VISIONING THE GOOD… 

225

enacts the dis-location of the male body as a site of masculine power. Supine and convulsing from the injuries that he has sustained, Silas reaches out for Vera’s wrist, a repetition of the gesture that he used earlier in the episode to enforce his dominance over her. Now, in contrast, Silas begs her to “stay with [him]” (18:56) as tears form in his eyes. This pivotal moment is envisioned through a dual perspective whereby, as spectators, we can witness Silas’s embodiment as a good man through the emergence of his alternative masculinity. Constructed using a series of medium POV shots that switch between the husband’s and wife’s positions, the use of a low angle when depicting Silas’s viewpoint establishes that he looks up at Vera—an inversion of the scene at the beginning of the episode in which he both literally and figuratively looked down on her. No longer wishing to play the role of the authoritarian patriarch, Silas’s tears do not so much signal his weakness (and, thus, a pejorative loss of his ‘manliness’) but, rather, indicate how his alternative masculinity is embodied by this newfound ability to express his vulnerability. Later in the episode, Silas admits to Vera that he is “scared” (25:24). Silas’s status after his return from Rexor IV creates much of the episode’s intrigue as it is, initially, unclear whether his body has, or has not, been invaded by an extraterrestrial lifeform. From the perspective of Masculinity Studies, this ambiguity is of crucial importance because it potentially problematizes the notion that the toxic man can be positively transformed. After all, it can be argued that Silas’s displays of affection and sensitivity only begin when he is no longer a (hu)man. However, it is important to recognize the figurative dimension of Mecklenburg’s screenplay. In contrast to Dick’s 1953 short story “Imposter” in which an alien-­ engineered robot with sinister intentions invades the body of the male protagonist, Silas is positively transformed by his literal/metaphorical hybridization with the Rexorian. He describes Vera as being “so beautiful” (21:11), a significant compliment given his previous indifference toward her, and he then surprises his wife with a breakfast of fresh strawberries that he has sourced from the black market in the Maze. In contrast to the brutish character that we witness at the beginning of the episode, Silas now finds pleasure in eating as a sensual and romantic experience, in contrast to his earlier preference for rapidly consumed vitamin drinks. While Palmer is surely right to suggest that, in Dick’s original story, “we learn something about the society which produced the husband in his former manifestation” (2003: 88), his analysis falls short from a Gender Studies perspective when he then concludes that “humanness is something learnt,

226 

P. MITCHELL

or lost, not innate” (2003: 88). This judgment clearly misses the more important observation that, as well as being a human being, Lester is also a man who has previously embodied the toxicity that is hegemonic in Terran society. In Mecklenburg’s screen adaptation, Silas’s military status and truculent demeanor make this notion more visually explicit. Yet, after his transmutation into an ‘alien’ version of himself, Silas begins to play the role of the attentive house husband, at one point even expressing his disappointment that the dinner he has made for Vera has gone cold after she was delayed at work. “I thought you might let me know if you were going to be late” (29:41), he gently scolds her after she enters the house. Here, “Human Is” provides a parodic inversion of the 1950s traditional gender roles that are played by many of Dick’s characters. In doing so, the episode exemplifies Silas’s embodied alternative masculinity through the satisfaction that he finds in performing domestic tasks, in marked contrast to his previous incarnation as a career-obsessed patriarch. Nevertheless, when in the final scene, Silas confirms that he is now psychologically Rexorian, “Human Is” ends with the observation that a good man inevitably becomes a figurative alien (or subversive Other) in Terra’s bellicose culture. “Human Is” elaborates an inchoate version of the ‘Zebra Principle’ that Dick would explore in more depth in his later novels (Sutin 2006: 244), an anxiety inspired by the notion that a higher-order or alien intelligence could mimic human behavior to such an extent that it would be undetectable. In an interesting re-visioning of this scenario in relation to gender, Silas embodies a masculinity that, instead of being rooted in aggression and domination, finds satisfaction in the simple pleasures of domestic life. He is affectionate toward his wife and, for the first time in the episode, demonstrates his sexual desire for her. Yet, this positive version of masculinity is so dis-located from the Terran context that the Rexorian’s duplicity is easily exposed. Brought before the court for his crimes against society, the state prosecutor (Khalid Abdalla) gives voice to the story’s most profound irony: that, in trying to perform the role of a good man by being a dutiful and respectful husband to Vera, “Silas Herrick is not human” (42:14). Silas’s inauthenticity—in the dual sense that he is both unlike his former self and, quite literally, from a different species—is the source of his detection by the Terran authorities. However, “Human Is” urges us to see that, through being less human (or toxically masculine), Silas becomes a more humane and alternatively masculinized character. In fact, when Vera is charged for knowingly colluding with an enemy of the state, Silas

13  CHANGING THE SCRIPT OF “HUMAN IS”: RE-VISIONING THE GOOD… 

227

altruistically offers to accept his own execution in exchange for his wife being exonerated—an act of love for Vera that revises his earlier, chauvinistic pledge of allegiance to Terra. While drawing on Dick’s belief that kindness is a distinguishing characteristic of the human being (Dick 1999b: 394), Mecklenburg’s screenplay refracts this idea through the lens of masculinity. In doing so, “Human Is” offers the view that, by observing the impact of Silas’s psychological transformation, we can see how a good man’s affection for others and his respectfulness and sensitivity produce an alternative (and here, literally, alien) form of masculinity that opposes the toxic values of Terra’s militarized, patriarchal culture.

Conclusion: Re-visioning the Good (Hu)man Speaking in 1976, twenty-one years after its initial publication, Dick commented on the continued importance of “Human Is” within his oeuvre. He suggested that the story expresses his “credo”, but he hoped that “May it [also] be [ours]” (2017b: 394). While Dick’s text contemplates the importance of human empathy, my close reading of Mecklenburg and Gregorini’s television adaptation has argued that masculinity—and, more specifically, the concept of the good man—is made an explicit aspect of the narrative. Rather than mankind then, Electric Dreams’ re-vision of “Human Is” emphasizes the need for a man (in this case, Silas) to learn how to be kind. The story’s pivotal plot device, in which a male character’s body becomes possessed (and detoxified) by a benevolent non-human species, is one that Dick had used before, in his 1952 tale “Beyond Lies the Wub”. In common with that text, “Human Is” also positively valorizes how a high-ranking military protagonist, through being alternatively embodied, discovers the benefits of behaving with sensitivity and compassion. By depicting the evolution of Silas’s character on the television screen, “Human Is” establishes a bifocality between narrative (the story) and narration (how the story is told/shown) that opens a critical space for the emergence of his counterhegemonic masculinity. Most specifically, this occurs via the use of external focalization, which repeatedly guides spectators to view events from Vera’s perspective. Thus, although she is devalued within Terra’s macho elite, the privileging of Vera’s viewpoint works against her subordination. In this way, we witness Silas’s initially hostile dominance over his wife and his tendency to belittle those who he feels to be inferior. But, by exploiting sf’s capacity for cognitive estrangement,

228 

P. MITCHELL

Silas’s invasion by a benign extraterrestrial metamorph provides an important corrective to his previous toxicity. At the end of the episode, he is established as a good (hu)man who now opposes his society’s destructive values. In doing so, the episode imagines a different (or alien) way of being that dis-locates Terra’s militaristic chauvinism in preference for an alternative masculinity, one which empowers through its emphasis on emotional responsiveness and integrity. In this way, “Human Is” not only promotes sensitivity and affection as important masculine values, but also critiques hegemonic masculinity as a toxic, anthropological construct.

Notes 1. Electric Dreams premiered on the UK’s free to air network, Channel 4, before it was subsequently released on Prime Video, Amazon’s over-the-top subscription platform, in early 2018. Developed by well-known sf television producers, Ronald D.  Moore and Michael Dinner, each episode in the anthology series was created by a different director-scriptwriter team. 2. Csicsery-Ronay has described Dick as “the prophet” of VR technology (1992: xvii). 3. The respective analyses by Hayles, Hoberek, and Holliday approach the issue of masculinity in Dick’s work from different perspectives, although all do so only in relation to his novels rather than the shorter fiction: Hayles uses the author’s biography to illustrate how his mid-1960s texts explore a masculine fear of ‘schizoid’ women who resemble androids; Hoberek’s essay on Time Out of Joint suggests that the “book [is] deeply concerned with white-collar occupational masculinity” (1997: 375); finally, Holliday’s discussion focuses on the link between Dick’s social criticism and the role of masculinism in Martian Time-Slip and Dr. Bloodmoney. 4. Both these stories feature in Electric Dreams, although their narratives (and titles) are markedly different to their urtexts. In “Exhibit Piece” (which is renamed “Crystal Diamond”), Dick’s story about a historical expert of the twentieth century becomes a tale in which a synthetic biologist tries to help one of his artificial creations. “Sales Pitch” (re-titled “Real Life”) shifts its focus from a menacing robotic domestic assistant to a lesbian police officer whose VR avatar is an African American businessman. 5. My use of the term ‘re-vision’ is taken from the work of Rich, who describes it in the following terms: “Re-vision—the act of looking back, of seeing with fresh eyes, of entering an old text from a new critical direction” (1972: 18). 6. Dee Rees is the writer and director of “Kill All Others”, the only other episode in the Electric Dreams series that was created by a woman.

13  CHANGING THE SCRIPT OF “HUMAN IS”: RE-VISIONING THE GOOD… 

229

7. Both “Behind the Door” and “Of Withered Apples” also display Dick’s early career interest in critiquing toxic masculinity. In the former, Larry is the cantankerous husband of Doris, about whom he complains that she is “Never satisfied. They’re all that way. Never get enough” (Dick 1999a: 9). Lori, in “Of Withered Apples”, suffers not only from a loveless marriage to Steve, who treats her with contempt, but also from the taciturn indifference of her father-in-law.

References Baker, Brian. 2015. Contemporary Masculinities in Fiction, Film and Television. New York and London: Bloomsbury. Beynon, John. 2002. Masculinities and Culture. Buckingham, PA: Open UP. Branigan, Edward. 1992. Narrative Comprehension and Film. New  York: Routledge. Canaan, Howard. 2013. Philip K. Dick Criticism 1982–2010. Hungarian Journal of English and American Studies 19 (2): 307–322. Carabí, Àngels, and Josep M. Armengol. 2014. Moving Ahead: Alternative Masculinities for a Changing World. In Alternative Masculinities for a Changing World, eds. Àngels Carabí and Josep M. Armengol, 220–234. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Connell, Raewyn W. 2006, 1995. Masculinities. Cambridge, UK: Polity. Cornwall, Andrea, and Nancy Lindisfarne. 1994. Dislocating Masculinity: Gender, Power and Anthropology. In Dislocating Masculinity: Comparative Ethnographies, eds. Andrea Cornwall and Nancy Lindisfarne, 11–47. London: Routledge. Csicsery-Ronay, Istvan. 1992. Pilgrims in Pandemonium: Philip K. Dick and the Critics. In On Philip K.  Dick: 40 Articles from Science Fiction Studies, ed. R.D. Mullen, v–xviii. Terre Haute, IN: SF-TH. Dick, Philip K. 1999a. Beyond the Door. In Second Variety: Volume Two. The Collected Short Stories of Philip K. Dick, 9–14. London: Millennium. ———. 1999b. Notes. In Second Variety: Volume Two. The Collected Short Stories of Philip K. Dick, 393–395. London: Millennium. ———. 1999c. Of Withered Apples. In Second Variety: Volume Two. The Collected Short Stories of Philip K. Dick, 249–256. London: Millennium. ———. 2017a. Human Is. In Philip K.  Dick’s Electric Dreams, Volume One, 163–180. London: Gollancz. ———. 2017b. The Hanging Stranger. In Philip K. Dick’s Electric Dreams, Volume One, 53–73. London: Gollancz. Easterbrook, Nick. 1995. Dianoia/Paranoid: Dick’s Double “Imposter”. In Philip K. Dick: Contemporary Critical Interpretations, ed. Samiel J. Umland, 19–42. Westport, CT: Greenwood.

230 

P. MITCHELL

Fiske, John. 2011, 1987. Television Culture. London and New York: Routledge. Hanke, Robert. 1992. Redesigning Men: Hegemonic Masculinity in Transition. In Men, Masculinity, and the Media, ed. Steve Craig, 185–198. Newbury Park, CA: SAGE. Hayles, N. Katherine. 1997. Schizoid Android: Cybernetics and the Mid-Sixties Novels of Philip K. Dick. Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts 8 (4): 419–442. Hoberek, Andrew P. 1997. The “Work” of Science Fiction: Philip K.  Dick and Occupational Masculinity in the Post-World War II United States. Modern Fiction Studies 43 (2): 374–404. Holliday, Valerie. 2006. Masculinity in the Novels of Philip K. Dick. Extrapolation 47 (2): 280–294. “Human Is”. 2017. Philip K.  Dick’s Electric Dreams, Created by Jennifer Mecklenburg and Francesca Gregorini, Season 1, Episode 6. UK and USA. Channel 4 and Amazon Studios. Jameson, Fredric. 2007. Philip K.  Dick, In Memoriam. In Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions, 345–348. London and New York: Verso. Kac-Vergne, Marianne. 2018. Masculinity in Contemporary Science Fiction Cinema: Cyborgs, Troopers, and Other Men of the Future. London and New York: I.B. Tauris. Lorber, Judith. 1994. Paradoxes of Gender. New Haven and London: Yale UP. Mecklenburg, Jessica. 2017. Introduction. In Philip K.  Dick’s Electric Dreams: Volume One, 163–164. London: Gollancz. Messerschmidt, James W. 2018. Hegemonic Masculinity: Formulation, Reformulation, and Amplification. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield. Palmer, Christopher. 2003. Philip K.  Dick: Exhilaration and Terror of the Postmodern. Liverpool: Liverpool UP. Rich, Adrienne. 1972. When We Dead Awaken: Writing as Re-Vision. English 34 (1): 18–30. Sutin, Lawrence. 2006. Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick. London: Gollancz. Suvin, Darko. 2016. Estrangement and Cognition. In Metamorphoses of Science Fiction, ed. Gerry Canavan, 15–27. Bern: Peter Lang.

CHAPTER 14

Between Therapy and Revolution: Mr. Robot’s Ambivalence Toward Hacker Masculinity Miguel Sebastián-Martín

Introduction: Mr. Robot as Contemporary Critical Dystopia Sam Esmail’s four-season series Mr. Robot (2015–2019), a USA Network production starring Rami Malek and Christian Slater as co-leads, stands as one of the most relevant TV productions of the past decade1 despite having attracted scarce scholarly attention (among the exceptions, see Volmar 2017; Smith 2019; and Lynch 2019). The series could be approached not only as another narratively intricate example of “complex TV” (Mittell 2015) but also as a particularly interesting example of “post-cyberpunk” (Murphy 2019: 530), or at least as an example of how cyberpunk has “become so ubiquitous as to be invisible” in the sense that we now “inhabit a cyberpunk future” (Vint 2010: 228)—another way of saying that we

M. Sebastián-Martín (*) Universidad de Salamanca, Salamanca, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_14

231

232 

M. SEBASTIÁN-MARTÍN

inhabit the historical moment of “digital” (Pace 2018), “surveillance” (Zuboff 2019), or “platform capitalism” (Srnicek 2017). Indeed, this series seems to be conceived primarily by means of relocating cyberpunk concerns, characters, and conflicts within an otherwise non-science-­ fictional contemporary world.2 Set in New York in the aftermath of the Great Recession after the 2008 financial crisis, Mr. Robot is the story of Elliot Alderson (Rami Malek), a two-faced character who is both a daytime cybersecurity engineer, profoundly discontented with society and utterly alienated from work and social life, and a nighttime hacker vigilante, struggling with mental illnesses and multiple substance abuse. Throughout the seasons, Elliot gradually (though not without setbacks) begins to process his traumas and psychopathologies thanks to his closest relationships and his therapist. At the same time, he joins F Society, a group of ‘hacktivists’ planning to dismantle the company that ultimately employs him, the almighty E Corp— and with it, the whole edifice of American capitalism. Dubbed “Evil Corp” by Elliot and F Society, this is a Big-Tech and Big-Finance conglomerate— a fictional combination of J.P.  Morgan, Alphabet, and Netflix—which hegemonizes the world economy via monetary debt, high-tech surveillance, and media entertainment. Not only is E Corp socio-politically in the wrong: it has also personally wronged Elliot, as his late father developed leukemia due to hazardous working conditions at the company, and he died unemployed with no admission of wrongdoing or any compensation from the company. The series thus resituates the typical ‘cyber-cowboy’ protagonist of cyberpunk, as seen in William Gibson’s classic Neuromancer (1984), into the USA of the 2010s, positioning the hacker as a son of the American working class. By exploiting his voice-over narration, it emphasizes the most techno-dystopian aspects of the contemporary moment, explicitly antagonizing an already delegitimized status quo.3 Indeed, Mr. Robot attests to and dialogues with an overall climate of dissatisfaction, and it speculatively restages some of the main conflicts of post-Recession America, a historical moment in which the development and spread of new digital media correlated with (and partly contributed to) a dramatic rise in economic inequalities and political discontent across the globe.4 At first, social unrest of the 2010s was channeled in subversively creative ways by grassroots movements such as Occupy Wall Street— itself inspired by movements across the globe, such as the Spanish 15M—whereas this decade also saw the rise in prominence of online hacktivist groups such as WikiLeaks or Anonymous (see Coleman 2014).

14  BETWEEN THERAPY AND REVOLUTION: MR. ROBOT ’S… 

233

Nonetheless, popular discontent with capitalism was to be also instrumentalized by right-wing, masculinist leaders such as Donald Trump himself, with the invaluable aid of surveillance-capitalist corporations, which have been pivotal in the spread of reactionary ideologies and conspiracy theories (see Zuboff 2019 and Doctorow 2021). Accordingly, the series has been consistently marketed as explicitly anti-establishment—with promotional taglines and poster captions like “democracy has been hacked”, “corporations own your minds”, or, even more explicitly, “f**k the system”. This has led scholars to focus on Mr. Robot’s techno-cynicism (Volmar 2017), its apocalyptic undertones (Lynch 2019), or its Millennial-­ targeted branding (Smith 2019), thus taking approaches that illustrate how—to put it concisely—the series is essentially commodifying anti-­ capitalism, in line with many recent audio-visual dystopias (Sebastián-­ Martín 2021).5 As opposed to these mostly hopeless readings of the undeniable dystopianism of the series, in this chapter I examine what I believe to be Mr. Robot’s most utopian aspect: its representation of an alternative and partially ‘detoxed’ model of masculinity as embodied in the development of Elliot’s characterization. Rather than simply dismissing the series’ bleakest aspects, I conceptualize it as a critical dystopia6 to bring to the fore how its dystopian façade of cynical hopelessness is driven by (and in dialogue with) a critical, speculative focus on more hopeful possibilities of social change. My argument is that this is indeed the case with the characterization of Mr. Robot’s protagonist: even though Elliot is far from being a blueprint utopian model of masculinity, and even though he is caught in a historical moment of anti-feminist backlash and resurgent reactionary politics, his character arc is nonetheless driven by a “Utopian impulse” (Jameson 2005: 1–9) which propels him both toward an anti-patriarchal self-­ transformation and toward an anti-capitalist transformation of society. Just as Elliot is caught between cynicism and revolution, the series is caught between a dystopian critique of the already-existing, and a utopian impulse toward the not-yet existing—an ambivalence not to be dismissed, as it is precisely the series’ source of inspiration for real-world subversive efforts that consider both the potential pathways for change and the limits of our historical circumstances. Ultimately, Mr. Robot’s ambivalence offers a dynamic and dialectical representation of an alternative masculinity (and an alternative society) in the making. In other words, if there is a utopian, good, and detoxed masculinity in this markedly dystopian series, it appears

234 

M. SEBASTIÁN-MARTÍN

not as a blueprint, but as a horizon toward which its protagonist gradually, though not unproblematically, advances.

A Note on Sf and the (Re-)imagination of Masculinities Science fiction is, by definition, constructed around the presence of a Blochian “novum” (see Suvin 1979)—an emergence of a not-yet existing novelty, potentially though not necessarily utopian—and as such, “it is always potentially a mode of authentic shift (…) a reworking, in imagination of all forms and conditions” (Williams 1978: 212, original italics). Thus seen, sf can also be a powerful fictional tool for the imagination of better anti-patriarchal masculinities, even if it (quite often) remains trapped within patriarchal imaginaries. A long thread of critical scholarship has indeed focused on the overall reinforcement of hegemonic masculinities in sf and in its cyberpunk sub-genre, although such critics have not failed to emphasize how hypermasculine characterization often ends up in a partial, somewhat inadvertent self-subversion—most often by caricaturing patriarchal fixations with power, social status, and technological mastery, and sometimes also by (inadvertently?) catering to a homosexual gaze, which disturbs the hegemonic association of maleness and heterosexuality (see Cranny-Francis 1985; Nixon 1992; Fernbach 2011; and Kac-Vergne 2018). Studies of alternative, non-hegemonic masculinities in sf, however, are much scarcer: Carrasco Carrasco (2006) has examined Lynch’s Dune (1984) and the Wachowski sisters’ The Matrix (1999) with a focus on their relatively ‘androgynous’ heroes—although, to my mind, these only seem very partially non-normative, especially from intersectional perspectives.7 Besides, much more recently, Pitts (2021) has studied the feminist sf of Dorothy Bryant, Ursula Le Guin, Marge Piercy, Octavia Butler, and N.K.  Jemisin, focusing on how these writers’ critical dystopias confront readers with a considerable diversity of utopian models of masculinity.8 With this scholarly background, it is tempting to (very schematically) conclude that the most solidly hegemonic representations of masculinity would lie in the field of popular cyberpunk audio-visual culture, while non-conforming, non-patriarchal masculinities would be found mostly in the canon of feminist sf literature. Nonetheless, it should be clear—as any careful consideration of the above-cited studies should help us realize— that speculated masculinities, however overtly patriarchal or alternative,

14  BETWEEN THERAPY AND REVOLUTION: MR. ROBOT ’S… 

235

are always somewhere in a spectrum between the two ideal poles of hegemonic conformity and utopian alterity. In this regard, masculinities in sf should not be examined from any dualistic perspective, but from a coherently dialectical perspective that keeps in mind the ambivalence and the contradictions that underpin masculine characterizations, in general and in the genre. Even in the case of the most seemingly counter-hegemonic examples of masculinity, it is still probably the case that—paraphrasing the theorist of hegemony Antonio Gramsci—the old man may be dying, but the new man struggles to be born (1971: 276). And conversely, as Raewyn Connell emphasizes, one should also remember that hegemony “is a historically mobile relation. Its ebb and flow is a key element of the picture of masculinity” (2005: 77–78)—that is, hegemonic masculinity is never static, but always shifting in an adaptative response to its opponents. These dynamics are precisely what Mr. Robot emphasizes through the struggles of its hacker protagonist: the complexities involved in any kind of utopian transformation of self or society away from established (patriarchal and capitalist) norms. Although, in so doing, the series to a certain extent reproduces “the myth of the lone hacker”, which “perpetuates the fantasy that the asymmetrical relation of individual to network can be creatively played to the former’s advantage” (Crary 2013: 46), my impression is that the masculinist-individualist power fantasies involved in hegemonic imaginings of the hacker are at least counterbalanced—if not partially overcome—by Mr. Robot’s more dialectical treatment of this lone hacker’s personality. What I propose to theorize as ‘hacker masculinity’ indeed evokes much more than quasi-criminal egotism and toxic power fantasies: it also evokes creativity and subversion, thus potentially inspiring viewers to hack patriarchal codes. In a sense, the hacker’s ambivalence as a popular icon seems to perfectly map onto the ambivalence of the critical dystopia, in such a way that this character type concretizes the genre’s dialectics. The figure of the hacker—in Mr. Robot and beyond—can accordingly be examined as (potentially) both a personified symptom of socio-­ technologically dystopian tendencies and a subversive hero, potentially in the vanguard of utopian transformations today. Accordingly, I shall begin by examining how the series’ whole premise entwines personal and political struggles through Elliot’s mental illnesses, and then moves onto the series’ dialectical representation of masculine (self)-transformation.

236 

M. SEBASTIÁN-MARTÍN

Mental Illness and Capitalist Realism in Mr. Robot In the first episode of the series, “eps1.0_hellofriend.mov”, written by Sam Esmail himself, Elliot Alderson muses: Sometimes I dream of saving the world. Saving everyone from the invisible hand, the one that brands us with an employee badge, the one that forces us to work for them, the one that controls us every day without us knowing it. But I can’t stop it. I’m not that special. I’m just anonymous. I’m just alone. (19:38–20:14)

Elliot, as the passage suggests, is a character who oscillates between a critical-­utopian non-conformity and a hopeless sense of impotence9 in the face of the surrounding surveillance-capitalist dystopia. This ambivalent attitude is further accentuated by the fact that he suffers a series of chronic mental illnesses: persecution mania, social anxiety, delusional schizophrenia, but perhaps most tellingly, a bipolar disorder that makes him fluctuate between frenzied fits of hopefulness and much lengthier depressive episodes of drug abuse, paranoiac obsessions, and feelings of loneliness. All his mental dynamics are mediated by his use and abuse of digital technologies: just as successful hacks are the most common trigger of his emotional ‘highs’, endless browsing through online media is what gets him caught in depressive loops. When asked by his therapist Krista (Gloria Reuben) in the same episode what disappoints him so much, Elliot goes on a hopeless rant: Oh, I don’t know. Is it that we collectively thought Steve Jobs was a great man, when we knew he made billions off the backs of children? Or maybe it’s that it feels like all our heroes are counterfeit. The world itself is just one big hoax. Spamming each other with our running commentary of bullshit masquerading as insight, our social media faking as intimacy. Or is it that we voted for this? Not with our rigged elections, but with our things, our property, our money. I’m not saying anything new. We all know why we do this, not because Hunger Games books make us happy but because we wanna be sedated. Because it’s painful not to pretend, because we’re cowards. Fuck society. (12:20–13:13)

For greater effect, a montage of real-world footage is superimposed upon Elliot’s voice, a series of images which reinforce the contrast between the glossy semblance of social media and the conditions of exploitation and

14  BETWEEN THERAPY AND REVOLUTION: MR. ROBOT ’S… 

237

precarity of anonymous masses around the globe. The critical impetus of this scene is charged with such melodramatic excess that it seems almost certain that spectators shall be moved by Rami Malek’s performance—yet, in a sense, it also seems almost certain that spectators shall feel hopelessly immobile in the face of the dystopian reality described, just like Elliot.10 Nonetheless, despite his position as a representative of working-class America, and for reasons that go beyond his non-white ethnicity,11 Elliot is not a mere embodiment of those contemporary “angry white men” (Kimmel 2013) who are partaking in a revival of reactionary, masculinist politics. Immediately after the rant—after a jump cut and some echoing noise—we see an absent-minded Elliot sitting quietly, while Krista keeps waiting for an answer which Elliot, as is now obvious, only ever answers in his imagination. Therefore, it should be clear that Elliot’s masculinity is far from hegemonic, at least in terms of his extreme introversion, his visible insecurity, and, most importantly, his evident vulnerability—something to which I return later. Elliot’s hopelessness appears first of all as an extreme example of what Mark Fisher calls “capitalist realism” (2009)—referring to how “[t]he dominance of capitalism, the inability to imagine an alternative to it, now constitute a sort of invisible horizon” (Fisher and Gilbert 2013: 90). Capitalist realism is thus understood not as a willful ideological endorsement of the system, but “more like a pervasive atmosphere” (Fisher 2009: 16), in which even “anti-capitalism is widely disseminated” and some “gestural anti-capitalism actually reinforces [the system]” (Fisher: 12)— something clearly illustrated by the online circulation of Mr. Robot clips.12 In this light, Elliot’s pessimism could seem a sort of self-reinforcing fatalism, a fulfillment of Theodor Adorno’s old claim that “[t]oday self-­ consciousness no longer means anything but reflection on the ego as embarrassment, as realization of impotence: knowing that one is nothing” (2005: 50). Mark Fisher, who like Elliot suffered from chronic depression, and eventually committed suicide in 2017, denounced that “the vast privatization of stress” that has taken place during neoliberal times is a “mental health plague” which “would suggest that (…) capitalism is inherently dysfunctional, and that the cost of it appearing to work is very high” (2009: 19, original italics). Recalling Deleuze and Guattari’s groundbreaking theorization of schizophrenia, Fisher demands that “what is needed now is a politicization of much common disorders” since “it is their very commonness which is the issue” (2009: 19). Thus, we can ask two interrelated questions: to what extent does Mr. Robot evoke mental

238 

M. SEBASTIÁN-MARTÍN

illnesses in a politicizing manner, one still guided by some utopian impulse and not mere fatalism? And how does this establish a dialogue with hegemonic masculinity? Being understandably frustrated with therapy, given his difficulties with communication, throughout season one we see how Elliot instead finds solace and purpose in hacking child pornographers and drug dealers to hand them over to the police and, most importantly, in joining the secret hacktivist group F Society. Elliot’s depression and his anger toward the system (toward E Corp in particular, given his father’s death) are thus politicized as the main reason behind his revolutionary efforts. Thus, by trying to change his (and everyone’s) economic helplessness in the face of capitalism, he also seems to hope for an end to his rooted feeling of helplessness. After the mysterious apparition of F Society leader Mr. Robot (Christian Slater), who invites him to join the group, the first season is spent in following F Society’s successful hacks of E Corp’s databases, guiding viewers through their plans of ultimately erasing the company’s financial archives—and with them, erasing everyone’s debts. Therefore, F Society’s goal, as Mr. Robot puts it, is to cause “the single biggest incident of wealth redistribution in history” (“eps1.0_hellofriend.mov” 2015, 46:42–46:49). However ambitiously overreaching this may seem, it is nonetheless clear that Elliot is here joining an unambiguously good cause and thus trying to become a better man, one who tries to care for the collective, rather than conforming to hegemonic pressures for being an individualistic homo economicus.13 Nevertheless, in parallel, season one also narrates Elliot’s increasingly self-isolating and obsessive behavior, since F Society’s plan—sometimes his doubts about it and sometimes his devotion to it—makes him even more paranoid, and, consequently, even more distant from his friends, and even more defensive with his therapist Krista. Besides, to complicate things further, by the end of the season—à la Fincher’s Fight Club (1999)—Mr. Robot (Slater’s character) is shown to be an imaginary person: a dissociated persona with the semblance of his late abusive father—whose sexual abuse, however, Elliot does not remember at first. Apparently, Elliot suffers from a dissociative personality disorder on top of everything else. He has repressed childhood traumas of parental abuse by re-imagining his father—a toxically abusive masculine figure who died defeated (and literally killed) by E Corp—as a utopian character. The dramatized dissociation of Elliot and Mr. Robot thus creates a contrastive dialogue between two ‘versions’ of this male protagonist: the angry, depressed persona played by

14  BETWEEN THERAPY AND REVOLUTION: MR. ROBOT ’S… 

239

Rami Malek, who is barely functional for work, socialization, or even basic survival, and the heroic revolutionary played by Christian Slater, who is devoted to F Society’s collective hacking efforts against the system.

Elliot’s Transformation: Masculine Vulnerability Although for obvious reasons I cannot engage here in a satisfying close reading of all four seasons of Mr. Robot, a synthetic overview of Elliot and Mr. Robot’s relationship is necessary if we are to extract some conclusions from this dialectical portrayal of masculine transformation. From the time Elliot gains an awareness of his dissociative disorder and almost until the end of the series, Elliot and Mr. Robot are caught in mutual distrust and, more crucially, in a struggle for power: specifically, for taking over Elliot’s body without the other’s knowledge—this, as we learn retrospectively, is how Mr. Robot had founded F Society in the first place and how he completed certain hacks despite Elliot’s opposition. Since Elliot keeps having reservations about Mr. Robot’s plans, the series repeatedly restages this conflict throughout the seasons—with the disagreements intensifying when F Society gets more and more entangled with the Dark Army, a hacker-terrorist group, and also when E Corp seems capable of surviving and even profiting from any shock. In these disagreements, Elliot and Mr. Robot thus find themselves defending two ways of being ‘the good man’ in a revolutionary struggle: while Elliot is committed to a pacifist rejection of violence, Mr. Robot is mostly guided by the desire to overthrow an exploitative system. In their own way, then, one could say that Elliot and Mr. Robot represent two quasi-archetypal forms of masculinity—the fatherly protector and the heroic avenger—although to some extent these roles are often switched and clearly overlap. Thus, perhaps one should consider above all what unites Elliot and Mr. Robot: both are similarly secretive and authoritarian in their ways of caring for others, and they mostly keep everyone else in the dark about their true feelings and intentions. In other words, they are both equally paternalistic in the word’s most ambivalent sense, as their way of caring seems inseparable from their struggles for power—that is, theirs is a struggle for power over evil, but also for power over other people, beginning with each other.14 Nonetheless, my interpretation here, in a more utopian vein, is that precisely by staging this conflict between masculinities, the series is problematizing the instability of hegemonic notions of the good man—in particular, of patriarchal (over)valuations of paternalism—and it is also

240 

M. SEBASTIÁN-MARTÍN

systematically underscoring the profound vulnerabilities of the ‘real Elliot’ (i.e., the whole person composed of both Malek’s Elliot persona and Slater’s Mr. Robot persona). The series thus stresses the two personas’ interdependence, despite their conflicts—in fact, it is evident that they are at their best when they begin to collaborate. More broadly and perhaps more interestingly, the series also highlights Elliot’s broader networks of dependence and his personal need for contact, despite his self-isolating tendencies. The character only begins to grow past his feelings of loneliness and helplessness once he communicates honestly not only with Mr. Robot but also with his therapist Krista, with his sister and F Society co-­ hacker Darlene (Carly Chaikin), and with his lifetime friend and co-worker Angela (Portia Doubleday). Furthermore, the series gradually outgrows its initial Elliot-centric, unreliable narration, and instead juxtaposes his narrative viewpoint with those  of other characters. Gradually, these are given a more nuanced characterization, narrative voice, and agency to become much more than just Elliot’s helpers. Thus, the series’ gradual turn toward multi-perspective character interdependence seems fully coherent with Elliot’s self-transformation, given how he progresses from a profoundly power-anxious narcissism toward a more communicative acceptance of his need for contact and vulnerability. In fact, Elliot has one of his most epiphanic moments when he uncovers his deepest trauma with Krista: in “407 Proxy Authentication Required” (2019) (E7S4), Elliot is finally able to recall the repressed memory of parental abuse that torments him, and he is therefore made aware of what led him to imagine Mr. Robot in the first place. Of course, all this is not meant to imply that Elliot was at first invulnerable or wholly independent, but that his (and Mr. Robot’s) masculine obsession with control prevented him from overtly admitting his lacks at first—often adding to his own and everyone else’s suffering. By narrating Elliot’s growing self-consciousness, the series subsequently seems to move away from “the masculinist ideal” of “a political subject that establishes its agency by vanquishing its vulnerability” (Butler 2016: 24). That is, by confronting viewers with Elliot’s complex self-transformation, the series appears to challenge the masculinist form of political struggle for power that is represented by Mr. Robot’s and Elliot’s efforts, on the one hand, and by their antagonists, E Corp’s authorities, on the other—a struggle where both sides follow a profoundly patriarchal playbook. Instead, it is my impression that the series eventually offers an alternative understanding of political resistance, and in turn, an alternative understanding of

14  BETWEEN THERAPY AND REVOLUTION: MR. ROBOT ’S… 

241

Elliot’s own identity as a good man in the making. By moving toward an emphasis on the collective networks of personal interdependency (or, rather, collaboration) required for the anti-capitalist struggle, Mr. Robot seems to move—at least partially—toward an illustration of Judith Butler’s insight that vulnerability is an undeniable feature of human bodies which does not contradict our agency and which can in fact be mobilized in political resistance—as illustrated by those peaceful, anti-capitalist protests of the 2010s that inspired Mr. Robot. Furthermore, the series not only emphasizes the vulnerability of the counter-hegemonic actors but also underscores how “paternalism itself is vulnerable to a dismantling that would undo its very form of power”, especially if it is resisted by those who are imagined to be “especially vulnerable” but who—in resisting— would “establish themselves as something other than, or more than, vulnerable” (Butler 2016: 23). From this perspective, the series not only offers a dialectical account of an alternative masculinity in the making: it also offers clues as to how and why to rethink masculinist ideals of political action, suggesting pathways for a politicization of mental illnesses that rethinks vulnerability from a non-patriarchal lens. The series finale of Mr. Robot seems to redouble the hope involved in Elliot’s long but gradually successful journey toward becoming a better man. As he and Mr. Robot eventually realize, the Elliot persona that viewers have known throughout the whole series is, after all, not the ‘real Elliot’ either, but another persona: in Krista’s words, “[T]he personality created to carry Elliot’s rage (…) the mastermind” (“Hello, Elliot” 2019, E13S4, 28:00–29:33), but also “the best part [of him], (…) the part that changed him” (46:05–46:16). Agreeing that it is time to stop controlling Elliot, both personas decide to let go, becoming mere film spectators that will live on inside his mind.15 In the end, then, it appears that the choice between Mr. Robot’s and Elliot’s power-centered masculinities was a false choice, because—even though much could be learned from the dialogue between them—their shared paternalism was to be transcended. The episode closes with an image of Elliot’s tearful eye, followed by a point-of-­ view reverse shot of his sister Darlene, who is waiting for him, fully aware that she is welcoming back her real brother. Thus, with Elliot’s tear and Darlene’s heartfelt “hello Elliot”, the screen fades to black. With such open, utopian ending, it would appear that—even though significant wealth redistribution is achieved in one last hack of the capitalist elites—F Society’s struggle is clearly left in the background, and Sam Esmail’s series seems to emphasize that the best and most utopian

242 

M. SEBASTIÁN-MARTÍN

achievement is Elliot’s self-transformation. The impression that viewers are left with is that, after all, Elliot is about to awaken as a more wholesome, wiser, and better man—one that has probably forgone (or at least will keep trying to forgo) his obsessions with control, and thus one who is ready to go on living a relatively less patriarchal, more livable life.

Conclusion: The Ambivalences of Hacker Masculinities This chapter has proposed to interpret the series Mr. Robot as a critical dystopia which focuses on a hacker-led anti-capitalist struggle, alongside— and perhaps most interestingly—a complex, dialectical, and ultimately utopian transformation of the masculine subjectivity of its hacker protagonist. Mr. Robot can obviously only stand as one specific case study, but I would like to conclude by suggesting how one could extrapolate from here toward a more comprehensive and dialectical theorization of ‘hacker masculinities’—toward a conception that emphasizes the hacker’s dystopian and utopian potentials. It is my impression that past approaches have either tended to emphasize the hacker’s role in patriarchal imaginaries— given their fulfillment, via technology, of masculinist illusions of mastery and control (Nixon 1992; Fernbach 2011)—or, on the contrary, tended to emphasize the subversive position of the hacker vis-à-vis the contemporary apparatus of power, even theorizing hackers as the present-day equivalent of the proletariat (Wark 2004, 2019). It thus seems partially true that—like “the computer programmer” imagined by Joseph Weizenbaum— the hacker can position himself as a creator of universes for which he alone is the lawgiver. So, of course, is the designer of any game. (…) No playwright, no stage director, no emperor, however powerful, has ever exercised such absolute authority to arrange a stage or a field of battle and to command such unswervingly dutiful actors or troops. (1976: 115)

In this sense, the hacker’s position theoretically fulfills a very patriarchal power fantasy. Nonetheless, it also seems true that—like videogames in Colin Milburn’s theorization—hacking poses a provocation to treat the world itself as a game, learning its rules and protocols in order to master them, or tweak them differently, while at the same

14  BETWEEN THERAPY AND REVOLUTION: MR. ROBOT ’S… 

243

time foregrounding the technical infrastructures, the material conditions, the platforms and systems that make the game possible in the first place. There is no escape, after all—the outside is nowhere, everything is inside out. So what else can be done, under the circumstances? Hack, modify, cheat, troll. Game the game. (Milburn 2018: 101)

In these ways and more, hacking thus seems to have a profoundly dialectical relationship with masculinities: potentially a refuge for patriarchal drives, but potentially also a subversive and transformative practice. Further studies which consider other representations of hackers should help us in theorizing how this underlying ambivalence is concretized in different fictions—but this chapter can only gesture toward it. Nonetheless, if there’s one thing that Mr. Robot should have shown us is that, even under the pressure of the most dystopian environment, masculinities can be and should be hacked for the better. Eliot is, clearly, not the good man, as he is neither blueprint nor model of utopia, but his development gives us glimpse into a much-needed journey from actually existing hegemonies toward a less patriarchal horizon. In this sense, Mr. Robot teaches one key lesson for the present: that masculinity needs to be decoupled from patriarchal ideals of individualism and paternalism, both in ‘personal’ and in ‘political’ spheres if it is to be detoxed at all.

Notes 1. As an index of its popularity, among other awards, the series received a total of thirteen Primetime Emmy nominations, with three accolades: Rami Malek as outstanding lead actor in a drama series (2016), Mac Quayle for outstanding music composition for a series (2016), and Roxanne Paredes and Jeff McKibben for outstanding interactive extension of a linear program (2020). 2. Of course, the plot dynamics (primarily, the character’s revolutionary efforts) gradually move Mr. Robot’s diegetic universe away from its initial correspondence with the contemporary, thus making it a peculiar form of science fiction: one that departs from a strictly ‘empirical’ real world to gradually extrapolate into an alternate future. 3. It is this sense that, as Murphy suggests (2019: 530), Mr. Robot can be usefully categorized as post-cyberpunk, especially in light of its “[punk] attitude: an adversarial relationship to consensus reality”, an attitude which “is just south of cynicism but well north of mere skepticism” (Kelly and Kessel 2007: xii).

244 

M. SEBASTIÁN-MARTÍN

4. In this sense, this chapter could be read in dialogue with other approaches to US culture of the mid-2010s which symptomatize “a populist moment of repudiation of the elites amidst the fraying of American neoliberalism” (Orán Llarena 2018: 249). 5. For other approaches to the critical vein of recent speculative fiction, see also Combe (2021) or Workman (2021). 6. In this I am following Moylan’s well-known theoretical elaboration (2000: 183–221), which proposes that dystopias, far from being the simple negation of utopia, allow for a constant, dialectical contrast between the anti-­ utopian and the utopian: in other words, they abstractly stage a conflict between the bad and worsening state of societies, and lingering impulses toward a better state of thing. 7. For some critical approaches to Dune’s and The Matrix’s heroes, see Pearson (2019) and Bould (2009), who, respectively, consider Paul Atreides as a “proto-neoliberal” subject, and Neo as a cyberpunk version of the white savior. 8. Besides these, there are academic works of a broader scope which devote sections to masculinities in sf culture, such as Cornea (2010) and Baker (2015). 9. Berardi (2019) aptly calls our era “the age of impotence”, thus implicitly interrelating the era’s political sense of hopelessness with its ongoing crisis of masculine identity. 10. For a provisional attempt at theorizing the interplay between dystopian sf and melodrama, see Sebastián-Martín (2021). 11. As an American son of Egyptian parents, Rami Malek is evidently not a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant (WASP) representative of the American working class, although to a certain extent he may ‘pass’, especially in the series’ context, where white Christian Slater and Carly Chaikin play his relatives. This blurry or perhaps blurred ethnicity could be considered by comparison to the much more studied racial ambivalence of Keanu Reeves’ Neo in The Matrix franchise, as a presumably white character played by a white-­passing Canadian actor with a very diverse ethnic background. 12. Home-edited cuts of Elliot’s rant went viral on social media—thus fueling anti-capitalist sentiments while also contributing to quench surveillance-­ capitalism’s endless thirst for what Zuboff (2019) calls surplus data. More tellingly, Amazon Prime Video uploaded onto YouTube a promotional compilation entitled “Rami Malek Ranting for 10 Straight Minutes in Mr. Robot” (2020). 13. In this regard, I am thinking through Connell’s concept of “transnational business masculinities” (2005: xxiii–xxiv) and Brown’s argument that neoliberal capitalism “transmogrifies every human domain and endeavor,

14  BETWEEN THERAPY AND REVOLUTION: MR. ROBOT ’S… 

245

along with humans themselves, according to a specific image of the economic” (2015: 10). 14. This clearly illustrates how, as Connell insists in her definition (2005: 77), hegemonic masculinity emerges from the interplay of competing forms of masculinities, eventually leading to a favoring of the one form that most contributes to patriarchy’s legitimation. 15. The episode literally visualizes this metaphor, and Rami Malek and Christian Slater are last seen on screen as film spectators, in a movie theater presumably inside Elliot’s mind.

References “407 Proxy Authentication Required”. 2019. Mr. Robot. Created by Sam Esmail, Season 4, Episode 7. USA. USA Network. Adorno, Theodor W. 2005. Minima Moralia: Reflections from Damaged Life. Trans. E.F.N. Jephcott. London: Verso. Baker, Brian. 2015. Contemporary Masculinities in Fiction, Film and Television. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Berardi, Franco. 2019. Futurability: The Age of Impotence and the Horizon of Possibility. London: Verso. Bould, Mark. 2009. Introduction: Rough Guide to a Lonely Planet, From Nemo to Neo. In Red Planets: Marxism and Science Fiction, eds. China Miéville and Mark Bould, 1–26. London: Pluto Press. Brown, Wendy. 2015. Undoing the Demos. Neoliberalism’s Stealth Revolution. New York: Zone Books. Butler, Judith. 2016. Rethinking Vulnerability and Resistance. In Vulnerability in Resistance, ed. Judith Butler, Zeynep Gambetti, and Leticia Sabsay, 12–27. Durham: Duke UP. Carrasco Carrasco, Rocío. 2006. New Heroes on Screen: Prototypes of Masculinity in Contemporary Science Fiction Cinema. Huelva: Publicaciones de la Universidad de Huelva. Coleman, E. Gabriella. 2014. Hacker, Hoaxer, Whistleblower, Spy. The Many Faces of Anonymous. London: Verso. Combe, Kirk. 2021. Speculative Satire in Contemporary Literature and Film: Rant against the Regime. New York: Routledge. Connell, Raewyn. 2005, 1995. Masculinities. Berkeley: University of California Press. Cornea, Christine. 2010. Science Fiction Cinema: Between Fantasy and Reality. Edinburgh: Edinburgh UP. Cranny-Francis, Anne. 1985. Sexuality and Sex-Role Stereotyping in Star Trek. Science Fiction Studies 12 (3): 274–284. Crary, Jonathan. 2013. 24/7. Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep. London: Verso.

246 

M. SEBASTIÁN-MARTÍN

Doctorow, Cory. 2021. How to Destroy Surveillance Capitalism. Medium Editions. “eps1.0_hellofriend.mov”. 2015. Mr. Robot. Created by Sam Esmail, Season 1, Episode 1. USA. USA Network. Fernbach, Amanda. 2011. The Fetishization of Masculinity in Science Fiction: The Cyborg and the Console Cowboy. Science Fiction Studies 27 (2): 234–255. Fisher, Mark. 2009. Capitalist Realism. Is There No Alternative? Winchester: Zero Books. Fisher, Mark, and Jeremy Gilbert. 2013. Capitalist Realism and Neoliberal Hegemony: Jeremy Gilbert A Dialogue. New Formations 80–81: 89–101. Gramsci, Antonio. 1971. Selections from the Prison Notebooks of Antonio Gramsci. Ed. and trans. Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith. New  York: International Publishers. “Hello, Elliot”. 2019. Mr. Robot. Created by Sam Esmail, Season 4, Episode 13. USA. USA Network. Jameson, Fredric. 2005. Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions. London: Verso. Kac-Vergne, Marianne. 2018. Masculinity in Contemporary Science Fiction Cinema: Cyborgs, Troopers and Other Men of the Future. London: I.B. Tauris. Kelly, James Patrick, and John Kessel. 2007. Rewired: The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology. San Francisco: Tachyon Books. Kimmel, Michael. 2013. Angry White Men: American Masculinity at the End of an Era. Nation Books. Orán Llarena, Fabián. 2018, 2016: A Populist Odyssey Neoliberalism and Populism in Hell or High Water. Revista de Estudios Norteamericanos 22: 247–273. Lynch, John. 2019. Mr. Robot: Hacking the Apocalypse. Journal for Religion, Film & Media 5 (2): 15. Milburn, Colin. 2018. Respawn. Gamers, Hackers, and Technogenic Life. Durham: Duke UP. Mittell, Jason. 2015. Complex TV.  The Poetics of Contemporary Television Storytelling. New York: New York UP. Moylan, Tom. 2000. Scraps of the Untainted Sky: Science Fiction, Utopia, Dystopia. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Murphy, Graham J. 2019. Cyberpunk and Post-Cyberpunk. In The Cambridge History of Science Fiction, eds. Eric Carl Link and Gerry Canavan, 519–536. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge UP. Nixon, Nicola. 1992. Cyberpunk: Preparing the Ground for Revolution or Keeping the Boys Satisfied? Science Fiction Studies 19 (2): 219–235. Pace, Jonathan. 2018. The Concept of Digital Capitalism. Communication Theory 28 (3): 254–269. Pearson, Joshua. 2019. Frank Herbert’s Dune and the Financialization of Heroic Masculinity. CR: The New Centennial Review 19 (1): 155–180.

14  BETWEEN THERAPY AND REVOLUTION: MR. ROBOT ’S… 

247

Pitts, Michael. 2021. Alternative Masculinities in Feminist Speculative Fiction: A New Man. Lanham: Lexington Books. Rami Malek Ranting for 10 Straight Minutes in Mr. Robot. 2020. Amazon Prime Video. YouTube. https://youtu.be/0e5ocdj61Lw. Sebastián-Martín, Miguel. 2021. Refabricating Individualism and Commodifying Anti-Capitalism: Melodramatic sf and VOD Spectatorship. Science Fiction Studies 48 (2): 332–353. Smith, Anthony N. 2019. Pursuing “Generation Snowflake”: Mr. Robot and the USA Network’s Mission for Millennials. Television and New Media 20 (5): 443–459. Srnicek, Nick. 2017. Platform Capitalism. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press. Suvin, Darko. 1979. Metamorphoses of Science Fiction: On the Poetics and History of a Literary Genre. New Haven: Yale UP. Vint, Sherryl. 2010. Afterword: The World Gibson Made. In Beyond Cyberpunk: New Critical Perspectives, eds. Graham J. Murphy and Sherryl Vint, 228–233. London: Routledge. Volmar, Daniel. 2017. Far from the Lonely Crowd: The Trenchant Techno-­ Cynicism of Mr. Robot. Endeavour 41 (4): 208–210. Wark, McKenzie. 2004. A Hacker Manifesto. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP. ———. 2019. Capital Is Dead. Is This Something Worse. London: Verso. Weizenbaum, Joseph. 1976. Computer Power and Human Reason: From Judgment To Calculation. New York: W.H. Freeman and Company. Williams, Raymond. 1978. Utopia and Science Fiction. Science Fiction Studies 5 (3): 203–214. Workman, Travis. 2021. Mediating Neo-Feudalism. Postmodern Culture 31 (3). https://doi.org/10.1353/pmc.2021.0003. Zuboff, Shoshana. 2019. The Age of Surveillance Capitalism: The Fight for a Human Future at the New Frontier of Power. New York: PublicAffairs.

PART V

Close to Life

CHAPTER 15

A Few Good Old Men: Revising Ageing Masculinities in Last Tango in Halifax Maricel Oró-Piqueras and Katsura Sako

Introduction: Ageing Masculinities The concept of hegemonic masculinity, coined by Raewyn Connell in the 1990s, mainly referred to “a pattern of practice (i.e., things done, not just a set of role expectations or an identity) that allowed men’s dominance over women to continue” (2005: 832). It is not only in relation to women, however, that hegemonic masculinity operates. Lynne Segal proposes a broader understanding of hegemonic masculinity as “dominant models of

The research undertaken by Katsura Sako towards this co-authored work was supported by JSPS KAKENHI (17K02517).

M. Oró-Piqueras (*) Universitat de Lleida, Lleida, Spain e-mail: [email protected] K. Sako Keio University, Yokohama, Japan e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_15

251

252 

M. ORÓ-PIQUERAS AND K. SAKO

masculinity”, suggesting that “to be ‘masculine’ is not to be ‘feminine’, not to be ‘gay’, not to be tainted with any marks of inferiority—ethnic or otherwise” (2006: xxiv). In her study of patriarchal villainy, Sara Martín argues that power, whether it be physical, sexual or social, is at the basis of the construction of the patriarchal figure of the villain, “a fantasy of empowerment” who dares “to accumulate as much power as possible against all injunctions” (2020: 2). The values attached to hegemonic or normative masculinity are defined by “power, rationality, assertiveness, invulnerability” (Segal 2006: xxiv), traits which, as Segal points out, have always been “crisis ridden” (xxiv) since they provide a very limited definition of what it means to be a man in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Ageing constitutes one of the major crises affecting masculinity. Since the worldwide population is ageing exponentially, there is a growing interest in the experience and meaning of ageing. Although research on this matter has largely focused on older women, there is now an expanding body of work on older men and their experiences by scholars such as Segal herself (2014), Josep M. Armengol (2018), and Edward H. Thompson (2019). Since hegemonic masculinity has been primarily associated with phallic prowess and the characteristics attached to it such as physical strength, professional success, and social recognition, this may make it difficult for men to come to terms with their ageing process, which brings on changes and challenges at physical, social, and symbolic levels. Some men may cope with ageing either by resorting to the “business as usual model” or “not making a sissy” of themselves (Thompson and Langendoerfer 2016: 123, 127), though many fear becoming “less masculine”, that is, resembling women (Segal 2014). Ageing, therefore, poses a challenge to the concept of hegemonic masculinity and, yet, this is precisely the reason why ageing can also help us to expand our understanding of masculinity and to find good old men who diverge from its hegemonic model. In this chapter, we approach good old men as those who are not preoccupied with the pursuit of power in a patriarchal structure. More specifically, we look for older men who accept the challenging aspects of ageing and who establish connections with others through care and empathy rather than through power. Alan Buttershaw (Derek Jacobi), one of the main protagonists of Sally Wainwright’s BBC TV series Last Tango in Halifax, is one such example. In this series, Alan and Celia Dawson (Anne Reid) are reunited for the first time after their mutual adolescent romantic interest was left unmaterialised when Celia moved away with her family. Now in their seventies, Alan and Celia have their respective families and

15  A FEW GOOD OLD MEN: REVISING AGEING MASCULINITIES IN LAST… 

253

lives, Alan in Halifax and Celia in Harrogate, both in West Yorkshire, just around sixty miles from each other. Described as “kind, thoughtful, balanced” (E2S1 36:30)1 by his daughter, Alan is the ‘good old man’ in the show, a figure whose ageing masculinity deviates from the hegemonic patriarchal model. Our analysis focuses on how the series resorts to the romantic and intergenerational narratives to depict a character who accepts the vulnerability associated with the ageing process and cares for those around him. Ultimately, this chapter demonstrates that Masculinity and Ageing Studies can be brought together in order to create an opportunity to expand the models of ageing masculinities.

Ageing Masculinities and Fiction/Media in the Twenty-First Century As Thompson and Langendoerfer report in their study of masculinities, the older men they interviewed stressed, “masculinities always matter in men’s lives” (2016: 122). Armengol argues, however, that “Since masculinity has traditionally been defined as individualistic and self-reliant, aging men also seem to have a particularly difficult time adapting to what they perceive as a gradual loss of independence” (2018: 364). Part of this difficulty is the strong hold of hegemonic masculinities in contemporary Western culture, which limits the ways in which ageing masculinity may be understood. Reviewing journal articles with the keywords ‘masculinities’ and ‘ageing’, Thompson and Langendoerfer concluded that men tend to construct “narrative identities in keeping with the hegemonic young man model of masculinity and, most likely, their former selves” and “live by the mandates to acquire and retain others’ respect, to project an aura of toughness and independence, and to be courageous risk takers when necessary” (2016: 136). Similarly, Her den Hoonard observes in his study of several widowed men that they define themselves as “bachelors” with the intention of preserving an image of “free, virile bachelor rather than an old, grieving man who has lost his lifelong partner” (2007: 277). While these studies reveal that for some older men being masculine means keeping traits that are associated to hegemonic masculinity such as physical strength, professional success and social recognition, other studies show that there are older men in contemporary societies who seek to find alternative forms of masculinity which do not reject ageing. In a longer study focused on men, masculinities, and ageing, Thompson argues

254 

M. ORÓ-PIQUERAS AND K. SAKO

that men try to preserve “age-affirming masculinities” (2019: 11), while older men are increasingly made invisible in the media and in the social spaces they used to occupy. Nonetheless, the affirmation of age in the construction of masculinity remains a challenge in the face of pervasive anti-ageing culture. Marshall and Katz (2002, 2021; Katz and Marshall 2004, 2013), for instance, have brought attention to ‘positive ageism’ in contemporary Western cultures, a celebration of positive ageing based on the performance of youthfulness, in particular, in terms of the sexually functional ageing body. According to them, “masculinity remains anchored in the erect penis across the life course, and the functional penis remains the visible indicator of interior character and successful living” (2002: 63). In Out of Time, Segal also notes the significance of the fully operative body in men’s ageing identity: “masculinity and the functioning of the body are symbolically inseparable” (2014: 81). As these studies suggest, ageing and masculinity intersect in complex ways. The anti-ageing tendency in the contemporary constructions of masculinity prevails in fictional narratives of male ageing, too. Armengol (2018) draws attention to the complex and multi-dimensional expressions of ageing masculinities by authors such as Richard Powers and Paul Auster, who highlight older men’s emotional connection with their partners rather than their phallocentric sexuality. Nonetheless, there is still a pervading obsession with the strong and fit body and a focus on a phallocentric conception of sexuality. Thus, as Armengol (2018) and Segal (2014) suggest, authors such as Philip Roth, Martin Amis, and John Updike provide a distinctively negative representation of ageing masculinities in which older male protagonists are constantly horrified by their ageing body and worried about their sexual performance. Hegemonic masculinities are similarly prevalent in the fields of film and TV series. Sally Chivers (2011) and, more recently, Josephine Dolan (2017) draw attention to the prevailing ageism in the audio-visual industries. Chivers contends that despite the growing visibility of older—both male and female—characters in the media during the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, the film screen in particular still “homogenizes the face of aging” (xviii), obscuring “a more varied and meaningful representation” (xix) of this process. In this cultural climate, the configurations of the ageing masculinities are laden with tensions and contradictions. Chivers observes a common narrative pattern that depicts a transformation of “the older male figure from a man whose masculinity is perceived to be fading to a man whose masculinity is exaggerated and compensatory” (99),

15  A FEW GOOD OLD MEN: REVISING AGEING MASCULINITIES IN LAST… 

255

either by enhancing their capacity to attract romance, often with much younger women, their privileged position as well-off older men, or their prowess in defending characters in unprivileged positions, either women or racialised characters. Dolan observes the same tendency by which the signs of decline and dependence in older actors and characters are erased as their masculinity is reclaimed “through signs of virility including late fatherhood and hetero-happy coupling that render femininity a securing prop” (2017: 23). Chivers (2011) and Gravagne (2013) illustrate this macho construction of ageing masculinity through the example of the older male character Walt in Gran Torino (2008), in which the lonely, former soldier played by Clint Eastwood evades dependence, terminal illness, and impending death by sacrificing his life to protect from the local gang a young Korean American man he comes to care for. Gravagne therefore suggests that although the film does depict Walt’s change in later life towards ‘goodness’, it does not present a “counterstory” that fundamentally challenges the meaning of decline associated with ageing (56). Dominic Lennard (2014) also analyses actors such as Bruce Willis, Sylvester Stallone, and Harrison Ford2 as the “ageing tough guys” and states, “the tough guy’s return manoeuvres him into a paternal role in which his authority is legitimised. In this new role, his authority is restated and romanticised, his masculinity enshrined as a mythic model for younger men” (106); thus, for Lennard, “the hero’s age works to ‘confirm’ and aestheticise what is ‘essential’, ‘real’ or insuppressible in gender terms” (106). As these examples show, ageing masculinities in film (and TV) are still very much constructed around hegemonic masculinity. Older men’s masculinity and power are reclaimed on the basis of their sexual prowess and/ or paternal authority, and this compensates for their ageing and the vulnerability associated with it. In other words, toxic patriarchal masculinity is not necessarily detoxified in old age. Alan Buttershaw, however, stands out as a good old man who embodies a different vision of masculinity which accommodates vulnerability and thrives on care and empathy, as we show next.

Alan Buttershaw in Last Tango in Halifax Last Tango in Halifax is a British TV show that ran for five seasons (2012–2016, 2020), developing stories of romantic and intergenerational family relationships. The novelty of the show, both within British and worldwide television, lies in the fact that it focuses on an elderly couple

256 

M. ORÓ-PIQUERAS AND K. SAKO

starting a relationship and the way in which living side by side with each other they bring their families together, creating a large extended family. Written by Sally Wainwright, who has produced critically acclaimed female-centred television dramas set in the distinctive landscape of West Yorkshire,3 Last Tango in Halifax is deeply concerned with women’s emotional lives but it is also a relevant critical commentary on masculinity. The series presents a range of male characters who are depicted with multiple flaws and represent different types of masculinity and therefore help to interrogate hegemonic masculinity. Typical of such male figures is John, Caroline’s ex-husband, a formerly successful literary writer, who seems to have lost himself in his middle age. Another example is Harry, Alan’s friend since childhood. After buying a boat in the hope of being adventurous and bold when one of his best friends dies suddenly, he causes an accident in the river, losing all his money and his house to pay for compensation. Ted, Alan’s brother, who migrated to New Zealand when he was young, is manipulated by a younger woman and, like Harry, he loses all his assets. Estranged from his children as a result, he ends up moving back to the UK and dies there. The show does not condemn these male characters; instead, it depicts their follies with humour and sometimes with sympathy, as is the case when Alan and Celia learn that Ted’s loneliness as a widower drove him to the seemingly foolish act of marrying a strange, much younger woman. Eddie, Gillian’s late husband, who was abusive and violent towards her, is the only character that represents hegemonic masculinity that dominates and harms others in the show, a figure that still casts a shadow in Gillian’s and Alan’s life in storylines that concern the ambiguous circumstances of his death. The simultaneous absence and presence of this figure of toxic masculinity effectively brings into focus the divergent masculinities that the other male characters represent. Among these male characters, Alan stands out as a good old man of moral integrity, who clearly moves away from the characteristics associated with hegemonic masculinity, namely the possession of power and of physical strength. While, as we explain later, the other male and female characters are flawed in various and idiosyncratic ways, Alan is presented as a sensible and deeply conscientious character, who cares about the others’ needs and feelings. He moves in with his daughter Gillian, who runs a sheep farm and raises a son by herself after her husband dies, and gives moral, emotional, and financial support to the family. For Gillian, Alan’s “generous fault” is that he can be “too soft” and “too kind-hearted” (E6S2 33:42). He is also an ideal partner for Celia; as her daughter

15  A FEW GOOD OLD MEN: REVISING AGEING MASCULINITIES IN LAST… 

257

Caroline states at their wedding, “he is, without doubt, one of the loveliest, kindest men I’ve ever met” (E6S2 41:50). Indeed, as our analysis demonstrates, the show depicts and emphasises Alan’s conscientious and caring nature through his romantic and intergenerational relationships. Alan’s working-class origin in northern England is the key to his ‘goodness’. Patricia Johnson situates the show in a pre-Brexit Britain divided “between a sophisticated, upwardly mobile England ready to seize the advantages offered by a globalizing economy and a downtrodden working-­ class England, mired in economic distress” (2016: 1341). Emerging from this social landscape, she argues, the love story between Alan and Celia looks back at “the older, kinder working-class stereotypes of the mid twentieth-century generations” (1344). Alan, in particular, is an almost anachronistic figure who represents “an idealized working-class man and father, a man who, as a widower, provides important emotional and financial support for his difficult daughter” (1344). The show signals Alan’s traditional working-class identity in various ways from his accent and the old farmhouse where his family live to his fidelity to left-wing newspaper The Guardian and his past involvement in a trade union. Scholars have pointed out that the landscape of West Yorkshire is central to the women’s working and emotional lives which Wainwright depicts in her television drama (see Gorton 2016; Woods 2019). This is the case with Alan in Last Tango in Halifax too, in which his Northern working-class identity is encapsulated, visually, by the shots of his family’s farmhouse and the dynamic natural landscapes that surround it. Added to such portrayal of Alan as a mature, respectable working-class man is the off-screen persona of actor Derek Jacobi, a Cambridge-educated actor with a working-class origin who has achieved national and global recognition for his performance in Shakespearean theatre and TV shows such as I, Claudius (Alan’s participation in a local theatre in season four alludes to Jacobi’s career in theatre). The claim that Alan, and the show itself, reflect nostalgia for the past in the pre-Brexit (and later, in the final season, post-Brexit) Britain may be valid. The show’s failure to include any gay man, while bringing into focus lesbianism through main characters, may also signal its limitation in its representation of masculinity, especially given that Jacobi himself is gay. Nonetheless, Alan’s age is connected to positive values in the show, and as we argue, his characterisation as a traditional working-class man in Northern England contributes to a construction of ageing masculinity which is different from the hegemonic model that privileges power, success and wealth still in old age.

258 

M. ORÓ-PIQUERAS AND K. SAKO

As a reliable source of moral and financial support for Gillian and her son Raff, Alan can be considered ‘the man of the house’. Yet, he is not a patriarchal figure who is associated with power and strength. Instead, the show does not shy away from depicting the impact of ageing on Alan and how it makes him vulnerable. Alan himself occasionally refers to his age. For example, when Celia drives recklessly fast, chasing a man who has stolen Alan’s car, he tells her jokingly that he is no longer up for that level of excitement. His apprehension connects with one significant way in which the show marks Alan’s age: his heart condition. This features prominently in two storylines. In the first instance, when Celia’s refusal to accept her daughter’s lesbian relationship creates a rift that ends in her breaking her engagement to Alan, he has a heart attack and remains unconscious for some hours. In the second instance, Alan and Celia end up being locked in a former country house, their potential wedding venue, and stay there overnight, leaving Gillian desperately worried about her father’s lack of medication. In both cases, Alan’s heart condition is central in the narrative development: in the former, the crisis it presents prompts the couple to overcome their differences and cement their love for each other; in the latter, it helps to bring the father and the daughter back together after they fall out over Gillian’s mistakes in the past. At one level, therefore, Alan’s heart condition is a narrative device. At another and more important level, however, it signals a vulnerability that coexists with his ability to love and care for others. Alan offers care and support to others but he also receives care from others. Gillian believes that his heart attack is literally caused by a broken heart and asks Caroline, “Do you think people can die from a broken heart? I think this is what happened” (E1S2 14:32). On another occasion, when Alan’s close friend dies, Gillian asks Celia to break the news to Alan carefully to avoid giving him a shock that could affect his heart condition. Therefore, the representation of Alan’s illness and the vulnerability that it signifies does not follow what Margaret Gullette describes as “decline ideology”, the emphatic and reductive association of ageing with decline and loss (2004: 7). Instead, the show presents an older man with an age-­ related vulnerability thriving thanks to his close relationships and actively contributing to them. This not only effectively normalises ageing and the physical changes that it brings but also presents a model of ageing masculinity that is underpinned by mutual care rather than domination and power.

15  A FEW GOOD OLD MEN: REVISING AGEING MASCULINITIES IN LAST… 

259

Romantic Relationships and the Ageing Man Alan is depicted as a good romantic and marital partner who cares about and respects his partners. For Celia, he is the opposite of her late husband, who was unfaithful and distant. In the very first episode of the show, Celia tells Alan that whenever she was unhappy with her husband, she used to think about him and wonder “how different things might have been if I’d married a lad like you” (E1S1 47:16); in season two Celia wonders again in conversation with Caroline “how much happier life would have been” if she had married her father (E2S1 39:32). For Celia, Alan encapsulates the characteristics of a good man and a good partner for life, who appreciates her and is affectionate and attentive to her needs and feelings, though this is a lesson she learns late in life. Alan and Celia’s relationship is predominantly depicted as ‘romantic’, though the show’s representation of its physicality does not extend to the overtly sexual. This may relate to the general cultural anxiety around ageing sexuality, since the older body is not considered attractive (Kessler et  al. 2004; Whelehan and Gwynne 2014; Dolan 2017) but also to the show’s categorisation as a family drama which also avoids explicit sexual scenes featuring younger characters. Arguably, the avoidance of sexuality in the representation of the couple’s relationship allows the show to focus on Alan’s and Celia’s personalities and on their complicated lives, the development of their relationship, and their roles in the intergenerational relationships within their extended family. Interestingly, the show uses the ideological differences between Alan and Celia to develop its plotlines. Their disagreements serve to emphasise their love for each other as they always manage to overcome them, but also to highlight, in the process, Alan’s generosity and kindness in contrast to Celia’s narrow-mindedness. As a reader of the left-leaning newspaper The Guardian, Alan represents authenticity and open-mindedness, whereas Celia, a reader of the right-leaning tabloid Daily Mail is a character who likes material comfort and adheres to social norms and institutions. In her review of season five, in which the couple attempts to recover from their fall-out over Brexit, Rebeca Nicholson refers to the opposed approaches that Alan and Celia maintain in relation to their retirement: “Celia feels entitled to enjoy her retirement in comfort, and a little excess. Alan worries about ‘understaffed, underfunded’ social services and befriends a young, hungry shoplifter” (2020: 2). When Celia and Alan plan to buy a bungalow to move in together, she suggests that he sells his house, which he is reluctant to do because the couple currently renting it

260 

M. ORÓ-PIQUERAS AND K. SAKO

has just had a baby. Planning for their wedding, Celia expresses a strong view against using pop songs in funerals, whereas Alan says, “pop songs in a funeral are a way of folk celebrating whatever, in their own way, not accepting what’s inflicted on them by people in high places” (E3S1 44:18). What creates the most critical rupture between the couple in the show, however, is Celia’s already noted rejection of Caroline’s relationship with her female colleague, a behaviour that nearly costs their engagement (it instead causes Alan’s heart attack, as noted). Celia’s refusal to attend Caroline and Kate’s wedding presents another crisis in the couple’s relationship. Accusations against Celia’s behaviour are often voiced by other characters, inviting the viewer to sympathise with Alan. For example, during the couple’s first serious fall-out mentioned above, Caroline tells her mother, “You don’t deserve Alan. He’s worth a thousand of you” (E6S1 47:15). Alan also expresses to Gillian his shock at Celia’s refusal to attend Caroline’s wedding: This morning she disappointed me the way she talked to Caroline. I was shocked. I know she likes to call a spade a bloody shovel once and again; it’s part of her charm. It obviously wasn’t easy for the lass [Caroline], saying what she had to say. And it was just so unkind. So unthinking. So deep-­ rooted. (E6S1 19:21)

There is a certain misogynistic element in the show’s unfavourable representation of Celia as a way of constructing Alan as a good old man of moral integrity and kindness. The show, however, is not entirely unsympathetic towards Celia and it does depict what motivates her behaviour and her ability to reflect on her moral failures and regret them. In addition, the couple’s ability to resolve the conflicts despite their differences works to emphasise the strength of their love. Nonetheless, Celia’s moral failures certainly put a strain on their marriage and family relationships and contribute to highlighting Alan’s empathy and his moral high ground. Alan is not a saint, however, and the inclusion of his mistakes in the show’s storylines makes him an even more interesting and fully developed character. One of the most outstanding narrative twists in the series reveals that when Gillian was just a baby, Alan had an affair with a female colleague, leaving her pregnant; she moved away and without telling him, gave a birth to a boy. For Gillian, this does not damage Alan’s goodness, as she tells Robbie (then her fiancé): “He’s a good man, me dad. He made a mistake. He did something he shouldn’t have. But I can’t crucify him”

15  A FEW GOOD OLD MEN: REVISING AGEING MASCULINITIES IN LAST… 

261

(E4S3 48:53). Indeed, far from signalling his hegemonic masculinity (as a man who is successful with women, emphasising his virility), Alan’s affair functions to show how much he cares about and loves his partners. In particular, this affair is treated as evidence of his enduring love for Celia. Alan explains to Gary, his newly found son, that he was drawn to his mother because she reminded her of Celia: The second I saw her, her smile, the way she moved, everything. I felt the same way I felt when I was with Celia. It was like, I don’t know, the world lit up. And we were weak. We were daft. We were old enough to know better. It shouldn’t have happened. But it did. Then she left. I never saw her again. (E2S3 4:23)

As Alan confesses to his daughter, he loved his late wife Eileen but he was always in love with Celia. This makes his infidelity a moral failure rather than a sign of his sexual accomplishments. Thus, when Gary publishes Alan’s photo in the local newspaper announcing that he is his father, Alan feels humiliated, because it makes public “that regrettable part of my life”, a time when he was not a faithful husband (E6S3 50:19). In this way, his infidelity is radically different from the casual sexual relationships often linked to male displays of power and sexual prowess and is treated as an occasion to reflect on the loss of power associated with male ageing.

Alan in Intergenerational Relationships In season five, Alan meets Harrison, a boy who repeatedly shoplifts in the supermarket where Alan works part-time. He is a child in the social care system who keeps running away from his foster parents and misses his sister, who lives elsewhere. Alan is sympathetic to this socially marginalised boy, who is perpetually hungry; when he steals ‘a square meal’ and is arrested, Alan bails him out (E1S5 32:51). While his friend Harry worries that the boy is taking advantage of Alan’s kindness, he remarks that the boy possessed “an impressive vocabulary” (E1S5 34:07), highlighting the fact that he is a smart boy. Alan knows that he cannot do much for Harrison, but at least he gives his full attention to him. Alan’s interaction with this straying boy thus exemplifies his generous and caring approach to the younger generations in the show.

262 

M. ORÓ-PIQUERAS AND K. SAKO

Alan’s role as a caring agent is most evident in his relationships with his family members. In the very first scene in which he appears in the series, Alan is helping Gillian to carry grocery shopping into the house. This introduces Alan as a man who is comfortable and helpful in the domestic space, a space that is normally considered unmanly. As the narrative of the show unfolds, it quickly becomes clear that he helps Gillian extensively, offering moral and financial as well as practical support. The extent of Gillian’s reliance on her father is clear when she tells Caroline: “I don’t think I can stand it if I lost him” (E4S1 5:55). There is a tension in this father-daughter relationship, however. One major cause for this is their complicity in the death of Gillian’s abusive husband. She left Eddie bleed to death after an accident, and Alan agreed to cover up for her. Alan is aware of the moral as well as legal ambiguity of his action, as he tells Celia, “strictly speaking it weren’t right” (E5S1 19:31), but he justifies it on the grounds that he needed to protect his daughter from the husband who mistreated her. His justification is reinforced by Gillian’s words, as she recounts on multiple occasions how Eddie used to attack her whenever he felt angry or was drunk and how she was terrified of him and felt that her life was in danger. From a legal perspective, of course, Alan’s complicity in hiding the circumstances of Eddie’s death undermines his characterisation as a sensible and sensitive man, but it also confirms his profound desire to protect his family members. Alan is also a supportive mentor to the younger men within the family. As noted, Hollywood films about older men often feature male intergenerational relationships, in which an older man becomes a mentor of either his male children or young men in his community to teach them how to be “tough guys” (Lennard 2014). Ultimately, then, as Chivers and Lennard suggest, the intergenerational relationship serves the older man to reaffirm his authority and power. In Last Tango in Halifax, Alan is more concerned about providing emotional and moral support to younger men than about his own masculinity. His support becomes particularly crucial when Raff’s school girlfriend turns out to be pregnant with his child. Gillian, who had to drop out of school when she got pregnant, is upset and angry, as she wants her son to go to university and have better prospects in life than she has ever had. Whereas she cannot speak to her son without yelling, Alan listens to Raff, talks to him calmly and tries to convince him that he should continue with his studies. At the same time, he is also capable of imagining how difficult the situation is for Raff and understands that “Trouble is he wants to do right thing, which I

15  A FEW GOOD OLD MEN: REVISING AGEING MASCULINITIES IN LAST… 

263

understand, but the difficulty is knowing what right thing is when everyone seems to have so many different opinions” (E3S2 12:30). Alan’s caring and respectful manner towards his grandson proves effective, as we later see Raff going to university while his girlfriend takes a full-time job at the supermarket and Gillian babysits for them. In the final season, we find Raff working as a teacher in the challenging environment of an under-­ resourced school. He mentions accountancy as a more desirable career choice, but his choice of a career in education, “training younger people to think for themselves” as Alan puts it, suggests that he has inherited Alan’s values (E1S5 16:58). Alan offers a similar moral support to Caroline’s son, William, when he gets beaten up while working part-time in a pub and returns home bruised and disappointed. “I’ll tell you something I’ve learned over the years”, Alan tells him. “It’s taken me a long time; life’s all about confidence. And the only way you gain confidence is by putting yourself into situations where you do feel uncomfortable; where you have to deal with people you’d probably not deal with” (E4S2 36:40). Alan’s calmness and common sense when addressing the younger generation of his family may be seen as guiding them towards wiser decisions. Far from trying to instil ‘toughness’ in the next generation, as older male characters played by Hollywood stars do, Alan teaches them kindness and give them confidence. Alan makes a romantic gesture for Celia at their wedding reception by putting up a dance performance with Raff, William, and Caroline’s other son. This intergenerational ensemble, with Alan at the centre front, encapsulates the close and loving relationship that he establishes with younger men in his family. Nonetheless, not all his intergenerational relationships in the show are easy like those with Raff and William. His relationship with Gary is as complicated as the one with Gillian and tests Alan’s role as a moral pillar of the family. Gary is a wealthy self-made man who has created successful business ventures without a university education. Pleased with his son’s success, Alan initially takes to Gary, but tension grows between them, as Gary is overly keen on establishing a close relationship with Alan and his family and utilises his wealth and contacts to achieve this. His offer of an apprenticeship to Raff upsets Alan and Gillian, who want him to go to university; as noted, he then runs a feature in the local newspaper announcing Alan’s paternity, making his infidelity public knowledge. Gary’s forceful and self-centred manner brings him close to being a figure of hegemonic masculinity that is invested in controlling others, a model that stands opposite to Alan’s caring masculinity. Infuriated by the newspaper feature,

264 

M. ORÓ-PIQUERAS AND K. SAKO

Alan refuses further contact with Gary in an uncharacteristically stubborn and unforgiving manner. He only changes his attitude when he understands that Gary’s behaviour is not motivated by his desire to display his wealth and success but by his wish to be part of Alan’s life. Celia’s words also remind Alan of the family responsibilities of the older persons: “They’re our kids, aren’t they, one way or another. And we’re the oldest. Shouldn’t we try to be bigger about things?” (E6S3 50:41). Alan eventually understands that Gary’s vulnerability has been hidden under his over-­ zealous gestures and he agrees to continue his relationship with his son. These examples of Alan’s intergenerational interactions in the show suggest that he does not tolerate any man who seeks to assert his power and wealth, but he responds to vulnerability and supports the younger men with care.

Conclusion The final season of Last Tango in Halifax depicts the seventh year of the marriage between Celia and Alan. Their fall-out over Brexit and other matters strain the relationship: Celia wants a new kitchen that they do not really need, and Alan gets a job in a supermarket because he wants to “see new faces” as he puts it, which Celia reads as his being “fed up with this old face” (E2S5 2:59), namely hers. The show, however, has them reconcile in an old local church, an intimate scene which reminds the viewer of a very similar scene in the first season, when they discuss their different approaches to their wedding. The closing scene of the show, when the two embrace and dance a tango in reference to the title of the show, obscures the political/ideological tension between the couple, bringing a romantic ending to their story and to the series. As Johnson (2016) suggests, the show appears to provide a fantasy of the undivided couple, family, and nation at a time when division within Britain was deepening. Nonetheless, Alan’s characterisation combining vulnerability, caring and moral strength does present a valuable model of masculinity that challenges toxic masculinity and should not be read as a mere fantasy. Alan does not embody a patriarch in the traditional sense, a figure of power and authority upheld by others. Instead, he represents an ageing masculinity which embraces the experience of vulnerability, including illness, and utilises it to nurture others and help them lead better lives.

15  A FEW GOOD OLD MEN: REVISING AGEING MASCULINITIES IN LAST… 

265

Notes 1. The series, with a total of twenty-four episodes, ran for five seasons of a varied length. The episodes have no titles. 2. This is the case with Willis, who still maintains his authority as an ageing tough guy despite the disclosure of his incapacitating illness (aphasia) in April 2022. Ford’s also legendary status as an ageing actor has been reinforced by his playing the role of Indiana Jones close to the age of eighty in the fifth instalment of the series (2022). No younger actor, as charismatic as he is, could be found to replace him. 3. Wainwright is also responsible for To Walk Invisible (2016), Happy Valley (2014–) and Gentleman Jack (2019–), all first broadcast on BBC in the UK.

References Armengol, Josep M. 2018. Aging as Emasculation? Rethinking Aging Masculinities in Contemporary U.S.  Fiction. Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction 59 (3): 355–367. Chivers, Sally. 2011. The Silvering Screen. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Connell, Raewyn, and James W. Messerschmidt. 2005. Hegemonic Masculinity: Rethinking the Concept. Gender & Society 19 (6): 829–859. Dolan, Josephine. 2017. Contemporary Cinema and “Old Age”: Gender and the Silvering of Stardom. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Gorton, Kristyn. 2016. Feeling Northern: “Heroic Women” in Sally Wainwright’s Happy Valley (BBC One, 2014-). Journal for Cultural Research 20 (1): 73–85. Gravagne, Pamela. 2013. The Becoming of Age: Cinematic Visions of Mind, Body and Identity in Later Life. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Gullette, Margaret Morganroth. 2004. Aged by Culture. Chicago: Chicago UP. Her den Hoonard, Deborah. 2007. Aging and Masculinity: A Topic Whose Time Has Come. Journal of Aging Studies 21: 277–280. Johnson, Patricia E. 2016. Tangoing with Class in the BBC Series Last Tango in Halifax. The Journal of Popular Culture 49 (6): 1341–1356. Katz, Stephen, and Barbara L. Marshall. 2004. Is Functional “Normal”? Aging, Sexuality and the Bio-marking of Successful Living. History of the Human Sciences 17 (1): 53–75. ———. 2013. New Sex for Old: Lifestyle, Consumerism, and the Ethics of Ageing Well. Journal of Aging Studies 17 (1): 3–16. Kessler, Eva-Marie, Katrin Rakoczy, and Ursula M.  Staudinger. 2004. The Portrayal of Older People in Prime Time Television Series: The Match with Gerontological Evidence. Ageing and Society 24 (4): 531–551. Last Tango in Halifax. 2013–2020. Created by Sally Wainwright. UK. BBC.

266 

M. ORÓ-PIQUERAS AND K. SAKO

Lennard, Dominic. 2014. Too Old for This Shit?: On Ageing Tough Guys. In Ageing, Popular Culture and Contemporary Feminism: Harleys and Hormones, eds. Imelda Whelehan and Joel Gwynne, 93–107. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Marshall, Barbara L., and Stephen Katz. 2002. Forever Functional: Sexual Fitness and The Ageing Male Body. Body & Society 8 (4): 43–70. ———. 2021. The Embodied Life Course: Post-ageism or the Renaturalization of Gender? Societies 2: 222–234. Martín, Sara. 2020. Masculinity and Patriarchal Villainy in the British Novel: From Hitler to Voldemort. London: Routledge. Nicholson, Rebecca. 2020. Last Tango in Halifax Review—A Brilliant, Bittersweet Sunday Comfort. The Guardian. 23 February. Accessed 8 October 2021. https://www.theguardian.com/tv-­a nd-­r adio/2020/feb/23/last-­t ango­in-­halifax-­review-­a-­brilliant-­bittersweet-­sunday-­comfort. Segal, Lynne. 2006, 1990. Slow Motion: Changing Masculinities, Changing Men. London: Palgrave Macmillan. ———. 2014. Out of Time. The Pleasures & Perils of Ageing. London: Verso. Thompson, Edward H. 2019. Men, Masculinities, and Aging: The Gendered Lives of Older Men. London: Rowman & Littlefield. Thompson, Edward H., and Kaitlyn B.  Langendoerfer. 2016. Older Men’s Blueprint for ‘Being a Man’. Men and Masculinities 19 (2): 119–147. Whelehan, Imelda, and Joel Gwynne. 2014. Introduction: Popular Culture’s “Silver Tsunami”. In Ageing, Popular Culture and Contemporary Feminism: Harleys and Hormones, eds. Imelda Whelehan and Joel Gwynne, 1–13. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Woods, Faye. 2019. Wainwright’s West Yorkshire: Affect and Landscape in the Television Drama of Sally Wainwright. Journal of British Cinema and Television 16 (3): 346–366.

CHAPTER 16

Let the Little Children Come to Me: Fred Rogers, the Good Man as TV Educator Sara Martín

Introduction: An Authentic Man Fred Rogers (1928–2003) was an outstanding TV personality and an extraordinary man. His diverse programs on Canadian and US public television educated millions of pre-school children, supporting in particular their emotional development. Rogers’ calm demeanor, total empathy with his young audience, and high professional standards turned him into a much beloved public figure, still missed today. His show Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood (1968–1975, 1979–2001) became an iconic feature of public educational TV, with no parallel except for PBS’ Sesame Street (1969–). All those who knew him agree that Rogers was a totally committed defender of humanistic values and stress that he was a man as kind in public as in private.

S. Martín (*) Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, Barcelona, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_16

267

268 

S. MARTÍN

I examine here Rogers’ quintessential goodness taking into account the biography by Maxwell King The Good Neighbor: The Life and Work of Fred Rogers (2018), the documentary by Morgan Neville Won’t You Be my Neighbor? (2018), and the fiction film by Marielle Heller A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (2019). I argue that although the enormous respect earned by Rogers in the USA acknowledges the moral guidance which he offered as a thoroughly good man with sound spiritual values, the more recent period of his popularity in the twenty-first century also connects with anxieties concerning the revelations of rampant child abuse, mostly committed by men, and the rise of toxic masculinity. Rogers’ irreproachable, honest dealing with little children shows that in current times, when adult men’s interest in children is always viewed with suspicion, extremely positive role models may emerge from encouraging sensitive men like him to approach children as committed educators.

The Biography: The Unsolved Mystery of the Man and the Children Levin and Hines explain that Fred Rogers organized his singular brand of educational television around three main axes: discussing with his young audience “how to identify and cope with emotional challenges in their lives”, cultivating children’s imagination as a tool to solve “interpersonal dilemmas”, and teaching them how the real world operates “on personally led field trips” to places such as “a crayon factory and a musical instrument shop” (2003: 270). This respectful, solid pedagogical approach contrasts with two inescapable realities: the increasing commercialization of childhood, with television at the forefront, and, beyond this medium, the alarming statistics concerning child abuse in the USA.  The American Academic of Pediatrics claims that in 2014 “over 3.5 million children were subjects of child maltreatment reports”, with 20% presenting “evidence of maltreatment” (2019: 4) in the shape of neglect (75%) and physical abuse (17%), mainly committed by biological parents. Sexual offenders, the American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP) warns, “come from all socioeconomic and ethnic groups as well as diverse marital and educational backgrounds” (16) and though many were themselves victims of abuse as children, not all fit that profile.1 Fred Rogers grew popular before evidence of child abuse became generalized, even though the urban legends generated by his celebrity did

16  LET THE LITTLE CHILDREN COME TO ME: FRED ROGERS, THE GOOD… 

269

include some allusions to pedophilia (there was never any allegation of misconduct). These legends were, in fact, mostly focused on unverified claims that he had a past as an Army sharpshooter or a Navy SEAL. Blank notes that the rumors emerged precisely because Rogers was a man “to whom we trust[ed] our children” so he could teach them “how to take care of their bodies, associate with their community, how to relate to neighbors and strangers”, himself included. His “very mild-mannered, Puritanesque character”, Blank adds, unleashed fantasies about his “having a very macho back story or being a ruthless killer” (in Blakemore 2020), possibly to compensate for the unease generated by his singular masculinity. On the other hand, Bishop’s survey of Rogers’ press coverage between the 1960s and the 2000s offers a snapshot of the collective fantasy, or “rhetorical vision”, by which the celebration of his virtues—“hard work, simplicity, and a strong belief in family values” (2003: 16–17)— transformed Rogers into a sort of national “guru” (Bishop: 27) for all ages. There is, however, some other factor at work beyond the quality of his children’s television in Fred Rogers’ appreciation. Edwards speculates in Kindness and Wonder: Why Mister Rogers Matters Now More Than Ever (2019) that, since children no longer watch the quaint episodes of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, his renewed twenty-first century popularity must be due to the nostalgia felt by the adults who were once his audience. Nostalgia, Edwards notes, “is just another way to spell ‘cultural legacy’” (6). My contention is that this legacy extends beyond children’s television because the adults celebrating it are idealizing the respected, non-toxic masculinity embodied by Rogers, rooted in a likewise idealized past, as an antidote for currently widespread toxic masculinity. Rogers was an ordained Presbyterian minister but Long connects him with the old Quaker saying “Attitudes are caught, not taught” and, more unexpectedly, with 1960s counterculture—even though Rogers could not be furthest in looks and disposition from the typical hippie activist. Precisely, Long attributes to Rogers’ “quiet style” the collective failure to see him “as one of the most radical pacifists of contemporary history” (2015: 16). There is certainly a good measure of covert radicalism in the man that Matheson calls “America’s favorite surrogate father” (2016: 24) and “the ideal American man for millions of television viewers” (25). This radicalism is expressed in his refusal to obey the dictates of twentieth-century patriarchal masculinity and his decision to embrace “a bifurcated form of manhood” (Matheson: 26) combining, apart from 1960s pacifism, two past ideal figures: the eighteenth-century New England communal

270 

S. MARTÍN

man—described by Rotundo in his seminal volume American Manhood (1994)—and the nineteenth-century Christian gentleman. Rogers’ radicalism also consists of being “fearless enough to be kind” and “never too cool to be simply good” (Williams 2012) at a time when kindness and goodness are read as evidence of weakness in men, or of their being too conservative—which Rogers partly was in his Republicanism and religious beliefs. Tuan observes, though, that, “a temperament touched by conservatism does not hinder a good man from thinking and acting with revolutionary boldness” (2008: 201) and this description perfectly fits Rogers. The mystery that remains unsolved is why Rogers focused his alternative manliness and radical energies specifically on children’s television. Not even the excellent biography by Maxwell King, a retired journalist and Senior Fellow of the Fred Rogers Centre for Early Learning and Children’s Media, provides a clear hypothesis. Hermione Lee warns that exploring lives with a significant professional dimension compels the biographer “to look at how attitudes to the subject, and their profession, may have shifted through time, and to work out the relationship between public performance and identity” (2009: 196). King meets well the challenge to place Rogers in context—Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood “often reached 10 percent of American households, five to ten million children each day” (2018: 2)—but he struggles to understand the man “with a manner so gentle as to seem a little feminine” (2), who despite conveying “a Zen-like calm on television, saw a psychiatrist for years” (5). King’s difficulties are no doubt due to Rogers’ strong sense of privacy; even though he was outspoken enough in his many interviews, possibly only his wife Joanne (and his psychiatrist) fully fathomed how his interest in children connected with his own childhood. In King’s biography, the child Freddy Rogers has two identities, both the object of bullying: one, the privileged little (white) boy driven to school by his black chauffeur; the other, the chubby, sickly child too pampered by his mother. Born in 1928 in Latrobe (his show’s neighborhood), near Pittsburgh—where he would develop most of his TV career—Rogers learned his unbending work ethic from his businessman father, Jim, and his inclination to do good from his religious mother, Nancy. The rich kid in town was remembered by a Latrobe Elementary School classmate as someone regarded as “a bit of a sissy” but also a “great guy”, though not extraordinary (King: 32). Rogers’ own memories used as voiceover by Morgan Neville in a beautifully animated scene of his documentary, are of being “scared to use words”, a fear which only his passion for music would

16  LET THE LITTLE CHILDREN COME TO ME: FRED ROGERS, THE GOOD… 

271

assuage: “I didn’t want to be a bad boy. I didn’t want to tell people that I was angry. But I would show it through the way that I would play the piano” (0:31:50–0:33:00). This anger, to which I will return later in the analysis of Heller’s film, was fueled by bullying at school which Freddy endured in silence. Nick Tallo, Rogers’ floor manager in the 1972–2001 period of the show, speculates in Neville’s film that perhaps Mr. Rogers was little Fat Freddy’s progeny; this seem confirmed by Rogers’ view, cited in the documentary, that the “greatest evil” is caused by “those who make you feel that you are less than who you are” (1:00:48–1:00:57). Music was fundamental in Rogers’ life. After leaving Dartmouth College, finding himself unable to enjoy its “macho intensity” (King: 53), he attended the Conservatory of Music at Rollins College in Florida, where he met his future wife Joanne, a pianist. Rogers was throughout his life a composer; he had fourteen operas and two hundred songs to his name, including many hits written for Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. Young Fred had firmly rejected his father’s offer to join him in his business, expecting to become a Presbyterian Minister after his graduation in 1951, but it took him twelve long years to be finally ordained in 1963. Rogers married (in 1952) and fathered two sons (born in 1959 and 1961) but, above all, he trained himself along the 1950s to pursue a career in the by then practically inexistent children’s educational television. Rogers often explained how, back home after completing his BA, he found a brand new TV set in his parents’ wealthy home and, appalled by the clownish antics in the children’s shows, he decided on the spot to enter a medium which he never enjoyed as a spectator. At that time, twenty-three-year-old Rogers was not yet a father and he lacked any kind of training in children’s education. King quotes Joanne recalling that in college Fred “talked about children and their education all the time, and he often went to visit nursery school classes and children’s centers to observe the children and their teachers, and to develop his own thoughts on education” (58). No explanation is offered, however, about where this interest came from except for the legendary, epiphanic moment when Rogers understood that television would give him “the chance to be both an educator and an artist” (King: 68). Bent on this course and using his father’s contacts, Rogers became apprenticed at NBC in New York. He was next employed by Pittsburgh’s community-based public new television station WQED, where in 1954 he became the producer of The Children’s Hour, hosted by Josie Carey. Rogers did not appear on screen but the need to fill in time, after a minor technological glitch, caused him

272 

S. MARTÍN

to introduce a segment with Daniel Striped Tiger, the puppet which would eventually become the most famous of the eleven male and female hand puppets which he voiced in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. The puppets came straight from the many quarantines speckling Rogers’ childhood, lonely periods during which he learned to entertain himself. In adulthood, the puppets still were his preferred instruments to express emotion, under cover of the show’s plotlines. There is something unsettling in the adult Rogers’ close links with his puppets but, as King notes, the specialists in child development of the University of Pittsburgh who eventually trained Rogers concluded that “his own instincts, as someone who had stayed in close touch with the feelings of his own childhood, helped guide him to just the right dialogue with children” (103). Rogers believed that this dialogue should proceed among equals, though at the same time his outfit—with his famous cardigans, knitted by his mother, and his comfy sports shoes—and his demeanor were always those of a steady, placid adult who need not use slapstick to attract children. He first tested this approach in the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation of Toronto with Misterogers (1963–1966), moving then back to Pittsburgh to consolidate his “on-air ministry” (King: 122), with the blessing of his Presbyterian superiors. In 1968, when Rogers was already forty, Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood was first broadcast, remaining on air until 2001.2 Rogers enchanted children and parents, though some adults were concerned that he was not manly enough. “Some critics”, Briggs informed in 1975, “say his mild-mannered approach and his stress on caring makes him too soft to be an effective male image”. Briggs also reported Rogers “drolly” saying, “I’m not John Wayne, so consequently for some people I’m not the model for the man in the house” (23). As happened when he was in primary school, Rogers “was often labelled ‘a sissy’, or gay, in a derogatory sense” (King: 207); finding that “he wasn’t a very masculine person, he wasn’t a very feminine person”, his baffled biographer concludes that Roger was “androgynous” (207), a label that fits him poorly. He led, in any case, “no double life”, being “absolutely faithful to his marriage vows” (King: 208). Since Americans could not understand Rogers’ unique masculinity, they expressed their unease with a variety of false, incompatible fantasies which made him either a secretly ultra-masculine macho, or a closeted effeminate gay or even a child molester, as I have noted. The parents, “drawn to Rogers by their exasperation with television’s violent and sexual content”, still left their children in his hands because they longed “for a return to happier, simpler programs” though

16  LET THE LITTLE CHILDREN COME TO ME: FRED ROGERS, THE GOOD… 

273

they might have felt that “Rogers’ message might be outdated” (Briggs 1975: 23). Leaving unsolved the biographical mystery of why Rogers felt the urge to devote his professional career to children—never having expressed any wish to train as a pedagogue before he discovered television—I turn next to his representation in the films by Morgan Neville and Marielle Heller, neither of which is a classic biopic. Neville is interested in exploring Rogers’ philosophy of goodness, whereas Heller investigates whether Rogers’ peaceful personality could have emerged from an exceptional talent to restrain anger.

The Documentary Film: Defining Goodness In Won’t You Be My Neighbor? Neville uses the interview with biographer Maxwell King to connect Rogers with the luminaries that ran the University of Pittsburgh’s leading research on child development.3 The Arsenal Family & Children’s Center attached to the university was founded in 1953 by the iconic Dr. Benjamin Spock, who hired Dr. Margaret McFarland—Rogers’ main mentor—to run it. Other noted Pittsburgh specialists were pediatrician Dr. T. Berry Brazelton and leading child psychologist Erik Erikson. Rogers never took a degree at Pittsburgh but remained throughout his career a disciple of McFarland, with whom he would discuss the scripts for his series. Rogers’ success is certainly due to the lessons received from McFarland, to which he added his unique philosophy of life. Won’t You Be my Neighbor? explores this philosophy through a barrage of archival footage showing Rogers in diverse periods of his life, in no chronological order, accompanied by interviews with his family and collaborators. All the key moments in Rogers’ career are represented. This includes the famous 1969 speech before the Senate Subcommittee on Communications which convinced Republican Senator Pastore to award PBS and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting a 20$ million grant, money that President Nixon wanted to invest on the Vietnam War. Rogers recited to Pastore the lyrics of “What Do You Do with the Mad That You Feel?”, one of his most popular songs, and the one that best describes Rogers’ call to enjoy being in control of one’s emotions. Delighted and moved, Pastore acknowledged the right of American children to receive crucial lessons from public television, as embodied by charming Rogers himself.

274 

S. MARTÍN

As  Bruzzi warns, “the documentary as prescribed by advocates of observational realism is an unrealizable fantasy” being “circumscribed by the fact that it is a mode of representation” (2006: 217). Therefore, Neville’s film must be necessarily approached—like King’s biography—as a tentative portrait of the real man. Neville, the author of many musical biographical documentaries, became interested in Rogers after working on The Music of Strangers (2015), a film on Chinese-American cellist Yo-Yo Ma. This celebrated musician told Neville that he turned his overpowering early fame into a positive force thanks to Rogers’ mentorship (he was a guest several times in Neighborhood). Neville’s subsequent research showed that Rogers was “a very unusual person” but “completely comfortable being that way”, which he found “really empowering” (in Riley 2018). The director was always careful to obey Joanne Rogers’ request to avoid portraying her late husband as a saint, a point that also surfaces in Heller’s film. There the fictional Joanne argues that “If you think of him as a saint, then his way of being is unattainable” (0:46:51–0:46:55); she stresses, as the real Joanne often did and still does, that her husband Fred is “not a perfect person” (0:47:03) but a man with a temper who keeps anger under control by daily practice, an assessment which is central in Heller’s portrait of Rogers and, to a lesser extent, in Neville’s. Won’t You Be My Neighbor? reproduces a segment from an interview, near the end of his show’s long run, which condenses Rogers’ philosophy: Let’s take the gauntlet and make goodness attractive in this so-called next millennium. That’s the real job that we have. I’m not talking about Pollyannish kind of stuff, I’m talking about down-to-Earth actual goodness, people caring for each other in a myriad ways, rather than people knocking each other off all the time. I don’t find that funny at all. What changes the world? The only thing that ever really changes the world is when somebody gets the idea that love can abound and can be shared. (1:15:46–1:16:42)

These words might seem just a sentimental platitude, but a main element of Rogers’ mystique is how his speech and body language expressed his total conviction that everyone deserves love because each person is unique. Yo-Yo Ma recalls being scared when Rogers told him “It’s so nice to see you and to be with you”, not so much by the declaration as by his intensity (39:01–39:13). African-American singer and musician François Clemmons, who played Police Officer Clemmons in the show between 1968 and

16  LET THE LITTLE CHILDREN COME TO ME: FRED ROGERS, THE GOOD… 

275

1993, recalls crying when Rogers candidly told him “I love you”. In one of Rogers’ most daring uses of his children’s show to express progressive political views, the pair appeared cooling their feet together in a wash basin; the episode was broadcast in 1969, when swimming pools were still segregated in the US South. Rogers’ view that nobody “can grow unless he really is accepted exactly as he is”—expressed in popular songs such as “I Like You As You Are” and “It’s You I Like”—was in the later period of his career a constant source of criticism, when his opponents blamed him for having helped to produce a generation of entitled adults, bound to be disappointed by the challenges of life. Neville answers this criticism by showing Rogers in the last of the many commencement speeches he gave, telling the new graduates, “you don’t ever have to do anything sensational for people to love you” (1:19:47–1:19:52). For Rogers the basis of empathy, itself the basis of love, involved learning to see the others as individuals worthy of respect. The experience of human life confirms that not everybody is lovable or capable of loving, but Rogers’ teachings communicated a deep-seated Christian belief in the human capacity to do good. This belief was not expressed through dry sermons but through the ethical guidance offered to children whenever something disturbed their world, from a pet’s death to Bobby Kennedy’s assassination, passing through other complex topics such as divorce. Rogers believed, as he often said, that “everything mentionable is manageable” and that a sound emotional balance could be kept if hidden anxieties were openly discussed. This was a means to an end, since in Rogers’ view goodness came from the persons at peace with themselves. Many doubted, however, that Rogers himself kept that fine balance as a man. This doubt was expressed in the many parodies, such as Eddie Murphy’s acid 1980s “Mr. Robinson’s Neighborhood” sketches for Saturday Night Live. Also, most tellingly, in Tom Junod’s notable article for Esquire “Can You Say… Hero?” (1998, original ellipsis), the basis for Heller’s film. Junod, a man notorious for his acrimonious journalism, started researching his article as a total skeptic, believing Mr. Rogers to be yet another puppet, but he was astonished to discover that there was no fictional construct behind the man, and no mask. Junod declares in Neville’s film that Rogers could not be compared to anyone else: “that was one of the things I responded to. I definitely saw another way of being a man” (1:07:13–1:07:27). Neville suggests, nonetheless, that Rogers expressed hidden doubts about himself in songs such as “Sometimes I

276 

S. MARTÍN

Wonder If I’m a Mistake”, sung in Neighborhood by his alter ego the puppet Daniel Striped Tiger. Remarkably, Rogers’ sister claims that although Rogers initially identified with shy, sweet Daniel he eventually expressed his real self through gruff King Friday XIII (1:15:10), the “benevolent despot” (0:17:26) of the show. Rogers eventually realized that he was losing the war against commercial children’s television. He retired in 2001, aged seventy-three, returning only for an episode after 9/11 in which he struggled to aid children to cope with that manifestation of plain evil. Junod had written in his 1998 article  that “He is losing, of course. The revolution he started—a half hour a day, five days a week—it wasn’t enough, it didn’t spread, and so, forced to fight his battles alone, Mister Rogers is losing, as we all are losing” (online, original italics). Rogers died in 2003 of a stomach cancer whose symptoms he ignored for too long and which is easy to read as a psychosomatic manifestation of a secret sense of defeat. Neville’s film does not end on that bitter note, though, but with one of Rogers’ favorite exercises: asking the audience to think silently for one minute of the persons whose love has contributed to their lives. No doubt, many who were his original audience think of him. A box office hit, Won’t You Be My Neighbor? left its many spectators in tears.

The Fiction Film: Issues in Anger Management Marianne Heller was inspired to make A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood by President Donald Trump. His overt patriarchal masculinity and obnoxious public behavior revealed to Heller that “the world needed (…) an example of a sensitive man who was trying to help us get in touch with our emotions, who believed in kindness over cruelty” (in Armistead 2020).4 The man who embodied “the nurturing, sensitive male and a rejection of machismo” (Wolfe 2017: 48) is played in Heller’s film by Tom Hanks, a beloved actor appreciated for his gentleness and, as happens, Rogers’ sixth cousin (Capron and Zdanowicz 2019). It is hard to imagine a better choice, given Hanks’ talent and long list of essentially decent male characters, although ultimately both actor and real-life icon are underused in the peculiar plot. Scriptwriters Micah Fitzerman-Blue and Noah Harpster transformed Junod’s famous Esquire article into a screenplay about the relationship between the journalist and Rogers, although they significantly altered Junod’s family background. For this reason, Junod requested that the

16  LET THE LITTLE CHILDREN COME TO ME: FRED ROGERS, THE GOOD… 

277

name of the main character be changed; it then became Lloyd Vogel (played by  Matthew Rhys). In Heller’s film, Vogel’s relationship to the fatherly Rogers is articulated by the conflict with his father Jerry, who, unable to face her death, abandoned his terminally ill wife as well as teen Lloyd and his sister. Reacting to this premise, Junod writes that, unlike Vogel, he “idolized” his father Lou (2019, original italics), though he grants that Rogers, his friend for life after their Esquire interview, was also a father figure for him. Junod describes both his father and Rogers as “seducers”, though Rogers had for Junod “a different brand of charm” (2019), being the inspiration for him to choose an alternative masculinity to that of his father. Junod, who was preparing a book about his father (not yet published) when he read the script, became quite uncomfortable with how their bond was re-imagined in Heller’s film. However, when he finally saw the finished film Junod was deeply moved, feeling that Vogel “had something of mine” as if he were “a distant cousin” (2019, original italics), thus inadvertently echoing the family link between Rogers and Hanks. In A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, the relationship between Vogel and Rogers is articulated by the massive anger which the journalist feels against his father Jerry (Chris Cooper). Men’s Studies scholar and activist Michael Kaufman observes that anger is “an emotion we continue to reward in men” (2019: 116) because it too often channels “a vast range of emotions” otherwise repressed. As patriarchal ideology dictates, “real men are in control” (Kaufman: 116) and, so, scared and vulnerable men feel anger, an emotion which “can easily get expressed as violence” (116). This happens to Vogel when meeting his father at his sister’s wedding after a long time. Jerry’s tactless remark about his late wife prompts Vogel to punch him, which causes a guest to smash his face. When the fictional Rogers meets Vogel the wounds are still visible, and he quickly realizes that they reflect the journalist’s deep inner wounds. Junod remarks about his friendship with Rogers that “I still don’t know what he saw in me, why he decided to trust me, or what, to this day, he wanted from me, if anything at all” (2019). Vogel has similar difficulties to understand why Roger wants to befriend him. Paradoxically, as Heller subtly suggests, while Rogers enjoyed entering other persons’ privacy, he was himself a very private man, one that, Junod notes, was often “obfuscatory” and “disclosed very little about himself, even to his wife” (2019). As Rogers pries into the private life of an increasingly uncomfortable Vogel, reversing the roles of interviewer and interviewee, Heller invites the

278 

S. MARTÍN

audience to wonder whether the TV star was himself fully aware of his own inner life. In a crucial scene, a rather annoyed Vogel asks Rogers how he copes with the “burden” which other people place in his hands with their confidences. Rogers replies that pressure can always be released without harming anyone else, for instance by banging hard his piano. Yet, instead of further explicating himself, Rogers starts a relentless interrogatory about Vogel’s childhood, during which the younger man grudgingly reveals why he hates his father. In retaliation for the intrusion, Vogel tells Rogers “I can’t imagine what it was like growing up with you as a father”, asking him bluntly how his sons, Jim and John, coped. Rogers reveals that “Until recently, my oldest never told people about me”, and that teen John “tested me” (0:55:44–0:56:12)—in Neville’s documentary the adult John mentions that it was “a little tough for me to have almost the second Christ as my Dad” (0:29:17–0:29:22). The publicly known disagreements between Rogers and his sons did not undermine his public reputation as a children’s educator but Hanks’ smiling yet blank face suggests in the scene that, even though outwardly he thanks Vogel for his “perspective” (0:56:40), Rogers is irritated. The conversation ends abruptly when he insistently asks Vogel again about Jerry, and the journalist leaves Rogers’ apartment in a huff. Vogel’s personal crisis is solved through three key moments, following a second confrontation with his father during which Jerry suffers a heart attack. In the first of these key moments, Vogel collapses on the set of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, when he hallucinates with his dying mother and she rejects his anger. Next comes his contrite acknowledgment to his wife Andrea that he feels deeply scared by his new role as the father of their newborn baby and by Jerry’s impending death. In the third key moment, a deathbed scene, quite predictably Vogel and Jerry reconcile. The father admits that his behavior was “selfish, and it was cruel”, and manages to gruffly express his love, a declaration which his son returns while holding his baby boy in his arms. Vogel’s transition into mature manhood is completed when Rogers, pleased with the Esquire article, visits the dying Jerry to spend a happy afternoon with Vogel’s family. After the funeral, the workaholic Vogel offers to stay home with the baby so that Andrea can go back to work; thus, the full assumption of his new masculinity is sealed. The problem with the script—and perhaps even with King’s biography and Neville’s documentary—is that too little is shown of Rogers so that he remains a cipher. Like Vogel, audiences can easily understand his main lesson, namely, that all persons are shaped even by those they cannot love.

16  LET THE LITTLE CHILDREN COME TO ME: FRED ROGERS, THE GOOD… 

279

Yet, in the fiction film, there is something opaque in Rogers’ characterization mostly due to how Heller constantly alludes to anger. Quite at the beginning, Rogers is seen discussing anger in his show, recognizing that he felt angry when he was bullied as a little boy. This confession serves to introduce the song “What Do You Do With the Mad That You Feel?”, which Vogel later watches Rogers perform through Daniel Striped Tiger. This is the song that, as noted, Rogers recited to enchant Senator Pastore but far from being sentimental it supposes that any child can feel “so mad you could bite” (0:36:24). Rogers sings “It’s great to be able to stop/ When you’ve planned a thing that’s wrong”—which alludes to venting your anger against someone else—because being able to “stop when I want to” is a “good feeling” (0:36:51–0:37:00). The song continues: “Know that there’s something deep inside/ That helps us become what we can./ For a girl can be someday a woman/ And a boy can be someday a man” (0:37:11–0:37–23). Rogers presents anger as an emotion that must be controlled by both boys and girls if they are to grow into mature adults. Somehow, though, this message seems to come from the little boy that Rogers once was and seems to be addressed only to other little boys, forgetting the girls. Heller’s film closes with Rogers holding his side in pain, but concealing the gesture from his team, at the end of the Neighborhood’s episode on Vogel. Alone, he starts softly playing the piano to suddenly bang it, which reveals Rogers’ anger about his own mortality. He cannot ask, however, Vogel for comfort, as theirs is the sort of sincere but unilateral friendship that Rogers kept with many people. Junod recalls that in his last conversation Rogers did not even mention his terminal illness and audiences might infer from the tense scene with Vogel that Rogers would not seek comfort from his sons, either, perhaps not even from his wife. Heller’s film assumes in this way that the nicest man in America understood other men’s anger not because he did not feel this emotion but because he learned how to handle it by making a constant effort to curb it down and by fiercely safeguarding his privacy. This does not mean that Rogers was not authentic or that his goodness was mere playacting. What it means is that not even the most balanced masculinity is fully free of the need to protect its vulnerability behind a mask.

280 

S. MARTÍN

Conclusion Fred Rogers’ personal choices allowed him to enjoy a happy life as a man who did not obey the mandates of twentieth-century American hegemonic masculinity, without being—using Raewyn Connell’s categories— subordinated, complicit, or marginal (2006: 80–81). His privileged social background helped him to invent his professional career but he brought into it the lesson that not even privilege can protect a young boy from bullying. His Christian beliefs, personal qualities, and love of children resulted in a philosophy of goodness that he knew how to transmit through his very popular television series. Rogers may have lost the war against commercial TV but the biography by King and the films by Neville and Heller show that he is a man very much missed. Connell insists that hegemonic masculinity can be altered and replaced by other models. There is, then, hope that Rogers can serve as an example for those who, like Junod and other men, seek alternatives to patriarchal manhood. On the other hand, even though Rogers’ masculinity was a radical departure from the norm, his strict privacy suggests that he was not wholly free to express emotion beyond the restrictions placed by patriarchy on men. In any case, he did provide excellent lessons on how to control anger and enjoy a good life, which are essential to detox current masculinity and to let adult men and little children approach each other again.

Notes 1. Abusers often choose professions that give them access to children. The scandal surrounding Dr. Larry Nassar, who sexually abused hundreds of female gymnasts for decades, is proof of this. Similarly, British television and radio personality Jimmy Saville was posthumously revealed to be one of the UK’s main sexual predators. In fact, my interest in Rogers, a figure unknown outside the USA, started when I wrongly assumed that he was the American Saville. 2. Actually, Rogers tried to reach the adult audience, after leaving Neighborhood in 1975, with the thirteen episodes of his interview show Old Friends... New Friends (1978) for PBS. His calm manner, however, was too sedate for the program to succeed. 3. Rogers met them thanks to contacts provided by the Presbyterian Seminary in the 1950s, when he combined his religious training with producing The Children’s Corner.

16  LET THE LITTLE CHILDREN COME TO ME: FRED ROGERS, THE GOOD… 

281

4. That Heller’s choice was right was subsequently demonstrated, in October 2020, when Mercedes Schlapp, a senior adviser to the Trump campaign, published a tweet comparing an ABC interview with Senator Joe Biden to an episode of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood (see Cathey 2020). The intended slur, however, increased support for Biden among those for whom the comparison was seen as praise. Biden eventually defeated Trump in the 2020 Presidential election.

References A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood. 2019. Directed by Marianne Heller. USA. Big Beach Films, Tencent Pictures, and TriStar Pictures. American Academy of Pediatrics. 2019. Child Abuse: Overview and Evaluation. Itasca, IL: AAP. Armistead, Claire. 2020. Marielle Heller: “I Don’t Think We Have to Be Jerks to Make Good Art”. The Observer, 8 November. https://www.theguardian.com/ film/2020/nov/08/marielle-­h eller-­i -­d ont-­t hink-­w e-­h ave-­t o-­b e-­j erks-­t o-­ make-­good-­art. Accessed 20 October 2021. Bishop, Ronald. 2003. The World’s Nicest Grown-Up: A Fantasy Theme Analysis of News Media Coverage of Fred Rogers. Journal of Communication 53 (1): 16–31. https://doi.org/10.1093/joc/53.1.16. Blakemore, Erin. 2020. Why Are There so Many Urban Legends About Mr. Rogers? History.com, 22 June. https://www.history.com/news/urban-­ legends-­mr-­rogers. Accessed 8 October 2021. Briggs, Kenneth A. 1975. Mr. Rogers Decides It’s Time to Head for New Neighborhoods. The New  York Times, 8 May. https://www.nytimes. com/1975/05/08/archives/mr-­r ogers-­decides-­its-­time-­to-­head-­for-­new-­ neighborhoods.html. Accessed 12 October 2021. Bruzzi, Stella. 2006, 2000. New Documentary: A Critical Introduction. New York: Routledge. Capron, Maddie, and Christina Zdanowicz. 2019. Tom Hanks Just Found Out He’s Related to Mister Rogers. CNN Entertainment, 20 November. https:// edition.cnn.com/2019/11/19/entertainment/tom-­h anks-­f red-­r ogers-­ related-­trnd/index.html. Accessed 8 October 2021. Cathey, Libby. 2020. Mr. Rogers Trends on Twitter After Trump Adviser Compares Biden to Beloved Pennsylvania Icon. ABC News, 16 October. https://abcnews.go.com/Politics/mr-­rogers-­trends-­twitter-­trump-­adviser-­ compares-­biden/story?id=73656690. Accessed 20 October 2021. Connell, R.W. 2006, 1995. Masculinities. London: Polity Press. Edwards, Gavin. 2019. Kindness and Wonder: Why Mister Rogers Matters Now More Than Ever. New York: Dey Street Books.

282 

S. MARTÍN

Junod, Tom. 1998. Can You Say… Hero? Esquire, November. https://www. esquire.com/entertainment/tv/a27134/can-­y ou-­s ay-­h ero-­e sq1198/. Accessed 15 October 2021. ———. 2019. My Friend Mr. Rogers. The Atlantic, December. https://www. theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2019/12/what-­w ould-­m ister-­ rogers-­do/600772/. Accessed 15 October 2021. Kaufman, Michael. 2019. The Time Has Come: Why Men Must Join the Gender Equality Revolution. Berkeley, CA: Counterpoint. King, Maxwell. 2018. The Good Neighbor: The Life and Work of Fred Rogers, 2018. New York: Abrams Press. Lee, Hermione. 2009. Biography: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Levin, Robert A., and Laurie Moses Hines. 2003. Educational Television, Fred Rogers, and the History of Education. History of Education Quarterly 43 (2): 262–275. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1748-­5959.2003.tb00123.x. Long, Michael. 2015. Peaceful Neighbor: Discovering the Countercultural Mister Rogers. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Matheson, Sue. 2016. Good Neighbors, Moral Philosophy and the Masculine Ideal. In Revisiting Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood: Essays on Lessons About Self and Community, eds. Sandra Merlock Jackson and Steven M.  Emmanuel, 76–87. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Riley, Jenelle. 2018. Director Morgan Neville on the Mr. Rogers Movie that Will Make You Cry. Variety, 19 June. https://variety.com/2018/film/features/ morgan-­n eville-­m r-­r ogers-­w ont-­y ou-­b e-­m y-­n eighbor-­1 202851648/. Accessed 8 October 2021. Rotundo, Anthony E. 1994. American Manhood: Transformations in Masculinity from the Revolution to the Modern Era. New York: Basic Books. Tuan, Yi-Fu. 2008. Human Goodness. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Williams, Mary Elizabeth. 2012. Where Have You Gone, Mister Rogers? Salon, 13 March. https://www.salon.com/2012/03/13/where_have_you_gone_mister_rogers/. Accessed 8 October 2021. Wolfe, Mark J.P. 2017. The World of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. New  York: Routledge. Won’t You Be my Neighbor? 2018. Directed by Morgan Neville. USA.  Tremolo Productions.

CHAPTER 17

The Part of the Iceberg That Doesn’t Show: Romance, Good Husbands, and Mr Julia Child M. Isabel Santaulària

Introduction: Julie & Julia, Romance, and the Romance Hero Norah Ephron’s film Julie & Julia (2009) is a light-hearted and heart-­ warming culinary comedy that chronicles the parallel lives of two real women who delighted in cooking and turned their passion for food into their livelihood. Based on Julie Powell’s memoir Julie & Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously (2009), and Julia Child’s autobiography My Life in France (2006), written with her grand-nephew Alex Prud’homme, Ephron’s film is also a love story. In fact, a story of many loves. It tells Julie Powell’s (Amy Adams) story of love for Julia Child (Meryl Streep), which led her to take up the challenge of cooking the 524 recipes in Child,

M. I. Santaulària (*) Universitat de Lleida, Lleida, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6_17

283

284 

M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

Louisette Berthole and Simone ‘Simca’ Beck’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volumes I and II in 365  days, keeping a blog about her feat. Ephron’s film is also about Julia Child’s love story with Paris, France, and French food. She turned this into a career after graduating from Le Cordon Bleu with a Diplôme de Cuisine in 1951, teaming up with Simca and Louisette to found the cookery school L’École des Trois Gourmandes, a culinary experience from which their ground-breaking recipe book emerged. In the third place, the film is also the love story between Julia and her husband, Paul Child (Stanley Tucci),1 whose partnership not only made Mastering possible, but also everything that followed in its wake as Julia Child became a celebrity chef and American icon. Child described his role as his wife’s partner as “the part of the iceberg that does not show” (Fitch 2012: 314), words I have borrowed for my title. In terms of genre and discourse, Julie & Julia is a rarity in the crowded romance scene: a postfeminist romantic comedy that truly celebrates love, marriage, and household chores while advancing a feminist agenda. In what is variously referred to as “retro-sexism” (Whelehan 2000), “retreatism” (Negra 2009), “enlightened sexism” (Douglas 2010), or “the postfeminist mystique” (Munford and Waters 2014), the plot of some popular postfeminist rom-coms revolves around successful professional women who realise they are not happy and are saved by love into a life of blissful domesticity. These stories endorse a discourse that reinforces “conservative norms as the ultimate ‘best choice’ in women’s lives” (Negra: 4). Julie & Julia, on the other hand, portrays Julia as a perfectly happy wife, “set about becoming the consummate housewife so typical of this period later defined by Betty Friedan in The Feminine Mystique” (Fitch: 145), whose enjoyment of housewifely duties paved nonetheless the way for a successful career as a cookery teacher, cookbook writer, chef, and TV celebrity. The film shows Julia’s delight in shopping, cooking, and planning meals and dinner parties for Paul, while he held different positions as a civil servant and diplomat. In the film, as in real life, these chores do not shackle Julia. The pleasure she felt in doing them informed her life and determined her future career choices. She became “the embodiment of feminist achievement and independence” (Fitch: 388) without ever abandoning her kitchen, while playing the part of embassy wife (or just ‘plain wife’ after Paul’s retirement) with gusto and contentment. Actually, Julia tested her recipes for her books in the kitchens of the homes she shared with Paul. He designed the kitchen for their home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and when she started her first TV show, The

17  THE PART OF THE ICEBERG THAT DOESN’T SHOW: ROMANCE, GOOD… 

285

French Chef, he built a replica of the set in that kitchen so that she could practice.2 Home and career were thus mixed. According to Fitch, Child declined the ‘feminist’ label because, though she had nothing to do with other housewives, she was a woman of an older generation (she was born in 1912). Child, however, was indeed a feminist, even though the feminist community did not recognise her as one since she unabashedly gave her husband credit for her success (Fitch: 387–88; 499–500). Camille Paglia condemned the neglect by the academic feminist establishment and described Child as “one of those figures in history which totally transformed American culture” (in Fitch: 500). Ephron’s film also challenges the centrality of the hero in rom-coms. Romance may be a genre for, about, and by women, but, according to Deborah Philips, the hero owns the story (2021: 59–60). He may have fewer scenes than the heroine, but the heroine’s relationship with the hero drives the plot. In fact, Jayne Anne Krentz explains, “In a romance novel, the relationship between the hero and the heroine is the plot” (1992a: 108; original emphasis). In Julie & Julia, the plot is both Julia’s burgeoning career and her relationship with her husband, which shows they can develop in perfect equilibrium. Paul is as important for Julia as her career, and he, in turn, shares her interests, enjoys her company, supports her choices, and celebrates her successes. In the film, Paul emerges as an unconventional man not just for his times but for ours, when men are not yet fully eschewing patriarchal practices and embracing softer, detoxed forms of masculinity as a response to various forces that have, since the 1990s, progressively undermined the patriarchal edifice that sustained traditional masculinity. These forces include the diminishing value of the physical, labouring male body in a technologized and bureaucratised society, but also women’s triumphant assaults on male citadels of privilege— the “genderquake” (Wolf 1993: 20) that has led to men’s loss of the authority and power they held undisputedly in the past. Add to this the 2017 #MeToo movement exposing women’s experiences of sexual harassment and sexual abuse, which has also triggered a profound questioning of hegemonic masculinity by many men who feel the dominant narrative of masculinity as toxic does not match their actual experience of being men and their roles as romantic partners, fathers, or friends.3 The film paints an accurate picture of an anti-patriarchal man whose fictional portrayal tallies with the real man behind the woman, as it transpires from the pages of the many texts devoted to Julia’s success story, especially her already mentioned autobiography My Life in France; Joan Reardon’s

286 

M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

compilation of the letters between Child and Avis DeVoto, As Always, Julia: Food, Friendship, and the Making of a Masterpiece (2012); Noël Riley Fitch’s Appetite for Life: The Biography of Julia Child (1997); or Alex Prud’homme’s The French Chef in America: Julia Child’s Second Act (2016). Both the film and the biographical texts provide a portrayal of a sensitive man and a good husband who can also function as a perfectly viable and refreshing, feminist alternative to the prototypical hero of romance. The part devoted to Julia Child in the film reads as a romance precisely because it records the genesis of Mastering, showing that Julia’s success story flourished because of her loving relationship with a good husband. Yet, as I show next, this is the figure missing in romance.

The Hero of Popular Romance: Old Patterns Julia and Paul’s relationship fits the definition of romance provided by the Romance Writers of America: “a central love story and an emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending” (Kamblé et  al. 2021: 2). They met in Ceylon when they were both working for the OSS (Office of Strategic Services) in the summer of 1944, and became friends before they were lovers. Part of a larger group of friends, they did not like each other, at least not romantically, at first. In his letters to his twin brother, Charlie, Paul described Julia as “an old maid” (she was thirty-two when they met, he was forty-two) who had a good mind but was a “sloppy thinker” given to “wild emotionalism” and who “lack[ed] savoir faire” (in Fitch: 102). Since she did not resemble his ideal of “la femme intégrale” (121), Paul expressed a lack of physical passion for her. He, in turn, did not match Julia’s “image of Western manliness” (Fitch: 122). As she wrote in her diary, Paul was probably not the man for her “as he [was] not constant nor essentially vigorous enough”, and he even seemed “to lack a male drive” (in Fitch: 124). She was indeed interested in Paul from the beginning, and her frustration with this lack was probably her reaction to his sexual unresponsiveness, bluntly recorded in his letters. He noted Julia was curious about sex and he knew “what the cure [was]”, yet “it would be too much for Dr. Paulski to risk attempting” (102) it (Dr. Paulski was the nickname Child used for himself). Julia, however, grew on him, and separation made them realise they wanted to be together. After dating informally abroad, the courtship continued, intensified, and became explicitly passionate (by mail) once back home when they were living with their families in different parts of the States. Having decided to travel together across the

17  THE PART OF THE ICEBERG THAT DOESN’T SHOW: ROMANCE, GOOD… 

287

country to test their compatibility, they met their respective families, and finally married in September 1946. Their wedding is not the highlight of their story, as is the case of popular romances that deliver the HEA (‘Happy Ever After’) finale, but do not quite delve into the ‘ever after’ and the minutiae of coupledom. Julia and Paul’s romance continued throughout their married life until his death, and, given the evidence provided by family, friends, and their own accounts, it never faltered. Paul developed a heart condition and, in 1974, had a bypass operation. During surgery, several small strokes affected his brain and he never fully recovered. Julia looked after him, involving Paul in all her activities while he was well enough to follow her schedule. When it became obvious that he needed permanent care, she placed him in a rest home, where he died in 1992 aged ninety. She visited him every day, often more than once. When she was away, her assistant visited and Julia called more than once a day. This long-lasting companionship of almost fifty years makes their story more comforting than the one provided by popular romance. Popular romance, in fact, is a fantasy for readers who “seek a necessary distraction from the increasingly depressing world in which we exist” (Treacher 1988: 88), a “pleasurable respite from the vexations of everyday life” (Putney 1992: 99). Therefore, romance texts are “Of course unrealistic, that’s why we like them” (Owens Malek 1992: 75, original italics). They celebrate eternal love even though they compensate for what we know about relationships in real life: “relationships fail, [couples] struggle and get disappointed” (Treacher: 78). Furthermore, romance relies on heightened emotions and intense passion, and does not report the trivial aspects of the lovers’ everyday life. As Treacher writes, “not for [romance] lovers the arguments over the wedding arrangements, the boredom over the breakfast boiled egg, or the drudgery of domesticity” (78). Life as a couple quenches the flames of passion, so romance has no more to say after the protagonists start their life together. Paul and Julia’s story, instead, proves what romance often promises but does not actually develop in depth, namely that “true happiness happens when two people find and prioritise love” (Rodale 2015: 13), and that it is important to actually “[like] the person you [are] going to spend the rest of your life with” (22). When scrutinised through the narrative of romance, Julia and Paul’s relationship is, therefore, remarkable because it flourishes and grows beyond their wedding, and thrives in and celebrates life together as a couple. It also shows that romance can accommodate different types of men

288 

M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

and still be romantic, an issue that has concerned critics trying to come to terms with the appeal of the traditional hero of popular romance (Radway 1984; Radstone 1988; Krentz 1992a, 1992b; Regis 2007; Rodale 2015). Romance is not a monolithic genre and, like other popular narratives, it has responded to broad social changes (Pearce and Stacey 1995; Pérez-­ Fernández and Pérez Ríu 2021). Feminism has left its mark on romance fiction, especially in the last two decades with the arrival of a fourth wave of feminist activism (Pérez Casal 2021: 123–128). According to Eric Murphy Selinger, early studies that condemned romance for its conservative and patriarchal messages, notably Tania Modleski’s Loving with a Vengeance (1982), are dated and do not do justice to the genre, “which has long since evolved and diversified, not least in response to feminist critiques” (2007: 310). However, the changes which feminism has brought about have mostly affected the construction of the heroine, so new romances are increasingly “populated by strong female leads, whose aspirations and interests sometimes go beyond marriage” (Pérez Casal: 128) and show that there are “more things to a woman’s existence than sitting at home minding the babies, the stove, and the sewing” (Rodale: 20). The genre, though, remains a “bastion of hegemonic masculinity, which might be understood in common parlance as a kind of ‘toxic masculinity’” (Allan 2021: 444). There are appealing, sensitive, kind, and gentle men in films like Sleepless in Seattle (Nora Ephron 1993), While You Were Sleeping (John Turtletaub 1995), or My Big Fat Greek Wedding (Joel Zwick 2002). However, the question “why is traditional masculinity pleasurable in fantasy?” (Illouz 2016: 58) still puzzles feminist critics. The phenomenal success of series such as Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander nine-­ novel saga (1991–2021) or E.L. James’s 50 Shades of Grey novels (2011–2021), and their adaptations, suggests that romance has not truly responded to the proliferation of masculinities in society or the shifting standards of acceptable masculine behaviour (Bridges and Pascoe 2014; Heasley 2005; Hill 2007). Author Susan Elizabeth Phillips explains that some romance writers have accommodated “a sensitive, caring, enlightened male standing steadfastly at the heroine’s side as she works through her troubles”, but that these stories do not give her the rush and comfort she finds “in books with dangerous heroes, cynical men who have grown jaded with life and love, men of action who not only refuse to stand by the heroine’s side from the beginning (…) but who frequently make life more difficult for her” (1992: 56). Romance authors and readers go to great lengths to justify why

17  THE PART OF THE ICEBERG THAT DOESN’T SHOW: ROMANCE, GOOD… 

289

women enjoy stories of heroines who fall in love with men who are clearly patriarchal and not essentially good, decent, caring, or non-violent. Author Daphne Clair, states that “Sweet, sensitive, New Age men (…) may be wonderful husbands in real life” (1992: 71), but they are not worthy adversaries for the types of strong, confident, successful heroines of romance. For her, passion has to be laced by danger since “It’s no fun having a tame tiger about the house if it’s toothless” (68). This explains the proliferation of amorous vampires and other such creatures accommodated within the contours of the romance narrative in subgenres such as the gothic or the paranormal romance. It also explains the persistence of the problematic plot that revolves around the taming of the rake/rogue. Firstly, it constructs the process of falling in love as warfare, a conflict of opposites that need to be subdued/reformed before they start a life in common. Secondly, the power of love allows us to see rakes/rogues as desirable, which suggests that in romance (unfortunately in real life, too) “love sanctions and justifies often unreasonable actions of heroes and heroines” and “transforms the faults of the hero—moodiness, arrogance, and occasional cruelty—into expressions of caring” (Hubbard 1985: 117). Thirdly, women’s real power and strength are ultimately measured by their capacity to bring the prince out of the frog, or, more pertinently, the husband/partner out of the beast. Women’s greatest power, at the end of the day, is still the power of attraction, and it is mostly limited to a woman’s ascendancy over one man who becomes more committed after he falls in love. It has no bearing on patriarchy as an institution, as romance heroes do not necessarily give up their authority or their control of the public space at the end of the story. In the case of romance, therefore, genre and gender work hand in hand to legitimate the appeal of traditional masculinity, which then has to be tamed and reconstituted to meet the needs of women, so that the genre can bask on the transformative power of love. Whether the transformation is real and men can be (or are worth being) kept in a loving relationship is not for us to know, since the stories end the moment the lovers start living together and do not go beyond that point. Consequently, the process of being a good husband is not contemplated in a genre whose plot revolves around finding a partner for life. One may argue that what happens in a romance narrative is dictated by the romance formula, so the genre’s main function is not to educate women, romance’s main target readership, but to entertain by exploiting a story that women clearly enjoy. Women can distinguish between fiction and reality, so they know that popular romances

290 

M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

are fantasies and “do not expect the imaginative creations of romance to conform to real life any more than they expect the fantasies of any other genre to conform to the real world” (Krentz 1992b: 2). Still, romance is “the most popular and bestselling genre of fiction produced and consumed [by women] in the world today” (Kamblé, Murphy, and Teo: 1), and its success shows that “romance is a primary category of the female imagination” (Teo 2021: 476). Women’s fantasies, therefore, are nurtured by a genre that, more often than not, “continues to work with very traditional characterisations of masculinity” (Philips: 72), and which does not provide templates of good husbands beyond the premise that Alpha males have to be confronted with the realisation that, once they fall in love with the heroine, monogamy is now their destiny and have to turn into husbands and, in time, dads.

A Real/Really Romantic Alternative: Mr Julia Child As stated, the part of Julie & Julia devoted to Julia Child is a salutary exception to the norm of ending romance at the point when couples decide to be together. Norah Ephron concentrates especially on Julia and Paul’s relationship while she learns French, shops for food and cooks for Paul, enrols at Le Cordon Bleu, meets friends Simca and Louisette, and they begin their fruitful collaboration. The film hardly touches on Paul’s job as a diplomat, focusing on Julia and Paul’s intimate moments or, occasionally, with friends or family. This allows audiences to appreciate what makes Paul’s role as Julia’s husband proper romance material. His love for Julia, the film shows, combined tenderness and passion with profound admiration and respect. Ephron highlights his unwavering support and encouragement in all her pursuits, including the time-consuming job of testing and writing the recipes for Mastering, and his frank satisfaction when Houghton Mifflin accepts her book for publication. The film celebrates Paul’s steady encouragement and acceptance not only of Julia’s quirks and peculiarities but also of all her activities. It shows that marriage can be romantic when the couple keep the fire burning because they are well-adjusted and compatible. Most importantly, Ephron provides a romantic account of what it is like to be married, as Julie puts it in the film, to a really nice guy who, it must be stressed, is not a purpose-made

17  THE PART OF THE ICEBERG THAT DOESN’T SHOW: ROMANCE, GOOD… 

291

character created to serve a feminist agenda but a close portrait of a real-­ life man. The biographical texts on Julia present Paul Cushing Child (1902–1994) as a very unconventional man, especially for his times. It is now an accepted argument in Gender and Masculinities Studies that gender is not an essential category, unchanging and trans-historical, but a social construct resulting from intersecting historical, cultural, and social factors. It is also taken for granted that there are different ways of being men, and that different historical periods favour particular forms of hegemonic masculinity⁠— understanding it as “the culturally idealised form of masculine character” (Donaldson 1993: 646–647)—which are then “supported by an enormous weight of expert opinion, moral sentiment and public bias, both within popular culture and the elite centres of academic wisdom” (Brittan 1989: 1–2). Paul Child had attributes we associate with mid-twentieth century adventurous masculinity. In his youth, he had sailed from the United States to Panama on an oil tanker, hitched a ride on to a little ferry from Marseille to Africa, crossed the Mediterranean and Atlantic from Trieste to New York, crewed aboard a schooner that sailed from Nova Scotia to South America, and served briefly aboard a command ship in the China Sea during World War II. (Child 2009: 12)

His jobs before he started working for the government as an officer for the United States Information Service (USIS) in Paris included painting sets in Hollywood and even making stained-glass windows for the American Church in Paris, where his work for the trickiest windows earned him “the nickname Tarzan of the Apse” (Child: 42); he also taught at Avon Old Farms School in Connecticut. Paul was very “muscley” (Julia in Reardon 2012: 78); “his hard body” was the product of “years of physical labour aboard oil tankers and at a munitions factory in Lowell” (Fitch: 122). He was, in addition, “a masculine black belt in jujitsu” (97), “an unusually strong man (…) able to hoist cases, furniture, etc., without busting a gut” (Julia in Reardon: 149), and a jack-of-all-trades who could also “build you a house or wire your lamp without batting an eye” (Child: 117). However, Paul was also sickly and given to accidents and afflictions including “blindness in one eye, car accidents, exotic diseases caught in foreign lands, and occasional severe headaches and double vision” (Fitch: 135). Raised in Boston by a bohemian mother, Paul was unlike other men in his line of work; he despised Foreign Service and army types, who

292 

M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

“spoke in Southern accents, usually about sex and women” (Child: 211). He was also unlike “the Western boys [Julia] hung around with” or “any of the men her friends married” (Fitch: 5). Paul was “a natty dresser and spoke French beautifully, and he adored food and wine” (Child: 5). He was also artistic. He played the violin, was a skilled photographer, and had a “grasp of poetry, music, painting, languages, and the sciences” (Fitch: 122). Even though he had no college education, he was “an erudite man” (Prud’homme 2016: 5) and “an intellectual, in the sense that he had a real thirst for knowledge, was widely read, (…) and was always trying to train his mind” (Child: 85–86). Paul worried about his physical appearance, dieted when he thought he was not fit or trim enough and dressed elegantly if also extravagantly. He wore “scarves in his open-necked dress shirts” (Fitch: 136), favoured “a turquoise ring” (Prud’homme: 140), and liked bright-coloured clothes⁠—for his fiftieth birthday he dressed “in a brilliant-green wool waistcoat with brass buttons, a bright-red tie, and bright-red socks” (Child: 130). Paul, who cultivated the sensual, “would have been seen as effete in [Julia’s] native Pasadena” (Fitch: 5); in fact, “Some observers considered [his] attributes effeminate” (140). Because of his sensibilities and outlook, his masculinity was even questioned. When he was interrogated by agents from the USIA’s Office of Security during McCarthy’s witch hunt, he was asked about “his patriotism, his liberal friends, the books he read, and his association with Communists” (Child: 215). There was no foundation for the political suspicions that led to the interrogation, as Paul was a liberal and a Democrat. The Childs’s closest friends were also similarly politically oriented intellectuals and artists; they had communist friends but Paul was not involved in anti-government activity. He was a man of honour and a faithful friend and gave support to friends who were persecuted by the McCarthy administration, which he hated. In a letter to Avis DeVoto, Julia wrote: “He has a wonderful judgement, is so deeply human in his approach, and is damned realistic (…) and is a man of such integrity” (in Reardon: 236). The USIA men also asked Paul whether he was homosexual. Julia’s biographers do not know whether “an informant interpreted Paul’s European refinement as fey” or it was assumed he was gay by association, since “during McCarthy’s reign, communists were frequently linked with homosexuals and aliens” (Fitch: 226). Sexually, Paul was unambiguously heterosexual, and as his letters and poems demonstrate, he had a healthy sexual life with Julia. He even had a reputation of being a ladies’ man before meeting her. Paul was “a great admirer of women with beauty and

17  THE PART OF THE ICEBERG THAT DOESN’T SHOW: ROMANCE, GOOD… 

293

brains” (Fitch: 101), and he had courted various women abroad, when working for the OSS. He was no womaniser but wanted to “replace the great love of his life” (96) before Julia: Edith Kennedy, “a sophisticated divorcée twenty years older than Paul” (Prud’homme: 31–32) with whom he had lived for more than a decade, and whom he described to his brother as “flirtatious, witty, naughty, dynamic and intelligent” (in Fitch: 101). Edith died of heart failure just a few months before Paul joined the OSS, during World War II, and he was left “indescribably lonely” (Fitch 109). He wrote to his twin Charlie, “None of the women seem[ed] to be the answer to loneliness”, and that Edith’s death had left him “empty, unbased, and bereft (…) rootless, or soil-less” (in Fitch: 116–17). Julia “lifted [Paul] from his isolation” (5). Thirty-five years after their wedding, in 1981, he told a Boston newspaper that without Julia he would have become “a sour old bastard living off in a cave” (5). He felt that she was “an unconscious therapeutic agent for [him]” and that their happiness was based on their like-mindedness, since they were “twinnies in [their] reactions and tastes” (206). A friend of the couple reported that it was “as if his life didn’t really begin until he met [Julia]”, and Paul wrote that life without her would be “like unsalted food” (315). Their relationship was solid and grounded in “reason, good sense, and endless affection” (Fitch 313). Paul was in awe of Julia, “delighted that [they] met at all, that [they] had the good sense to marry each other, and that [their] life together [was] such a pleasure” (in Fitch 253). For her forty-seventh birthday, he wrote to her, “Thank you for every concession, every restraint, every thoughtfulness, every cooperative act, every darling endeavour, that you contribute to our mutual life” (253). Paul’s job as a diplomat meant that Julia and he did not have any say “in how [their] lives were to be lived” (Child: 204), since they could be sent anywhere, anytime with little or no notice. Paul contemplated alternatives, such as becoming a photojournalist, but, when he thought of “the ulcers and deadlines that these glamorous photojournalists faced”, he decided it “was a hell of a life” (206), so he stuck with government work. Paul was never ambitious. He did not bother to cultivate connections and was not eager to take positions that involved more responsibilities and that were more demanding of his time. In Paris, he wrote to Charlie, “comes Friday night (…) and down comes the iron curtain between job and what I really like doing. Wham! And I’m off with Julie on the flying carpet” (157, original italics). He retired in 1961, aged fifty-nine, to enjoy photography and painting, even though he “could have stayed on to reach the

294 

M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

twenty-­year mark and earn three thousand dollars a month” (249). Yet, when Julia’s career took off relatively late in life (she was by then past fifty), he devoted all his time, energy, skills, and creative drive to her ambitions. Paul had been supportive of Julia’s interests while he was working, and he never asked her to prioritise her role as a wife. Julia loved being Paul’s wife, but there were moments when she felt there were “many things pulling in (…) many directions” because she had “responsibilities as a consular wife, as a wife, as a house-fixer-upper and as a cookbook [writer]” (Julia in Reardon: 150). However, she was not overwhelmed or discontented. Being married to Paul was not a source of stress or arguments. What makes the relationship particularly outstanding is how readily Paul jumped into the role of Mr Julia Child. She claimed that she “would never have had [her] career without Paul Child” (Child: 5) and that “[her] husband’s support was crucial to keeping [her] enthusiasm high” (68). Paul did more than simply encourage her. They were true partners who even referred to themselves as “Pulia” (217) before her career took off. When she became successful, he made it “his mission in life to see that everything worked for her” (Fitch: 274), including testing recipes with and for her, producing her TV shows (The French Chef and those that followed), or organising tours and cooking demonstrations. He was “Julia’s amanuensis, publicist, adviser, and alter ego” (315–316), always there as “porter, dishwasher, official photographer, mushroom dicer and onion chopper, editor, fish illustrator, manager, tester, idea man, resident poet, and husband” (Prud’homme: 143). A boxing aficionado, he saw himself as Julia’s “‘cornerman’, (…) [keeping] his fighter fit” (107). Paul did not do all that because there was a need to “[keep] the Julia-banner flapping” (in Fitch: 314), but because of an honest desire to help. He never stepped into the limelight or demanded recognition, being perfectly happy as “an accessory-after-the-fact of Julie’s rhythms” (370) and “part of the iceberg that doesn’t show” (314). Julia had followed him in his posts and adapted to their new circumstances without complaining; and when success came, he felt it was his turn: “I feel”, he wrote, “Nature is restoring an upset balance” (in Prud’homme: 88).

Conclusion The field of Masculinities Studies is increasingly preoccupied with deconstructing the negative effects of patriarchy as more men “experience an abrasion between the concepts of privileged manhood (…) and other

17  THE PART OF THE ICEBERG THAT DOESN’T SHOW: ROMANCE, GOOD… 

295

experiences to which they try to fit their masculine ideals” (Rosen 1993: xiii). Masculinity is not “a fixed essence chained to biology” but rather “the outcome of socio-historical and cultural struggle and change” (Beynon 2010: 55), and culture is a site of gender interrogation, negotiation, and redefinition. Popular culture is no exception, as it is one of the “region[s] of cultural practices where masculinities are modelled, negotiated or reinforced” (Pfeil 1996: xv). In the last decades, there have been conscious attempts to reformulate notions of patriarchal masculinity in different popular genres. However, romance fiction remains one of the most recalcitrant areas since the excitement of the story is served by a plot in which the love of the heroine turns a brute into a prince. It seems there is no romance story in loving and being loved by a good guy, so women’s romantic fantasies are fed by texts that focus on relationships with unreconstructed men. Julie & Julia is an interesting exception. As I have argued, the plotline devoted to Julia and Paul Child’s relationship proves that marriage can be romantic and that sensitive, caring, and supportive husbands can function as heroes of romantic stories. Also importantly, the film introduces Paul Child to an audience that may not have known about him; his personality is also vividly conveyed in the books about his wife, all of which delve in depth into “the value of [the] loving marriage of devotion and mutual interest” that “ignite[d] and sustain[ed] Julia’s career” (Fitch: xxi). Reading these books, we find that Paul Child may not have been a great man but he was an interesting man, knowledgeable and entertaining, whose life may have been lost in oblivion had he not met Julia. Most remarkably, he was a thoroughly anti-patriarchal husband who understood there is nothing unmanly, emasculating, or embarrassing in deciding to devote his life to the ambitions of the woman he loved.

Notes 1. The part devoted to Julie also focuses on her relationship with her husband, Eric (Chris Messina). However, it is not as relevant, or romantic, as Julia’s relationship with Paul, mainly due to her obsessiveness and selfishness. 2. The kitchen itself became the setting of three of her TV shows: In Julia’s Kitchen with Master Chefs, Baking with Julia, and Julia and Jacques Cooking at Home. The kitchen of her Cambridge house is now on display on the ground floor of the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of American History. 3. See Kimmel (2015) and Faludi (2000) for how (white) men have rejected any attack against their sense of entitlement.

296 

M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

References Allan, Jonathan A. 2021. Gender and Sexuality. In The Routledge Research Companion to Popular Romance Fiction, eds. Jayashree Kamblé, Eric Murphy, and Hsu-Ming Teo, 428–453. London and New York: Routledge. Beynon, John. 2010. Masculinities and Culture. Maidenhead: Open University Press. Bridges, Tristan, and C.J. Pascoe. 2014. Hybrid Masculinities: New Directions in the Sociology of Men and Masculinities. Sociology Compass 8 (3): 246–258. Brittan, Arthur. 1989. Masculinity and Power. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Child, Julia with Alex Prud’homme. 2009. My Life in France. Richmond: Duckworth. Clair, Daphne. 1992. Sweet Subversions. In Dangerous Men and Adventurous Women: Romance Writers on the Appeal of Romance, ed. Jayne Anne Krentz, 61–72. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Donaldson, Mike. 1993. What Is Hegemonic Masculinity? Theory and Society 22: 643–657. Douglas, Susan J. 2010. The Rise of Enlightened Sexism: How Pop Culture Took Us from Girl Power to Girls Gone Wild. New York: St. Martin’s Griffin. Faludi, Susan. 2000. Stiffed: The Betrayal of Modern Man. London: Vintage. Fitch, Noël Riley. 2012. Appetite for Life: The Biography of Julia Child. New York: Anchor Books. Heasley, Robert. 2005. Queer Masculinities of Straight Men: A Typology. Men and Masculinities 7 (3): 310–320. Hill, Derryl B. 2007. Feminine Heterosexual Men: Subverting Heteropatriarchal Sexual Scripts. Journal of Men’s Studies 14 (2): 145–159. Hubbard, Rita C. 1985. Relationship Styles in Popular Romance Novels, 1950–1983. Communication Quarterly 32 (2): 113–125. Illouz, Eva. 2016. Hard-Core Romance: Fifty Shades of Grey, Best-Sellers, and Society. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Julie & Julia. 2009. Directed by Norah Ephron. USA. Columbia Pictures, Easy There Tiger Productions and Scott Rudin Productions. Kamblé, Jayashree, Eric Murphy, and Hsu-Ming Teo. 2021. Introduction. In The Routledge Research Companion to Popular Romance Fiction, eds. Jayashree Kamblé, Eric Murphy, and Hsu-Ming Teo, 1–23. London and New  York: Routledge. Kimmel, Michael. 2015. Angry White Men: American Masculinity at the End of an Era. New York: Nation Books. Krentz, Jayne Ann. 1992a. Trying to Tame the Romance: Critics and Corrections. In Dangerous Men and Adventurous Women: Romance Writers on the Appeal of Romance, ed. Jayne Anne Krentz, 107–114. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

17  THE PART OF THE ICEBERG THAT DOESN’T SHOW: ROMANCE, GOOD… 

297

———. 1992b. Introduction. In Dangerous Men and Adventurous Women: Romance Writers on the Appeal of Romance, ed. Jayne Anne Krentz, 1–9. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Modleski, Tania. 1982. Loving with a Vengeance: Mass-Produced Fantasies for Women. New York: Routledge. Munford, Rebecca, and Melanie Waters. 2014. Feminism and Popular Culture: Investigating the Postfeminist Mystique. London and New York: I.B. Tauris. Murphy Selinger, Eric. 2007. Rereading the Romance. Contemporary Literature 48 (2): 308–324. My Big Fat Greek Wedding. 2002. Directed by Joel Zwick. USA. Alliance Cinema and Gold Circle Films. Negra, Diane. 2009. What a Girl Wants? Fantasizing the Reclamation of Self in Postfeminism. London and New York: Routledge. Owens Malek, Doreen. 1992. Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know: The Hero as Challenge. In Dangerous Men and Adventurous Women: Romance Writers on the Appeal of Romance, ed. Jayne Anne Krentz, 73–80. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Pearce, Lynne, and Jackie Stacey, eds. 1995. Romance Revisited. London: Lawrence and Wishart. Pérez Casal, Inmaculada. 2021. Marketplace Feminism? The Writing and Selling of Lisa Kleypas’ Ravenels Series. In Romantic Escapes: Post-Millennial Trends in Contemporary Popular Romance Fiction, eds. Irene Pérez-Fernández and Carmen Pérez Ríu, 121–146. Bern: Peter Lang. Pérez-Fernández, Irene, and Carmen Pérez Riu, eds. 2021. Romantic Escapes: Post-Millennial Trends in Contemporary Popular Romance Fiction. Bern: Peter Lang. Pfeil, Fred. 1996. White Guys: Studies in Postmodern Domination and Difference. London and New York: Verso. Philips, Deborah. 2021. Fifty Shades of Romance: The Intertextualities of Fifty Shades of Grey. In Romantic Escapes: Post-Millennial Trends in Contemporary Popular Romance Fiction, eds. Irene Pérez-Fernández and Carmen Pérez Ríu, 55–74. Bern: Peter Lang. Phillips, Susan Elizabeth. 1992. The Romance and the Empowerment of Women. In Dangerous Men and Adventurous Women: Romance Writers on the Appeal of Romance, ed. Jayne Anne Krentz, 53–59. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Powell, Julia. 2009. Julie & Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously. London: Penguin. Prud’homme, Alex. 2016. The French Chef in America: Julia Child’s Second Act. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Putney, Mary Jo. 1992. Welcome to the Dark Side. In Dangerous Men and Adventurous Women: Romance Writers on the Appeal of Romance, ed. Jayne Anne Krentz, 99–105. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

298 

M. I. SANTAULÀRIA

Radway, Janice. 1984. Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature. Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press. Radstone, Susannah. 1988. Sweet Dreams: Sexuality, Gender and Popular Fiction. London: Lawrence & Wishart. Reardon, Joan. 2012. As Always Julia. The Letters of Julia Child and Avis DeVoto: Food, Friendship, and the Making of a Masterpiece. Boston and New  York: Mariner Books. Regis, Pamela. 2007. A Natural History of the Romance Novel. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Rodale, Maya. 2015. Dangerous Books for Girls: The Bad Reputation of Romance Novels Explained. Online: Amazon. Rosen, David. 1993. The Changing Fictions of Masculinity. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Sleepless in Seattle. 1993. Directed by Nora Ephron. USA. TriStar Pictures. Teo, Hsu-Ming. 2021. Love and Romance Novels. In The Routledge Research Companion to Popular Romance Fiction, eds. Jayashree Kamblé, Eric Murphy, and Hsu-Ming Teo, 454–484. London and New York: Routledge. Treacher, Amal. 1988. What Is Life Without My Love: Desire and Romantic Fiction. In Sweet Dreams: Sexuality, Gender and Popular Fiction, ed. Susannah Radstone, 73–90. London: Lawrence & Wishart. Whelehan, Imelda. 2000. Overloaded: Popular Culture and the Future of Feminism. London: The Women’s Press. While You Were Sleeping. 1995. Directed by John Turtletaub. USA. Hollywood Pictures and Caravan Pictures. Wolf, Naomi. 1993. Fire with Fire. London: Chatto & Windus.

Index1

A Aeschylus, 64 The Furies, 64 The Libation Bearers, 64 Ageing Ageing Studies, 253 positive ageing, 254 Alighieri, Dante, 62 Anger, 47, 120, 158, 159, 201, 203, 206, 207, 209, 238, 271, 273, 274, 277–280 management, 276–279 Austen, Jane, 9, 15, 21–34 Lady Susan, 35 Mansfield Park, 23, 27 Pride and Prejudice, 27 Sense and Sensibility, 27 The Watsons, 9, 21–34

Authority, 12, 25, 65, 66, 71, 89n3, 101, 137, 190, 207, 209, 221, 222, 226, 240, 242, 255, 262, 264, 265n2, 285, 289 B A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (film), 14, 268, 276, 277 Biden, Joe, 281n4 #BlackLivesMatter/#BLM (campaign), 11, 127–140 Blackman, Malorie, 141n3 Noughts and Crosses (novel series), 141n3 Black Panther (film), 140n1

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 S. Martín, M. I. Santaulària (eds.), Detoxing Masculinity in Anglophone Literature and Culture, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22144-6

299

300 

INDEX

C Campbell, Joseph, 184, 192n2 Campbellian, 180, 183 Care caring masculinities (see Masculinities) caring practices, 96 Carver, Raymond, 10, 75–88 “Cathedral,” 10, 75–88 Chandler, Raymond, 112 Farewell, My Lovely, 112 Charisma, 182, 186–192 Child abuse, 268 Childcare, 98, 101 Child, Julia, 14, 283–295 Baking with Julia (TV show), 295n2 The French Chef (TV show), 285, 286, 294 In Julia’s Kitchen with Master Chefs (TV show), 295n2 Julia and Jacques Cooking at Home (TV show), 295n2 Child, Paul, 14, 15, 284–287, 290–295, 295n1 Childrearing, 117 Clone Wars, The (TV series), 198, 199, 203–205, 211 Collins, Suzanne, 12, 163–166, 170–172, 175 Catching Fire, 168, 172 The Hunger Games (novel), 236 The Hunger Games (trilogy), 12, 163–177 Mockingjay, 169, 172 Colonisation, 116, 125 Companionship, 171, 175, 287 Critical dystopia(s), 13, 231–235, 242 Critical Studies of Men and Masculinities (CSMM), 1, 4, 7 Cyberpunk, 231, 232, 234, 244n7

D Desire, 60, 70, 132, 148, 151, 152, 155, 168, 184, 202, 204, 209, 219, 226, 239, 262, 264, 294 Detoxing detoxed man, 120–124, 165, 174 detoxed masculinity (see Masculinities) detoxing process, 9, 39–52 Dick, Philip K., 13, 15, 215–222, 224–227, 228n2, 228n3, 228n4, 229n7 “Beyond Lies the Wub,” 227 “Beyond the Door,” 218 Dr. Bloodmoney, 228n3 “Exhibit Piece,” 217, 228n4 “The Hanging Stranger,” 216, 219 “Human Is,” 13, 215–228 “Imposter,” 225 Martian Time-Slip, 228n3 “Of Withered Apples,” 218, 229n7 “Sales Pitch,” 217, 228n4 Time Out of Joint, 228n3 Domestic chores domestic homogeneity, 9, 39–52 domesticity, 51, 52, 149, 171, 172, 174, 181, 284, 287 domestic space, 9, 40, 41, 43, 47, 48, 50–52, 98, 172, 262 Domination/dominance, 3, 4, 7, 76, 78, 80, 116, 120, 122, 131, 133, 139, 140, 160n3, 169, 181, 185, 188, 217, 220, 221, 225–227, 237, 251, 258 Dune (film), 234, 244n7 E Eliot, T.S., 10, 55–71, 243 Ash Wednesday, 55 “Burbank with a Baedecker, Bleistein with a Cigar,” 58

 INDEX 

“Burnt Norton,” 63 The Confidential Clerk, 10, 57, 63, 67 “East Coker,” 63 The Family Reunion, 10, 57, 63, 64, 67, 70 Four Quartets, 55, 63 “The Hollow Men,” 55 “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” 59 Mr. Eliot’s Sunday Morning Service,” 61 Poems, 10, 55, 57, 58, 61 Prufrock and Other Observations, 59 Sweeney Agonistes, 10, 56, 59, 61–64, 67, 71 “Sweeney Among the Nightingales,” 58 “Sweeney Erect,” 57–61 The Waste Land, 10, 55, 56, 59, 62 Empathy, 50, 86, 88, 104, 106, 136, 138, 182, 188, 190, 192, 223, 227, 252, 255, 260, 267, 275 Ethics, 10, 11, 25, 41, 49–52, 96, 97, 103, 106, 107, 130, 204, 209, 270 Evaristo, Bernardine, 129, 141n3 Hello Mum, 141n3 Evil, 49, 151, 169, 181, 182, 201–210, 239, 271, 276 F Fantasy (genre), 8, 9, 11–14, 44, 60, 66, 70, 112, 180, 181, 188, 192, 235, 242, 264, 269, 272, 274, 287, 288, 290, 295 Fatherhood absent father, 121 father figure, 95, 103, 108n5, 123, 124, 207, 277

301

Fear, 40, 44, 46, 77, 81, 82, 108n4, 112, 115, 123, 124, 134, 138, 157, 158, 201–203, 207, 209, 228n3, 252, 270 Femininity, 15, 77, 86, 122, 148, 157, 167, 170, 171, 176, 181, 255 Feminism feminist activism, 288 Second-Wave Feminism, 181 Fincher, David, 238 Fight Club (film), 238 Friedan, Betty, 284 The Feminine Mystique, 284 Friendship, 24, 79–83, 86, 87, 89n6, 119, 149, 168, 190, 192, 277, 279 G Gabaldon, Diana Outlander (novel series), 288 Gautier, Théophile, 61 Gender, 2–10, 15, 65, 71, 77–79, 88n1, 96–100, 116, 117, 128, 129, 133–139, 148, 149, 153, 157, 164, 167, 175, 176, 180–182, 189, 216, 217, 224, 226, 255, 289, 291, 295 roles, 5, 96, 98, 101, 153, 163, 174–176, 226 Gender Studies/gender studies, 3, 6, 15, 148, 216, 219, 225 Gentleman Jack (TV series), 265n3 Goodness good man, 8, 9, 13, 15, 21–34, 111–125, 148, 150, 159, 163–177, 192, 201, 202, 204, 211, 216, 220, 225–227, 239, 241, 243, 259, 260, 267–280 good (noun), 8, 9, 13, 15, 49, 159 Gramsci, Antonio, 4, 235

302 

INDEX

H Hammett, Dashiel, 112 Happiness, 29, 48, 51, 287, 293 Happy Valley (TV series), 265n3 Hero anti-patriarchal, 147–148, 152 archetypal, 12, 179, 180, 183, 184 archetype, 180, 182 fantasy, 180 heroine(s), 9, 163, 170, 285, 288–290, 295 heroism romance hero (see Romance) subversive, 182, 235 Heterosexuality, 234 Himes, Chester, 112 If He Hollers Let Him Go, 112 Homoeroticism, 86, 88 Homohysteria, 10, 77, 82, 84, 87 Homosexuality, 81, 83 homosexual gaze, 234 Homosociality, 80, 81, 156, 157 Housework, 117 Howard, Robert E., 24, 30, 33 Husband(s) anti-patriarchal husband, 295 good husband, 14, 283–295 hybrid masculinity, 6 I Imperialism, 127 Integrity, 124, 148, 152, 228, 256, 260, 292 J James, E.L., 288 50 Shades of Grey (novel trilogy), 288 Julie & Julia (film), 14, 283–286, 290, 295

K Kennedy, Bobby, 275 Kindness, 9, 41, 46–48, 51, 104, 106, 152, 185, 188, 192, 227, 259–261, 263, 270, 276 L Last Tango in Halifax (TV series), 13, 251–264 Lawrence, D.H., 10, 75–88, 89n3 “The Blind Man,” 10, 75–88 England, my England, 76, 89n3 Le Guin, Ursula K., 164, 179, 234 Leiber, Fritz, 180 Lesbianism, 257 Levinas, Emmanuel, 96, 102 Otherwise than Being: or Beyond Essence, 102 Love story, 166, 170, 257, 283, 284, 286 triangle, 79, 89n5, 164, 166, 190 Lucas, George, 12, 197, 199, 201, 202 M Manhood, 7, 11, 25, 96, 98, 100, 104, 105, 107, 125, 170, 173, 180, 269, 278, 280, 294 Manliness, 225, 270, 286 Marriage, 27, 29, 35, 39, 40, 60, 65, 69, 85, 98, 174, 176, 206, 218, 219, 222, 229n7, 260, 264, 272, 284, 288, 290, 295 married life, 287 Masculinities ageing, 251–264 alternative, 7, 12, 86, 152, 217–219, 222, 224–228, 233, 241, 277 anti-patriarchal, 12, 152, 234 Black/black, 11, 117, 120, 122–124, 127–140, 141n7

 INDEX 

caring, 263 counterhegemonic, 227 detoxed, 11, 14, 98, 129, 130, 139–140, 171, 173–175, 233, 285 detoxified, 200 gay, 79 good, 12, 198, 210 hacker, 13, 231–243 hegemonic, 2, 4–7, 11, 12, 14, 15, 67, 76, 77, 79, 80, 87, 88, 98, 104, 129, 132, 135, 149, 158, 165, 166, 171, 173, 197, 216, 220, 228, 234, 235, 238, 245n14, 251–256, 261, 263, 280, 285, 288, 291 homosexual, 6 hybrid, 10, 75–88 inclusive, 10, 76–79, 88, 88n1 Jedi, 13, 198–200, 209–211 normative, 41, 180 patriarchal, 2, 3, 6, 68, 149, 150, 152, 155, 170, 255, 269, 276, 295 postmodernist, 78 toxic, 7, 8, 11, 22–34, 40, 52, 63, 67, 71, 75, 76, 84, 87, 88, 107, 111, 114, 117–122, 125, 216, 219–224, 229n7, 256, 264, 268, 269, 288 traditional, 4, 120, 123, 149, 192, 285, 289 Masculinities Studies, 1, 7, 291, 294 Matrix, The (film trilogy), 234, 244n7, 244n11 McIntyre, Vonda, 164 Melville, Herman Moby-Dick, 9, 40, 46, 47, 49–51 Men’s Studies, 277 Mental illness, 232, 235–239, 241 #MeToo (campaign), 7, 285 Milton, John, 71n1 Samson Agonistes, 71n1

303

Misogyny, 5, 40, 76, 107, 119, 120 Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood (TV show), see Rogers, Fred Monstrosity, 100, 108n4, 204 Mosley, Walter, 112 Devil in a Blue Dress, 112 Mr. Robot (TV series), 13, 231–243, 243n2, 243n3, 244n12 “eps1.0_hellofriend.mov,” 236, 238 “407 Proxy Authentication Required,” 240 “Hello Elliot,” 241 My Big Fat Greek Wedding (film), 288 N New lad, 78, 80, 83, 87, 88 New man, 2, 78, 80, 83, 87, 88, 156, 235 P Paternity, 118, 211, 263 Patriarchy anti-patriarchal husband (see Husband(s)) anti-patriarchal man, 14, 285 patriarch, 225, 226, 264 patriarchal brainwashing, 174 patriarchal culture, 227 patriarchal ideals, 243 patriarchal masculinity (see Masculinities) patriarchal oppressor, 174 patriarchal power, 242 patriarchal reprogramming, 170 patriarchal villainy, 149 Patrilinear descent patrilinear evil, 208–210 patrilinear forces, 202

304 

INDEX

Philip K. Dick’s Electric Dreams (TV series) “Crystal Diamond,” 228n4 “Human Is,” 13, 215–228 “Kill All Others,” 216, 228n6 “Real Life,” 228n4 Poe, Edgar Allan, 40, 57 “Murders in the Rue Morgue,” 57 Power, 2–4, 10–13, 15, 26, 30, 66, 75–78, 81, 82, 85, 87, 88, 98, 101, 103, 121, 127, 128, 131, 133, 138, 140, 147–150, 152–156, 159, 160n3, 173, 180, 181, 184, 186, 188, 192, 192n3, 201, 208, 225, 234, 235, 239–242, 252, 255–258, 261, 262, 264, 285, 289 powerlessness, 201 Pratchett, Terry, 12, 179–192 Discworld series, 12, 181, 182 Feet of Clay, 181, 187 The Fifth Elephant, 189 Guards, Guards!, 182, 184 Jingo, 185, 187, 189, 191 Men at Arms, 183, 185, 186 Monstrous Regiment, 182 Thud!, 183 Privilege, 2–4, 7, 10, 29, 71, 78, 79, 101, 105, 106, 131, 133, 153, 257, 280, 285 male, 26 Punch (magazine), 71n3 R Racism/race, 44, 45, 47, 84, 87, 88n1, 112, 129–134, 136, 138, 180 Rank, Otto, 181 Reagan, Ronald, 124 Rogers, Fred, 14, 15, 267–280, 281n4

The Children’s Hour (TV show), 271 Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, 267, 270 Mister Rogers (TV show), 272 Old Friends... New Friends (TV talk show), 280n2 Romance, 183, 283–286, 289 fiction, 166, 169, 170, 288, 295 formula, 289 genre, 166 hero, 283–286, 289 heroines of, 289 literature, 170 paranormal, 289 popular romance(s), 14, 286–290 rom-com(s), 284, 285 tradition, 166 Ross, Jacob, 11, 111–113, 116, 120, 121, 124, 125, 125n1 Black Rain Falling, 11, 111, 112, 125n1 The Bone Readers, 11, 111, 112, 115, 116, 124, 125n1 Rowling, J.K., 11, 15, 148–159, 160n2, 160n3 Harry Potter (series), 12, 149, 157, 159 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, 147 Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, 160n2 Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, 159 Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, 159 Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, 158 Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, 151–153, 158 Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, 157

 INDEX 

S Saint John of the Cross, 62, 64, 67, 70, 72n5 Ascent of Mount Carmel, 62 Science fiction, 6, 8, 9, 11–13, 164, 218, 234, 243n2 Sesame Street (TV show), 267 Sex sex-role theory, 3 sexual accomplishments, 261 sexual fulfilment, 181 sexual harassment, 285 sexuality, 25, 59, 117, 134, 254, 259 sexual performance, 59, 254 sexual relationships, 120, 168, 261 Shakespeare, William, 6, 22 Hamlet, 21 Slavery, 11, 111, 125, 127, 128, 141n5 enslavement, 133 Sleepless in Seattle (film), 288 Smith, Zadie, 11, 129–133, 135, 138–140, 148, 160n4, 182, 231, 233 On Beauty, 11, 127–140 Star Wars (film series) Episode I: The Phantom Menace, 199, 203, 206, 207 Episode II: Attack of the Clones, 199, 203 Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, 199, 203, 206, 207, 211 Episode IV: A New Hope, 199, 200, 202, 203 Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back, 198, 200, 203, 212n2 Episode VI: The Return of the Jedi, 210 Rogue One, 203, 212n1 Star Wars: The Force Awakens, 198, 199, 208, 210, 211n1

305

Star Wars: The Last Jedi, 198, 208, 211n1 Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, 198, 199, 204, 208–210, 211n1 Star Wars Rebels (TV series), 199 T Tiptree Jr., James (Alice Sheldon), 164 Tolkien, J.R.R., 173, 180, 181 Lord of the Rings, 181 To Walk Invisible (TV series), 265n3 Trauma, 64, 84, 97, 105, 106, 129, 175, 203, 207, 224, 232, 238, 240 Trump, Donald, 233, 276, 281n4 V Violence, 4, 10–12, 26, 56, 60, 66, 67, 103, 114–121, 123, 125, 130, 133, 148, 155, 169–171, 173, 176, 180, 182, 183, 207, 239, 277 Vulnerability, 11, 13, 14, 82, 96–98, 104, 120, 121, 182, 186–192, 201, 225, 237, 239–242, 253, 255, 258, 264, 279 W War fiction, 12, 163–177 Warrior, 164, 166, 167, 170–172, 174, 176, 204, 206, 220 West, Mae, 114 While You Were Sleeping (film), 288 Winton, Tim, 10, 95–107 Breath, 10, 97, 102–107 “Commission,” 105, 106 “Damaged Goods,” 106 “Defender,” 106

306 

INDEX

Winton, Tim (cont.) Eyrie, 10, 97, 102–107 “Long, Clear View,” 105 “The Redeemer,” 106 The Riders, 10, 97–102, 107 The Turning, 10, 97, 102–107 Women of Wonder (anthology), 177n2 Wont’ You Be my Neighbor? (film), 14, 268, 273, 274, 276

Working-class identity, 257 working-class man, 257 Y Young adult/YA fiction YA literature, 176 young adult dystopic fiction, 164