A Critical Companion to Terry Gilliam (Critical Companions to Contemporary Directors) 1666912255, 9781666912258

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A Critical Companion to Terry Gilliam

CRITICAL COMPANIONS TO CONTEMPORARY DIRECTORS

Series Editors: Adam Barkman and Antonio Sanna Critical Companions to Contemporary Directors covers many directors who have not been studied previously in academic publications and whose works nonetheless are highly renowned nowadays. The intent of the series is to offer interesting and illuminating interpretations of the various directors’ films that will be accessible to both scholars of the academic community and critically-minded fans of the directors’ works. Each volume combines discussions of a director’s oeuvre from a broad range of disciplines and methodologies, thus offering the reader a variegated and compelling picture of the directors’ works. In this sense, the volumes will be of interest (and will be instructive) for students and scholars engaged in subjects as different as film studies, literature, philosophy, popular culture studies, religion and others. We welcome proposals for both monographs and edited collections that offer interdisciplinary analyses, focusing on the complete oeuvre of one contemporary director per volume. Titles in the Series A Critical Companion to Robert Zemeckis Edited by Adam Barkman and Antonio Sanna A Critical Companion to Stanley Kubrick Edited by Elsa Colombani A Critical Companion to Terrence Malick Edited by Joshua Sikora A Critical Companion to Steven Spielberg Edited by Adam Barkman and Antonio Sanna A Critical Companion to Sofia Coppola Edited by Naaman K. Wood and Christopher Booth A Critical Companion to Terry Gilliam ​​​​​​​Edited by Sabine Planka, Philip van der Merwe, and Ian Bekker

A Critical Companion to Terry Gilliam Edited by Sabine Planka, Philip van der Merwe, and Ian Bekker Afterword by Karen Randell

LEXINGTON BOOKS

Lanham • Boulder • New York • London

Published by Lexington Books An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www​.rowman​.com 6 Tinworth Street, London SE11 5AL, United Kingdom Copyright © 2023 The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Planka, Sabine, editor. | Merwe, Philip van der, editor. | Bekker,  Ian, editor. | Randell, Karen, author of afterword.  Title: A critical companion to Terry Gilliam / edited by Sabine Planka, Philip van der Merwe, and Ian Bekker ; afterword by Karen Randell.  Description: Lanham : Lexington Books, [2023] | Series: Critical companions to contemporary directors | Includes bibliographical references and    index. | Summary: “This edited collection provides a fresh, up-to-date exploration of this Terry Gilliam’s oeuvre and artistic practice as a    director whose films weave avant-garde cinematic style, imaginative exaggeration, and social critique together” —Provided by publisher.  Identifiers: LCCN 2022040521 (print) | LCCN 2022040522 (ebook) | ISBN    9781666912258 (cloth) | ISBN 9781666912265 (epub) | ISBN 9781666912272 (paperback)  Subjects: LCSH: Gilliam, Terry—Criticism and interpretation. | Motion picture producers and directors—Great Britain. | LCGFT: Film criticsim. Classification: LCC PN1998.3.G55 C75 2023  (print) | LCC PN1998.3.G55 (ebook) | DDC 791.4302/33092—dc23/eng/20220922 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022040521LC ebook record available at https://lccn. loc.gov/2022040522 The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

Contents

Introduction 1 Ian Bekker, Sabine Planka, and Philip van der Merwe Chapter 1: Terry Gilliam, The Man who Killed Don Quixote and Cinephilia 13 Chris Broodryk Chapter 2: Ideology through the Looking Glass‌‌: Terry Gilliam’s Lewis Carroll and the Politics of Comedy in Jabberwocky (1977) and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998) Garreth O’Brien Chapter 3: ‌‌Carnival and the Imaging of Language in Terry Gilliam’s Jabberwocky (1977) and Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975) Ian Bekker Chapter 4: Subversion of the Cosmos in Time Bandits David Robinson



Chapter 5: “I Think It Has Something to Do with Free Will”: Time Bandits as Gilliam’s Theodicy Kevin J. Wetmore Jr.

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Chapter 6: Meet to Eat. The Restaurant in Terry Gilliam’s Brazil (1985) and The Fisher King (1991) 101 Sabine Planka Chapter 7: A Bittersweet Apocalypse: ​​​​​​​Averted Endings and Suspended Hope in 12 Monkeys 117 Andrew Grossman

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Chapter 8: The Art of Deserts in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas‌‌‌ and The Man Who Killed Don Quixote Philip van der Merwe

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Chapter 9: Between the Forest and Civilization: Liminal Spaces in Terry Gilliam’s The Brothers Grimm (2005) Sabine Planka and Philip van der Merwe

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Chapter 10: Tideland and the Ossification of the Imaginary Faculties 175 Jonathan Fruoco Chapter 11: Wonderland and the Wasteland: The Colorfully Dirty Mise en Scene of The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus (2009) Ivy Roberts Chapter 12: Black Hole: The Zero Theorem and the Pointless Quest Michael Charlton Chapter 13: The Zerø and One Theorem: A Meta/Physics of the Digital: ​​​​​​​A Meta/Physics of the Digital Ulrich Meurer Afterword: Gilliam’s Legacy Karen Randell Index





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About the Editors ‌‌

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Introduction Ian Bekker, Sabine Planka, and Philip van der Merwe

The public at large often still associates the name Terry Gilliam—along with John Cleese, Michael Palin, Eric Idle, and Graham Chapman—with the British comedy show Monty Python’s Flying Circus.1 However, the films that Gilliam has directed since 1975 and up to 2018 have proved to be independently significant on a cinematographic and literary level, certainly deserving of scholarly attention. Gilliam has directed twelve major films by himself, beginning with Jabberwocky (1977) and up to and including his latest film, The Man Who Killed Don Quixote (2018). His directorial debut of a feature film was, however, in 1975, when he co-directed Monty Python and the Holy Grail with Terry Jones. In addition, since 1968, Gilliam has been active as an animator for television, most famously for Monty Python’s Flying Circus (1969–1974); a scriptwriter of nine of his own feature films, including his latest film The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, and four of his five short films including Miracle of Flight (1974) and The Wholly Family (2011). He has been the director of advertisements, like “Secret Tournament” (2002) for Nike, and has also acted, especially in Monty Python productions. He has also made a number of cameo appearances, as in the Wachowskis’ Jupiter Ascending (2015). This book focuses on Gilliam’s major films, which, arguably, share a distinct, unique and eccentric style. From dystopian to fantastic and magic settings and worlds often populated by bizarre figures, Gilliam’s movies are united in their various forms of strangeness. The filmmaker’s works are certainly characterized by their creativity and imagination: their primary focus is not merely to entertain but to challenge the audience. In this sense, he is a postmodernist, neo-Brechtian director, but one who does not merely put an avant-garde artistic stamp on his creations and then lets them be; rather his films are comparable to epic theatre in the simple sense that they make their audiences think. In the introduction to Tideland (2005), for example, Gilliam affirms: “Many of you are not going to 1

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like this film. Many of you, luckily, are going to love it. And then, there are many of you who are not going to know what to think when the film finishes. But hopefully, you’ll be thinking.”2 Since the mid-seventies, the director has managed to bring films to the silver screen at regular intervals, despite setbacks and conflicts between him and Hollywood studios; mainly because of his commitment toward remaining true to his artistic vision. Peter Marks summarizes this very well when arguing as follows: His attitude inherently and often explicitly privileges imagination over economics . . . Gilliam has endured disasters and enjoyed triumphs; but, whatever the fate of individual films, collectively they have encouraged us to think creatively and intelligently, and to question authority, sophistry, banality and conformity. By celebrating the silly, the beautiful and the magical, they continue to offer us ways of replenishing our imaginations, and generate fresh visions of this world, the worlds beyond.3

Terry Gilliam, born as Terrence Vance Gilliam on 22 November 1940, in Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA, suggests in his 2015 autobiography, Gilliamesque, that his interest in film might be traceable back to hallucinations when ill and feverish as a child; reading books; watching scary films that were “formative traumatic experiences” and gave him nightmares—but also going to the cinema and watching Robin Hood and “cowboys and Indians” movies, and especially Snow White and Pinocchio were seminal: “I’d think . . . , ‘This is a world I want to be part of.’”4 Later, as a fan of Mad magazine, he recognized an artistic form which he liked and which proved to be an influence on his Monty Python phase: “Mad could be very intelligent and unbelievably silly at the same time, and this was obviously a mixture I liked.”5 Then, working as a cartoon artist for Help! (Harvey Kurtzman’s satirical magazine after he had left Mad) led him to meeting John Cleese. Subsequently, having moved to England, he met Michael Palin, Eric Idle, and Terry Jones while working on a late-1960s children’s series entitled Do Not Adjust Your Set; soon afterward he became the animator of Monty Python’s Flying Circus. Considering the development of Gilliam’s art from the Monty Python years up to his latest film, as asserted above, the purpose of his intelligent creativity is not merely to entertain but to make a point—but creatively so; often comedically, but also through the medium of varied genres, especially fantasy. Although he started to break away from the typical Pythonesque style with Brazil (1985), the director goes as far as to say that all the films that he has worked on come “out of that”: “Once that momentum starts . . . boom-boom-boom, . . . no, so Python gets the credit for everything.”6 The

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imaginary, the experimental, and the transgression of conventional and ‘respectable’ boundaries: all of these are features that characterize Monty Python but which are also recognizable in Gilliam’s oeuvre; and which cut across the genres of comedy, drama, adventure, science fiction and fantasy. One can very rarely associate any one of Gilliam’s films with just one genre. His films are examples par excellence of postmodern hybridization. Not only do many of them relate to pre-existent fiction (for example, Jabberwocky also refers to a poem by Lewis Carroll; Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas [1998] is based on Hunter S. Thompson’s novel, and The Man Who Killed Don Quixote portrays Miguel de Cervantes’s character in a new manner), but he also intermingles genres. For example, The Fisher King (1991) could be described as drama, comedy and fantasy; Brazil is a steampunk–science fiction–fantasy drama; and Tideland can be classified as a drama, a horror, as well as a fantasy film. Each film is original in the sense that it is a unique and profound literary and cinematic expression about society and about being human. Extremely multifaceted, Gilliam films tend to evoke inexhaustible possibilities of meaning but also tend to evade final and exclusive meanings. Because Gilliam has not always been only a director (but also an animator, a writer, an actor, a producer and a co-director) he also sees himself as different from other maverick filmmakers. He was not as obsessed with film as a medium in the manner of a Martin Scorsese, Steven Spielberg, or John Landis: “they know films. It’s breathtaking. But it may have played to my benefit because I can fool myself and think I’m original.”7 Gilliam’s films provide a rich field for interaction not only among fans and in the setting of popular culture, but also among students and scholars of film and literary studies. Two important books that deal in detail with Gilliam’s oeuvre are the edited collection entitled The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World (2013) and the monograph Terry Gilliam (2009) by Peter Marks. The former—edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell—is part of the Directors’ Cuts series (published by Wallflower Press) and consists of an interview between Karen Randell and Gilliam, an introduction written by the three editors; and eleven contributions that “join a collective of scholars, industry practitioners and film critics who admire his complexity and vision. The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World enters this discussion by offering a collection of critical essays that engage in multiple approaches to reading his films.”8 This volume acknowledges Gilliam’s avant-garde approach to filmmaking as well as the social criticism contained within his films—for example, the imaginative nature of the director’s films and how this links with the social representation and critique that they offer. The monograph Terry Gilliam (2009) by Peter Marks is part of the British Film Makers series, edited by Brian McFarlane and Neil Sinyard and published

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by Manchester University Press. Marks’ book argues for the centrality of hybridity in Gilliam’s films, especially with respect to its intertextual and international elements: “They bring together British, European and American influences, and are formed and are informed by the film industries and cultures of these nations and regions.”9 While other books such as “Perception Is a Strange Thing”—Die Filme von Terry Gilliam by Harald Mühlbeyer (2010), a German publication, and Il grande incantatore. Il cinema di Terry Gilliam (2013) by G. Rizzi and C. Tognoni, an Italian publication, deal with Gilliam’s oeuvre in general, some are focused on single movies, as is the case with Susanne Kaul’s 12 Monkeys (2019). Scholarly interest in projects that Gilliam participated in during his early days as a member of Monty Python are unwavering. These include Ellen Bishop’s article “Bakhtin, Carnival and Comedy: The New Grotesque in Monty Python and the Holy Grail” in Film Criticism (Fall 1990).10 Another representative and relatively recent publication is the collection And Now for Something Completely Different: Critical Approaches to Monty Python (2020), edited by Kate Egan and Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock.11 On the other hand, a plethora of journal articles and book chapters on Gilliam’s post– Monty Python work not only reflects that interest in Gilliam and his movies has been steadfast, but, in addition, that the director’s films constitute, collectively, a worthwhile object of academic exploration as well. Some examples that have stood out for the editors during the preparation and putting together of this new volume include Teodor Mladenov’s 2020 “Performativity and the Disability Category: Solving The Zero Theorem” in Critical Sociology;12 Chapter 4 in Schuy R. Weishaar’s 2012 volume Masters of the Grotesque: The Cinema of Tim Burton, Terry Gilliam, the Coen Brothers and David Lynch, entitled “Terry Gilliam’s Mythic Madness”;13 and Dakota Bastings’s 2020 “Fear and Loaning: Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas as Apex Adaptation” in The Midwest Quarterly;14 along with many others. The book in your hands provides new insight into Gilliam’s films and includes contributions with a social and/or linguistic angle; those of a comparative nature; and those with topical focal points such as the theme of the desert and the cinematic representation of food in Gilliam’s films. The chapters focusing on specific films are organized along their release dates, while the chapters dealing with overarching topics are placed at the beginning. This collection begins with Chris Broodryk’s contribution on “Terry Gilliam, The Man Who Killed Don Quixote and Cinephilia.” Dealing with the director’s overall aesthetics, Broodryk’s chapter argues that Gilliam’s films serve as proof of a specific kind of cinephilia: “of the original, of authenticity, of the indexicality of time, where each film performance is a unique event,”15 as Thomas Elsaesser defines it. In particular, Broodryk places Gilliam under the lens of Malte Hagener’s and Marijke de Valck’s understanding of cinephilia

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as “a constant double movement between the biographical and the theoretical, the singular and the general, the fragment and the whole.”16 The second chapter, entitled “Ideology Through the Looking Glass: Terry Gilliam’s Lewis Carroll and the Politics of Comedy in Jabberwocky and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” by Garreth O’Brien, sets the focus on the worlds that the director establishes in his films. O’Brien connects Gilliam’s films with Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and shows, by drawing on theorists of humor like Henri Bergson and Lauren Berlant, that Gilliam’s and Carroll’s are comedies of nonsense, not meaninglessness. The filmmaker’s nonsense worlds are significant, not because they offer liberation from the constraints of reality, but because they display the violence required to sustain a shared social meaning based ultimately on nonsense. The third chapter opens the analyses of single movies; and, as we have mentioned above, the chapters are, in the main, ordered in terms of the chronology of the release dates of the films themselves. Below, therefore, we combine a brief description of each film along with brief descriptions of the chapter(s) in this volume that deal with the relevant film(s). Thus, we begin with Gilliam’s first two films, both of which retain, arguably more than any of Gilliam’s other films, a clear influence from his Monty Python days. These are Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975) and Jabberwocky, the first co-directed with Terry Jones and still part of the Monty Python ‘stable.’ In the spirit of other Python movies—Monty Python’s The Life of Brian (1979) comes immediately to mind—it is a clear spoof of a traditionally serious topic, in this case King Arthur’s search for the Holy Grail. Gilliam in fact both co-directed the film and played a number of minor roles in it, including that of Patsy, King Arthur’s servant. Set, of course, in the Middle-Ages it, simultaneously, and in the spirit of many, if not all, of Gilliam’s other films, offers trenchant commentary on contemporary society. The same is true of Jabberwocky, Gilliam’s solo directorial debut, where a similar comic quest takes an innocent cooper’s son (Dennis Cooper, played by Michael Palin) on a series of misadventures, ending with his accidental slaying of the eponymous monster and reluctant marriage to the princess. Chapter 3, Ian Bekker’s “Carnival and the Imaging of Language in Terry Gilliam’s Jabberwocky (1977) and Monty Python and The Holy Grail (1975),” deals with these two earliest Gilliam movies and has a threefold focus: firstly, it identifies the varieties of UK English (sociolects in particular) represented in the films via a linguistic analysis of the speech of a number of central characters; secondly, it determines the manner in which the speech of any character is performed and represented (whether, for example, it is a parody) and, finally, the chapter links this manner of representation to the overall semiotic intent of the two films and Gilliam’s oeuvre in general.

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The fourth and fifth chapters deal especially with Gilliam’s next film, Time Bandits (1981). On the surface a family film (or even a children’s film), it soon reveals itself as having deeper layers. Superficially it tracks the imaginary adventures of eleven-year-old Kevin (living in a thoroughly middle-class British suburb with rather obnoxious parents) through various mythologies, theologies, and historical periods (including Napoleon Bonaparte, Robin Hood, King Agamemnon, The Supreme Being, and Evil). These two chapters are dedicated to revealing the deeper layers of this film. In “Subversion of the Cosmos in Time Bandits” (Chapter 4), David Robinson examines the relationship between reality and imagination in this film and as they are actualized as the intersections between suburban reality and the world of fantasy, in which historical, legendary, and mythological characters comingle; and in which questions are asked about the conventional nature of human lived experience. In the following contribution (Chapter 5), “‘I Think It Has Something to Do with Free Will’: Time Bandits as Gilliam’s Theodicy,” Kevin J. Wetmore Jr. interprets the 1981 film as a work that deals with the nature of God, the Good, and the purpose of evil; as part of its larger agenda to deconstruct and satirize historic and mythic narratives. How does one even begin to describe Brazil (1985)? An Orwellian, dystopian, fantasy-romance black-comedy? The plot is simple: Sam Lowry, a relatively low-level bureaucrat, finds himself increasingly dissatisfied (and increasingly in confrontation) with the overly bureaucratic and darkly oppressive world in which he lives. His dissatisfaction first takes the form of a fantasy; but when the woman of his dreams becomes real, he is catapulted into direct confrontation with the corporate machinery that he once serviced. While the film ends on a tragic note, it is filled with poignantly whimsical as well as absurdly comic scenes. Its implicit critique of modern society is shared with Gilliam’s next film, The Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1988), although the aesthetic is completely different. The latter work is a full-blown fantasy, with a historical setting (a city set during the Age of Reason and under siege by the Ottoman army) and not futuristic; but the same opposition between the overly rational (represented by, for example, The Right Ordinary Horatio Jackson played by Jonathan Pryce) and the flamboyantly fantastic (the eponymous hero being played by John Neville) pervades the film. The film, in essence, follows the adventures of Baron Munchausen and his sidekicks, who perform a number of outrageous acts and ultimately succeed, against the best attempts of Reason to subvert them, in liberating the city. Fantasy plays a central role in The Fisher King (1991) as well, with the two main characters played by Jeff Bridges and Robin Williams; the first of a trilogy of films set in the USA. The Holy Grail features in this film as well, but unlike Gilliam’s first film, in The Fisher King the quest is not subject

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to lampoon. Jeff Bridges plays a shock-jock (Jack Lucas) who indirectly destroys Parry’s (played by Williams) life. Parry becomes delusional and homeless, and Jack’s career and life also take a turn for the worst as a result of the bad-press generated by the mass murder-suicide that his on-air comments inspired. The road to redemption for both the main characters leads through Jack’s (on-the-surface) delusional quest for the Holy Grail. In The Fisher King we have, arguably, an unambiguously happy ending; unusual for Gilliam and a feature which probably accounts for its comparative commercial success. The Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1988) is dealt with in Garreth O’Brien’s second chapter and in the 11th chapter by Ivy Roberts (see below). In the sixth chapter, entitled “Meet to Eat. The Restaurant in Terry Gilliam’s Brazil (1985) and The Fisher King (1991),” Sabine Planka examines the functions of the restaurant in these two films, against the background of this motif as representative of food culture, but also as a (sometimes theatrical) public space in which people function as both viewers and actors, a space where people meet and where people see other people and are seen. 12 Monkeys (1995) reminds one more of Brazil than Gilliam’s 1988 and 1991 films. The narrative is again set in a dystopian future, this time, however, coupled with time travel. The apocalypse of the post-apocalyptic future, that James Cole (Bruce Willis) is sent back to help prevent, is the supposed release of a deadly virus by a group known as the Army of the Twelve Monkeys. In his journeys to the past, Cole meets Jeffery Goines (Brad Pitt)—a fellow-patient of the insane-asylum he ends up in (and who has possible connections with the Army)—and Dr Kathryn Railly (Madeleine Stowe), his doctor and eventual ally. Cole is, himself, unsuccessful in his quest to track down the virus, but the film ends on an unresolved note. Chapter 7, by Andrew Grossman, “A Bittersweet Apocalypse: Averted Endings and Suspended Hope in 12 Monkeys,” deals directly with the quixotic nature of the hero’s quest in Gilliam’s famous film about a pandemic. The actions of the director’s protagonists are often overambitious and prove to be futile because of societal and spatiotemporal circumscription. The auteur plays with the concept of a non-linear and inevitable disaster. The bitter end is nevertheless counterbalanced by hope and thus presents a bittersweet apocalypse. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998), while still set in the USA, takes us back to the past and stars Johnny Depp (Raoul Duke) and Benicio del Toro (Dr. Gonzo). Based on Hunter S. Thompson’s 1971 novel, it tracks these two 1960s throwbacks’ drug-fueled (mis)adventures in the Nevada city. Here the drugs become the ‘agent’ of fantasy as the two ‘heroes’ spiral further and further out of control. The plot is complicated and twisted and, in a sense, less important than the grotesque aesthetic that is the whole film. In the eighth chapter, “The Art of Deserts in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Man

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Who Killed Don Quixote,” Philip van der Merwe compares the cinematic and metaphoric use of desert spaces in the two films mentioned in the title. The chapter focuses on the desert as metaphor for the characters’ loss. In Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas the loss that the central characters experience is that of a true social purpose consequent upon the failure of the protest movements during the 1960s to establish a genuine American Dream. In The Man Who Killed Don Quixote the desert spaces are metaphorically functional in terms of the drought of artistic identity. Gilliam’s next film, The Brothers Grimm (2005), while not the only film referencing another text (both 12 Monkeys and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas are based on someone else’s film and book respectively), is oddly intertextual, since, while pointing to the original, it deviates the fairy tales of Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm very far from them. It is, in fact, similar in some ways to The Adventures of Baron Munchausen; again we find ourselves in an earlier age (this time at the end of the Age of Reason and at the beginning of the Romantic period in early nineteenth-century Germany) and again an opposition between the forces of the imagination and fantasy, on the one hand, and the forces of an over-weaning Reason on the other is represented. Furthermore, Jonathan Pryce again plays the main agent of reason, in this case General Vavarin Delatombe. The brothers Grimm (Matt Damon and Heath Ledger as Will and Jake Grimm) find themselves in the German village of Marbaden confronting what they at first suspect is a con (they themselves are con artists), but gradually realize is the manifestation of real magic, emanating from the nearby ancient forest. It is the brothers’ eventual acceptance of the truth of this magic—and not Delatombe’s denial of it—that makes them victorious at the end. In chapter 9, “Between the Forest and Civilization: Liminal Spaces in Terry Gilliam’s The Brothers Grimm,” Sabine Planka and Philip van der Merwe analyze the 2005 film on exactly these terms. The authors focus on specific places and spaces and investigate how Gilliam transforms them into liminal spaces that enable the merging of the ‘real’ and the enchanted worlds in the film. Tideland, released the same year as The Brothers Grimm, is arguably Gilliam’s most disturbing film and, like the earlier Brazil, it seems to be able to combine the fairy tale, the darkly comic, the grotesque and the horrific. It is a narrative centred on a child, Jelize-Rose (played by Jodelle Ferland) who moves back, with her drug-addict father (Jeff Bridges), to the rundown family farmhouse in Texas after her mother overdoses. Once her father suffers a similar fate, she is left to explore on her own, both the extremes of her imagination as well as her ever more complex relationships with the eccentric neighbours who, in their own way, befriend and adopt her. The film ends in violence and wreckage and, as audience, we are left questioning, among other

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things, the reality of childhood innocence and the innocence of the imagination. As such, Jonathan Fruoco’s tenth chapter argues that this film functions as a fairy tale focused on reconsidering the concept of innocence. The chapter attempts to understand the film’s poor reception and what exactly makes it shocking to the audience, by reflecting on what the perspective of a child tells us about the grimness of the world in the twenty-first century. Similar themes are explored in The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus (2009), although the backdrop here is the UK and modern London. The eponymous Dr Parnassus (Christopher Plumber), who, in the ‘real’ world runs a ramshackle, travelling theatre troupe in London, makes a bargain with Mr. Nick, the Devil. Parnassus is, in fact, in possession of real magic: a portal to an imaginarium, which realizes the dreams and fantasies of those who enter. The wager that is made is an attempt to cancel out a previous wager in which Parnassus swopped out his daughter, Valentina (Lily Cole), for immortality and is essentially a competition about who can win five souls first, with the imaginarium being the test. What follows is a whirlwind tour of fantasy led by Tony Shepard (played by Heath Ledger, Johnny Depp, Jude Law and Colin Farell), a newcomer to the troupe. In the next contribution to this volume, Chapter 11, “Wonderland and the Wasteland: The Colorfully Dirty Mise en Scene of The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus,” Ivy Roberts compares Gilliam’s twenty-first-century films with earlier examples of his from the analog era, with a specific focus on a comparison between the 2009 film and The Adventures of Baron Munchausen. Roberts explores the unique qualities of the director’s more recent use of digital special effects in comparison with his earlier elaborate cinematic effects that include extravagant sets, costumes and body modification. Roberts argues that Gilliam blends the two, which makes the realistic elements of his films more fantastical. Gilliam’s The Zero Theorem from 2013 is the subject of the next two chapters. The central character of this film, Qohen Leth, is, like Sam Lowry in Brazil, a functionary for a bureaucracy, this time called Mancom. His task is to solve the Zero Theorem (using his computer wizardry), which, it is hoped, will provide the ultimate meaning of everything. As his quest to solve the meaning of everything becomes increasingly frustrating, Leth unravels. Chaos (and, with it, romance) takes over; and, as was the case in Brazil, a fantasy world is chosen as the only means of escape. Chapter 12, Michael Charlton’s “Black Hole: The Zero Theorem and the Pointless Quest,” analyzes this film as a metatextual reassessment of the director’s previous works. The contributor argues that the film (re)considers meaning itself as well as quests and that, as a dystopian narrative, it explores a decaying morbidity of the intellect as well as fractured mental health and personal relationships. Relatedly, Ulrich Meurer’s chapter, “The Zerø and One Theorem: A Meta/ Physics of the Digital,” (Chapter 13), examines The Zero Theorem’s hermetic

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universe of images in order to decode the iconographic program of the film. The chapter is focused on analog versus digital and this distinction’s ontological implications. Meurer argues that the film shows that, for Gilliam, the post-cinematographic digital image can hardly be dismissed as mere deceptive simulation; rather, the digital generates a novel kind of analogy that replaces the photographic duplication of reality. Gilliam’s most recent film, The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, carries on the tradition of intense intertextuality so characteristic of Gilliam’s oeuvre. Apart from the fact that it is a film the making of which is the subject of another film, Lost in La Mancha (2002), it, like some of Gilliam’s other films, is based on an original text, this time Cervantes’ classic Spanish novel Don Quixote (1605–15). But the plot carries within it other forms of intertextuality: it centers on Toby Drummet (a director, played by Adam Driver) who has sold out his artistic soul in order to make commercials, this time one featuring Don Quixote and his famous sidekick Sancho Panza, and on location in rural Spain. A series of coincidental events lead Toby back to his earlier days as a film student, during which he produced a film called The Man Who Killed Don Quixote. He finds the original actor who played Don Quixote in the original film (again Jonathan Pryce, but this time not as the voice of Reason) who is convinced that he is Don Quixote. Appointing a reluctant Toby as his Sancho Panza, they both go on a quest to, among other things, rescue Angelica, a young woman from the earlier film with whom Toby was in love. During the rescue mission, Toby accidentally kills Pryce’s Don Quixote; and at the end of the film Toby himself ‘becomes’ Quixote with Angelica as Sancho Panza. As touched on above, two of the chapters in this volume touch on this latest film of Gilliam: Chris Broodryk’s first chapter on cinephilia and Van der Merwe’s eighth chapter on the symbolism of the desert in both this film and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The above interweaving of brief descriptions of Gilliam’s films with brief descriptions of the chapters that follow, will hopefully tease the reader into delving further into this volume: to find out more about Gilliam’s films and/ or more about what kind of thinking his films have inspired. The essay collection is completed and bookended by an afterword written by Karen Randell, who has her own thoughts on Gilliam and the chapters in this volume. We urge the reader to explore further. NOTES 1. The editors would like to thank the Unit for Languages and Literature in the South African Context of the North-West University, South Africa, for financing

Introduction

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the watercolor painting used for the cover of this volume. Also, a word of thanks is extended to the artist, Cronjé Lemmer, who painted it specifically for this project. 2. Tideland, dir. Terry Gilliam (London: Revolver Entertainment, 2005). 3. Peter Marks, Terry Gilliam (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009), 251. 4. Terry Gilliam, Gilliamesque: A Pre-posthumous Memoir (New York: Harper Design, 2015), Kindle 18–20. 5. Gilliam, Gilliamesque, 45. 6. Kirsty Young (host), “Terry Gilliam,” Desert Island Discs: Archive 2011–2015, BBC Radio 4 (podcast), April 10, 2011. Spotify. Accessed on June 20, 2022. 7. Logan Hill, “Influences: Terry Gilliam,” August 17, 2005. https:​//​nymag​.com​/ nymetro​/movies​/features​/12512​/. Accessed on June 21, 2022. 8. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (eds.), The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013). 9. Marks, Terry Gilliam, 14. 10. Ellen Bishop, “Bakhtin, Carnival and Comedy: The New Grotesque in Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” Film Criticism 15, no. 1 (1990): 49–64. 11. Kate Egan and Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock (eds.), And Now for Something Completely Different: Critical Approaches to Monty Python (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2020). 12. Teodor Mladenov, “Performativity and the Disability Category: Solving The Zero Theorem,” Critical Sociology 46, no. 1 (2020): 51–64. 13. Schuy R. Weishaar, Masters of the Grotesque: The Cinema of Tim Burton, Terry Gilliam, the Coen Brothers and David Lynch (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012). 14. Dakota Bastings, “Fear and Loaning: Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas as Apex Adaptation,” The Midwest Quarterly 61, no. 2 (2020): 289–303. 15. Thomas Elsaesser, “Cinephilia or the Uses of Disenchantment,” in Cinephilia. Movies, Love and Memory, eds. Marijke de Valck and Malte Hagener (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2005), 41. 16. Malte Hagener and Marijke de Valck, “Cinephilia in Transition,” in Mind the Screen: Media Concepts According to Thomas Elsaesser, eds. Jaap Kooijman, Patricia Pisters and Wanda Strauven (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University press, 2008), 27.

​​​​​​​REFERENCES Bastings, Dakota. “Fear and Loaning: Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas as Apex Adaptation.” In The Midwest Quarterly, 61, no. 2 (2020): 289–303. Birkenstein, Jeff, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell (eds.). The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Bishop, Ellen. “Bakhtin, Carnival and Comedy: The New Grotesque in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” Film Criticism 15, no. 1 (1990): 49–64. Egan, Kate, and Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock (eds.). And Now for Something Completely Different: Critical Approaches to Monty Python. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2020.

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Elsaesser, Thomas. “Cinephilia or the Uses of Disenchantment.” In Cinephilia. Movies, Love and Memory, edited by Marijke de Valck and Malte Hagener, 27–44. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2005. Gilliam, Terry. Gilliamesque: A Pre-posthumous Memoir. New York: Harper Design, 2015. Kindle. Malte Hagener and Marijke de Valck. “Cinephilia in Transition.” In Mind the Screen: Media Concepts According to Thomas Elsaesser, edited by Jaap Kooijman, Patricia Pisters, and Wanda Strauven, 19–31. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2008. Hill, Logan. “Influences: Terry Gilliam.” August 17, 2005. nymag.com/nymetro/mo vies/features/12512/. Kaul, Susanne. 12 Monkeys. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2019. Marks, Peter. Terry Gilliam. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009. Mladenov, Teodor. “Performativity and the Disability Category: Solving The Zero Theorem.” Critical Sociology 46, no. 1 (2020): 51–64. Mühlbeyer, Harald. “Perception is a Strange Thing.” Die Filme von Terry Gilliam. Marburg: Schüren, 2013. Rizza, Gabriele, and Chiara Tognoni. Il grande incantatore. Il cinema di Terry Gilliam. Pisa: ETS, 2013. Tideland. Directed by Terry Gilliam. London: Revolver Entertainment, 2005. Weishaar, Schuy R. Masters of the Grotesque: The Cinema of Tim Burton, Terry Gilliam, the Coen Brothers and David Lynch. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012. Young, Kirsty (host). “Terry Gilliam.” Desert Island Discs: Archive 2011–2015, BBC Radio 4 (podcast). April 10, 2011. Spotify.

Chapter 1

Terry Gilliam, The Man who Killed Don Quixote and Cinephilia Chris Broodryk

Following cinephile scholars Paul Willemen (1994), Jason Sperb (2017), and Christian Keathley (2005), cinephilia often entails articulating a personal cinephilic position and experience, in terms of which cinephilia may very well still be “one of modernism’s allegedly most masculine modes of loving.”1 For Sperb, in critical film studies, cinephilia is “pleasure’s discursive scar” given how initially “[classical] cinephilia’s emphasis on pleasure fell out of fashion in the 1970s with the rise of screen theory” until its veritable revival in the early 2000s in the work of Adrian Martin and Johnathan Rosenbaum.2 Coming to terms with his own initially inexplicable responses to Star Trek: Nemesis (2002), Sperb finds that he is “trying to articulate its [the film’s] affect, the sense I get from it and that it makes for me” (emphasis in original).3 From Sperb, who draws primarily on Willemen, the idea is that cinephiles fixate on fragments of film: images that constitute a cinephilic moment. These moments of viewing pleasure are the privilege of cinephilia.4 This chapter argues that Terry-Gilliam-as-cinephile-filmmaker, and specifically his 2018 film, The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, entail a cinephilic project. In this project, Gilliam comes to terms with the pleasures and perils of his preferred medium throughout a range of films that differ in the intensity and amplification he allows for the manifestation of his cinephilia. Gilliam remains one of the most compelling figures in contemporary cinema. “Compelling” here denotes not only an intellectual interest in his work, but also suggests an element of pleasure. Across his career, the director has used fantasy, science fiction and idiosyncratic characters to tell stories about—and explore the psychologies of—dreams and nightmares, utopias, and dystopias. Gilliam’s vision for his films and the studio’s vision for his 13

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films are often at odds, as Andrew Yule argues.5 In these cases, an overinvestment in commercial profit often threatened to sideline Gilliam’s auteurist vision. For the purposes of this chapter, the filmmaker’s position and status as auteur—caught between the commercial and the independent, the engineered and the avant-garde—is assumed and will not be argued (see Corbett, 2008; Taneja, 2008; Crinion, 2015; Corbet, 2018). Gilliam’s long-term Don Quixote project is emblematic of the various studio battles the director has had to fight over the years, most publicly on Brazil (1985) and The Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1988). This chapter examines and elaborates on the ways in which Gilliam’s films reflect the filmmaker’s cinephilia and serve as metacinematic demonstrations of it. “Metacinematic” refers to the film medium’s capacity for reflexivity as instanced by filmmakers calling attention to their (medium’s and film’s) artifice. The Man Who Killed Don Quixote (2018) serves as a primary instance of Gilliam allowing his cinephilia a certain amplification and intensification. CINEPHILIA For Marijke de Valck, the decline in cinema attendance is a concrete marker of the waning of the business of film.6 However, the medium, like the affinity (even love) for the medium—and the film theatre experience, the impact of COVID-19 notwithstanding—remains defiantly alive. Instead of the rigor mortis and gradual decomposition that death signals, cinema finds new media crevasses to fill, new technologies to access an audience, and new forms to embrace. “As the cinema underwent those transformations of the 1990s that brought so many pronouncements of its death,” writes Laura Mulvey, “so cinephiles began to reflect . . . on the passing of the special, ritualistic conditions of watching films” highlighting the moviegoing habits of individuals invested in a specific spectatorship.7 Mulvey emphasises the experience of loss and love that are part and parcel of the cinephilic experience, adding that this cinephilia straddles two figurations of time: individuals’ personal time and memories, and “the time of cinema’s own history.”8 For the cinephile, love and loss go hand in hand with time, memory, and history, so much so that Thomas Elsaesser describes cinephilia as “[reverberating] with nostalgia and dedication, with longings and discrimination.”9 Elsaesser explains that there are two cinephilias: the cinephilia of “nostalgia and repetition” made possible by physical media as well as digital streaming services, and the cinephilia of originality and authenticity.10 Since the cinephile must actually ‘like movies,’ Drehli Robnik frames cinephilia as a productive tension between the extraordinary and the ordinary where the cinephile has both “a love for extraordinary

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films” and “an intense love for ordinary ones” depending on the cinephile’s preferences.11 This formative love for the medium, a film and a filmmaker, contains the seed of defeat. While the cinephile celebrates film, there remains the possibility of disenchantment, a cinephilic status that Elsaesser calls “anticipated disappointment”: the awareness that a filmmaker’s latest film may fail to measure up to their previous film.12 Cinephilia, then, is a celebratory declaration of love as much as it holds the possibility of failure. Sensibly, Adrian Martin finds the simplified description of cinephilia as ‘the love of cinema’ banal.13 Martin proposes that cinephilia may start with a kind of unutterable ecstasy or brute desire (you as the big cinephile baby before the vast cinema screen) but, straight away, that desiring engagement leads to acts—particularly of writing, speaking, programming, or curating (and also, of course, filmmaking, but that’s another story)—acts that happen in public, that are broadcast, directed at the world, and that involve the forming of a community.14

Martin emphasizes the publicness of the outputs associated with cinephilic desire and opens the possibility of filmmaking itself as an act—an articulation—of cinephilia itself. “The cinema does not betray love for its admirers,” writes Sarah Keller.15 In Anxious Cinephilia: Pleasure and Peril at the Movies (2020), Keller, echoing forebears such as Martin, argues that cinephilia has, over time, become an increasingly fluid term that accommodates a range of activities and feelings. Keller identifies general features of cinephilia across its various forms:16 cinephilia is personal and subjective (i.e., is an affect); it facilitates affect into action, thereby making itself visible (most often in writing but increasingly also in video essays); “cinephilia depends on displacements in time and space” (and is therefore nostalgic). This is the realm of memory and (re)collection.17 Furthermore, “cinephilia is fundamentally anxious,” yet this anxiety is essentially “nonspecified or nonspecifiable anxious feelings.”18 One such anxiety, and there are many, would be the viewer’s sense of loss following the end of a film that has immersed, moved, and elevated them.19 Following Keller’s discussion of Pedro Almodóvar’s Broken Embraces (2009) as an expression of love for (and experience of loss of) film, this chapter discusses how the form and content of Gilliam’s The Man Who Killed Don Quixote animate the desires that fuel cinephilia. The film’s protagonist Toby (Adam Driver) conveys what Keller refers to, by way of Almodóvar, as “the act of filmmaking as a cinephilic practice.”20 As such, Gilliam’s and Almodóvar’s films seem to operate in a manner similar to the way in which Jenna Ng describes Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Dreamers (2003): “a

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cinephilic reflection” wherein a character expresses the desire for closeness to the screen, “as if distance would swallow up the light.”21 Before focusing on The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, it is necessary to provide an overview of a selection of Gilliam’s films in which his devotion to his medium is exemplified. TERRY GILLIAM AND THE LOVE OF CINEMA In a piece for Film Comment, the pre-Hollywood Gilliam confesses that “I remember the films that I really, really like, but not the ones I don’t.”22 The medium that most appealed to the young Gilliam was radio, “the real well of the imagination.” He always liked Walt Disney movies and domestic comedies: “I wasn’t wise in the ways of movies, I just liked them” (emphasis in original).23 He liked Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979), with its “wonderful mixture of writhing sexual imagery and totally violent, awful stuff.”24 Gilliam’s favorite movies include Pinocchio, while Thief of Baghdad and Paths of Glory showed him that “films can be about something”; Bunuel and Bergman “were gods to me.”25 He playfully identifies his cinematic influences in his own work: “When you cross Fellini and Kurosawa with Doris Day and Fred MacMurray and Rock Hudson, you get what I do.”26 Gilliam has an affinity for classic romantic films such as The Red Shoes and considers his own fantasy film The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, as a particularly romantic film: “with Munchausen waltzing like that in the air, there’s no justification for it other than just gushing old-fashioned romanticism.”27 In 1981, following the success of Jabberwocky (1977), Gilliam’s Time Bandits was “the most [financially] successful film I’ve done.”28 As Jeff Birkenstein recounts, critics classified it as a family film “because they do not know how else to classify it.”29 With a young boy as its protagonist, Time Bandits featured some grim imagery and theological profundities, and ends with the young boy gleefully orphaned as his television-addicted parents die in an explosion. Cinematic reflexivity is sometimes facilitated through mise-en-abyme, a practice which positions the film as a reflecting structure of itself.30 In Time Bandits, Gilliam’s reflection on his preferred medium through mise-en-abyme is evident. On two occasions during the film, the dwarves perform a show for guests. At one point, Napoleon watches a puppet show. Throughout, the indifferently antagonistic Supreme Being evokes the godlike status of the studio executive who puts cast and characters through their paces for someone else’s pleasure. Following Time Bandits, it was during the 1980s that Gilliam’s particular mythology as a visionary filmmaker started to take shape. The director himself sees his epic fantasy The Adventures of Baron Munchausen as “my Magnificent Ambersons,” a reference to Orson Welles’s

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deeply personal film that faced ruination.31 It was not his fault, Gilliam says, that the film went over budget.32 This film suffered numerous production problems and $22 million worth of additional expenditure.33 In the infamous earlier case of Brazil, Gilliam demonstrated his ability to complete a film on schedule and within budget.34 To establish Brazil’s distinct visual form of stylized clutter, Gilliam uses “a combination of furniture and architectural styles from the past,” establishing a claustrophobic, industrial aesthetic and tone.35 This visual clutter, accomplished either in the volume of objects or through mise-en-scene, would characterize even “the first film I made in Hollywood,” The Fisher King (1991) and the dystopian 12 Monkeys (1995).36 In an interview with Simon Braund about Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998), Gilliam describes Las Vegas, the primary setting of the film’s chemically and comically fueled narrative, as “the most hallucinogenic place on the planet” where “nothing has any meaning.”37 Despite this meaninglessness, says Gilliam, those visiting Las Vegas are happy to part with their money because these individuals may consider themselves as resisting the status quo, yet the city the director describes “was built on people losing—that’s why it’s so big.”38 It is tempting to read here a comment on the unfulfilled dreams, unrealized projects, and broken dreams that litter the American studio system: the visionary filmmaker thinks that they are “bucking the system” but overriding control remains with the studio. Corbett agrees that one can read Gilliam’s films as criticisms of the Hollywood studio system and its cynical bureaucracies.39 For the director, filmmaking is about “the best way to express the beauty of the world as seen through the eyes of children and dreamers.”40 However, as Corbett explains, these personal expressions and artistic visions require considerable resource investment.41 Understandably, Corbett is cautious to ascribe the box-office or critical failures of some of Gilliam’s films simply to studio interference; indeed, it is likely, he says, that the director has a blind spot for risk and failure.42 Corbett presents a picture of Gilliam as somewhat naïve, an artist not fully comprehending, or refusing to comprehend, the complexity of the risks involved in the filmmaking process.43 In the films he loves, as well as in his own work, there is the image of the filmmaker (director) as auteur. The auteur finds that their attempts at realizing their creative vision are often impeded—rationally or irrationally—by the studio. Both commercial filmmaking and so-called independent filmmaking offer production environments that invariably problematize or limit the creative process.44 Earlier in Gilliam’s career, collaborating on projects as part of the Monty Python troupe meant that “the creatives were the executives, which was wonderful!” A kind of project solidarity is important to Gilliam. When making a movie, he knows to anticipate some level of conflict with the studio: “Who is with you in the foxhole in the final battle” against the studio?45 “For Gilliam,” writes Helena Teynor Donathini, “the aggressive nature of the

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executive decision-maker is linked to an oppressive and reductive masculinity.”46 Nonetheless, within the context of productive collaboration with cast and crew Gilliam says: “I like the fact that I don’t have total control. I like the surprises.”47 Taking all of the above into account, it is now necessary to explore how Gilliam has throughout his career acknowledged his influences and his love for the medium of film through his metacinematic filmmaking. METACINEMA AND CINEPHILIA As defined by Fernando Canet, metacinema is “the cinematic exercise that allows filmmakers to reflect on their medium of expression through the practice of filmmaking, whereby cinema looks at itself in the mirror in an effort to get to know itself better.”48 Canet follows Jacques Gerstenkorn’s (1987) generic categories that describe metacinema’s basic practices: cinematic reflexivity, which focuses on film creation and reception, and filmic reflexivity, which emphasises film history.49 Filmic reflexivity offers a sustained interpretation of or allusion to film history.50 These categories are not mutually exclusive and may constructively inform one another. As Canet notes, “reflection on the production models and Hollywood methods of representation has not only been performed from within, but also from the margins. . . . In this case, the reflexivity proposed is not so amenable: on the contrary, it is conceived as a criticism of the prevailing status quo.”51 It is not surprising that cinephiles, as per Elsaesser, and as applicable to Gilliam, “find their neglected figures among the independents, the avant-garde, and the emerging film nations of world cinema.”52 As Tony Hood confirms with his image of Gilliam as productive plunderer, “[there] is a detectable self-reflexivity on Gilliam’s part on his own status as filmmaker in his superintendence over a cinematic world of his design.”53 For Hood, Gilliam’s fascination with and use of “junk objects” serve “as a rude reminder of the passing of time.”54 In making Jabberwocky, Gilliam recycled sets and décor from other film sets, including borrowing from the set of a Pink Panther film.55 The director’s films reference Metropolis (1927) in its factory images56 and Monty Python and the Holy Grail, co-directed by Gilliam, references The Seventh Seal (1957)57 while Jeffrey Melton and Eric Sterling point out that Brazil and 12 Monkeys both cite the comedies of the Marx Brothers, The Cocoanuts (1929) and Monkey Business (1931) respectively.58 With Tideland (2005), Gilliam explicitly references James Whale’s Frankenstein (1931) during its opening address—and challenge—to the audience.59 Tideland’s metacinema continues in its citations of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) and Psycho (1960) in particular events and character actions.60 As Canet points out, Gilliam had produced a restaged allusion to

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Eisenstein’s Odessa Steps sequence from The Battleship Potemkin (1926) in Brazil.61 This allusion occurs within the context of metacinema but may also be framed as a cinephilic moment which complicates Eisenstein’s “original message . . . as the old civilian woman is replaced with a cleaning lady and the baby carriage with a vacuum cleaner”; these are all fantasy figures in Sam’s mind.62 The director’s metacinema crystallizes in the ways in which “[the] mise-en-scene of . . . 12 Monkeys is haunted by Marker’s film [La Jetée],” which in turn contains allusions to Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo.63 Gilliam’s metacinema is further evident in his film-within-a-film in 12 Monkeys, which opens the main film (yet is visually and tonally distinct from it) and is shown again a number of times during the narrative.64 There are detailed theater scenes in both The Adventures of Baron Munchausen and Time Bandits. Until it was pointed out to him, Gilliam “claims not to have realised that he has similar theatre scenes set in besieged cities” in both these films.65 For the viewer familiar with the director’s interest in the cross-permeability of reality and fantasy, it is impossible to know for certain whether the events in The Adventures of Baron Munchausen were all part of an elaborate theatrical play.66 With a similar focus on the mechanics of live performance, The Brothers Grimm (2005) is, underneath its narrative fairy tale contortions, explicitly metacinematic, particularly in its use of mise-en-abyme. The Grimm brothers (Matt Damon and Heath Ledger) “attempt . . . to rationalise the strange [paranormal and fantastical] occurrences they are witnessing.”67 This rationalization guides them to look for “hidden mechanisms and mirrors behind strange creatures, wheels and tracks under moving trees until finally Jacob realises the truth”:68 folklore is based on memory and is part of the tangible reality these characters inhabit. Here, the characters’ realization that the illusion is, in fact, grounded in reality correlates with the experience that Gilliam makes possible for himself and his audiences: that film, ostensibly an illusion, is woven into the audience’s lived reality and has its own history (and mythology, and lore) that precedes it. The idea and practice of metacinema provides a bridging concept between filmmaking and the notion of cinephilia as the viewer’s prerogative. Metacinema is about intertexts, interweaving, homage. As such, metacinema is not just about meaningful connections between different films but also about a reverence for those films, and the medium of film itself. This reverence corresponds with the love of cinema that is associated with cinephilia. However, cinephilia is also anxious, and is not limited to the positive experience of love, framed as it often is by nostalgia and a paradoxical sense of time lost and timelessness. Cohen explains that filmic homage “goes beyond the

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act of admiration or emulation, towards an act of rivalry or competition with a predecessor. The homage can just as easily be cannibalized by the specular film that it emulates.”69 Evoking such networks of meaning and memory means inviting the anticipated disappointment of a filmmaker falling short of his own mark, and of those standards he associates with other filmmakers and how they inform his creative vision. Canet notes that, as a form of cinematic reflexivity, “the metacinematic act is encompassed in a plot construction that renders it transparent” while in filmic reflexivity the metacinematic act “is rendered self-conscious by revealing the discursive mechanism or the referend that is the objects of the allusion or appropriation” (for instance, the Potemkin reference in Brazil).70 This latter instance is more common in auteurist cinema.71 Since the late 1990s, a cinephilia promulgated by “the more steadfast love of cinema became a preferred vantage point from which to rethink and reassess cinema.”72 The individuals participating in this cinephilia were “professionally affiliated with cinema” and their love of cinema was “intertwined with a wish to understand the changes happening in their field.”73 Insofar as Gilliam’s work positions him as film critic by way of metacinema, and as a film historian and filmmaker, this director meets De Valck’s following evaluation: “cinephilia has proven to be so enduring precisely because it forms a bridge between the biographical and the theoretical, the singular and the general, the fragment and the whole, the incomplete and the complete, and the individual and the collective.”74 Drawing on Mulvey, this chapter proposes that, for Gilliam, “the idea of loving the cinema becomes a conscious stance that stretches back into the twentieth century so that the contemporary cinephile lives the problem of the continuities and discontinuities of time,” much like the characters in so many of the director’s films, including The Man Who Killed Don Quixote discussed below.75 Gilliam’s love for cinema can be framed with reference to Robnik, for whom cinephilia is made up of vampires with a love and hunger for film; trawlers “whose analytic perception casts a net over a film to dig and fish for revelatory moments”; and poachers who rewrite and reappropriate “standardized media products.”76 As a participant in the memory-making affective machinery of the film medium, Gilliam is notably vampiric, a trawling and poaching filmmaker whose feature films clearly demonstrate his affinity for the film medium. The Man Who Killed Don Quixote is a work of cinephilia written and directed by a cinephile. With its mise-en-abyme and spatio-temporal dis-locations, the film excavates many of Gilliam’s favourite themes while providing a vital account of the effects of cinema on its maker(s): on Toby the fictional film director in The Man Who Killed Don Quixote as well as the director himself.

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CINEPHILIA AND METACINEMA: THE MAN WHO KILLED DON QUIXOTE Gilliam’s sustained attempt to make a feature film from the Spanish classic is “representative of the filmmaker’s own relationship with reality and with art,” writes Jonathan Fruoco.77 For Fruoco, Gilliam’s films are characterized by the tensions between economic-industrial reality, imagination and storytelling: Gilliam’s own filmmaking reflects this tension as he attempts to secure his vision in spite of various tangible constraints.78 Adapting Cervantes’s major literary work offers many challenges, one of which is the sheer length of the source material; it seems wholly impossible to adapt the novel for feature film purposes.79 Of course, it is not always the system or technology that fails the filmmaker. It can be a smorgasbord of minor disasters that sink an entire film project, as was the case with earlier attempts to realize his dream project. Brigitte Adriaensen describes the documentary film made about the collapse of Gilliam’s film, Lost in La Mancha (2002), as “89 minutes of progressive depression.”80 A sketch by Gilliam included in Lost in La Mancha is captioned, “The windmills of reality fight back!,” capturing the filmmaker’s struggle to make his fantasy a reality. The risk in casually accepting this image is to associate Gilliam with Don Quixote and his inability to accept, even in the face of evidence, that what he sees and what is real are two different things. To her credit, Adriaensen holds the directors of Lost in La Mancha, Fulton and Pepe, accountable for providing counter-productively “a panoptic view of the various problems that arise.”81 This footage crystallizes the notion of Gilliam as a Quixote-like figure: all his attempts at getting the film made are rendered impotent by the end of the documentary.82 Countering this pessimism, The Man Who Killed Don Quixote opens with an acknowledgment that the film was years in the “making and unmaking,” calling into memory Lost in La Mancha and announcing that a long-term project had finally reached a version of itself. The film follows Toby (Adam Driver), a film director whose latest big-budget adaptation of Cervantes’s famous work was inspired by a black-and-white student short film he had made a decade earlier. A series of unfortunate events (including some entanglements with Stellan Skarsgard’s high-powered character known only as ‘The Boss’) leads him literally and metaphorically into the past as he revisits former small-town Spanish filming locations; finds his former leading man Javier (Jonathan Pryce); and encounters the young woman to whom he had made unfulfillable promises, Angelica (Joanna Ribeiro). As the film proceeds, Toby is increasingly uncertain as to what is real and what is fantasy; like the viewer, he is often privy to Javier, who now fully believes that he is

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Don Quixote and who claims Toby as his Sancho Panza, for a view on the world. On occasion, time and space shift and dis-locate Toby as well as the viewer; it is sometimes not immediately clear whether he finds himself in some present reality or past fantasy, or some past reality or present fantasy. In the end, following numerous dangerous encounters ending in Javier’s death, Toby unconsciously takes on the role and mantle of Don Quixote as he and his new Sancho (actually, Angelica) ride off into the sunset. It is Angelica who, early in the film, meets Toby atop a hill at night-time. This meeting occurs while they are working on Toby’s first Quixote film, which is being shot on celluloid. As the scene ends, Angelica takes the camera from Toby and looks into it: she is looking at the viewer, through the camera, her face captured in black-and-white like the silent screen goddesses of old, and she says: “I love you.” Her playful proclamation brings the filmmaker (Toby) and audience together in the medium itself via the camera, its cinephilic tone complemented by the black-and-white imagery (the rest of the film is mostly in color) and the use of an old film camera (that is, analogue equipment instead of newer digital cameras). Considering that the film shifts between fantasy and reality as much as it shifts between Toby making the new Quixote-film, and Toby making the first Quixote-film and video footage of that first film, The Man Who Killed Don Quixote is a case not only of a film-within-a-film, but of a filmmaking-within-a-filmmaking. At the end of one specific flashback at Raul’s (Angelica’s father) tavern, Toby watches his past self as if in a scene from a film; and then sees himself dissolve away as the flashback ends, returning the viewer to the quiet of the present as Toby explores the old village in which he had shot ten years before, looking up past connections from his earlier filmmaking days. As Ng emphasizes, “cinephilia is also about delving for time in its pastness,” and here a filmmaker is literally looking up his filmmaking roots.83 At 1:17:34, the viewer is back with the black and white film-within-the-film, with the Don trapped in a wagon and trying unsuccessfully to convince Sancho to help him escape. This illusion breaks when Angelica suddenly enters the frame and pulls funny faces in front of the camera. The film reverts to color as the viewer sees Toby filming the woman. Toby only stops filming when he tells his crew that “the film ran out,” evoking a different era defined by its reliance on the finitude of the analogue. The technology here is resolutely of the past. Seeing some promising road signs advertising the presence of Don Quixote, Toby reluctantly pays an old woman to lead him to Quixote. She lets him into a small wooden structure (a kind of a one-person accommodating Nickelodeon) in which his own Quixote film, he recognizes, is playing projected on white curtains. Toby pauses in front of the black-and-white flickering image only for a few moments before literally parting the screen to find his old cast member Javier in full Don Quixote regalia, sword and book

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in hand, the flickering projector behind him. Mouthing the dialogue playing in the older film, Javier is framed in front of Goya’s Colossus (1808), with the old man positioned between the giant and the flickering light of the projector (giants are important to Gilliam’s film). When the film cuts to Toby, the projection is embedding him in the black-and-white imagery of the movie just as he appears in the black-and-white footage of his first film. Javier, believing that he is Don Quixote, and seeing the images live on Toby’s features, brings film (illusion) and reality into sharp alignment and he claims Toby as his Sancho. The events in the primary reality and present of The Man Who Killed Don Quixote take place during a period called Holy Week, a religious celebration that culminates in a major feast. Given the viewer’s possible knowledge of Gilliam and his world, Holy Week here reads like a metaphor for a week-long film festival; and the director ends his film with spectacular festivities based on illusions as well as live performance. At one point at the costume party that is the center piece of these festival activities, Javier becomes the central performer in a live performance at his own expense. He has found his audience and yet they laugh at him. “You old fool!” he chides himself afterwards in the mirror. He dies soon after, when Toby mistakes him for an aggressor and pummels him over a balcony. When Toby becomes the new Don Quixote, Gilliam seems to be suggesting that the medium can subsume—and has subsumed—the maker: film itself is more important than those who labor behind the scenes. Toby ‘discovering’ Javier a second time (the first being during the casting of the initial film years before) is reminiscent of the filmmaker reclaiming his lost object of cinema, the centrifugal force of the film which gives the filmmaker purpose and compels Toby to pursue his film with renewed vigor. The relationship between filmmaker and object is one fraught with frustration and tension, that is, anxiety about what lies ahead for both of them. The filmmaker is not sure where the film will take him, until he embraces the pleasurable uncertainty—even the volatility—of the process. In turn, Javier’s desire for Dulcinea positions her as the film’s object of appeal and also as proxy for the viewing audience. As in Cervantes’s novel, Dulcinea is an absent presence, a hypothetical entity similar to the film audience, who is expected to receive the object of desire—the film—with open arms and amour. The Man Who Killed Don Quixote reaffirms what Gilliam already conveyed in earlier films and clearly still believes: the “ubiquitously demoralizing nature of social modernity” where “[modern] life . . . proves throughout the film [Brazil] to be a messy and painful experience filled with complicated contraptions and suspect devices.”84 The idea of Gilliam the filmmaker as Don Quixote fighting the “windmills of reality” becomes complicated; the figure of Toby the filmmaker, as Gilliam’s figuration and representative in the

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film, is not the delusional Quixote but the grounded Sancho. Here, Quixote is a figure of cinema itself; and of the medium’s capacity to be larger and more encompassing of images and events than real life allows. CONCLUSION The Man Who Killed Don Quixote epitomizes Gilliam’s cinephilia. The above discussion positions the director’s oeuvre as an instantiation of Adrien Martin’s description of cinephilia as “a tactical, cultural war machine.”85 Gilliam’s love for film, as per Martin’s description of cinephilia, “is a motivating, and mobilizing, passion.”86 Using mise-en-abyme and citing his own (non-existent) Quixote movie in the film, as well as acknowledging the extra-diegetic presence of Lost in La Mancha, the 2018 film is reflexive and calls the viewer’s attention not only to its own existence but also to Gilliam’s presence. In this film, and through the figure of Toby, he identifies himself (not Bergman, Eisenstein, Hitchcock, Lang) as his ‘competition.’ Through a sense of nostalgia, repetition (including casting Jonathan Pryce for the fourth time), and a playful approach to time and reality, Gilliam delivers a film that testifies to the pleasures of filmmaking as much as it conjures up its peril. With reference to Keller (2020)’s discussion of cinephilia earlier, the director’s affective investment in The Man Who Killed Don Quixote is explicit, and even substantiated by extra-filmic sources. This project is of profound personal importance to Gilliam. The film is an object ‘recovered’ from nonexistence, as if lost, by the filmmaker; and it holds the potential of a certain anticipated disappointment (the self-doubt of a filmmaker finally making his dream project) as much as it holds the potential for anxiety (doubts about the film’s critical and commercial reception). In the figure of Toby, the filmmaker and the character forego their anxiety and opt, instead, for a complete and unconditional surrender to the medium Gilliam has dedicated his life to; this as Toby assumes the position of Don Quixote, taking on the challenge of illusion-as-existence for the foreseeable future. Finally, cinema gives Gilliam a (tentatively) happy ending. NOTES 1. Paula Amad, “‘Objects Become Witnesses’: Even Francis and the Emergence of French Cinephilia and Film Criticism,” Framework: The Journal for Cinema and Media 46, no 1 (2005): 57.

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2. Jason Sperb, “Sensing an intellectual nemesis,” Film Criticism 32, no 1 (2017): 49; Jasmine Nadua Trice, “Manila’s New Cinephilia,” Quarterly Review of Film and Video 32, no 7 (2015): 614. 3. Ibid., 53. 4. Ibid., 60. 5. Andrew Yule, Losing the Light—Terry Gilliam and the Munchausen Saga (New York: Applause Theatre Book Publishers, 2000). 6. Marijke de Valck, “Reflections on the recent cinephilia debate,” Cinema Journal 49, no 2 (2010): 132. 7. Laura Mulvey, “Some reflections on the Cinephilia Question,” Framework: The Journal for Cinema and Media 50, no 1–2 (2009): 191. 8. Ibid. 9. Thomas Elsaesser, “Cinephilia or the uses of disenchantment,” in Cinephilia. Movies, Love and Memory, eds. Marijke de Valck and Malte Hagener (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2005), 27. 10. Ibid., 41. 11. Drehli Robnik, “Mass Memories of Movies: Cinephilia as Norm and Narrative in Blockbuster Culture,” in Cinephilia. Movies, Love and Memory, eds. Marijke de Valck and Malte Hagener (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2005), 55. 12. Elsaesser, “Cinephilia,” 33. 13. Adrian Martin, “Cinephilia as War Machine,” Framework: The Journal of Cinema and Media 50, no. 1/2 (Spring and Fall 2009): 221. 14. Ibid., 222. Emphasis added. 15. Sarah Keller, Anxious Cinephilia: Pleasure and Peril at the Movies (New York: Columbia University Press, 2020), 17. 16. Ibid., 17–18. 17. Ibid., 22–23. 18. Ibid., 23–24. 19. Ibid., 24–25. 20. Ibid., 24–25, 26–27. 21. Jenna Ng, “The Myth of Total Cinephilia,” Cinema Journal 49, no 2 (Winter 2010): 148. 22. Terry Gilliam, “Terry Gilliam’s Guilty Pleasures,” Film Comment 27, no 5 (1991): 70. 23. Ibid. 24. Ibid., 72. 25. Saville, Lyndy dir. Terry Gilliam—In Conversation. Amazon Prime, 2010. 26. Gilliam, “Terry Gilliam,” 71. 27. Ibid., 72. 28. Saville, Terry Gilliam. 29. Jeff Birkenstein, “Divorced from Reality: ‘Time Bandits’ in Search of Fulfilment,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, eds Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 132.

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30. Fernando Canet, “Metacinema as cinematic practice: a proposal for classification,” Notebook: Cinephile Directors in Modern Times. L’Atalante (July–December 2014): 21. 31. Jonathan Lethem, “Loving the Ruins; or, Does The Magnificent Ambersons  Exist?,” Criterion Collection, 16 November, 2018, https:​ //​ www​ .criterion​ .com​/current​/posts​/6065​-loving​-the​-ruins​-or​-does​-the​-magnificent​-ambersons​-exist. Accessed on April 19, 2022. 32. Saville, Terry Gilliam. 33. Rudolph Carmenaty, “Terry Gilliam’s Brazil: a Film Director’s Quest for Artistic Integrity in a Moral Rights Vacuum,” Columbia-VLA Journal of Law & The Arts 14, no 1 (1989–1990): 106. 34. Carmenaty, “Terry Gilliam’s ‘Brazil,’” 92. 35. Lidia Meras, “Retro futures: a vision of the future in European science fiction films (1979–1991),” L’Atalante 26 (2018): 203. 36. Saville, Terry Gilliam. 37. Simon Braund, “Terry Gilliam,” Focus 45, no 3 (1998): 1–3. 38. Ibid. 39. Kevin Corbett, “The Troubles with Terry: what the career of an ‘independent auteur’ can tell us about creativity in the filmmaking industry,” Journal of Creative Work 2, no 1 (2008): 4. 40. Johnathan Fruoco, “Adapting Don Quixote: Terry Gilliam’s picaresque journey in the film industry,” CultureCom—La Revue, 2 (2019): 8. 41. Kevin Corbett, “The Troubles with Terry: what the career of an ‘independent auteur’ can tell us about creativity in the filmmaking industry,” Journal of Creative Work 2, no 1 (2008): 1. 42. Ibid., 7. 43. Ibid., 8. 44. Ibid., 1. 45. Saville, Terry Gilliam. 46. Hilary Teynor Donathini, “’Something for an Executive: Satire in Terry Gilliam’s ‘Brazil,’” Quarterly Review of Film and Television 35, no 2 (2018): 131–32. 47. Saville, Terry Gilliam. 48. Canet, “Metacinema,” 18. 49. Ibid., 16. 50. Ibid., 21. 51. Ibid., 20. 52. Elsaesser, “Cinephilia,” 36. 53. Tony Hood, “Grail tales: the preoccupations of Terry Gilliam,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, eds. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 32. 54. Hood, “Grail Tales,” 39. 55. Froula, “Steampunked,” 27. 56. Anna Froula, “Steampunked: the animated aesthetics of Terry Gilliam in ‘Jabberwocky’ and beyond,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, eds. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 22.

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57. Jim Holte, “And now for something completely different: Pythonic Arthurians and the matter of Britain,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, eds. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 47. 58. Jeffrey Melton and Eric Sterling, “The subversion of happy endings in Terry Gilliam’s ‘Brazil,’” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, eds. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 71–72. 59. Kathryn A. Laity, “’Won’t somebody please think of the children?’ The case of Terry Gilliam’s ‘Tideland,’” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, eds. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 120. 60. Laity, “Won’t somebody,” 123. 61. Canet, “Metacinema,” 22. 62. Ben Wheeler, “Reality is what you can get away with: fantastic imaginings, rebellion and control in Terry Gilliam’s ‘Brazil,’” Critical Survey 17, no 1 (2003): 105. 63. Alain J-J Cohen, “‘12 Monkeys,’ ‘Vertigo’ and ‘La Jetée.’ Postmodern Mythologies and Cult Films,” New Review of Film and Television Studies 1, no 1 (2003): 152. 64. Ibid., 158. 65. Birkenstein, “Divorced From,” 142. 66. Keith James Hamel, “The Baron, the King and Terry Gilliam’s Approach to ‘the Fantastic,’” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, eds. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 57. 67. Ofir Haivry, “It shall be a nation: Terry Gilliam’s exploration of national identity, between rationalism and imagination,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, eds. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 124. 68. Ibid. 69. Cohen, “12 Monkeys,” 161. 70. Canet, “Metacinema,” 24. 71. Ibid. 72. De Valck, “Reflections,” 133. 73. Ibid. 74. Ibid., 139. 75. Mulvey, “Some reflections,” 190. 76. Robnik, “Mass Memories,” 57. 77. Fruoco, “Adapting,” 1. 78. Ibid. 79. J.A. Garrido Ardila, “Don Quixote in film (2005–2015),” Open Cultural Studies 1 (2017): 195. 80. Brigitte Adriaensen, “Getting Lost in La Mancha: the unma(s)king of Gilliam’s ‘The Man Who Killed Don Quixote,’” in International Don Quixote, eds. Theo D’haen and Reindert Dhondt (Amsterdam: Brill, 2009), 253. 81. Ibid., 260. 82. Ibid. 83. Ng, “The Myth,” 148.

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84. Wheeler, “Reality,” 98. 85. Martin, “Cinephilia,” 222. 86. Ibid.

REFERENCES 12 Monkeys. Dir. Terry Gilliam. New York: Universal Pictures, 1995. Adriaensen, Brigitte. “Getting Lost in La Mancha: the unma(s)king of Gilliam’s ‘The Man Who Killed Don Quixote.’” In International Don Quixote, edited by Theo D’haen and Reindert Dhondt, 251–69. Amsterdam: Brill, 2009. The Adventures of Baron Munchausen. Dir. Terry Gilliam. Culver City, CA: Columbia Pictures, 1988. Amad, Paula. “‘Objects Become Witnesses’: Even Francis and the Emergence of French Cinephilia and Film Criticism.” Framework: The Journal for Cinema and Media 46, no 1 (2005): 56–73. The Battleship Potemkin. Dir. Sergei Eisenstein. USSR: Goskino, 1926. Birkenstein, Jeff. “Divorced from Reality: ‘Time Bandits’ in Search of Fulfilment.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 130–44. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Birkenstein, Jeff, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, eds. The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Braund, Simon. “Terry Gilliam.” Focus 45, no 3 (1998): 1–3. Brazil. Dir. Terry Gilliam. Century City, CA: 20th Century Fox, 1985. Broken Embraces. Dir. Pedro Almodóvar. New York: Universal Pictures International, 2009. The Brothers Grimm. Dir. Terry Gilliam. New York: Dimension Films, 2005. Canavan, Gerry. “You won’t change anything: freedom and control in ‘12 Monkeys.’” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 92–103. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Canet, Fernando. “Metacinema as cinematic practice: a proposal for classification.,” trans. Paula Saiz Hontangas. Notebook: Cinephile Directors in Modern Times. L’Atalante (July-December 2014): 17–26. Carmenaty, Rudolph. “Terry Gilliam’s Brazil: a Film Director’s Quest for Artistic Integrity in a Moral Rights Vacuum.” Columbia-VLA Journal of Law & The Arts, 14, no 1 (1989–1990): 91–122. The Cocoanuts. Dir. Robert Florey and Joseph Santley. Hollywood, CA: Paramount Pictures, 1929. Cohen, Alain J.-J. “’12 Monkeys,’ ‘Vertigo’ and ‘La Jetée.’ Postmodern Mythologies and Cult Films.” New Review of Film and Television Studies 1, no 1 (2003): 149–64. Corbett, Kevin. “The Troubles with Terry: what the career of an ‘independent auteur’ can tell us about creativity in the filmmaking industry.” Journal of Creative Work 2, no 1 (2008): 1–9.

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De Valck, Marijke. “Reflections on the recent cinephilia debate.” Cinema Journal 49, no 2 (2010): 132–39. De Valck, Marike and Malte Hagener, eds. Cinephilia. Movies, Love and Memory Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2005. Donathini, Hilary Teynor. “‘Something for an Executive: Satire in Terry Gilliam’s ‘Brazil.’” Quarterly Review of Film and Television 35, no 2 (2018): 119–36. The Dreamers. Dir. Bernardo Bertolucci. Los Angeles: Fox Searchlight Pictures, 2003. Elsaesser, Thomas. “Cinephilia or the uses of disenchantment.” In Cinephilia. Movies, Love and Memory edited by Marijke de Valck & Malte Hagener, 27–44. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2005. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Dir. Terry Gilliam. New York: Universal Pictures, 1998. The Fisher King. Dir. Terry Gilliam. Culver City, CA: TriStar Pictures, 1991. Frankenstein. Dir. James Whale. New York City: Universal Pictures, 1931. Froula, Anna. “Steampunked: the animated aesthetics of Terry Gilliam in ‘Jabberwocky’ and beyond.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 16–31. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Fruoco, Jonathan. “Adapting Don Quixote: Terry Gilliam’s picaresque journey in the film industry.” CultureCom—La Revue, 2 (2019): 1–9. Garrido Ardilla, J.A. “Don Quixote in film (2005–2015).” Open Cultural Studies 1 (2017): 194–202. Gilliam, Terry. “Terry Gilliam’s Guilty Pleasures.” Film Comment 27, no 5 (1991): 70–72. Haivry, Ofir. “‘It shall be a nation: Terry Gilliam’s exploration of national identity, between rationalism and imagination.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 104–17. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Heaven’s Gate. Dir. Michael Cimino. Beverly Hills: United Artists, 1980. Holte, Jim. “‘And now for something completely different’: Pythonic Arthurians and the matter of Britian.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 42–53. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Hamel, Keith James. “The Baron, the King and Terry Gilliam’s Approach to ‘the Fantastic.’” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 54–65. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Hood, Tony. “Grail tales: the preoccupations of Terry Gilliam.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 32–41. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus. Dir. Terry Gilliam. London: Lionsgate, 2009. Jabberwocky. Dir. Terry Gilliam. Culver City and Burbank, CA: Columbia-Warner, 1977.

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Keathley, Christian. Cinephilia and History, or the Wind in the Trees. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005. Keller, Sarah. Anxious Cinephilia: Pleasure and Peril at the Movies. New York: Columbia University Press, 2020. Ishtar. Dir. Elaine May. Culver City, CA: Columbia Pictures, 1987. Laity, Kathryn A. “‘Won’t somebody please think of the children?’ The case of Terry Gilliam’s ‘Tideland.’” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 118–29. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Lethem, Jonathan. “Loving the Ruins; or, Does The Magnificent Amberson Exist?” Criterion Collection, 16 November 2018. www​.criterion​.com​/current​/posts​/6065​ -loving​-the​-ruins​-or​-does​-the​-magnificent​-ambersons​-exist. Lost in La Mancha. Dir. Keith Fulton and Louis Pepe. New York City: IFC Films, 2002. The Magnificent Ambersons. Dir. Orson Welles. New York City: RKO Radio Pictures, 1942. The Man who Killed Don Quixote. Dir. Terry Gilliam. Burbank, CA: Warner Bros, 2018. Martin, Adrian. “Cinephilia as War Machine.” Framework: The Journal of Cinema and Media 50, no. 1/2 (Spring and Fall 2009): 221–25. Martyr, P.J. “Bandits, liars & terrible truths.” IPA Review 49, no 2 (1996): 56–58. Melton, Jeffrey and Eric Sterling. “The subversion of happy endings in Terry Gilliam’s ‘Brazil.’” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 66–78. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Meras, Lidia. “Retro futures: a vision of the future in European science fiction films (1979–1991).” L’Atalante 26 (2018): 199–211. Monkey Business. Dir. Norman Z MacLeod. Hollywood, CA: Paramount Pictures, 1931. Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Dir. Terry Jones and Terry Gilliam. London: EMI Films, 1975. Mulvey, Laura. 2009. “Some reflections on the Cinephilia Question.” Framework: the Journal for Cinema and Media 50, no 1–2 (2009): 190–93. Ng, Jenna. “The Myth of Total Cinephilia.” Cinema Journal 49, no 2 (Winter 2010): 146–51. Psycho. Dir. Alfred Hitchcock. Hollywood, CA: Paramount Pictures, 1960. Randell, Karen. 2013. “Terry Gilliam interview with Karen Randell—3 May 2012.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 9–15. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. The Red Shoes. Dir. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. London: General Film Distributors, 1948. Robnik, Drehli. “Mass Memories of Movies: Cinephilia as Norm and Narrative in Blockbuster Culture.” In Cinephilia. Movies, Love and Memory, edited by Marijke de Valck and Malte Hagener, 55–64. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2005.

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Sperb, Jason. “Sensing an intellectual nemesis.” Film Criticism 32, no 1 (2007): 49–71. The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Dir. Tobe Hooper. Bryanston Distributing Company, 1974. Terry Gilliam—In conversation. Dir. Lyndy Saville. Amazon Prime, 2010. Tideland. Dir. Terry Gilliam. New York: ThinkFilm, 2005. Time Bandits. Dir. Terry Gilliam. London: Handmade Films, 1981. Titanic. Dir. James Cameron. Hollywood: Paramount Pictures, 1997. Trice, Jasmine Nadua. “Manila’s New Cinephilia.” Quarterly Review of Film and Video 32, no 7 (2015): 611–24. Wheeler, Ben. “Reality is what you can get away with: fantastic imaginings, rebellion and control in Terry Gilliam’s ‘Brazil.’” Critical Survey 17, no 1 (2003): 95–108. Yule, Andrew. Losing the Light—Terry Gilliam and the Munchausen Saga. New York: Applause Theatre Book Publishers, 2000.

Chapter 2

Ideology through the Looking Glass‌‌ Terry Gilliam’s Lewis Carroll and the Politics of Comedy in Jabberwocky (1977) and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998) Garreth O’Brien

Illustrating the breadth and variety of the influences on Terry Gilliam’s work in film, Anna Froula lists “German Expressionism, Ray Harryhausen, Hieronymus Bosch, Alfred Hitchcock, Lewis Carroll, Mad magazine, and a Chevrolet assembly line,” to name a few.1 The through line of this chapter is just one of these influences—Lewis Carroll, and his Alice books: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and Through the Looking-Glass: And What Alice Found There (1871)—though Carroll’s status as a comic (by which I mean humorous) writer is used to make a point about Gilliam’s investment in comedy more generally. It is, to be sure, not new to point out that Gilliam was influenced by Carroll; to name just a couple of examples, Salman Rushdie suggests that Brazil (1985) is in the tradition of Lewis Carroll even more than it is in the tradition of George Orwell, and Scott Tobias writes that when Alice goes through the looking glass, she “experience[s] something like a Terry Gilliam film.”2 Indeed, Carroll is there at the beginning of Gilliam’s career: after Gilliam got a job during his college years as a drama coach at a summer camp for the children of Hollywood actors, he attempted but ultimately had to cancel a production of Alice in Wonderland—and as he tells it, this was a formational trauma in his career.3 For the sake of this chapter, Carroll matters as the stand-in for a kind of comedy that, as an influence on Gilliam, exists in productive tension with (usually anti-capitalist) social satire. 33

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There are three key aspects that Gilliam draws from Carroll. First is the trope of another world that characters can pass into. In his monograph on Gilliam, Peter Marks writes that the narrative of a journey to other worlds or metaphysical realms runs through nearly all his films, but . . . [w]e need to recognize the multitude of fantastic worlds possible, and their distinctive negotiations with reality. With Gilliam, these worlds are not discrete, with the real and the fantastic colliding with and informing each other, adding a crucial interactive dimension.4

Accordingly, what defines Gilliam’s output for Marks is the conjunction of opposed worlds. A journey to another world implies a passageway between this world and that, a liminal space where they join or are joined. In Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland the passageway is a rabbit hole; and echoes of this particular scene, in which Alice dreams that she follows a white rabbit with a pocket watch down a rabbit hole into Wonderland, are to be found everywhere in Gilliam’s work. Second, Gilliam continues the Alice books’ investigation of “the logic of insanity”5—with an emphasis on the paradox implicit in that formulation, that irrationality still has a logic. Finally—and because it is a little less apparent, this is where this chapter places the most emphasis—Gilliam adapts the dynamics of Carroll’s self-consciously imaginary worlds to examine the imaginary world implied by capitalist ideology. JABBERWOCKY’S “DISTORTING MIRROR” Released in 1977 and set in “the middle of the Dark Ages,” in a kingdom being terrorized by a monster, the Jabberwock, Gilliam’s Jabberwocky follows Dennis (Michael Palin), son of a cooper and therefore Dennis Cooper. “As towns and villages are torn apart, the helpless survivors seek refuge behind the walls of the great city. But out in the forest, in isolated pockets still untouched by the ravages of the monster, life and business goes on as usual.”6 While his father takes pride in the craft of coopering, Dennis is only interested in “business,” keeping inventories and cutting corners. He is in love with a local merchant’s daughter, Griselda Fishfinger (Annette Badland), though she shows no interest in him, and goes to the city to seek his fortune after his father dies. The film moves from Dennis’s village in the forest to the “isolated pocket” of the city itself, in which merchants profit from the refugee crisis; the destruction caused by the Jabberwock provides a highly profitable influx of desperate workers to exploit. There the king, Bruno the Questionable (Max Wall), proposes a tournament to select a champion, with his daughter’s (Deborah Fallender) hand in marriage as an incentive. Dennis

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winds up having to be the winning knight’s squire because the previous squire dies after getting Dennis to take his place temporarily. The city’s merchants join forces with the Church and hire another knight to kill the first knight (and Dennis) so that the Jabberwock’s reign of terror can continue. The second knight kills the first knight but is killed by the Jabberwock before he can kill Dennis. Dennis proceeds to kill the Jabberwock by means of dumb luck. Overjoyed that he can marry Griselda at last, when Dennis returns to the city he is, without being given the chance to speak, married to the princess—in Gilliam’s terms, “the wrong happy ending” (G 172)—and rides, dismayed, into the sunset. Lewis Carroll’s poem “Jabberwocky,” from which Gilliam’s story vaguely derives, first appeared in Through the Looking-Glass (1871). Before either Alice book was written, Carroll included what would later be the first (and last) stanza of “Jabberwocky” on its own, then titled “Stanza of Anglo-Saxon Poetry,” in a privately published miscellany: ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.7

This stanza, in voiceover, starts off the film. The poem continues: “Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!” He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” He chortled in his joy.8

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The first stanza then repeats to close the poem. Jabberwocky is, to be sure, an adaptation of Carroll’s poem, but the plots bear only a vague resemblance to each other. This is in part a consequence of the source material: given that the poem is largely made-up words, there is not much to be faithful to. As Gilliam affirmed, “The film has nothing to do with the poem—except that it does, because a monster comes burbling through the woods. . . . [The poem] is just nonsense and this is a film that’s nonsense.”9 Even so, however, Jabberwocky manages to clearly diverge from “Jabberwocky.” While the narrative of the poem concludes with the father’s celebration of the hero, before Dennis leaves home, his father disowns him, denounces him as a “shallow, dull, pretentious little stock-taker” and, as if to make sure that no reconciliation can possibly occur, dies. The fact that the film’s treatment of the hero’s father is a reversal of Carroll’s poem is emblematic of Gilliam’s general approach in Jabberwocky, being based on reversals. Gilliam writes, “one of the most important things about Jabberwocky to me was that it should be anti-American film-making . . . in terms of being the opposite of the Hollywood distorting mirror I’d grown up with, whereby all the pores were mysteriously gone from the skin and everyone’s teeth shone” (G 172). The image of American filmmaking as a “distorting mirror” is worth pausing over. In Carroll’s work, Alice comes across the poem “Jabberwocky” once she has gone through a mirror. She picks up “a book lying near [her] on the table” that appears to be written “all in some language I don’t know,” until “a bright thought” occurs to her: “‘Why, it’s a Looking-glass book, of course! And, if I hold it up to a glass, the words will all go the right way again.’”10 Given that the poem is filled with nonsense words, it seems that being on the other side of the looking glass has “reversed” more than the direction of the letters. Gilliam’s Jabberwocky is the poem that Alice reads flipped back, from fiction/ideology into history; not reality but a non-non-reality: the mirror-image of a mirror-image. The emphasis on reflections and opposites is mirrored, if you will, at the level of form as well. Though the monster is drawn from Through the Looking-Glass, the opening scene as well as the rest of the film has more to do with Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—case in point, the outfits of Bruno’s attendants make them resemble the Queen of Hearts’ playing-card attendants, and King Bruno channels the Queen of Hearts by orders that one of them be beheaded (Bruno’s response when the head flies off and lands nearby is “ew”). All in all, though, it is Alice through a looking glass; that is, Carroll’s presence in Jabberwocky is through an inverted or reversed version of Alice in Wonderland. The film opens with a vignette featuring a trapper (Terry Jones): the first stanza of “Jabberwocky” is recited over nature shots, and then the trapper’s foot crushes a butterfly, perhaps a callback to the opening

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credits of Monty Python’s Flying Circus. Alice finds Wonderland because a white rabbit wearing a waistcoat piques her curiosity; we are shown a literally inverted rabbit, hanging upside-down from a trap, as well as a human covered in rabbit fur to a grotesque degree (including a hat) instead of a rabbit wearing strangely human garments, a human putting a rabbit in a sack instead of a rabbit leading a human underground. Here being upside-down is a sign not of whimsy but of capture. The same shot shows an opening in a tree, suggesting a rabbit hole—but as a lure to trap rabbits, not a passageway to another world. The Jabberwock is almost a reversed rabbit, treating humans the way humans treat rabbits. The bag with rabbits and a fox is like the city. You can chase a white rabbit into Wonderland, but the Jabberwock chases you into capitalism. It is the cliché of the hunter becoming the hunted, itself a reversal. As far as the history that Jabberwocky flips us back to, it is fitting that Gilliam, as a (half-jokingly) self-described “commie manqué,” begins his solo-directorial career with the beginning of capitalism (G 66). Jabberwocky was the first movie that Gilliam made after Monty Python and the Holy Grail; and the later film was in part a response to Gilliam’s dissatisfaction with the earlier one, what he saw as its failure to capture the “texture” of the period. Since Jabberwocky is set in “the middle of the Dark Ages,” it is tempting to categorize the later film, like the earlier, as a medieval comedy. But while Monty Python and the Holy Grail was inspired by doodles in medieval illuminated manuscripts, Gilliam consistently frames Jabberwocky as an homage to the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch (c. 1450–1516) and Pieter Bruegel the Elder (c. 1525–1569), making Jabberwocky, in inspiration at least, less a medieval comedy than a Renaissance or early modern comedy (GOG 72). First of all, what does Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” have to do with early modern Netherlandish painting? It is telling that the establishing shot of the “great city” in Jabberwocky is Bruegel’s 1563 painting of the Tower of Babel. In Bruegel’s biblical source, humanity begins “of one language, and of one speech”; but humans build a tower reaching up to the heavens, and Yahweh decides to “confound their language, that they may not understand one another’s speech.”11 It is surely not a coincidence that the nonsense of Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” is thus linked with the origin story of humanity’s mutual unintelligibility. Even more significantly, this places Jabberwocky at the dawn of commerce. Karl Marx begins “The Transformation of Money into Capital,” the second part of the first volume of Capital (1867), as follows: The circulation of commodities is the starting-point of capital. The production of commodities, their circulation, and that more developed form of their circulation called commerce, these form the historical groundwork from which it rises. The modern history of capital dates from the creation in the 16th century of a world-embracing commerce and a world-embracing market.12

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For one thing, Gilliam notes that “[c]ommerce is a theme that runs through the film” (GOG 65). Jabberwocky is set at precisely the socioeconomic point of transition that Marx identifies. Feudalism is on its last legs, in the process of giving way to capitalism: at the time of Jabberwocky, the power of King Bruno is beginning to be eclipsed by the power of merchants. The film is about the beginning of modernity insofar as it is about what Marx locates as the beginning of capitalism’s “modern history.” I am suggesting that commerce is comic for Gilliam because: (1) it depends on the figure/ground relation of the commodity fetish, which is always at risk of dissolving into laughter; (2) industry develops in the direction of inflexibility and the “logic” of efficiency replaces life; and (3) representing the class system requires typification. Carroll provides a model for dealing with the totally backwards or humorous society, in which everything fits together into conventions, a great Sense, of nonsense. Which means, to a critic such as Gilliam of capitalism’s replacement of “common sense” with economic “logic,” that Jabberwocky uses Carroll’s Alice books as prototypes for a kind of Marxist realism. JABBERWOCKY AND COMMODITY COMEDY The film comes down to commodity-fetish comedy. When Dennis tries to get through the gate to the city, two forms of fetishism are juxtaposed: the false valuation of the potato and of the stone. While eating toward the beginning of the film, Griselda says of a potato, “That’s rotten,” and tosses it out the window. Dennis takes Griselda to be referring to his imminent absence from her side as rotten and the rotten potato as a keepsake. Marx’s point about reification is that it is a misreading of a social process as the attribute of a thing. György Lukács parses Marx as follows: Objectively a world of objects and relations between things springs into being (the world of commodities and their movements on the market). The laws governing these objects are indeed gradually discovered by man, but even so they confront him as invisible forces that generate their own power. The individual can use his knowledge of these laws to his own advantage, but he is not able to modify the process by his own activity. Subjectively—where the market economy has been fully developed—a man’s activity becomes estranged from himself, it turns into a commodity which, subject to the non-human objectivity of the natural laws of society, must go its own way independently of man just like any consumer article.13

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The guards’ argument over whether Dennis’s potato is a possession suggests that the fetishism inherent in the commodity is a degraded parody of chivalric delusions. But it also means that the stone collector is on to something. He does not say “this is a diamond,” but “what if this is a diamond?”—an invitation to play that assumes the imaginary nature of the commodity. A diamond is a classic example of something that is valuable because it is rare rather than valuable because it is useful, an example also used by Marx. A diamond, in other words, is valuable not out of qualities it has but as a quantification resulting from a (social) exchange relation—so why not transform stones into diamonds? However, the stone collector’s distinction between “as if” and reality fades away when Dennis encounters him again in the forest. When Dennis points out that the supposed diamonds are rocks, the man bonks the rock against his head as if to test Dennis’s claim—mental judgment reduced to the material affordances of a head. “Quick thinking. But not quick enough to save your skin.”14 This echoes the end of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, when after being convicted of stealing tarts Alice declares, “You’re nothing but a pack of cards”—in both cases, the debunkers are promptly jumped. Alice is saved only by her waking up, and Dennis by the Jabberwock disemboweling Gilliam’s character. The potato is imagined as “a souvenir of our [the princess’s and Dennis’s] hopeless, flawless love” by the princess. A “collision” of two fairy tales, as Gilliam describes the film (GOG 65), takes the shape of colliding fetishisms of a rotten potato. Humor is the (Marxist) reassertion of the ground behind these figures, the potato’s eyes growing out. In Henri Bergson’s book Laughter (1900), a pervasively influential theory of humor, he claims that “there could be no better definition of comedy” than the depiction of “general types”: fitting with the inelasticity thesis, the comic element of character is “the ready-made element in our personality, that mechanical element which resembles a piece of clockwork wound up once for all and capable of working automatically.”15 “Every comic character is a type [and] every resemblance to a type has something comic in it.”16 One could substitute class for type here: though this may be far from Bergson’s intention, these ideas raise the notion that there is something intrinsically Marxist about comedy, or at least about a subset of the comic field. And this is how Jabberwocky works as a comedy: it represents the class struggle through the interaction between comic—and comically typified—characters. Dennis is just a petty bourgeois before his time, caught between the divine right of kings and the Griselda’s (rural) merchant-class family. Capitalism defeats feudalism—but not yet! Here feudalism comes in. The princess calls Dennis “my prince,” and refers to “those filthy peasant rags which you were no doubt forced to don in some romantic adventure” and insists that he has “crossed the seven seas for me, and galloped across deserts and dark canyons.”17 To be fair, the world rises to her level of romanticization; a man wearing a crown

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band throws a grappling hook over the windowsill and has enough time to say “my love” before the windowsill breaks off and falls with him. Gilliam would later describe “the princess in the tower, mad as a hatter, who’s living in a dream world of stories, and this guy turns up and falls into her dream world, becomes a victim of her stories.” (GOG 74). Calling the princess “mad as a hatter” points, for one, to the troubling intertwining of Gilliam’s comedy with uncritical deployment of the rhetoric of mental disability. But the comparison to Carroll’s Mad Hatter is important in itself: Carroll’s Hatter is also “living in a dream world” (Wonderland) which Alice, like Dennis, “falls into” (through a rabbit hole). The problem of the tea party is being outnumbered by the “mad”; the problem of the court makes it more specifically about how mad/not mad is less productive than the fact that there is a conflict over reality, and that it comes down in the end to power. This is how Dennis comes to be trapped in a fairy tale. JABBERWOCKY, COMMERCE, AND MACHINE-AGE COMEDY In Machine-Age Comedy (2009), Michael North makes the case for “the relationship between modernity and comedy”18—the machine age and modernity being pretty much equivalent for North. He argues that comedy is historically situated and examines a wide swath of twentieth century works, across artforms, to make a case that the “age of mechanical reproduction” (taking a cue from Walter Benjamin, from whom North often takes cues in this book)—in short, the age of film—changes what it means for works to be funny. Specifically, the development of film comedy introduces a new kind of comic repetition simply because it allows for a new technology of repetition, cinematic reproduction itself, in other words of comic routines. In short, what defines twentieth-century/machine-age/modern comedy is its ambivalent celebration of human mechanicity, its engagement with the idea that “insofar as they are physical beings with involuntary responses to stimuli, people are also on some level machines.”19 North functionally agrees with Bergson that the mechanical is central to comedy, though he rejects Bergson’s claims that human laughter is a rebuke of mechanicity and a celebration of human pliability and autonomy. This is because making humans—workers—machinelike is what defines modernity, which is to say industrial/Fordist modernity. Jabberwocky’s most explicit foray into what can be called machine-age comedy happens in the armory. Gilliam worked on a Chevrolet assembly line when he was young; and he later claimed that he likes the sequence in the armory because it is “about an assembly line coming apart—my revenge on Chevrolet” (GOG 78). The scene alludes to Charles Chaplin’s

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Modern Times (1936), in some ways “the definitive machine-age comedy” for North: “Fulminating against the machine age as it does, Modern Times makes it possible to see by contrast how important machines had been to Chaplin’s own work and to modern comedy in general.”20 In Modern Times, the Tramp (Chaplin) finds himself unable to escape his repetitive movements even after leaving his station on the assembly line, periodically twitching his whole body in a manner resembling his job. He proceeds to be sucked into the machine that the assembly line feeds into, then wreaking havoc on his coworkers and women who pass by, treating various parts of them as if they were parts in the plant. In addition to Modern Times, landmark examples of assembly-line comedy can be found in René Clair’s À Nous la Liberté (1931) and the I Love Lucy episode “Job Switching” (1952). Dennis literally runs into a squire (Harry H. Corbett) while chasing a turnip and lugs the squire’s armor to the armory for repair in recompense. Inside the armory, in addition to rope-suspended suits of armor, smiths at anvils, general commercial hubbub and a disgruntled customer yelling, are several giant rotating gears (at least one being pedaled by a human). The gears make the armory resemble more the inside of the machine that the Tramp gets sucked into than the factory floor. But while in Chaplin’s pseudo-two-dimensional view the intersecting gears seem orderly and even geometric, transposed into a three-dimensional space the effect here is to add to the chaos. The viewer never gets an all-encompassing view of the armory, in sharp contrast to Chaplin’s schematic machinery. Within this chaos, Dennis zeroes in on a kind of assembly-line avant la lettre. One worker takes a component from a box and puts it in place for a second worker to hammer it. The process is repeated at a regular pace of about once a second. This two-person operation captures a couple of key aspects of the assembly line: humans repeating carefully coordinated motions, and the speed. In Jabberwocky, the lack of conveyor belt or sophisticated machinery does not stop the armorers’ work from turning them into humorous machines. But speed works differently in Gilliam’s armory than in Chaplin’s factory. There is no conveyor belt here: there is a shared rhythm, not a mechanically determined speed. The incipient assembly line is so fascinating to Dennis that he is compelled to interfere and accidentally cause its destruction. Dennis watches the interaction between two workers on a gauntlet: between each hammer blow, the first worker rotates the gauntlet, swings his arm nearly 180˚ to grab a fastener from a box, and places it underneath the hammer. “Excuse me,” Dennis says, after watching the process for a few moments. He repeats himself after getting no response and is told to go away. Dennis persists and suggests moving the box of components closer for “efficiency”; Dennis moves the box to demonstrate, the first worker is momentarily thrown off, which causes the

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second to hit the first’s hand with the hammer. The first knocks over a spear and sets off a chain reaction, by the end of which the armory is demolished. On the one hand, of course, this is a disruption of industrial efficiency. But on the other, the collapse itself has the efficiency of a Rube Goldberg machine.21 It is not just that the drive for industrial efficiency leads to disaster, but that industrial efficiency creates the conditions for that disaster. In the most direct Chaplin reference, huge gears are pedaled by someone. Mechanical inelasticity in Jabberwocky is not just a comic mode but part of the nature of capitalist life; the point is not mechanization in the technological sense, it is the mechanism as a form into which the capital/labor relation organizes workers, the anachronism of the gears and the human in place of the engine suggesting the incipience of Fordist capitalism within capitalism in its earliest forms. The point is, Jabberwocky is a machine-age comedy at the same time as it insists on a different periodization. Jabberwocky shows how Gilliam’s interest in the medieval and the early modern comes down to the history of capitalism. Indeed, the importance of the comedy of Jabberwocky is that, even though its literal historical setting is nebulous to the extreme, its twisting of the conventions of machine-age comedy onto Bosch and Bruegel’s early modern vision reflects the relationship between twentieth-century capitalism and its long history, making Jabberwocky’s generic self-positioning as comedy historically reflexive. FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS AND HUMORLESS COMEDY Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998), based on Hunter S. Thompson’s novel, follows journalist Raoul Duke and his supposed lawyer, Dr. Gonzo, as they fall down a rabbit hole of drugs in Las Vegas while in town to cover a motorcycle race. Duke and Gonzo sharing drugs, especially adrenochrome, makes them share a kind of distorted otherworld, making them resemble the Mad Hatter and March Hare, who led various versions of Alice into their dark Wonderland. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is a comedy, but it also plays on the line between humor and horror—and crucial to understanding this border is Lauren Berlant’s concept of humorlessness. Berlant argues that “the comic is motivated by the pressure of humorlessness, with its radical cramping of mobility at the heart of the encounter, whether the encounter is with oneself or with another person, object, or world.”22 In essence, “[w]hat constitutes humorlessness is someone’s insistence that their version of a situation should rule the relational dynamic.”23 Regarding the influence of machine-age comedy: “If comedy always involves a revelation of the mechanicity of being, as Bergson suggests, humorless comedy threatens to expose the ordinariness of

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a desperately desired, feared and failed sovereignty machine. But, more than that, humorless comedy is also a comedy of confusion about what and where sovereignty is.”24 Humorlessness is the expression of an “aspirational sovereign,” sovereignty defined as “a fantasy of self-ratifying control over a situation or space . . . that might or might not be sanctioned by norm or law.”25 In Gilliam’s account, the second half of Fear and Loathing is structured around a point at which it “isn’t funny” anymore (GOG 245). There is a version of Alice in Wonderland that shades into horror, or a way of displacing emphasis in Alice in Wonderland that brings out a pattern of horror, exemplified by Jan Švankmajer’s Alice (1988), Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away (2001) and Neil Gaiman’s Coraline (2002). At the heart, perhaps, of this subgenre lies the Queen of Hearts’ combination of absolute power and bloodlust. But there is also the fact of Wonderland as a place where the Cheshire Cat can say, “We’re all mad here.” Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) is a generic cornerstone of the horror film, and one which centers horror on the figure of the insane. Revisioning Alice after Psycho requires a different handling of the concept of a world in which all are “mad.” The point at which humor becomes horror in Fear and Loathing has everything to do with the White Rabbit, which is to say Gonzo. Gonzo sits in a bathtub listening to Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” and instructs Duke: “When it comes to that fantastic note, when the rabbit bites its own head off, I want you to throw that fucking radio into the tub with me.” A white rabbit is drawn on the mirror in shaving cream, a fist on the adjoining wall. (Elsewhere, Duke tells Gonzo to “hop” off a carousel/bar “like a bunny.”) Discussing the film, Gilliam calls attention to a “structure . . . with biblical overtones” provided by visual references—the Beverly Hills hotel is a “Garden of Eden, even guarded by an angel with a flaming sword, from which they’re expelled into the desert wilderness,” and Gonzo is “basically” Virgil, Dante’s guide in the Divine Comedy, leading Duke through “the hell of Vegas”—because these allusions “create a structure for [him] to work within” (GOG 252, 246, 249). The allusions to Alice in Fear and Loathing provide another such organizing structure. The White Rabbit is also a kind of Virgil, leading Alice underground as the Virgil leads Dante into the underworld. Gonzo’s character is shaped in both film and book by overlaid allusions. Gonzo is Virgil and the White Rabbit because Las Vegas is Hell and Wonderland. In that respect Gonzo is more troubling as a lure (the White Rabbit) than as a guide (Virgil). With this conflation of Underworld and Wonderland, it is worth noting that the original title for Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was Alice’s Adventures Underground. The idea in Fear and Loathing seems to be that you can fall into Hell through a rabbit hole. Gonzo is a white rabbit-devil. The White Rabbit is a recurrent function, more than a type, in Gilliam’s work. They are the ones that connect worlds. Gonzo repeatedly fills this role,

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dragging (mostly) women into Gonzo and Duke’s hallucinatory world; one, notably, is a maid named Alice, who evokes the Alice of Walt Disney’s Alice in Wonderland (1951) by wearing a white apron and a blue dress, albeit with a lower neckline. Carroll’s White Rabbit thinks that Alice is a maid; here she is. At one point, Gonzo gives LSD to a young tourist named Lucy who has never used illicit drugs and brings her, nearly catatonic, back to Duke and Gonzo’s hotel room, functionally abducting her. That is, Gonzo begins by putting Lucy in a state that mixes her up with a fictional character of the same name (“Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”) and seems to do the same thing with Alice. And the same process repeats in the scene at which the film crosses into horror, now “truly ugly: two guys in the middle of the night in a cafe with a lone woman and a knife” (GOG, 245). The point to all of this is that Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland becomes a cipher for Vietnam War-era counterculture, but in a manner opposite to—and parodic of—Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” (1967). In Grace Slick’s lyrics to “White Rabbit,” which alludes to both Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, Carroll’s otherworlds represent an outside to “logic and proportion,” an escape from the workaday world. The pills, mushrooms, and hookah which populate the lyrics tie Carroll’s imagery to the mind-altering effects of various drugs. By implication, escaping reality through drugs is given a liberatory hue. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas borrows much of the same imagery from Carroll that “White Rabbit” does, but it shifts the emphasis away from how Alice escapes the constraints of reality and toward how Alice is forced to conform to the constraints of Wonderland. Going to Wonderland allows Alice to escape the arbitrary rules of everyday life and the domination of common sense only to be dominated by arbitrary rules inexplicable in terms of Alice’s common sense but violently enforced, nonetheless. This comes down to the humorlessness of the Queen of Hearts, her claim (as Berlant’s argument suggest) to sovereignty—a dynamic replicated in Gonzo’s violently imposed humorlessness in the elevator. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is an exploration of the unsetting consequences of Carroll’s argument. Gilliam’s comedy as well as Carroll’s is a comedy of nonsense, not meaninglessness; and Gilliam’s nonsense worlds are significant not because they offer liberation from the constraints of reality, but because they display the violence required to sustain a shared social meaning based in nonsense—not to mention sense. CONCLUSION One of the contradictions in the study of Gilliam’s work is that even though most of his movies could be classified as comedies, in one sense or another,

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he is statedly ambivalent about the genre, due to what he calls, with a nod to Juvenal, a “doctrine of bread and Flying Circuses”: In my capacity as one-sixth of an internationally renowned comedy troupe [Monty Python], I had often worried that I might actually be undermining people’s abilities to change things. As any good commie from Lenin onwards would tell you, the secret of fomenting revolution is to let things get as bad as possible as quickly as possible, not to allow people to insulate themselves against the inequities of capitalism by having a good laugh at them. (G 199)

This chapter suggests that Gilliam’s practice as a director of comedies is an attempt to resolve this ambivalence: to reconcile comedy with the demands of a Marxist (or “commie”) politics. That such a reconciliation is necessary follows from the idea that the definition of a situation as comic (or funny) is inherently political. I have discussed two films which take their own comic approach from that of Lewis Carroll’s Alice books. While Jabberwocky draws from Carroll’s nonsense poem of the same name and his Alice books in inverted form, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas paints its two central characters as inhabitants of a travelling drug-induced otherworld. Both draw on Carroll’s derivation of humor from the line between sense and nonsense and interest in how the line between sense and nonsense are imposed. In the case of Jabberwocky, we can see how the history of class struggle is reflected in comic routines. Gilliam’s use of machine-age assembly-line comedy in Jabberwocky demonstrates how slapstick relates to the nature of labor and working conditions. The film’s fantastical historical fiction reflects a Marxist analysis of the role of “commerce” in the development of capitalism in Europe. Comedy in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is volatile: it is always on the verge of breaking into force. Gilliam represents the legacy of Carroll’s kind of looking-glass comedy not only by centering the comic practices by which sense and nonsense, a joke and not, are distinguished, but by exploring the violence and threats of violence that uphold that distinction.​​​​​​​ NOTES 1. Anna Froula, “Steampunked: The Animated Aesthetics of Terry Gilliam in Jabberwocky and Beyond,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, ed. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York: Columbia UP, 2013), 16. I cannot thank my sister, Collette O’Brien, enough for comments at multiple stages of writing. 2. Salman Rushdie, “The Location of Brazil,” American Film, September 1985, 50; Scott Tobias, “Jabberwocky: Through the Looking Glass and What Terry Found There,” Current, November 21, 2017, https:​//​www​.criterion​.com​/current​/posts​/5131​

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-jabberwocky​-through​-the​-looking​-glass​-and​-what​-terry​-found​-there. Accessed May 30, 2022. 3. Terry Gilliam and Ben Thompson, Gilliamesque (New York: Harper Design, 2015), 53. Henceforth cited in the text as G. 4. Peter Marks, Terry Gilliam (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009), 10. 5. Nina Auerbach, “Alice and Wonderland: A Curious Child,” Victorian Studies 17:1 (1973): 31. 6. Jabberwocky, directed by Terry Gilliam (Culver City: Sony Pictures, 1977). 7. Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass: And What Alice Found There, www​ .gutenberg​.org​/files​/12​/12​-h​/12​-h​.htm. Accessed May 30, 2022. 8. Ibid. 9. Terry Gilliam, Gilliam on Gilliam, ed. Ian Christie (London: Faber and Faber, 1999), 72–73. Henceforth cited in the text as GOG. 10. Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass. 11. Genesis 11:1–9 (KJV). 12. Karl Marx, “The General Formula for Capital,” in Capital, vol. I, trans. Samuel Moore and Edward Aveling (Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1887), www​.marxists​.org​ /archive​/marx​/works​/1867​-c1​/ch04​.htm. Accessed May 30, 2022. 13. György Lukács, “Reification and the Consciousness of the Proletariat,” in History and Class Consciousness, trans. Rodney Livingstone (London: Merlin Press, 1967), www​.marxists​.org​/archive​/lukacs​/works​/history​/hcc05​.htm. Accessed May 30, 2022. 14. Jabberwocky, dir. Gilliam. 15. Henri Bergson, Laughter, trans. Cloudesley Brereton and Fred Rothwell. https:​ //​www​.gutenberg​.org​/files​/4352​/4352​-h​/4352​-h​.htm. Accessed May 30, 2022. 16. Ibid. 17. Jabberwocky, dir. Gilliam. 18. Michael North, Machine-Age Comedy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), vii. 19. Ibid., 198. 20. Ibid., 188. 21. A Rube Goldberg machine is an extravagantly complicated machinery for performing a simple task, popularized in cartoons by Goldberg. 22. Lauren Berlant, “Humorlessness (Three Monologues and a Hairpiece),” Critical Inquiry 43, no. 2 (2017): 308. 23. Ibid. 24. Ibid. 25. Ibid.

REFERENCES Auerbach, Nina. “Alice and Wonderland: A Curious Child.” Victorian Studies 17, no.1 (1973): 31–47.

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Bergson, Henri. Laughter. Translated by Cloudesley Brereton and Fred Rothwell, www​.gutenberg​.org​/files​/4352​/4352​-h​/4352​-h​.htm. Berlant, Lauren. “Humorlessness (Three Monologues and a Hairpiece).” Critical Inquiry 43, no. 2 (2017): 305–40. Carroll, Lewis. Alice in Wonderland. Third edition, edited by Donald Gray. New York: Norton, 2013. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Santa Monica: Summit Entertainment, 1998. Froula, Anna. “Steampunked: The Animated Aesthetics of Terry Gilliam in Jabberwocky and Beyond.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell, 16–31. New York: Columbia UP, 2013. Gilliam, Terry, and Ben Thompson. Gilliamesque. New York: Harper Design, 2015. Jabberwocky. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Culver City: Sony Pictures, 1977. Lukács, György. History and Class Consciousness. Translated by Rodney Livingstone. London: Merlin Press, 1967. https:​//​www​.marxists​.org​/archive​/lukacs​/works​/ history​/hcc05​.htm. Marks, Peter. Terry Gilliam. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009. Marx, Karl. Capital, volume I. Translated by Samuel Moore and Edward Aveling. Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1887. https:​//​www​.marxists​.org​/archive​/marx​/works​ /1867​-c1​/ch04​.htm. North, Michael. Machine-Age Comedy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Rushdie, Salman. “The Location of Brazil.” American Film, September 1985. Tobias, Scott. “Jabberwocky: Through the Looking Glass and What Terry Found There.” Current, November 21, 2017, https:​//​www​.criterion​.com​/current​/posts​ /5131​-jabberwocky​-through​-the​-looking​-glass​-and​-what​-terry​-found​-there.

Chapter 3

‌‌ Carnival and the Imaging of Language in Terry Gilliam’s Jabberwocky (1977) and Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975) Ian Bekker

The notion of the imaging of language is derived from the work of Mikhail Bakhtin, who spent much time theorizing about the centrality that the representation of different linguistic varieties, such as different sociolects, played in the development of the modern novel. While there is still much room for research in this tradition,1 it stands to reason that, unlike in the case of written texts, which impose clear constraints on the extensive and/or accurate imaging of spoken language in all its variety, visual texts constitute, in an obvious way, a clear but underutilized territory of application for fields of modern linguistics which generally focus on spoken-language, such as dialectology and sociolinguistics. These linguistic sub-disciplines can easily be harnessed as part of a broader stylistic analysis of how the accents and dialects of characters and narrators, as formal features, contribute to the overall meaning of the visual text, be it a music video2 or a film. As is well-established in sociolinguistic theory, the use of one linguistic form over another (be it at the level of accent, syntax or lexical choice) does not only contribute to propositional meaning (the basic content being conveyed) but also carries indexical meaning, that is it tells us about, for example, the speaker’s age, class, gender, sexual orientation.3 Both visual and written texts can, thus, make use of this indexical meaning-value in various ways (parody, stylization) as part-and-parcel of their broader semiotic intent, as explored in depth by Bakhtin, particularly as part of his work on the stylistics of Dostoevsky’s novels and on different types of prose discourse. While 49

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Bakhtin’s different kinds of prose discourse, as summarized in the next paragraph, were introduced in the context of an investigation into the stylistics of the modern novel, it will be seen that they are easily transferable to the analysis of spoken texts as well. Firstly, according to Bakhtin, so-called double-directed or double-voiced discourse needs to be distinguished from single-voiced discourse. The latter comes in two basic types, both of which are monologic: (1) direct, unmediated discourse and (2) objectified discourse. The first subtype of single-voiced prose discourse is simple reference-directed discourse. In Bakhtin’s own words, “direct referentially oriented discourse recognizes only itself and its object, to which it strives to be maximally adequate.”4 The second sub-category—objectified discourse—is “basically . . . a narrator’s representation of a character’s words in a way somehow felt to be characteristic or typical of the character as an individual or a member of a social group,”5 and the most common form is the represented direct speech (that is, within quotation marks) of a character. The basic point is that there are two separate speech centers (the author’s and the relevant character’s) and that “the stylistic treatment of the two utterances differs. The hero’s discourse is treated precisely as someone else’s discourse . . . the author’s discourse, on the contrary, is treated stylistically as discourse directed toward its own straightforward referential meaning”;6 in short, the discourse of the other has no effect on the discourse of the author; one does not ‘hear’ the author behind the representation of the character’s speech. It is thus clear that the simple representation of the speech of a representative member of a particular group does not in-and-of itself constitute an example of the opposite of the monologic, that being the dialogic incorporation of heteroglossia7 within prose. Of particular relevance, therefore, is double-voiced prose discourse. Here again we have two basic types: (1) passive double-voiced discourse and (2) active doublevoiced discourse. In the active form of double-voiced discourse, important for Bakhtin’s analysis of Dostoevsky’s prose, we have prose discourse that does not represent the discourse of the other in any direct manner, but which is intrinsically influenced, in both its form and content, by the implicit presence of another ‘language.’ An example of such active double-voiced prose discourse is what Bakhtin refers to as hidden polemic: In a hidden polemic the author’s discourse is directed towards its own referential object . . . but at the same time every statement about the object is constructed in such a way that . . . a polemical blow is struck at the other’s discourse on the same theme. . . . The other’s discourse is not itself reproduced, it is merely implied, but the entire structure of speech would be completely different if there were not this reaction to another person’s implied words.8



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In the passive variety, on the other hand, “the author or speaker is in control. He uses the other’s discourse for his own purposes”9 and these purposes can either be unidirectional (producing stylization) or varidirectional (producing parody); in other words, unlike in the case of objectified discourse one can indeed ‘hear’ the voice of the author ‘behind’ the representation of the character’s voice. In the case of unidirectional stylization the two relevant speech centers are in alignment: “the stylizer adopts the discourse of an earlier speaker or writer whose way of speaking or writing is regarded as essentially correct and in accord with the task to be accomplished.”10 Such stylization must retain a degree of self-consciousness; otherwise it lapses into mere (unconscious) imitation. In the case of parody (the varidirectional variety of passive double-voiced discourse), “here . . . the author again speaks in someone else’s discourse, but in contrast to stylization parody introduces into that discourse a semantic intention that is directly opposed to the original one.”11 In the current discussion, of most concern is semiotic positioning via varidirectional voicing, or what, when done within a humorous frame, has been commonly referred to as parody. According to Gary Morson, among others, parodic texts are those that a) evoke another text,12 b) are antithetical to the evoked text and c) are intended to have higher semantic authority than the original.13 More specifically and technically, the use of a parodic frame is characterized by, among other things, exaggeration (including the exaggeration of linguistic features such as accent),14 explicit interdiscursivity (making salient the chain of recontextualizations involved in the creation of the performance)15 as well as the juxtaposition, of characters and discourses, in incongruent contexts (see below for the link here with carnival and the grotesque). Parody is thus a strategy, using the above-mentioned techniques among others, for mocking or deauthenticating some contextually relevant ‘other,’ and, in so doing, for positioning the individual(s) enacting the parody as superior in some way.16 This last point is worth interrogating a little further, since the most common use of parody seems to be part-and-parcel of satire and, as we will see below, a common interpretation of the Monty Python films as well as Jabberwocky (1977) and many of Gilliam’s other productions, is that they are, in their own different ways, satires of modern society; particularly of aspects of the modern west such as capitalism, managerialism, bureaucracy and class-society. Bakhtin’s well-known notion of carnival offers, however, a more nuanced perspective on the use of these different forms of humor. While parody and satire are integral aspects of carnival17 given that it is, in essence, a critique of existing cultural forms and existing power-relations in particular, carnival is also characterized by a degree of self-consciousness that includes those doing the mocking, critiquing and parodying as well. According to Bakhtin, carnival is a specific type of parodic performance, one characterized by what he describes as ambivalent laughter, which he contrasts

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with the negative laughter of pure satire: “The satirist whose laughter is negative places himself above the object of his mockery, he is opposed to it. . . . Ambivalent laughter, on the other hand, expresses the point of view of the whole world; he who is laughing also belongs to it.”18 Carnival is thus inclusive of metaparody, the use of varidirectional voicing to evoke a polemic target that includes oneself. For Bakhtin, it is the disorienting ambivalence of carnival—absent in pure satire (or parody)—that lends it its regenerative potential, its ability to “inflect existing attitudes and [cultural] symbols in different directions.”19 This ambivalence, or, in Bakhtin’s terminology, “loophole,” serves to “lend an aspect of ridicule”20 to that which is accessible at present. In other words, while it certainly does highlight “the fact that social roles determined by class relations are made not given, culturally produced rather than naturally mandated,”21 carnival does not function via simple opposition to the existing system, and even less so by proposing some alternative. Rather, its critical force resides in its insistence on semiotic indeterminacy as a way of highlighting the ridiculousness (and arbitrariness) of the current dominant order.22 Features that characterize the carnivalesque (and which overlap in some cases with the classical features of parody already mentioned above) include a heightened level of self-reflexivity, as well as the presence of grotesque realism, or a focus on depicting (both visually and verbally) the materiality of bodily existence as opposed to its more ‘noble’ counterpart, for example ‘love’ depicted as ‘sex,’ or ‘power’ depicted as ‘blood.’ Grotesque realism is often a central component of the various ‘de-crownings,’ to use a term from Bakhtin, that characterize carnival. Its focus on the less ideal aspects of bodily functioning often serves as an implicit critique of ideals that uphold existing social structures and power relations. Another defining feature of the grotesque aesthetic (and of parody as well, as mentioned above) is what can be called contiguous dissonance: the juxtaposition of elements that would not ordinarily belong together.23 THE FILMS Terry Gilliam’s Jabberwocky is a clear example of the imaging of a number of English dialects and, in particular, sociolects (class-dialects). In doing this Jabberwocky remains clearly in the Monty Python tradition, which also often employed different English (and in particular British) dialects and accents as part of its humor (mostly via parody) and, at a deeper level, as part of its critique of modern class society.24 This continuity with the earlier Monty Python tradition will become clearer below as we track the similarities across Jabberwocky and Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975) (henceforth MPATHG) in terms of both films’ employment of sociolinguistically salient



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linguistic features as part of a more general social critique. Later on, however, the claim will be made that both films (and by implication many of the other Gillam and Monty Python films) transcend a simple critique of modern class-based society but constitute clear examples of the carnivalesque, with all the relevant features and implications outlined in the previous section. The chapter is not unique in this regard: Rick Hudson has, for example, recently made an explicit link between the carnivalesque and a number of Gilliam’s films, with a focus, in fact, on Jabberwocky as perhaps the prototypical example.25 What this chapter contributes is, in effect, a closer stylistic analysis by clearly showing how certain formal features of the relevant texts (in this case, the imaging of language varieties) contributes to the overall semiotic (carnivalesque) intent of the films. An indirect result of the chapter is also to question Rick Hudson’s more specific claim of a discontinuity between MPATHG and Jabberwocky in terms of the use of carnival stylistics: Pasolini’s The Canterbury Tales (1972); Robert Bresson’s Lancelot du Lac (1974); Gilliam and the Pythons’ own Monty Python and the Holy Grail; and John Boorman’s Excalibur (1981) all utilized medieval literature in one way or another. However, all these films differ from Jabberwocky in that despite their source material and period/mythical settings they are all—albeit in differing ways—contemporary in terms of narrative style and their sensibilities rather than medieval in a stylistic sense.26

The implicit claim in this chapter is that, contra Hudson, the (carnivalesque) imaging of languages, in fact, creates just such a stylistic continuity between MPATHG and Jabberwocky. The analysis which follows will, therefore, use the results of modern English dialectology and sociolinguistics to identify the varieties of English represented in the film via a linguistic analysis of the speech of a number of central characters and representative scenes in the film. Other parodic (and carnivalesque) features of the films will be exemplified and, finally, an attempt will be made to link these various manners of representation and features to the overall semiotic intent of the film; at the very least showing how the imaging of language lends support to critical appraisals, such as those of Rick Hudson and Anna Froula,27 of the film’s ‘message,’ at the very best perhaps adding some insights about this ‘message’ that have been obscured due to a lack of attention to the formal linguistic features under discussion. As far as previous critical appraisal of these movies is concerned, Froula, for example, identifies them as employing what she refers to as a Steampunk aesthetics, defined as the mixing and juxtaposition of different periods and genres (that is, by hybridity); and as an aesthetics which characterizes

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Gilliam’s movies generally, connects Jabberwocky clearly with the earlier Python movies—and also, in fact, makes the link with Bakhtin even more appropriate, given the later theorist’s focus on hybridity, carnival and the grotesque.28 While both movies are situated in the Middle-Ages, it is pretty clear that the critical focus and intent of the movies is a contemporary one. Of course, the mere fact that these movies are set in such a historical period makes the connection with carnival even stronger, given that carnival culture was most prevalent during this age. Rick Hudson takes this all one step further by claiming that “the ambivalence of ‘Pythoness’ that fuses both the comic and the horrifically grotesque, which is particularly evident in Gilliam’s work, may have its roots in medieval literature and culture.”29 As emphasized again by Froula, who in turn cites Jess Nevins, “by interweaving different time periods and by making visible the inner workings of an object or system, steampunk criticizes capitalism’s historic ‘lack of mercy’ in its treatment of ‘both haves and have nots.’”30 The use and representation of relatively contemporary English accents is certainly one manner in which Gilliam interweaves, via anachronism, the Middle Ages of the two films with the contemporary scene, rendering the films capable of rendering, in this way, critical comment on features of the current world. THE DIALECTOLOGICAL FRAMEWORK The main descriptive, dialectological framework employed in this chapter is that of John Wells31 and, in particular, his so-called vowel lexical sets, which are definable as referring to “large groups of words which tend to share the same vowel, and to the vowel which they share.”32 Thus, by way of example, the FACE lexical set in English refers to the group of words which includes face, lace, crazy, say and ace. Naturally, different varieties of English will have different pronunciations for each of the relevant vowel lexical sets. Thus, Received Pronunciation, the traditional middle-class to upper-class UK standard, for example, makes use of a so-called ‘narrow’ diphthong for this vowel (a common representation of this vowel in RP in IPA33 transcription would be in the region of [eɪ]) while in Cockney34 (as well as other English varieties such as Australian and New Zealand English), the diphthong is much wider, generally in the region of [aɪ]. This framework is of particular importance because (1) the main focus of this chapter will be on accentual differences and (2) the accentual differences between different varieties of English mainly reside in the vocalic subsystem. Naturally there are also differences in the pronunciation of consonants across



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different varieties of English and John Wells’s work will, again, be a useful resource in this regard. It does not take long in terms of watching Jabberwocky, to establish the fact that the main division represented vis-à-vis the use of English varieties is that between different classes. While there are exceptions, the main varieties used to represent the major class division in the film are, on the one hand, Cockney, the traditional working-class variety of London and Received Pronunciation, the main middle-to-upper class standard (regionally unassociated) variety of the United Kingdom. While, interestingly enough, the main character of the film, the cooper’s apprentice Dennis Cooper, played by Michael Palin,35 does not use Cockney pronunciation, many of the other characters from the first few scenes of the film do, to the point of exaggeration, the first of these being Fishfinger, a fish-merchant looking to buy barrels from Cooper’s father’s establishment.36 One feature stands out from this early scene and is quite instructive. This is the quite clear evidence of so-called H-Dropping, a well-known feature of Cockney and other non-standard varieties of English. The relevant extract is the following: Fishfinger: This grain merchant over in Muckley you see; he claims that he’d actually seen it.

Here the standard use of the h-sound in the word he (as underlined above) is omitted so that we have, in IPA terms [iː] instead of the standard [hiː] (in orthography this can, of course, be represented in various ways, but a common form of representation is ee instead of he). Later on, during a scene set at Fishfinger’s riverside abode, where Dennis woos his sweetheart Gizelda, we hear two other common Cockney linguistic features: T-Glottaling and Diphthong Shift. T-Glottaling involves the replacement of the t-sound in English with an uh-like sound; a word like but would therefore sound like it had no t at the end.37 In literary fiction where an attempt is made to represent this feature orthographically, the use of the apostrophe is common, thus bu’ for but. Diphthong Shift, famously represented in the film My Fair Lady (1964), involves non-standard values for a whole range of English vowels, including the FLEECE, FACE, PRICE, GOOSE and MOUTH vowels, the most famous of these being the values for FACE and MOUTH. In the former case, the pronunciation of words such as face, say and lace is similar to the way that words such as price, ice, etc. are pronounced in the standard. Thus the famous line from My Fair Lady (1964): the rine in spine falls minely on the pline (“the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain”).38 The MOUTH vowel, on the other hand, (made famous by the way it is pronounced by Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady (1964) in the sentence “How now brown cow”) takes on a

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distinctly fronted onset in Cockney (in IPA terms this diphthong has an [æʊ] or even [eɔ]-like quality as opposed to the standard [ɑʊ]). Orthographically it could be represented as meowth for mouth. Both these features are, for example, heard in the speech of the soldiers guarding the town into which Dennis wishes to gain entry in order to earn his fortune. Further evidence for Cockney can be found on a morphophonological level.39 Thus, in a very short scene soon after the one involving the guards mentioned at the end of the previous paragraph, depicting the entry of King Bruno into his audience chamber, we hear one of the servants say “He’s comin’; he’s comin’”; here the replacement of -ing with -in (technically [ɪŋ] with [ɪn]) in the pronunciation of the present participle form (as in talking, walking, coming) in English is a well-known Cockney shibboleth; and indexes lower-social class in general in the Anglosphere. As far as the other main accent represented in the film, RP, is concerned, there are a number of characters in the film who employ this variety, not least King Bruno himself and Passelewe, the king’s attendant. In general, it is the gentry, as represented in the film, who are heard to speak this way and the first highly illustrative example is, in fact, the first scene which includes such figures; one in which three wealthy wine merchants are being carried by their servants through the streets of the town to an audience with King Bruno. Here prominent shibboleths of RP on display are, apart from a lack of Cockney features such as the above-mentioned H-Dropping and T-Glottaling, a fronted and unrounded NURSE vowel and a prominent unrounded GOAT vowel. The best way to describe the unrounded, fronted NURSE vowel for the phonetically uninitiated is that in words like nurse, curse and first, the main vowel is pronounced with a long, almost –ee like quality, almost as in the words square, fair (although only in those accents of English which do not pronounce the post-vocalic ‘r’).40 Thus nurse becomes nees. A relevant scene in the movie which displays the use of this phonetic feature is when one of the rich merchants—all of them outside the king’s audience hall—says to one of the others: “you feest please” (you first please). The GOAT vowel used by these well-to-do characters is a further shibboleth of RP. In simple terms, this diphthong41 involves a beginning with a similar quality to the NURSE vowel already mentioned and an end that is found in a word like boot; this can very-roughly be captured by the eye-dialect spelling of goat as geeut. The particularly fronted NURSE vowel as well as the fronted GOAT vowel are, in fact, features of so-called U-RP (‘Uber’ RP) and give the speech of some of these characters a particularly ‘posh’ quality. Here we see a clear example of the exaggeration, in this case of phonetic features, so often characteristic of parody. As far as MPATHG is concerned, we have a basically similar range of parodied British sociolects, although this film does distinguish itself from the



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later Jabberwocky through the parodying of a couple of other first-language (such as the Scottish English) and second-language (such as English with a French accent) English varieties.42 As was the case with Jabberwocky, the basic opposition between the upper-classes and lower-classes is established early on, represented at least partly by the use of the RP and Cockney varieties. In this regard, MPATHG overlaps substantially with Jabberwocky and only a few examples from the very beginning of the film will be necessary to illustrate the point. Indeed, in the very first scene of the movie we see King Arthur43—using a distinctly posh British accent—in conversation with two Cockney-using castle-guards. Some of the features of RP on display are a lack of happYTensing (such as in the word Patsy in “I am, and this is my trusty servant Patsy”) and a prominently fronted GOAT vowel (as mentioned above for Jabberwocky). HappY-Tensing is a feature of most English dialects, and it is even common in contemporary RP; its absence in the speech of King Arthur thus indexes a particularly posh (and exaggerated) variety. In essence it involves the use of, at the end of words like happy or silly, a vowel similar to that used in words like kit and hit (short and lax) as opposed to the (long and tense) vowel used in words like heap or see.44 As far as Cockney is concerned, the two castle guards display prominent word-final T-Glottaling (“Wha,’ ridden on a horse?”; shortly thereafter King Arthur uses the same word, what, but with a clear final t). In the sentence, “You’ve got two empty halves of coconut and you’re banging them together” (said by one of the castle guards) we hear T-Glottaling in the word coconut (coconu’) and well as what sounds like the use of –in instead of –ing in the word banging. The above examples only pertain to the very beginning of the films, but the features in question (and of course others) are repeated innumerable times during the course of both and set up, by way of the imaging of language, a clear opposition between the two relevant social classes. Thus, in highly simplistic terms, the indexical value of the above-mentioned two varieties is clear enough: Cockney indexes the lower-class while RP indexes the upper classes (and, in terms of the time period being represented in the film, the gentry). How, exactly, is this indexical value exploited in the film as part of the creation of semiotic value? Here Bakhtin’s stylistic theories become most valuable especially in terms of making us ask the question as to how the producer (the ‘author’ in novelistic terms) of the text engages in the representation of the language image in question. In more simplistic terms, perhaps, is Gilliam engaged in the simple representation of these varieties of English or is he engaged in a form of double-voiced discourse?

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The double-voiced nature of the representation of these two main UK-based class-dialects is clear to any reasonably-informed viewer of the films, that is anyone who has at least a passing familiarity with the class-dialects and their respective indexical value. That the double-voiced discourse is also varidirectional is also abundantly clear: what we are dealing with here is parody; and a form of parody that forms a core component of the comedic nature of both of these visual (and audio) texts. CONCLUSION: CONTRIBUTION TOWARDS THE SEMIOTIC INTENT OF THE FILM One of the first things that should be emphasized about the parodic intent of the two films (as clearly exemplified by, among other things, the imaging of the two main, and most well-known, UK-based social-class dialects of contemporary English) is that they do not, in a sense, ‘take sides.’ When it comes to parody all classes are subject to ridicule. Thus while authors like Froula have quite correctly pointed out the anti-establishment ethos of these films,45 it should not be overlooked that the victims of the ‘establishment’ are also subject to parody.46 This, of course, ties in very well with what one could argue is the carnivalesque spirit of both of these films and which Rick Hudson, for example, affirms for Jabberwocky when arguing that they are characterized by ambivalent laughter in the sense that all (including the producers of the text) are potentially subject to parody and ridicule.47 While the focus of this chapter has been on the imaging of language in these two films, there is other formal, stylistic evidence from the two films which back up this general claim and which relate to the other features of carnival which were mentioned in the first section, those being a heightened degree of self-reflexivity and evidence of the grotesque (both in terms of grotesque realism and incongruous juxtaposition). On the first point, we see clear evidence of self-reflexivity in, for example, the ending of MPATHG, where the contemporary (and filmic) nature of the narrative is revealed through the appearance of the police to arrest the actors in the film; the film is also peppered with references to the film-making process itself. Such self-reflexivity is not so obvious in Jabberwocky but, as Froula confirms, there are plenty of slippages and anachronisms in the film (such as electric wires being visible, a truck in the background to a battle scene) and that, far from distracting from the overall aesthetics of the film, they “actually exemplify steampunk’s aesthetic.”48 Grotesque realism is clearly evident in both films: the viewer is constantly confronted with the seedier or earthier side-of-life and, in fact, in true carnival spirit, the various scenes’ comedic effect is to effectively de-crown



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any evidence of the idealistic. From MPATHG, the sexual innuendoes of Sir Galahad the Pure’s visit to Castle Anthrax is a good example while, in Jabberwocky, there is the jousting scene, where a traditionally noble event is turned into a bloodbath. Hudson provides a related observation vis-à-vis the same event: [the film] demonstrates several instances of [role reversal], the most notable being the tournament in which knights, instead of jousting or engaging in other forms of hand-to-hand combat, take part in a game of hide-and-seek. In having the knights play a childish party game the film not only brings low the noble knights, but also brings low the romantic epics in which chivalrous knights appear. 49

In short, both movies are virtually littered with such de-crownings, to use Bakhtinian parlance. The same applies with respect to juxtaposition or what we are referring to here as contiguous dissonance. The employment of anachronism in both films is a perfect example of this (an example being the exposition to King Arthur of stereotypical nineteenth-century anarchist political theory by a ‘prole’ in one of the earlier scenes of MPATHG). The use of contemporary British social-class accents in films set in the Middle-Ages is, of course, another example of such contiguous dissonance, a feature of both parody and the grotesque. In short, the claim of this chapter is that the semiotic intent of both of these films (and, tentatively, of other of Gilliam’s films as well) is inclusive of but larger than a purely parodic critique of contemporary society. The carnival nature of these productions—an important component of which is the parodic imaging of dialects through exaggeration and contiguous dissonance—is clear enough and is central to the ambivalent (all-encompassing) laughter so characteristic of the Monty Python films in general. The films do not take sides—they do not attempt to provide an answer—but rather point to the overall ridiculousness of certain structures of contemporary society. The imaging of language is an integral component of the carnival spirit that underlies both these films and establishes a clear continuity between them on a stylistic level.​​​​​​​ NOTES 1. See, for example, Ian Bekker, “Literary Reflections of Early Postcolonial English in South Africa,” World Englishes 40, no. 1 (2021), 38–51. 2. See, for example, Ian Bekker and Erez Levon, “Parodies of Whiteness: Die Antwoord and the Politics of Race, Gender, and Class in South Africa,” Language in Society 49, no. 1 (2020): 115–47.

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3. The following are classics on this topic: William Labov, “The Social Motivation of a Sound Change,” Word 19, no. 3 (1963): 273–309; William Labov, The Social Stratification of English in New York City (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006 [1996]); Michael Silverstein, “Indexical Order and the Dialectics of Sociolinguistic Life,” Language & Communication 23, no. 3–4 (2003): 193–229; and Penelope Eckert, “Variation and the Indexical Field 1,” Journal of Sociolinguistics 12, no. 4 (2008): 453–76. 4. Mikhail Bakhtin, Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013), 187. 5. Gary Saul Morson and Caryl Emerson, Mikhail Bakhtin: Creation of a Prosaics (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1990), 149. 6. Bakhtin, Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, 187. 7. A term used by Bakhtin to refer to the plurality of language varieties (and languages) that usually circulate within a speech community, but which is often obscured by attempts at standardization, etc. 8. Bakhtin, Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, 195. 9. Morson and Emerson, Mikhail Bakhtin, 150. 10. Ibid. 11. Bakhtin, Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, 193. 12. This seems applicable to the current chapter if, by the term “text,” we imply that we are dealing with more than just a literary work, but also different commonly recognized ways of writing/speaking. 13. Gary Morson, “Parody, History, Metaparody,” in Rethinking Bakhtin: Extensions and challenges, eds. Gary Morson and Caryl Emerson (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1989), 67. Also see Linda Hutcheon, A Theory of Parody: The Teachings of Twentieth-Century Art Forms (Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 1985) and Simon Dentith, Parody (London: Routledge, 2000). 14. See, in this regard, Dentith, Parody; Elaine W. Chun, “Ideologies of Legitimate Mockery: Margaret Cho’s Revoicings of Mock Asian,” Pragmatics 14, no. 2–3 (2004): 263–89; and Andy Gibson, “Flight of the Conchords: Recontextualizing the Voices of Popular Culture 1,” Journal of Sociolinguistics 15, no. 5 (2011): 603–26. 15. See Rusty Barrett, “Indexing Polyphonous Identity in the Speech of African American Drag Queens,” in Reinventing Identities, eds. Mary Bucholtz, A. C. Liang and Laurel Sutton, 313–31 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999) and Nikolas Coupland, “Language, Situation and the Relational Self: Theorizing Dialect-Style in Sociolinguistics,” in Style and Sociolinguistic Variation, eds. Penelope Eckert and John Rickford, 185–210 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001). 16. See, for example, Adi Hastings and Paul Manning, “Introduction: Acts of Alterity,” Language & Communication 24, no. 4 (2004): 291–311. 17. It should be stressed that while there are clear and obvious links with actual carnival (as in Mardi Gras), the manner in which Bakhtin employs the term is such that it can be used to refer to a broader set of cultural products. One could equally well speak of ‘the carnival spirit’ or ‘the carnivalesque.’ 18. Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and his World (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1965), 12.



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19. Dentith, Parody, 75. 20. Bakhtin, Rabelais and his World, 454. 21. Michael Holquist, Dialogism (London and New York: Routledge, 1990), 89. 22. See, for example, Sari Pietikäinen, “Critical Debates: Discourses, Boundaries and Social Change,” in Sociolinguistics: Theoretical Debates, ed. Nikolas Coupland, 263–81 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 23. From this, the link between the grotesque and modern notions of hybridity should be clear. 24. For more on this aspect, see Gaëlle Planchenault, “Doing Dialects in Dialogues: Regional, Social and Ethnical Variation in Fiction,” in Pragmatics of Fiction, eds. Miriam A. Locher and Andreas H. Jucker, 265–96 (Berlin: De Gruyter Mouton, 2017); and Alexander Brock, “‘The Struggle of Class against Class Is a What Struggle?’ Monty Python’s Flying Circus and Its Politics,” in British TV Comedies: Cultural Concepts, Contexts and Controversies, eds. Jürgen Kamm and Birgit Neumann, 51–65 (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016). 25. See Rick Hudson, “Grotesque Unrealism: Terry Gilliam’s Jabberwocky,” in Python Beyond Python: Critical Engagements with Culture, eds. Paul N. Reinsch, B. Lynn Whitfield and Robert G. Weiner, 93–108 (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017). 26. Ibid., 106. 27. See Anna Froula, “Steampunked: The Animated Aesthetics of Terry Gilliam in Jabberwocky and Beyond,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, eds. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 16–31 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013). 28. Ibid. 29. Hudson, “Grotesque Unrealism,” 93–4. 30. Froula, “Steampunked,” 18. See also Jess Nevins, “Introduction: The 19th-Century Roots of Steampunk,” In Steampunk, eds. Ann VanderMeer and Jeff VanderMeer, 3–11 (San Francisco: Tachyon, 2008), 10. 31. See John C. Wells, Accents of English (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982). 32. Ibid., xviii. The convention is to refer to the lexical set using capital letters (FACE) and to members of the lexical set with italics (face). 33. International Phonetic Alphabet. 34. The working-class British dialect traditionally associated with the city of London. 35. From the Wikipedia entry on Michael Palin, we discover that he was born in the north-of-England but came from a decidedly middle-class background and went to a number of relatively prestigious schools; a fact which explains the lack of northernisms and working-class features in his accent. 36. According to the relevant Wikipedia entry, the actor playing Fishfinger, Warren Mitchell, was, appropriately-enough, born in London. Ironically, his father was a merchant, although of glass and china and not fish. 37. In IPA terms this means that, for example, the word butter, pronounced as [bʌtə] in the standard, would have the pronunciation [bʌʔə] in Cockney.

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38. In IPA terms rain would, roughly, be [ɹeɪn] in the RP standard but [ɹʌɪn] as a result of Diphthong Shift, a pronunciation feature that, as mentioned above, Cockney shares with, for example, Australian and New Zealand English. 39. The level of linguistic analysis that focuses on the interface between phonology and morphology (very roughly speaking, the focus is on the pronunciation of word-parts). 40. One of the main ways of dividing contemporary English accents is whether they are rhotic or not, that is, whether the ‘r’ is pronounced in post-vocalic position. So-called General American is the most iconic of all rhotic varieties of English, while most varieties from the south of England (as well as Southern Hemisphere varieties) are non-rhotic. Thus the ‘r’ in words like square, bar and nurse are not pronounced. 41. A vowel that changes its quality; thus, the most common representation of GOAT in RP is [əʊ]. 42. Right at the beginning of the film (during the initial credits) there is even the imaging of Norwegian for comedic purposes. 43. Played by Graham Chapman. The Wikipedia entry on Chapman confirms a north-of-England and working-class origin, but followed by a Grammar School and, then Cambridge, education. From this little bit of biography, it is likely that, while of Northern-England and working-class origins, Chapman had, due to his education, more access than others of a similar social-class background to the RP of the time. 44. In IPA terms, happY-Tensing would mean that, for example, Patsy is pronounced as [pætsɪ], as opposed to [pætsiː], in rough orthographic terms, Patsy and not Patsee. 45. Froula, “Steampunked,” 25. 46. Thus, to point out the most obvious case in Jabberwocky, the (working-class) characters of Fishfinger and his daughter Griselda are hardly sympathetic. 47. Hudson, “Grotesque Unrealism,” 103. 48. Froula, “Steampunked,” 27. 49. Hudson, “Grotesque Unrealism,” 103.

​​​​​​​REFERENCES Bakhtin, Mikhail. Rabelais and his World. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1965. ———. Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013. Barrett, Rusty. “Indexing Polyphonous Identity in the Speech of African American Drag Queens.” In Reinventing Identities, edited by Mary Bucholtz, A.C. Liang and Laurel Sutton, 313–31. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Bekker, Ian. “Literary Reflections of Early Postcolonial English in South Africa.” World Englishes 40, no. 1 (2021): 38–51. Bekker, Ian and Erez Levon. “Parodies of Whiteness: Die Antwoord and the Politics of Race, Gender, and Class in South Africa.” Language in Society 49, no. 1 (2020): 115–47.



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Brock, Alexander. “‘The Struggle of Class against Class Is a What Struggle?’ Monty Python’s Flying Circus and its Politics.” In British TV Comedies: Cultural Concepts, Contexts and Controversies, edited by Jürgen Kamm and Birgit Neumann, 51–65. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. Chun, Elaine W. “Ideologies of Legitimate Mockery: Margaret Cho’s Revoicings of Mock Asian.” Pragmatics 14, no. 2–3 (2004): 263–89. Coupland, Nikolas. “Language, Situation and the Relational Self: Theorizing Dialect-Style in Sociolinguistics.” In Style and Sociolinguistic Variation, edited by Penelope Eckert and John Rickford, 185–210. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Dentith, Simon. Parody. London: Routledge, 2000. Eckert, Penelope. “Variation and the Indexical Field 1.” Journal of Sociolinguistics 12, no. 4 (2008): 453–76. Froula, Anna. “Steampunked: The Animated Aesthetics of Terry Gilliam in Jabberwocky and Beyond.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 16–31. New York: Columbia University Press, 2013. Gibson, Andy. “Flight of the Conchords: Recontextualizing the Voices of Popular Culture 1.” Journal of Sociolinguistics 15, no. 5 (2011): 603–26. Hastings, Adi and Paul Manning. “Introduction: Acts of Alterity.” Language & Communication 24, no. 4 (2004): 291–311. Holquist, Michael. Dialogism. 2nd edn. London and New York: Routledge, 1990. Hudson, Rick. “Grotesque Unrealism: Terry Gilliam’s Jabberwocky.” In Python Beyond Python: Critical Engagements with Culture, edited by Paul N. Reinsch, B. Lynn Whitfield and Robert G. Weiner, 93–108. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017. Hutcheon, Linda. A Theory of Parody: The Teachings of Twentieth-Century Art Forms. Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 1985. Jabberwocky. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Python Films: 1977. Labov, William. “The Social Motivation of a Sound Change.” Word 19, no. 3 (1963): 273–309. Labov, William. The Social Stratification of English in New York City. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006 [1996]. Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Directed by Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones. Python (Monty) Pictures: 1975. Morson, Gary. “Parody, History, Metaparody.” In Rethinking Bakhtin: Extensions and Challenges, edited by Gary Morson and Caryl Emerson, 63–86. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1989. Morson, Gary and Caryl Emerson. Mikhail Bakhtin: Creation of a Prosaics. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1990. My Fair Lady. Directed by George Cukor. Warner Bros: 1964. Nevins, Jess. “Introduction: The 19th-Century Roots of Steampunk.” In Steampunk, edited by Ann VanderMeer and Jeff VanderMeer, 3–11. San Francisco: Tachyon, 2008.

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Pietikäinen, Sari. “Critical Debates: Discourses, Boundaries and Social Change.” In Sociolinguistics: Theoretical Debates, edited by Nikolas Coupland, 263–81. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016. Planchenault, Gaëlle. “Doing Dialects in Dialogues: Regional, Social and Ethnical Variation in Fiction.” In Pragmatics of Fiction, edited by Miriam A. Locher and Andreas H. Jucker, 265–96. Berlin: De Gruyter Mouton, 2017. Silverstein, Michael. “Indexical Order and the Dialectics of Sociolinguistic Life.” Language & Communication 23, no. 3–4 (2003): 193–229. Wells, John C. Accents of English. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982.

Chapter 4

Subversion of the Cosmos in Time Bandits David Robinson

In his autobiography, Terry Gilliam writes about the annual visits of the Clyde Beatty circus to his hometown in Minnesota. As an adolescent, he assisted with the shows, including “the freak show tent.”1 He describes his experiences thus: “The experience of seeing all the exotic acts sitting around and playing cards—just like everyday people, except they were pin-heads or dwarves—has stayed with me to this day.”2 He comments, further, on the ordinary behavior of these extraordinary beings and their swift transition into their alter-egos (their stage identities) for their performances. The intersection between the exotic and the ordinary (some would say the banal) is an element of Gilliam’s life that infuses his cinema. The counterpoint of the two states—that of the ordinary and the extraordinary—is a central aspect of the subversion of Kevin’s world, and that of his parents, in suburbia, that occurs in Gilliam’s Time Bandits (1981).3 SUBVERSION, SATIRE, PARODY, AND POSTMODERNISM This chapter addresses the concept of subversion in Gilliam’s film Time Bandits. In his work on film as a subversive art, Amos Vogel comments that subversive cinema “trafficks in scepticism towards all received wisdom. . . . ”4 Vogel’s implication is that subversive cultural expressions question knowledge and beliefs that are regarded as central or foundational in that culture and in doing so could undermine basic assumptions which govern our behavior. This chapter argues that there is value in subversion, principally 65

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because it provides the cinematic audience with an opportunity to question the status quo, including social norms, beliefs, and knowledge systems. In addition, subversion invites the audience to engage in critical thinking by presenting images and situations in which the status quo is interrogated through, amongst other things, satire and parody. The subversive element of Gilliam’s work is often articulated through the concept of satire, which is defined as follows: Satire can be described as the literary art of diminishing or derogating a subject by making it ridiculous and evoking towards it attitudes of amusement, contempt, scorn, or indignation. . . . Satire has usually been justified, by those who practice it, as a corrective of human vice or folly.5

The concept of parody is closely associated with satire. One definition of parody is “the imitative use of the words, style, attitude, tone, and ideas of an author in such a way as to make them look ridiculous.”6 Mocking imitation is used in Gilliam’s film, notably in the Robin Hood episode, which will be explored in more detail below. Parody can be used to subvert human dignity. In cases where the person being parodied is a figure associated with injustice, parody can be an effective form of humorous criticism. Vogel makes the following additional comment about cinema and subversion: “Subversion in cinema starts when the theatre darkens and the screen lights up. For the cinema is a place of magic where psychological and environmental factors combine to create an openness to wonder and suggestion.”7 For Vogel, the cinematic experience in a purpose-built venue is therefore laden with the possibility of engaging in an imaginative experience. The cinematic experience is one which, for Vogel, holds the potential for speculation. The venue is a room, located in the real world, but the experience directs the audience to consider something which is other than the real world. Indeed, Vogel points out that even the concept of a moving image is an illusion—the cinematic reel holds a series of static images which collectively provide an experience of motion when run through the projector.8 Vogel also locates the audience in a world that provides no certainty. Even the objective realities of science have been shown to be questioned by the recent theories of Einstein and others. In addition, Vogel makes the point that objects which appear solid are actually constituted of atomic and sub-atomic particles; the sense of solidity itself is, therefore, an illusion and this illusion is extended into the “real world” that we take for granted.9 For Vogel, therefore, there is instability in our very constructions of the world in which we live and this, in turn, reflects subversion in the sense that questions are being asked about how the world is seen and how humans understand the world. Vogel also refers to modern art and suggests that the modern cultural space has moved

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beyond the limits of mere mimesis; instead, art, cinema and other cultural experiences are located within an intellectual space that invites speculation.10 This potential for speculation is an integral element of postmodern thinking. In his short commentary on postmodernism, Christopher Butler observes: “Postmodernism . . . involved a highly critical epistemology hostile to any overarching philosophical or political doctrine, and strongly opposed to those ‘dominant ideologies’ that maintain the status quo.”11 Opposing the status quo can take the form of subversion, in which questions critical of the given social order are posed. An additional comment by Peter Watson shows that postmodernism holds a position that is critical specifically of scientific knowledge.12 Watson refers to Lyotard, the French philosopher who is a central figure in the postmodern movement, and states that Lyotard argued that there are other types of knowledge than merely scientific knowledge. Lyotard also points out that scientific knowledge is not unbiased—much of the funding for such research is provided by governments or major companies.13 Because of this funding, scientific research addresses certain interests. Although Lyotard acknowledges the success of science in ‘answering’ many questions, he also argues that there is a type of knowledge in, for example, fairy tales or the law, that is however not recognized in the same way as that of science. For Lyotard and the postmodernists, there is value in recognizing the subjective. This position is a subversion of the objectivity claimed by science, although science itself is shown to serve certain interests and is therefore not entirely objective. It must be noted that the term ‘postmodern’ refers to a challenging concept, in that it is sourced from a range of theories, including Marxism and Freudianism, and has been applied to art, music, architecture, literature and other human forms of expression. Butler states: “And if we lack an antecedent faith in Marx-plus-Freud or some other antecedent ideology, it is impossible to generalize postmodernist beliefs as diagnosing the ‘real’ conditions of our existence.”14 This difficulty of the lack of coherence of the concept is also reflected in the following comment by Umberto Eco: “I have the impression that it [the term ‘postmodernism’] is applied today to anything the user of the term happens to like.”15 Eco makes an additional comment on the nature of written texts and postmodernism; he states that some of the works of James Joyce are postmodern because each requires, “in order to be understood, not the negation of the already said, but its ironic rethinking.”16 This point is of value—Gilliam is not negating the mythology or historical events he presents, but invites the viewer to reconceptualize them, and in order to do so he engages in mockery of some of the events or people. Another commentator, this time on fantasy and subversion, is the critic Rosemary Jackson, who addresses the term “paraxis,” which she says lies alongside the “familiar, comfortable”17 world. In addressing this concept, she

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states: “Paraxis is a telling notion in relation to the place, or space, of the fantastic, for it implies an inextricable link to the main body of the ‘real’ which it shades and threatens.”18 This idea of a world that occupies spaces ‘alongside’ the familiar holds within it the suggestion of possibility, but also the sense of difficulty that is born out of the difference. The sense of difficulty arises from the requirement of the audience (or reader) to recognise the relationship between the real and the possible. In addition, the possible world is one which threatens the real through questioning the understandings that govern or inform meaning making. Furthermore, the idea of the other world subverts the familiar because of the relevant difference(s). It is within this speculative worldview that lacks certainty, that Gilliam’s films are located, and the subversion of the concept of an objective world is foregrounded in Time Bandits. In his autobiography, Gilliam makes the statement that: “The most important cultural influence of my teenage years was Mad comics.”19 He adds that Mad and Monty Python could be “very intelligent and unbelievably silly at the same time, and this was obviously a mixture that I liked.”20 Mad, according to Gilliam, subverted pre-existing cultural items—comics or films—by turning them “on their head or using them in illicit ways.”21 The notion of illicit usage of borrowing is part of the subversion process, in that a cultural item will be renegotiated so that the intended meaning shifts, or is further explored, and alternative insights are provided. SUBVERSION OF CULTURAL AND HISTORICAL EVENTS AND PEOPLE Throughout Time Bandits there is the use of pre-existing cultural elements for the purposes of subversion, and these elements include game shows, Robin Hood, Napoleon Bonaparte, God (the Supreme Being) and the Devil (Evil), the sinking of the Titanic and the idea of a divine plan. Each of these elements is subverted by “turning them on their head” in some way. Napoleon is shown to be obsessed with his height, and the height of other successful people; and this provides the dwarfs with access to Bonaparte’s private space. During this encounter, the emperor lists several people who are successful in terms of military might. In his commentary on this list, Michael Palin, who co-wrote the screenplay, stated: “I sort of made that up.”22 This statement by Palin is subversive in itself because the list is presented as being authoritative, but the confession that the list was an invention raises doubts about the reliability/credibility of claims made in the film itself. Palin and Gilliam would probably be comfortable with this because their film includes questions about fundamental matters, such as the nature of God/Supreme Being and God’s plan, but the manner in which these questions are framed

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pokes fun at the questions themselves, thus directing the viewer to a different level of subversion. This asking of questions is a fundamental element of subversion in cultural expression and in the process of learning.23 It is through asking questions that claimed truths can be explored and scrutinized. Gilliam’s film presents questions about the reality which we take for granted, in that he presents intersections between various time periods and suggests an intersection between the world of myth and human lived reality. In addition, he provokes the viewer to think in a way that foregrounds the absurd elements of our world; Kevin’s parents are more interested in a banal game show than in engaging with their child. The idea of subversion is, however, critiqued by Stephen Greenblatt in his concept of the subversion-containment dialectic. Greenblatt claims that “in order to sustain its power, any durable political and cultural order not only to some degree allows but also actively fosters ‘subversive’ elements and forces, yet in such a way as more effectively to ‘contain’ such challenges to the existing order.”24 However, cultural materialists are, in turn, critical of this claim because they argue that subversive thought is part of critical thinking and can contribute to social change.25 Greenblatt’s position seems to be that parties in authority will grant an element of subversion, but within limits, so that there is a false perception of freedom of expression. On the other hand, for the cultural materialists, who derive their thinking from Marx, human expression is located within and is a reflection of the relations of production, which is regarded as being located in the material world, and subversion, therefore, has a bearing on this material world. Satire and subversion are linked in that both attack the status quo to critique human behavior and beliefs. Subversion is present in the content of Gilliam’s film, but it was also included in the process of creating the film. Michael Palin comments that no film company was interested, at first, in making the film.26 In addition, Gilliam had intended to make the film Brazil (1985), but no film company was interested, so he chose to work on Time Bandits as an alternative. Furthermore, once it was completed there was a struggle to find a distributor. Eventually, the small company Avco Embassy agreed to distribute the film. It was released in the month of November, traditionally a ‘dead’ month for cinema.27 Despite the lack of interest from the big production and distribution companies, Time Bandits was a commercial and critical success.28 The success of the film can thus in itself be seen as a form of subversion—a suggestion that the accepted processes for cinematic success were not the only route to achieve success. The film as a cultural artifact contains within it many elements that are subversive in terms of content. To begin with, the narrative is framed by images of suburbia—the film starts and ends with Kevin’s home in the suburbs. However, this suburban locale is undermined in the main narrative that

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is presented within the ‘bookends’ of the suburbs. Gilliam and Palin point out that there are elements that are presented in the suburban home that echo across the film. An example is the plastic-covered furniture in Kevin’s home, which is echoed by the plastic-covered beings that inhabit the Fortress of Ultimate Darkness. In an interview, Gilliam is dismissive of this practice of covering things in plastic, questioning why anybody would wish to protect furniture of such unremarkable quality.29 The plastic-covered beings in the Fortress are, therefore, a satirical comment on the practices of the suburb. The plastic is also a satirical comment on the materialism of the suburban couple, in that they wish to protect furniture of little monetary value. Ordinary suburban living is subverted through various elements in the film. Apart from the plastic-covered furniture, there is also the game show on television, which is beamed into people’s homes and Kevin’s parents are shown watching it on television. The parents are disengaged from asking significant questions of any kind, and they are presented as lacking agency, in that they are passive observers. The game show is entitled Your Money or Your Life and it presents participants who are driven by greed for wealth but lack any sense of human dignity. This television program is recreated when the dwarfs and Kevin approach the Fortress of Ultimate Darkness. A scenario is created by Evil as a live-action program, which presents Kevin’s parents as glamorous props that add credibility to the trap created by Evil. The dwarfs are fooled by the trap, although Kevin recognizes it as a trap, but is caught nonetheless. The dwarfs are driven by greed, echoing the greed present in the game-show participants on television. The parents who appear in the game show recreated by Evil are shown to be Evil’s henchmen who have temporarily adopted other identities (Kevin’s parents) through shape-shifting. THE SUBVERSION OF IDENTITY The idea of changing identity is presented on more than one occasion in this film; Agamemnon (performed by Sean Connery) reappears as a fireman at the end of the film. Vincent and Pansy (Michael Palin and Shelley Duval) appear in a Medieval scene and then later on the RMS Titanic. Identity is shown to be fluid and inconstant. This is subversive of human understanding of self and others. This idea of the self is linkable to the work of Lyotard, mentioned earlier in the commentary on postmodernism. Lyotard maintained that the one thing that a researcher could know was the self.30 Gilliam, however, suggests that even that is not always knowable. Another shift of identity, or role, is reflected in an interview conducted by Karen Randell with Terry Gilliam, in which she asks: “ . . . in all your movies about children, are the children really the adults? And also, when you make

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a movie with only adults, are they about children anyway?” The director replies: “I suppose they’re all about children and holy fools.”31 There is an inversion, and subversion, in these statements. Notably, the traditional role of children includes the reduction of responsibility, as compared to adults, and an expectation of thinking in a more simplistic manner. Complex thought and responsible actions are expected of the adults in our society. Gilliam undermines the roles of adults by reducing their capacities in terms of insight, a sense of responsibility, and, in the case of Kevin’s parents, concern for their own offspring. At the same time, Gilliam elevates children to being those members of society who have greater potential for understanding and acting responsibly. Jeff Birkenstein addresses the role of children, through the character of Kevin, and states: “Kevin now realises [at the end of the film] consciously for the first time that he is largely on his own (whether or not his parents are actually dead), and, though tragic, this awareness will hopefully aid him going forward.”32 For Birkenstein the experiences that Kevin has undergone in the narrative provide him with a “coming of age” event, but there is also the sense of loss of connectedness with others, as well as the sense of isolation—Kevin is not able to depend on his own family. Indeed, Gilliam’s presentation of Kevin’s parents suggests that he is more capable and more insightful than they are. In their commitment to material things of dubious value (plastic-covered furniture) and game shows that provide no great profundity in their lives, they are poor roles models for their son. The episodes that take place in the film once the dwarfs arrive, provide Kevin with the opportunity to question, to think on his feet, and to engage in enriching experiences, although there is an element of danger inherent in these activities. THE SUBVERSIONS OF ROBIN HOOD AND THE SUPREME BEING One of the more memorable episodes in the film is the encounter with Robin Hood, portrayed by John Cleese, although the role was initially written by Michael Palin with himself in mind.33 Cleese’s portrayal is a splendidly humorous representation of the legendary outlaw, but the portrayal is also subversive because Robin Hood is traditionally granted the dignity of being of high moral standing and is no figure of amusement, but rather one of heroic qualities, including courage and fortitude in the face of unjust authority. The exaggeratedly stylized hat is a visual reference to this subversion, in that it falls into the category of parody, and Cleese’s manner and use of language contribute to this subversion. Instead of being a cavalier and death-defying character, such as that of Errol Flynn’s portrayal, the viewer experiences a

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mild-mannered man whose catch-phrase is “Jolly good.” The Robin Hood figure is further embellished when participating in a ceremony in which the common people are handed items of treasure, with associated hand-shaking and expressions such as: “Well done.” This procedure is a parody of award ceremonies such as those found in schools. This ceremony is in itself subversive because Robin Hood is an outlaw, but in this case, he is participating in banal, ordinary social conventions. Cleese based his portrayal on the manner of the Duke of Kent34 because the film’s brief stated this.35 This inversion of aristocracy and outlaw turns things on their head. It is noteworthy that, despite the overt politeness expressed by Robin Hood in his interactions with the dwarfs and Kevin, he makes a dismissive, judgmental comment, once they leave. Gilliam is perhaps suggesting that polite people might be acting in an insincere manner. The greatest element of subversion in the film relates to the idea of the Supreme Being and the universe he has created. The Supreme Being (or God) is presented in a dark suit, although Gilliam states that Ralph Richardson wanted to wear a light-colored suit,36 like the costume he wore in the film Far from the Madding Crowd (1967).37 Richardson eventually accepted that he should wear the dark suit. This representation of God goes against some conceptions of the Supreme Being, for example, the dark-suited figure is an ironic rejection of the white-robed, white-bearded figure in Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. There is more of the bureaucrat than the divine about Gilliam’s character. In addition, the businessman figure is far removed from Classical conceptions like Zeus (the Classical world is referenced in the Agamemnon character), and there is nothing of the traditional Biblical element of God in the film. Furthermore, the God who creates the cosmos in six days and rests on the seventh is absent in this portrayal. In contrast, the creative process is ongoing and there is a fractured and incomplete universe with holes or portals through which people can travel across time and space. The creation is representative of a more conventional understanding of construction, in that there are phases of making the universe, and there is a map that would fit on the average dining room table, suggesting a process that approximates building a house from an architect’s design. The Biblical process of creation is an organic one and the elements fit together without fragmentation, but rather with a sense of harmony. In contrast, in Gilliam’s film, there is a sense that the Supreme Being created the universe with help from the dwarfs (and, possibly, other unnamed beings), suggesting a limitation to his powers. In addition, there is almost the sense that the creation of the universe required planning permission. The idea of a Supreme Being who required dwarfs to assist with the creation of the universe is a subversion of an all-powerful deity. The presentation of the Supreme Being in a dark suit raises some additional considerations. Notably, there are many men in dark suits that are

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known internationally; Presidents of the USA, including Kennedy and Nixon, dressed in dark suits. In years after the release of Time Bandits, Presidents such as Reagan, Clinton, both Bushes, Obama, Trump, and Biden were presented to the world in attire that approximated the Supreme Being’s dark suit, suggesting a sense of continuity of attire and values. Vladimir Putin and the premiers of Japan and China also dress in this manner. Gilliam is making a satirical comment about politicians, men who would be more than kings. The satire, however, is also a comment on the limitations of the human conception of God—despite being the Supreme Being the character is that of a mere administrator. Indeed, Gilliam himself states that he wanted the Supreme Being to look like a “fusty Headmaster.”38 The glory and mystery of God are reduced to the commonplace and ordinary, and, in one sense of the term “fusty,” antiquated. This suggests that the Supreme Being is representative of an era that does not easily articulate with the world in which Kevin lives. In a commentary on the film, Palin asked: “How do you do God?”39 In this question, he raises an important point that God is beyond human comprehension. Palin adds, of Richardson: “He was a great God.” His comment is about the performance, rather than the qualities of God, but it also raises doubts about the nature of a Supreme Being. THE SUBVERSION OF EVIL The supremely evil figure, portrayed by David Warner, is a humorous counterpoint to the administrator God. Evil claims to have created himself, rather than being part of the Supreme Being’s creation process, but this claim rings hollow and is tested in the final battle scene, in which the Supreme Being easily overcomes Evil. Indeed, the Supreme Being acknowledges that he created Evil, and expresses himself as quite satisfied with this experiment, possibly because Evil is easily overcome by the Supreme Being, even though Evil has defeated the knights, cowboys and other characters who gather to challenge him. Evil lives in a place like Milton’s Pandemonium—the Fortress of Ultimate Darkness is a dark and forbidding place devoid of happiness and light. This allusion suggests the limitations of Evil when faced by the Supreme Being. The beings that follow Evil have a hybrid quality to them in some cases. They are quasi-human and quasi-animal, in the tradition of the grotesque. There are echoes of H.G. Wells’s The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896) in them; in Wells’s story, the Sayer of the Law and other failed experiments live on the margins of the island society. Gilliam and Palin make the point that there is a dwarf in Evil’s company. The dwarf is seen as a fallen figure, and his name is Horseflesh.40 Gilliam included him as a nod to, and subversion

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of, Grimm’s “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” There are six dwarfs in the company of Kevin, and Gilliam included Horseflesh as a “dwarf gone bad,” so that the total number of dwarfs in the film would be seven. However, although there are seven dwarfs, they are not united in song about their work, and this breakdown of comradeship is an undermining of the sense of harmony and unity in the Disney film. THE QUALITIES OF EVIL There is a notably utilitarian element to Evil’s interests and opinions. In his commentary on the creation process, he memorably states that on Day 1 he would have created lasers. He evinces an interest in technology, including digital watches and computers. There is something of the schoolboy in his disregard for some elements of nature, such as the many species of parrots, butterflies, and slugs. He is a threatening figure, but his opinions are laughable, and his interests are based on limited real knowledge and understanding. There is an element of Grand Guignol41 in this representation of Evil. The underlighting of the face and the claw-like hands are evidence of this. However, there are also elements that are grotesque but also satirical—his skullcap is a face-hugger borrowed from Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979), which subverts the horror associated with the Alien figure; the face-hugger here is part of the costume of a comic villain. This suggests that Evil is a derivative being and has no significance by himself. In addition, his evil schemes are dependent on matters beyond his control—he needs the universe map in order to succeed, suggesting that he is limited in his ability to act. There is little doubt that this figure will fail in his attempt to rule the universe. Although Evil has an interest in technology and desires to put it to evil use, there are aspects of technology in the film that assist the cause(s) of the side of good. Firstly, the Polaroid camera which Kevin uses to capture images of his adventures is crucial in providing Kevin and the dwarfs with a possible escape route when they are captured. The photograph of the group with the map of the universe indicates a hole through which they can escape. While in possession of the photograph there is no need of the map—a facsimile will do. Technology, in the shape of photographic images, provides a potential happy ending, in which Evil will fail, thereby undercutting Evil’s belief in technology itself. Secondly, the map itself is a form of technology. It is a representation of the universe, not the universe itself. Like maps used by humans, the map is a reality rendered onto paper, or parchment, or a close approximation thereof, the purpose of which is to support navigation. Notably, in this film it is regarded as essential by both the Supreme Being and

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by Evil. Although Evil is interested in technology as if the technology itself has value, the Supreme Being links the value to its use in terms of pursuing his own cause. CHILDHOOD AS AN ELEMENT IN THE FILM Gilliam and Palin both comment on the film in terms of the child’s perspective; Gilliam states that while Time Bandits is indeed from a child’s perspective, it is not intended to be just for children.42 There are elements related to Kevin’s experience of childhood that are re-positioned in the film—in the Fortress of Ultimate Darkness there are giant-sized LEGO bricks that connect to Kevin’s childhood and there is a chessboard in Kevin’s room which reappears in the Fortress. The knights that are part of the Final Battle with Evil are also connected to the toys and illustrations in Kevin’s room. Notably, the figures from childhood, such as the knights, the cowboys and the tank, are not successful in fighting Evil. An external force (the Supreme Being) is needed to defeat Evil and restore order, although he is negligent in ensuring that all the broken pieces of Evil are collected. The Supreme Being relies on the dwarfs to collect the pieces, but they fail to collect them all. Despite being the Supreme Being he is not omniscient. The characters in the film are shown to be limited in knowledge, power and insight. Despite the general representation of adults as ignorant (Kevin’s parents), self-involved (Napoleon) and not inspiring confidence in the audience, there is also the figure of Agamemnon, who meets the expectations of Kevin in terms of his understanding of the mythical hero. However, Agamemnon is duped by the dwarfs and reacts in an amused manner while the dwarfs are in the process of stealing from him, possibly because he does not recognize the nature of the situation as he is accustomed to overt confrontation rather than the dwarfs’ sleight-of-hand. The same figure reemerges in reality as a fireman. However, he is not able to prevent the burning of the family home or the deaths of Kevin’s parents through their own stupidity. In this sense, Gilliam undermines conventional reality—Connery as Agamemnon is far greater than the same actor as a fireman, although there is also the sense of a fluid connection between reality and the fantastic. This point is made by Rabkin in his commentary on fantasy: “Fantastic worlds—perhaps paradoxically— are defined for us and are of interest to us by virtue of their relationship to the real world we imagine to have been thought normal when the story was composed.”43 Gilliam states that there were two texts that had a great influence on him during his formative years. One was the Bible and the other was the works of the Brothers Grimm. Gilliam states that, as a result of reading these texts, he

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felt that it was his duty to change the world for the better.44 As a filmmaker his purpose was to entertain, but also to provide the audience with questions that would require them to address fundamental beliefs. In Time Bandits Gilliam raises questions about the nature of the Supreme Being and the plans He had for humanity and the cosmos. Gilliam, through the character of the Supreme Being, also alludes to human free will within the framework of such a being’s plans, but he chooses not to explore this matter beyond a simple mention. Therefore, Gilliam is perhaps suggesting that a lot of human energy has been committed to thinking about this concept, but no real answers have been forthcoming. Critic Robert Shail, in his commentary on Gilliam, states that the film addresses the loneliness of a child, who is ignored by his parents. In his commentary Shail uses the word “chaos,” which suggests the breakdown of order that is evident in the film.45 However, the chaos appears temporary, in that Kevin returns to his home in the suburbs after his adventures across time and space. It is notable, however, that the camera pulls back from the suburb, to an image of the Earth, and then to a bigger picture which turns out to be the Supreme Being’s map. The incomplete universe, in the process of being constructed by the dwarfs (demoted to creating shrubs) is the broader locale of all creation, including Kevin. By the end of Time Bandits, the subversion is complete; the film questions the qualities of the universe, the nature of the Supreme Being and the nature of Evil. In keeping with the concept of subversion no answers are provided, but speculation is aroused. NOTES 1. Terry Gilliam, Gilliamesque. A Pre-Posthumous Memoir (Edinburgh: Canongate, 2015), 22. 2. Ibid. 3. Time Bandits, dir. Terry Gilliam (UK: Handmade Films, 1981). 4. Amos Vogel, Film as Subversive Art (New York: Random House, 1974), 9. 5. M.H. Abrams and Geoffrey Galt Harpham, A Glossary of Literary Terms (London: Cengage, 2015), 352. 6. J.A. Cuddon, The Penguin Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory (London: Penguin, 1999), 640. 7. Vogel, Film as Subversive Art, 9. 8. Ibid., 10. 9. Ibid., 12. 10. Ibid., 12–20. 11. Christopher Butler, Postmodernism. A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 29. 12. Peter Watson, A Terrible Beauty (London: Phoenix Press, 2000), 668.

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13. Ibid. 14. Butler, Postmodernism, 122. 15. Umberto Eco, Reflections on The Name of the Rose (London: Secker and Warburg, 1985), 65. 16. Ibid. 17. Rosemary Jackson, Fantasy (London: Routledge, 2005), 19. 18. Ibid. 19. Gilliam, Gilliamesque, 23. 20. Ibid., 24. 21. Ibid. 22. Anchor Bay 2002 Bonus Features on the DVD for Time Bandits. 23. Neil Postman and Charles Weingartner, Teaching as a Subversive Activity (London: Penguin, 1971), 23. 24. Abrams and Harpham, A Glossary, 249. 25. Ibid., 250. 26. Michael Palin, Halfway to Hollywood. Diaries 1980–1988 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 2009), 2. 27. Anchor Bay 2002. 28. Bill Jones, Kim Leggatt, and Ben Timlett, An Accidental Studio (London: Bill and Ben Productions, 2019). 29. Anchor Bay 2002. 30. Watson, A Terrible Beauty, 668. 31. Karen Randell, Interview with Terry Gilliam, in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam. It’s a mad world, eds. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 1. 32. Jeff Birkenstein, “Divorced from Reality: Time Bandits in Search of Fulfilment,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam. It’s a mad world, eds. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 141. 33. Anchor Bay 2002. 34. www​.royal​.uk​/the​-duke​-of​-kent The Duke of Kent is the cousin of Queen Elizabeth II. He was, for many years, the Royal representative at the Wimbledon tennis tournament. He was, therefore, publicly visible as a presenter of trophies/awards. He shook the hands of players, umpires, and ball boys/girls, and his manner was genial. 35. Jonathan Margolis, Cleese Encounters (London: Chapmans Publishers, 1992), 219. 36. A check of IMDB indicates that Ralph Richardson did not appear in Far from the Madding Crowd (1967). It appears that Gilliam is incorrect about this detail. 37. Gilliam, Gilliamesque, 188. 38. Ibid. 39. Anchor Bay 2002. 40. Ibid. 41. J.A. Cuddon, The Penguin Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory (London: Penguin, 1999), 362. This term refers to performances that are bloody, gruesome, and sensational. There is some evidence that the term derives from puppet shows such as Punch and Judy, because a French puppet maker was named Guignol.

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42. Anchor Bay 2002. 43. Eric S. Rabkin (ed.), Fantastic Worlds: Myths, Tales, and Stories (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), 4. 44. Gilliam, Gilliamesque, 199. 45. Robert Shail, British Film Directors: A Critical Guide (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007), 40.

REFERENCES Anchor Bay Bonus Features on the DVD for Time Bandits. 2002. Abrams, M.H., and Geoffrey Galt Harpham. A Glossary of Literary Terms. London: Cengage, 2015. Birkenstein, Jeff. “Divorced from Reality: Time Bandits in Search of Fulfilment.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam. It’s a mad world, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (eds), 130–44. New York. Wallflower Press, 2013. Butler, Christopher. Postmodernism. A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Cuddon, J. A. The Penguin Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory. London: Penguin, 1999. Eco, Umberto. Reflections on The Name of the Rose. London: Secker and Warburg, 1985. Gilliam, Terry. Gilliamesque. A Pre-Posthumous Memoir. Edinburgh: Canongate, 2015. Jackson, Rosemary. Fantasy. London: Routledge, 2005. Jones, Bill, Kim Leggatt and Ben Timlett. An Accidental Studio. London: Bill and Ben Productions, 2019. Margolis, Jonathan. Cleese Encounters. London: Chapmans Publishers, 1992. Palin, Michael. Halfway to Hollywood. Diaries 1980–1988. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 2009. Postman, Neil and Charles Weingartner. Teaching as a Subversive Activity. London: Penguin, 1971. Rabkin, Eric S. (ed). Fantastic Worlds: Myths, Tales, and Stories. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979. Randell, Karen. Interview with Terry Gilliam, in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam. It’s a mad world, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 9–15. New York. Wallflower Press, 2013. Shail, Robert. British Film Directors: A Critical Guide. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007. Time Bandits. Directed by Terry Gilliam. UK: Handmade Films, 1981. Vogel, Amos. Film as Subversive Art. New York: Random House, 1974. Watson, Peter. A Terrible Beauty. London: Phoenix Press, 2000.

Chapter 5

“I Think It Has Something to Do with Free Will” Time Bandits as Gilliam’s Theodicy Kevin J. Wetmore Jr.

In the early eighties, following Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979), Terry Gilliam could not convince producers to make Brazil (1985), the project nearest his heart. He thus committed to making a children’s film and wrote the script for Time Bandits (1981) with Michael Palin, who moreover appears in the film, marking the first time these two members of Python wrote together. At heart, the film narrates the tale of young Kevin (Craig Warnock), who is kidnapped by six time-travelling Little People (the eponymous “Time Bandits”) who take him through history—ancient Mycenae, Napoleonic Europe, medieval England, the Titanic, but additionally through mythic times and places. Indeed, Gilliam overlaps history with myth. Napoleon gives way to Robin Hood (John Cleese), Agamemnon (Sean Connery), ogres, and giants, deconstructing how we narrate and understand the past. Part of the myth/history that is narrated and deconstructed is Christianity’s cosmology. The Little People work for “the Supreme Being.” Kevin asks, “You mean God?”; “Well, I don’t know him personally,” answers Randall. The villain is called “The Evil Genius” (David Warner) and is clearly a satanic figure. As in the biblical book of Job, in which the role of Satan is to wander the earth, testing what God hath made, the point of the Supreme Being allowing His map to Creation to be borrowed is to test the fabric of Creation and patch the holes left behind. (Tangentially, no reason is given for the existence of the holes—they simply are, a rather Gilliamesque proposal.) The Supreme Being claims to allow the Evil Genius to do the things he does so that the quality of creation can be tested, and to demonstrate the power of 79

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God over evil. The Evil Genius’s name itself is a double-entendre in a sense: this manifestation of evil calls itself a “genius,” meaning an incredibly smart person (indeed the term “evil genius” has become a trope), but “genius” also refers to an attendant spirit (same root as “genie”). The “Evil Genius” is an evil genius, an evil spirit, and an attendant spirit, the last one referring to his inferior status. He is a servant of the Supreme Being and not the all-powerful evil being he believes himself to be. By naming him “Evil Genius,” the screenwriters place the joke of the character (self-elevating while being low and stupid) right in his name. Time Bandits thus offers a rumination on the nature and purpose of evil, remarkable for a film dismissed by critics at the time as a children’s movie and nothing more (though one suspects Gilliam and Palin would argue why it cannot be both?) Characters (and by extension the film) make theological statements about the nature of God, good and evil, following fast on the heels of Life of Brian and the controversy that surrounded that film. The divide between good and evil within Time Bandits is an odd one: God (The Supreme Being), resembles a traditional upper-class aristocrat and petty bureaucrat played by Ralph Richardson as resembling a gruff, stern, possibly oblivious, yet also friendly public school headmaster. The Evil Genius, played by David Warner (himself from Manchester working class stock), is a diabolical satanic figure interested in technology, modernity and post-modernity. Kevin, the good suburban lad, moves between them, travelling through time and learning about good, evil and many other aspects of human existence shaped by those two (leadership, finance, relationships, etc.). The film thus aligns with a tradition within British theatrical culture going back to the Middle Ages in which God is represented as aristocracy and evil is represented as uneducated and rooted in peasantry. Kevin, as the suburban, middle-class youth, is neither, and thus is the one who can be tempted to be virtuous or evil. This construction, however, also evokes a construction of the morality of class divisions in the United Kingdom that perhaps the film is satirizing or perhaps reinforcing inadvertently. GILLIAM AND RELIGION, OR “PYTHONESQUE” VERSUS “GILLIAMESQUE” Interestingly, the film applies its deconstruction of historic and mythic narratives (showing Robin Hood to be vapid and Napoleon obsessed with the heights of historic military heroes, and not at all like the legends make these men out to be, for example) in order to demonstrate the rather contradictory truth behind Christian theology as well. The Supreme Being has a quality-control problem and the personification of radical evil would prefer to embrace technology to improve the world. “Evil” in Time Bandits is not

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merely the man himself, but also the stupidity of materialism and the embrace of technology. Kevin’s parents, materialist and obsessed with television and the latest gadgets, discover the remains of the Evil Genius in their toaster oven after a home fire. Kevin encourages them not to touch what appears to be a pot roast in the microwave as it is “pure evil.” They touch it, and it blows them up. Time Bandits is thus a theodicy, explaining the nature and purpose of evil, as part of its larger agenda to deconstruct and satirize historic and mythic narratives. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibnitz coined the term “theodicy” in his 1710 work Essays de Théodicée sur la bonté de Dieu, la liberté de l’homme, et l’origne du mal, in which he proposed that belief in an omnipotent, omniscient, and omnibenevolent God must be reconciled with the existence of evil, both natural (earthquakes, venomous snakes, etc.) and moral (murder, assault, genocide, etc.).1 The so-called problem of evil as it is often referred to by theologians, argues that the presence of natural and moral evil seems to be an argument against an omnipotent, omniscient and omnibenevolent God, so if one posits the existence of such a being, one must explain why that being allows evil to exist. In other words, the question “Why does evil exist?’ if God is all good, all-powerful, and all-knowing. It is arguably the great question within Christian theology, with theologians from Saint Augustine to Bart D. Ehrman (author of the 2009 volume God’s Problem: How the Bible Fails to Answer Our Most Important Question—Why We Suffer) engaging the topic of why bad things happen to people who see themselves as “good.”2 Theodicy, Mark S.M. Scott notes, “denotes the attempt to explain or make sense of suffering,”3 as well as explain the existence of evil. In Time Bandits, Kevin directly asks the Supreme Being about these two issues, the necessity of suffering and of evil, at the film’s conclusion. The semi-answer (or non-answer?) that he receives is arguably the perfect encapsulation of Gilliam’s theology. Gilliam’s own faith is tangential to his own development and vision as a filmmaker. In childhood, Gilliam had been a nominal Christian, attending church with his family, a practice that ended in adulthood for him. His own religious development was not as a committed Christian within any specific denomination. In Gilliamesque, his autobiography, he reports: “We’d been Episcopalians or Lutherans in Minnesota—I can’t actually remember which—but the church we joined in LA was Presbyterian. It didn’t even seem to matter too much. We were Protestants, that was the main thing.”4 Indeed, his cinema reflects a reaction to general, genteel Protestantism, in a sense. He is neither a filmmaker of great faith, nor an angry atheist. His films reflect the culture, ideas and values of American and Anglican mainline Protestantism. When one considers such films as Brazil, 12 Monkeys (1995), or The Fisher King (1991), while not making theological statements in and of themselves,

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they focus on the suffering of the individual, focus on redemption; and keep actual faith out of the conversation, so to speak. By the time he made Time Bandits Gilliam was no stranger to religious controversy. In the wake of Life of Brian, Monty Python found themselves on the defensive, being accused of blasphemy and mocking Christianity. Thirty-nine local authorities in the United Kingdom banned the film, as did all of Ireland. The members of Python all asserted it was not Christianity they were mocking but dogmatic religious belief. Gilliam himself defended the film saying he knew his churchgoing mother would see it and she had no objections.5 By and large, however, while the other members of Monty Python demonstrated a penchant for mocking the Church of England and the institutional Christianity of the educational institutions they attended as young men, just as with the specific denomination of the Gilliam family, “it didn’t seem to matter too much” to Gilliam. Time Bandits may contain his most overt and personal statements of theology, and they are, if we are honest, completely Gilliamesque. Life of Brian was controversial for its seemingly blasphemous take on Christianity. Kim “Howard” Johnson, however, posits that, “the group found nothing about the life of Christ that invited ridicule, and so diverted the film into an attack on religions that pervert the teachings of Christ, and those that blindly follow. . . . ”6 Fundamentalists protested the film, Cleese and Palin debated the film with Roman Catholic journalist and satirist Malcolm Muggeridge and the Bishop of Southwark, Mervyn Stockwood on BBC Two in 1979. Two years later, Time Bandits, which also portrayed God on screen, met no such controversy. I would argue that the difference between the two films is the difference between “Gilliamesque” and “Pythonesque.” Perhaps it is because Gilliam is American and the other five Pythons are from the United Kingdom that his solo aesthetic does not engage with controversial material in the same way. The Pythons were surreal and absurd, as is Gilliam solus. However, the Pythons were also centered on a tradition of satire found in British culture. Emerging in the tradition of The Goons (1951–1960), the West End satirical sketch comedy Beyond the Fringe (1960) (which contains sketches about the Anglican Church), and the television series That Was the Week That Was (1962–1963), the British Pythons (all Oxbridge educated themselves), targeted British cultural institutions, including the Church of England, for satire. Wilkie argues that “Pythonesque” refers to broad political and cultural satire, mocking that which it takes as subject.7 “Gilliamesque,” on the other hand, is not rooted in British political satire, even as it also anchors itself in surreal absurdism. Independent scholar and film critic Paul Risker observes that Gilliam’s milieu is rooted in Python, but also embraces wonder and delight. Gilliam, he observes, “never quite

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escapes the humor of Python, because it is his humor. When he is funny it is Pythonesque.”8 “Gilliamesque,” Risker asserts, on the other hand, “transcend[s] the limits of Python whilst incorporating the comedy of his roots,” further asserting that his background as an animator makes him much more of a “visual storyteller” than the rest of Python, whose roots are in sketch comedy.9 As a result, films such as Time Bandits can be read as far more Gilliamesque than Pythonesque, despite both the Python presence (in the form of both Gilliam and Palin) and Gilliam’s own Python proclivities, because what Python does satirically in Life of Brian, Gilliam does sincerely. Life of Brian is in many ways an adolescent mockery of the Church of England and the British class system. Time Bandits considers the mysteries of Creation through the eyes of its protagonist, the child Kevin. The film itself may mock Napoleon and Robin Hood, and certainly does not respect the Time Bandits themselves. Agamemnon, however, and especially Kevin are held up as genuine individuals who want to do the right thing, avoid evil, and help others. Such sincerity would be impossible in a Python film, but it can be found in virtually every one of Gilliam’s. If Life of Brian mocked organized religion, Time Bandits was open to exploring ultimate reality through the eyes of a child and finding it equally confusing and un-reassuring. THE EVIL GENIUS: MEDIEVAL HERITAGE/ CONTEMPORARY TECHNOLOGY At the heart of Time Bandits is the dyad of forces aligned between the Supreme Being (God) and the “Evil Genius,” who is the personification of radical evil, traditionally called Satan, or the Devil. The Evil Genius is a direct manifestation of evil, indeed arguably the most blatant and obvious evil manifestation to be found in Gilliam’s work. As elsewhere in the director’s cinema, evil is inherently bureaucratic (see Brazil and Twelve Monkeys) and evil is inherently stupid, but believes itself the smartest thing in the room, which also makes it therefore inherently comic. The Evil Genius is, in the words of Peter Marks, “a petulant and pompous tyrant,” whose “Fortress of Ultimate Darkness” consists of drab ruins, their paucity unimpressive for a being obsessed with technology, and matching “the poverty of his ambitions.”10 Evil is arrogant and foolish to the point of ludicrousness. In this, Gilliam follows the model of medieval theatre, especially mystery and morality plays, in which Satan, devils, and other incarnations of evil are demonstrably stupid and presented humorously. In his study of medieval theatre, Glynne Wickham observes that the devils presented in mystery and morality plays are presented with “farcical humor,” and are buffoons and clowns.11 Indeed, the morality play Mankind from circa 1470 features an archetypal everyman named Mankind

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who is distracted, delighted and led astray by demons named Mischief, New Guise, Nowadays, and Naught who pass gas on stage, engage in scatological humor, and prove themselves to be not particularly bright.12 Since Gilliam himself is often a medieval fantasist, this formulation is on brand. Gilliam’s satanic figure believes himself greater than the Supreme Being, as self-created and eternal. In this, as in all his aspects, he proves himself to be a clownish mirror of the Supreme Being. He asserts, “Evil existed long before good. I made myself. I cannot be unmade. I am all powerful.” This statement both runs contrary to Christian theology and the reality of the film. Saint Augustine argues in The City of God that evil does not exist on its own, but rather is a form of privation: evil is the lack of good: “For evil is not a positive substance: the loss of good has been given the name ‘evil.’”13 For Gilliam, evil is the buffoonish shadow of good. It thinks itself smarter, better, more powerful than its opponents and than it actually is, and inevitably that lack of self-knowledge leads to evil’s downfall. Inherent in evil’s downfall, of course, is also overweening pride and hubris, another medieval holdover. In plays such as The Townley Creation, Lucifer’s great pride and resultant hubris causes him to want to replace God, and instead finds himself cast out and “fallen from an angel to a fiend.”14 David Warner’s Evil Genius is less biblical Satan than medieval devil. Satan in the Bible is a figure that regularly interacts with God in heaven (see the Book of Job, for example) and serves as a tempter figure for Jesus, but he is not the physical embodiment of radical evil. He is the ha-Satan, “the adversary” whose role is to test creation and challenge humanity. This role, however, evolved with the advent of Christianity, which viewed ultimate reality as a battle between God and evil. As the Church’s philosophy of evil evolved in the first millennium of its existence, the figure of Satan grew both more powerful and more evil.15 The Evil Genius is obsessed with technology, finding its absence a flaw in the original Creation: Evil Genius: God isn’t interested in technology. He cares nothing for the microchip or the silicon revolution. Look how he spends his time: forty-three species of parrots! Nipples for men! Robert: Slugs. Evil Genius: Slugs! He created slugs! They can’t hear. They can’t speak. They can’t operate machinery. Are we not in the hands of a lunatic? If I were creating the world I wouldn’t mess about with butterflies and daffodils. I would have started with lasers, eight o’clock, Day One! . . . When I have the map, I will be free, and the world will be different, because I have understanding. Understanding of digital watches. And soon I shall have understanding of video cassette recorders and car telephones. And when I have

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understanding of them, I shall have understanding of computers. And when I have understanding of computers, I shall be the Supreme Being!

It is here that the film lays bare the Evil Genius’s evil plan to remake Creation not as a natural world but as technology. In other words, to start Genesis over again with the present moment rather than the pre-history outlined in Genesis. The Evil Genius’s Genesis starts long past a fall, that is, the introduction of sin and moral evil into a fundamentally good creation, and begins with the world as it is today, after the industrial and digital revolutions. He does not want the six days of creation, in which God looks and sees that the creation of all the animals, fish and birds is “good.”16 He wants to begin creation with machines and technology. One should note, the Evil Genius suggests that in remaking creation, he would ironically actually follow in the exact footsteps of God, as “eight o’clock, day one,” of the Genesis narrative is “And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.”17 Lasers are simply focused light. So, the Evil Genius would also make light on day one, just a technologically based light. This is one of the many linkages between evil and technology and one of the many ways in which the Evil Genius is presented as a more stupid, selfish, and violent version of the Supreme Being. The problem with God and with good, Evil asserts, is that they are not interested in technology. Yet the film has already shown in its opening sequences that technology is part of the problem. Kevin’s parents are obsessed with labor-saving devices and the latest kitchen gadgets. It drives them to the seven deadly sins: envy (for the neighbor’s appliances), pride (in their own), greed (desire for more appliances), gluttony (overconsumption, as their obsession is with kitchen appliances, but also endless acquisition of technology), and sloth (spending as much time as possible sitting in their recliners watching the television, indulging in their appliance fantasies), at the very least—only lust is missing and a case could be made for lust not as sexual desire but just desire, in which case they have all seven. Technology is the source of sin, argues the film: it is an evil present in our culture in the twentieth century. Once he has the map and becomes the new Supreme Being, the Evil Genius will “remake man in our image,” an echo of Genesis 1:26. On the one hand, he need not do so—Kevin’s parents are already “evil” in that they, too, are obsessed with technology and it drives them to the lowest kind of existence, sitting in front of a television. The Evil Genius, however, seeks to remake all of creation, doing it in the same order as the Supreme Being, but doing it “better” (in his opinion), more technologically oriented, and rooted in evil. The Evil Genius is a fatuous version of Milton’s Satan in Paradise Lost (1667), fallen from heaven in a senseless rebellion in which he would supplant God and preferring to “reign in Hell than serve in Heav’n” (I: 263).

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Jeff Birkenstein sees the Evil Genius’s echoing the idea of making humanity in “our image” extending to his minions, who are echoes themselves of medieval demons, servants of evil “so mercifully free of the ravages of intelligence” as the Evil Genius himself notes, that they exist for the audience to laugh at and feel superior to, just as the audiences of medieval plays were encouraged to laugh at the devils and demons, not least of which because the audience knew, as the devils did not, that God would “win” at the end of time. Birkenstein argues, “consequently, he means that he wants man (and woman) to be but a sycophant, ready to do his bidding, and not the apparently free-thinking individuals who have long frustrated and elated philosophers. . . . ”18 In other words, if the Supreme Being wants us to have free will (of a sort), the Evil Genius wants humanity to have no will but the desire to please and worship the Evil Genius. One of the film’s definitions of evil is to be without the free will to choose and think as one does. Indeed, this is an effect of consumer culture. People like the parents are so seduced by technological luxuries and the concomitant conveniences that they lose the ability to make own choices of a more constructive nature. Kevin can challenge the Supreme Being who calls him a “clever boy” in response. By contrast, when Baxi Brazilia III challenges the Evil Genius, he causes Baxi Brazilia III to explode and screams, “Never talk to me like that again!,” an assertion both comic in its stupidity and demonstrative of how evil actually functions. Tangentially, we should note the same type of explosion that kills Baxi Brazilia III will also destroy Kevin’s parents when they touch the pure evil in the microwave at the end of the film. All the beings made in Evil’s image meet the same end. Evil is stupid and destructive, asserts the film, which, tangentially, are both medieval Christian and contemporary Protestant formulations, which make them positively Gilliamesque. Yet for Gilliam, evil is not just embodied in the Evil Genius. Evil manifests in a variety of forms, from the petty to the unimaginative. Evil is an inherent part of Creation in Gilliam’s film and is revealed in a multiplicity of beings. The Bandits themselves play at evil, Kevin’s parents are presented as a minor form of evil, and even the Creation itself is highly flawed, of which evil and Evil (the concept and the being) are only two manifestations. THE SUPREME BEING AND HIS LESS-THAN-SUPREME CREATION The Supreme Being is obviously God, as both the Evil Genius and Kevin call him that. The name “Supreme Being” itself could be theologically problematic, as it suggests that God is the “supreme being,” placing Him at the height of a continuum of creation. But God is not a created being. In Christian

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theology God is eternal, “uncreated,” and is “being” itself. The Hebrew name by which He identifies Himself in the Hebrew Bible, YHWH (pronounced Yahweh), literally means “I am.” He manifests in two forms: a terrifying, glowing, deep-voiced head and an old man resembling a somewhat stuffy old British aristocratic headmaster. Just as the Evil Genius manifests a perception of what evil is, so, too does the Supreme Being manifest a rather childish idea of what God is: either the stern supernatural entity, or a friendly-if-occasionally-cross old man. This construction is an example of Gilliamesque theology. While Python decries hypocrisy in organized religion, Gilliam embraces the generic Protestantism of his youth in a playful, postmodernist manner, taking medieval constructions of good and evil and literalizing them in modern forms. The film is playful in its approach, both to evil and how we should think about it. Oddly, the film itself seems to suggest that the viewer is observing the events from the Supreme Being’s perspective. Time Bandits opens with a celestial view. White on black credits introduce the cast and crew; and the film then suddenly cuts to a map of the universe. The audience has a God’s eye view of the cosmos, a three-dimensional map of creation. The camera passes through it, symbols and signs moving by as the viewer moves closer and closer to a destination. The screen then develops a white grid in which the title appears, the letters ornate and gothic: TIME BANDITS. Suddenly, the squares of the grid are black, pushing through space, past stars, nebulae, and then descend to Earth and then to a suburb, a house, the living room of Kevin’s house. These same images in reverse will end the film as well, as Kevin’s parents explode and he approaches the smoking piles of their remains as the camera rises above, slowly revealing the suburban development they live in, then the planet, the solar system, the galaxy, and the universe, which again becomes the map, which then two hands, presumably those of the Supreme Being, roll up and remove from the screen. Whilst Kevin is the protagonist through whose perspective the viewer experiences the events of the film, the film itself frames the narrative as from God’s perspective. Gilliam the visual storyteller plays at aligning the audience with the Supreme Being, not just because they will most likely find themselves on his side (as opposed to the Evil Genius’s) but also because the Supreme Being’s answer to the problem of evil is one the viewer will most likely align themselves with—it has something to do with free will—end of discussion. The purpose of opening and closing on the cosmos also takes what is essentially a small tale—a single small boy travelling with a group of Little People though history—and frames it as a more substantial and significant series of events. In doing so, Gilliam also frames Kevin as an everyman figure, but also cites humanity in the form of Kevin as a special and unique creation. “Yet not a sparrow will fall to the

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ground apart from the will of your Father,” as Jesus tells his disciples, meaning that everything happens from the will of God.19 Time Bandits, in framing its narrative from God’s perspective gives God that omniscience, but the omnibenevolence is a little lacking. It is not that God is not good; just busy, tired and, frankly, above it all. The beginning and end of the film form mirrored bookends that bring the viewer to the small and local from the universal cosmos and back again. The events that unfold take place both on a micro level (Kevin’s adventures through time), but also on a macro scale, involving a climactic battle between good and evil on a cosmic level. Yet the “cosmic battle” is waged by buffoons on either side. We have explored how evil is clownish, above, but the agents of God are equally inept and incompetent. The Bandits themselves are agents of Creation. They were made by/hired by God to make bushes and shrubs as part of Creation, and only got in trouble when Og (Mike Edmonds) made a “Pink Bunkadoo,” a giant tree that smelled terrible. Rather than waiting to be punished, they stole the map of creation and became the eponymous Bandits. They had not yet, however, pulled off any robberies when they first encounter Kevin in his bedroom. Instead, they have just acquired the map and are still agents of Creation. They attempt to be evil themselves, constructing themselves as “bandits” and “robbers,” and yet their every action actually serves God’s purposes (yet another medieval formulation—even Satan serves God’s purpose in the end). They are not very good at creating bushes; they are not very good at being evil. Yet of all the creatures in the film, they are the ones who know and are closest to God, even if they do not call Him that because, as Randall notes, they are not “on a first-name basis.” These are not angels—they are imbeciles, but God’s imbeciles. By the end of the film, they are back to work for God (just with a demotion down to lichens and a pay cut of 19 percent “dating back to the beginning of time”), reducing their role from supernatural beings that create the natural world to not-particularly valuable or valued company workers. Again, a Gilliamesque understanding of how heaven actually works. This understanding of creation differs significantly from the biblical one, in which God speaks things into existence. The God in the film has a number of underlings who are tasked with the actual making of Creation. While he has obvious power (he restores Fidget to life, he can undo the work of the Evil Genius with a literal twinkle of his eye), he is also tired and a bit cross and would really rather not be doing any of this right now. There is a larger implication in this narrative: the Bandits are a sort of second rebellion in heaven. They quit their jobs working for God and try to become evil. There is an irony in that they are too inept to be evil, when the film itself depicts evil as inept. Unlike Satan, however, the Bandits are not fallen angels. They are working class guys who are tired of their job and quit. They do not fall.

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One must be elevated to have a fall. They simply walk off the job, play the fool through history for a while, and then get their old jobs back and are grateful for it. This is no fall from heaven, suggesting again that the myths of evil woven into our culture are not quite as accurate about the nature of evil as we perhaps think. Evil is not the opposite of good or the rejection of God, it is a poor work ethic and a desire for unearned wealth. It did not “fall like lightning from heaven,”20 but took a coffee break and just did not come back. This is the evil of the everyday lazy coworker, not the physical embodiment of evil itself. PLAYFUL, STUPID SIN AND MEDIOCRE EVIL None of the Time Bandits’ crimes are particularly terrible. They steal goods that Napoleon had pillaged himself, only to see them stolen again and given to the poor, for example. They are only able to rob him because Napoleon gets drunk and falls asleep and they are able to exploit his passion for “little things hitting each other” to override Napoleon’s more sensible generals. Their ill-gotten gains are immediately appropriated from them by Robin Hood, who gives them to the poor, and thus they do not benefit at all from their theft. Kevin finds a momentary happiness in the company of King Agamemnon, one of the few characters to show more positive characteristics than negative ones, but the Bandits show up to kidnap Kevin, and bring him to a luxury liner where they can sip champagne, smoke cigars and plan to rob the passengers only to find they are actually on the Titanic on the night it sinks. They cannot seem to find any victories in their work. The reason for this is that they are not actually bandits in any sense of the word. They are playing at being wicked, but they have neither the intelligence nor the aptitude to actually commit crimes. Thus, it is while they float in the North Atlantic that Og is given the idea by the Evil Genius to seek out the Most Fabulous Object in the World, which can only be found in the Time of Legends. We must note two things here. First, the desire to seek the object indicates that they are no longer “bandits” in any sense of the word, but merely seeking unearned possessions. They want to own things simply to own them. They have gone from inept criminals to the embodiment of some of the seven deadly sins. Og has already been presented as gluttony personified, but the other five now exemplify greed. Second, the Evil Genius using a device to plant the idea in Og’s brain is a scene of temptation. The devil literally goes into Og’s mind, so to speak, and tempts the others to go in search of something that does not even have a name. They do not know what it is, only that they want it. One might see this as the essence of sin—wanting what you do not have and being willing to sacrifice what you do have to get it. The

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group is drawn into the time of legends where a fight between them breaks out. They threaten each other with violence until one throws a skull at another, intending grievous bodily harm. Instead, it shatters the one-way glass mirror that limited them and shows them the world of evil that is behind their current situation. However, instead of recognizing the evil as a danger (only Kevin sees the risks and urges caution), the Bandits run to find the Most Fabulous Object in the World in the heart of evil. In other words, they are tempted to seek something out of greed, and it only leads them further into sin. Evil can convince the Bandits to enter his fortress as they are petty and greedy and thus easily manipulated. Kevin, in contrast, is not manipulated to enter: he enters of his own free will in order to follow his friends, whom he wishes to protect from harm. Their motives are base and criminal. His are honorable and ethical. Kevin recognizes the trap; they do not. Thus, in order for Evil to be victorious in his scheme, Kevin’s illusions thus must also be shattered. His parents and their favorite game show host appear before the Bandits, offering the opportunity to win the Most Fabulous Object in the World in exchange for the map, but they are revealed to be simply the Evil Genius and his minions in disguise. Not only does this image link Kevin’s parents with evil, it also frames the obsession with technology as linked with immaturity, a lack of growth, a disengagement from the interesting, fun and truly valuable parts of the world. As noted above, Gilliam offers an indictment of consumer culture which has indeed consumed the parents but to which Kevin is still immune. Earlier in the film, while they watch television and compare their home appliances unfavorably with the neighbors, Kevin reads books and grows excited about learning about medieval and ancient Greek combat. Gilliam presents him as an imaginative child in a context of unimaginative, materialistic parents. Their lack of wonder and imagination renders them lifeless and therefore evil. Time Bandits offers an image of Evil as middle-class banality, of meaningless acquisition, of desire based on promotion and name (“the Most Fabulous Object in the World”), rather than the truly valuable, interesting, and worthwhile parts of Creation. The director posits that the best parts of history and the world are not wealth and material goods but the meaningful experiences and the relationships we carefully craft. Kevin is happiest with Agamemnon, even above his own home and parents, because Agamemnon values experience, ethics, and meaningful relationships. Kevin wants to learn to fight, but the Greek warrior teaches him that learning not to trust one’s own eyes or the intent of others who may not mean well is a more valuable lesson for survival. This, Gilliam says, is the true value found moving through time. Agamemnon even delights in the dance of the Bandits when they arrive to kidnap Kevin. While the child immediately recognizes the danger, Agamemnon takes pleasure in the performance. He is a man capable of finding joy and using his imagination, something no other

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character in the film other than Kevin can do. If the film’s “Gilliamesque” quality, as noted above, is a celebration of wonder, imagination, and delight, Agamemnon teaches Kevin that one can be an adult and still find meaning in these things. The climactic battle against Evil at the end displays both the failure of imagination on the part of the Bandits in fighting Evil and the failure of technology and weapons to defeat evil. The Bandits exploit the holes in the Fortress of Ultimate Darkness to bring forces seemingly “of Good” to fight against Evil from throughout time. Once again, however, their lack of imagination and their response to evil with technology and violence means they are fighting Evil on Evil’s terms, a fight they cannot win. For example, Randall arrives in a Sherman tank, Strutter brings a group of medieval knights, Vermin brings cowboys, Fidget brings Greek archers, and Wally arrives in a spaceship with laser cannons. One by one they all attempt to defeat evil by force, specifically technological evolutions in violence through history, none of which can actually defeat Evil. The knights end up dead in a heap, impaled by their own lances; the cowboys lasso Evil, who then begins spinning whilst playing a calliope tune, and eventually a spinning knife emerges from his head to send them all flying off into the darkness. The archers fire at Evil who inflates into a giant pin cushion, sending all the arrows back to the one who fired them, killing the archers. Finally, the Evil Genius begins to manipulate the tank and spaceship so they are firing at the Bandits and each other until a piece of the fortress falls on Fidget, killing him and leaving the others unable to continue their fight. One by one, the weapons literally kill those who wield them, a literalization of the maxim that he who lives by the sword, dies by the sword. To those who see the film as Kevin’s dream, as a young fantasy, the battle makes perfect sense: the army of the good is made of all types of characters that appeal to young boys: knights, cowboys, soldiers, and spaceships. They all take direct, heroic approaches to fighting evil through brute force and violence, all of which prove ineffective and not only fail but go on to be the source of defeat for those who wield them. The lesson, of course, is that violence does not stop evil. Direct, brute force does not stop evil. Thus, something else is required to fight it. Just as the Evil Genius appears poised to win and glows red from the power arising within him, according to the shooting script, he is struck by lightning, and he explodes, turning into charcoal. The lightning is then revealed to be from the Supreme Being who easily defeated Evil.21 However, the final cut does not have lightning coming from above. The Evil Genius begins to glow red from his power being summoned forth from within. A huge crack is heard (which may suggest lightning, which is not seen), followed by a small explosion. When the smoke clears, the Evil Genius has transformed into a charcoal version of himself, not unlike Lot’s wife becoming a pillar of salt.22

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The final film version is ambiguous as to what actually ends the Evil Genius, although the Supreme Being does appear in the “floating head” manifestation immediately after Evil is transformed into a cinder statue. The question thus becomes, does the Supreme Being defeat Evil with lightning from above or does Evil defeat itself? Two very different meanings are possible depending on one’s interpretation: is divine goodness needed to defeat evil, or is evil simply self-defeating? Either way, the film seems to suggest, heroics are not needed. Evil is self-defeating, and one must trust in both imagination and in the inherent goodness of Creation. QUESTIONING A GOD MADE IN OUR IMAGE IS THE ULTIMATE FREE WILL If Evil is ultimately self-defeating, the reality is that good simply exists on its own and humanity works to create meaningful beliefs, which it wants reality to reflect. The Supreme Being appears out of a cloud of mist where the floating head had just been. Brushing the dust from his suit coat, his first line is a complaint. “Oh . . . I hate having to appear like that. It really is the most tiresome noisy manifestation. Still–rather expected of one, I’m afraid.” God himself does not want to appear in a vengeful supernatural form as it is “tiresome.” He does so because it is “expected.” Humanity wants the glowing supernatural manifestation with the deep, resonant, divine voice. God simply wants to get the job done. The job, in this case, at the end of the film, is the tidying up of the Fortress of Ultimate Darkness and the remains of evil. His priority is cleaning up: “If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s mess. Come on, pick all this stuff up.” He later criticizes Kevin, stating, “You really are an untidy boy,” and forces him to sign a pad, suggestive of the demerits given out for failures to follow rules or complete assignments in traditional British public schools. Our first encounter with the divine is distinctly underwhelming. He is presented as an older headmaster, attempting to get his charges to straighten up before heading to the next class, hardly the creator of the universe. When Randall tries to excuse their behavior by claiming they “did not mean to steal the map,” the Supreme Being responds, “Of course you didn’t mean to steal it. I gave it to you.” He explains that the entire action of the film the viewer just saw was his plan to fix the flaws in Creation. If evil is, as Augustine asserts, the absence of the good, this was God’s plan to introduce some good into those places of privation. “I had to have some way to test my handiwork,” he tells Randall and an astonished Kevin. “I think Evil turned out rather well, don’t you,” making a prophetic pun that the Evil Genius was

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now cooked to “well done” and that a piece of that pure evil would end up in Kevin’s parents’ microwave oven. The script describes the moment for the other characters as, “Meanwhile the truth is slowly dawning.”23 The truth in this case is that they did not actually have the free will they thought. This, of course, introduces a paradox. Good allows for free will; evil does not. Yet the Supreme Being has manipulated the situation in which the Bandits assumed they had free will when they in fact did not. Kevin, on the other hand, actually does possess free will, not least because he is allowed to question God in a manner that they themselves are not. They were not adventurers rebelling against the roles that God had put them in, but rather tools used by God to test his creation. “I let you take the map. . . . I chased you as slowly as I convincingly could . . . quite honestly there were times when I nearly gave up on the whole test,” he complains. It is at this moment that the film both pulls its arguments from the Book of Job and offers its theodicy, not just why we suffer or why evil is allowed to exist, but specifically why God himself has created and allowed suffering and evil. The question at the heart of Job is why God allows bad things to happen to people who do not deserve them. In other words, why does God permit us to suffer? Kevin: You mean you let all those people die just to test your creation? Supreme Being: Yes. You’re rather a clever little boy. Kevin: But why did they have to die? Supreme Being: You might as well say why do we have to have evil? Randall: Oh, we wouldn’t dream of asking that. Kevin: Yes, why do we have to have evil? [The Supreme Being walks behind a column then pops back out again] Supreme Being: I think it has something to do with free will.

Note the Supreme Being does not answer the second question. When Kevin asks why people had to die for God to test his creation, God dismisses the question by saying you may as well ask why evil exists. This is a deflection, not an answer. When Kevin then follows up with that question, the answer is both inconclusive and uncertain. For a Supreme Being, a being that is omnipotent, omniscient, and omnibenevolent, it can easily be read as a cop-out. The Supreme Being then ends the discussion before Kevin can challenge him any further. Yet this exchange also represents Gilliam’s playfulness towards this serious subject matter. The seriousness and playfulness are at constant interplay. Kevin asks serious questions, ones no doubt the viewer also has asked at some point. Gilliam, however, will not allow for definitive answers. If he

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did, the film would not work. Being Gilliamesque, its purpose is to engage its world with wonder and imagination. Hard, specific answers to unanswerable questions are more in keeping with the Evil Genius and Kevin’s parents. Instead, Gilliam simply gives the viewer a hint of possible answers and, in an ambiguous ending, offers no closure or solutions to either the narrative or the theological questions it raises. In this moment, coming face to face with God, Kevin demands a theodicy. He asks why people suffered and why we have evil. And the Supreme Being at best offers a conjecture about a possibility that does not actually answer the question. The Supreme Being is clearly intimately familiar with evil. As they further deconstruct the charcoal remains of the Evil Genius, he cautions them that, like a dead snake, the remains are still dangerous and can cause actual harm: “That’s concentrated Evil. One drop of that could turn you all into hermit crabs.” Yet he does not fear evil enough to ensure they retrieve every last bit. He entrusts the task to the Bandits, who have demonstrated themselves inept at every task set to them. A piece of pure, “concentrated Evil” is left behind and begins to smoke. God knows evil, yes, and can defeat evil in the moment, but some evil always remains, survives, and persists, allowing it to return and need defeating all over again. Perhaps that is one of the points of Time Bandits: not just the persistence of evil, but even the necessity of it. It will always be. God created Evil. The very suggestion of which drives the Evil Genius into a rage, blowing up the minion that suggested it, the insecurity behind which seems to suggest that even Evil knows it is true. It is also biblical: the King James version of Isaiah 45:7 reads “I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord do all these things . . . ” (emphasis mine). The Supreme Being himself made all creation by employing various subcontractors such as the Bandits, but he is not the God of the Christian Bible. He is the head of a corporation, known to and knowing all of his employees, but definitely getting on in years. He made Evil, but he is not quite sure why. The qualifier, “I think it has something to do with free will” suggests not even he knows why we must have evil, only that it must exist and that it must be resisted. The map adventure was all a test of Creation, but Creation is being tested because it is full of holes and flaws. This is not the Creation of Genesis (“And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good”). The God in the film beholds his creation and realizes it was pretty good, but had some things that needed fixing, and the best solution was to give a map of the flaws to the Bandits and see what happens. As a stopgap measure, God can keep evil at bay for some time, but ultimately the “Supreme Being” is ineffective at containing evil, probably because of something that has to do with free will. This construction is, arguably, a perfectly Gilliamesque theology of Creation.

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The free will defense of evil, as it is known, was first postulated by Saint Augustine and is more recently firmly espoused by Alvin C. Plantinga, professor of Philosophy at the University of Notre Dame, who posits that this is the best of all possible worlds that God could create, allowing for complete human freedom to accept or reject God. In order to allow for that free will, negative consequences of action, suffering, and genuine evil, also known as moral evil, must be allowed and will be the outcome of such freedom.24 As noted above, however, Time Bandits complicates this defense in two ways: first, even the Supreme Being is not certain if free will is the reason for evil or if free will really even exists, although as this chapter argues, Kevin (and by extension other humans) have free will, but Randall and the other Bandits do not. Furthermore, the Supreme Being has watched over and even orchestrated everything they have done to bring about the actual conclusion. When the Bandits thought they had free will, they were really doing what the Supreme Being wanted. Their free will was actually an illusion. Kevin’s free will was not an illusion as every step of the way he had a choice and always chose both the good and the meaningful over technology or unearned material goods. Second, evil itself does not allow for free will. As argued above, evil is not interested in free will per se but only self-glorification and self-perpetuation. This lesson, in some ways, is the one Kevin must learn as a child on the cusp of adolescence and in need of empowerment. His parents, the culture, and the forces of the world all conspire against him in a sense, to keep him powerless. But he challenges his parents. While they watch television, Kevin reads books and asks his father if he knows all the interesting things about history that he is learning. He challenges Randall both in terms of his behavior and moral choices and in his leadership, and eventually even challenges God. And each time he is proven right to do so. Kevin’s free will is asserted because he challenges all authority figures and refuses to accept the world that they have all created. Even God must be challenged and asked why the choices are what they are. At the heart of Time Bandits’ theology is the idea that one must use one’s imagination to challenge the world as it is and exert one’s free will to question even God about the poor quality of Creation and the seeming dominance of evil, from the petty, stupid evil of the Bandits to the grand, stupid evil of the Evil Genius. CONCLUSION: A THEODICY DISGUISED AS AN ANTI–FAIRY TALE Jeff Birkenstein observes, “Time Bandits is something of an anti-fairy tale, one that deconstructs the fairy tale promise of later-twentieth century middle class suburban existence.”25 The film certainly deconstructs both actual fairy

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tales (Robin Hood and the Time of Legends), and also suburban fairy tales, as Birkenstein notes, but also serves (as did Life of Brian) as an anti-orthodox Christianity theology. Not that Christianity per se is wrong, but that mainline Protestant theology is presented as fairy tale—not taking its own narratives and their implications seriously enough. The film contains fairy-tale elements, although the events are depicted as real. It can be seen as a child’s fantasy, a dream as a house begins to burn, but an awake Kevin finds all the polaroid pictures he has taken throughout the film, which demonstrates the adventures were not a dream but actually occurred. This would seem to imply that Kevin’s encounters with radical evil personified and with the Supreme Being actually occurred—he has genuinely stood in the presence of God (whom, it should be noted, appreciated his cleverness, but was not fond of his untidiness) and Satan (who, despite his potential for violence was also fairly easily overcome). If the film is to be read as most scholars have,26 that is to say, a coming-of-age story about a child becoming empowered, it can also be read as a coming-of-age story of one’s own spiritual awakening. Time Bandits shows Kevin moving beyond a childish approach to theology (God and the devil fighting for one’s soul) to a more nuanced understanding of evil as something not personified in a being but found in the real world in a variety of forms, to be fought and resisted. One must find meaning in experiences and relationships, not material things. The ending has shocked critics and viewers, but Gilliam himself asserts it is about the journey from childhood to self-reliance. Kevin no longer needs his parents, who were terrible parents anyway. By extension, if he no longer needs his father, perhaps he no longer needs “The Father.” The conclusion of the film solidifies what Gilliam has perhaps hinted at all along. The Supreme Being does not represent “Good” as the opposite of evil, merely a different organizing principle for understanding the world. After all, the Supreme Being, while being complimentary to Kevin, also neither values nor wants imagination. In his defense, he does send Kevin back to earth to continue the fight. Kevin becomes an agent of Good, even if the Supreme Being is questionable, in every sense of the word. Peter Marks, for example, sees Kevin’s adventures through time as being “morally instructive”: More than just the wish fulfilment of a young boy, the adventures raise moral and philosophical questions about materialism, theft, the nature of good and evil, the qualities of leadership and courage, the reason why God permits death, as well as the relationships between reality, myth, magic, and the metaphysical world.27

The film depicts a world in which one must learn to let go of more childish notions of evil and instead rely upon oneself to challenge that which is

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morally wrong. No Supreme Being will intervene to end the evil in the world, and thus it is up to Kevin and those like him. One can even extend this analysis to Gilliam himself, as the “supreme being” behind the film. Tony Hood, however, perhaps offers a more “meta” perspective for viewing the film. He sees Gilliam not only as “self-reflexive,” but as a “flawed creator,” arguably much like the Supreme Being himself.28 Hood even refers to Gilliam as the “Supreme Architect” of the worlds of his films, but they are all indeed broken and flawed worlds.29 One might even read Time Bandits as a fictionalized autobiography, with Gilliam as both Kevin and Supreme Being—a child exploring a fantastic and wonderful world and a being working on behalf of creation, saddled with inept workforces, less budget than needed, environmental factors; and a number of other elements that limit the Creator’s ability to create. Time Bandits offers God as headmaster, but also God as director, yet another medieval theatre conceit seen in plays such as Everyman and Calderon’s El Gran Teatro del Mundo— God as creative producer, transformed into Gilliam’s filmic practice. At the end of the film, the Supreme Being tells the Bandits that Kevin may not come with them because, “He’s got to stay here, to carry on the fight.” The fight itself is never made explicit, but it does not need to be. Kevin’s adventures have, in the words of Peter Marks, “awakened him to the reality of evil.”30 He thus now must contend with the reality of evil—not David Warner in a Halloween costume, but the realities of real evil: a house fire, his parents’ neglect, an unkind world in which the authority figures (firemen) have put out the fire and then simply leave a twelve-year-old boy alone on his front lawn with the smoking remains of his parents. Time Bandits’ ultimate theodicy, in a sense, is thus the audience. There is no devil out there to blame. The Supreme Being is distant and unavailable, and perhaps not even all good. Evil exists, and it is up to us individually to fight it—and meaning and imagination are the tools we have. That is all. NOTES 1. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibnitz, Theodicy: Essays on the Goodness of God, the Freedom of Men, and the Origin of Evil, trans. E.M. Hapgood (London: Routledge, 1952). 2. Bart D. Ehrman, God’s Problem: How the Bible Fails to Answer Our Most Important Question—Why We Suffer (New York: Harper One, 2009). 3. Mark S.M. Scott, Pathways in Theology: An Introduction to the Problem of Evil (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2015), 56. 4. Terry Gilliam and Ben Thompson, Gilliamesque (New York: Harper Collins, 2015), 14. 5. Ibid., 183.

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6. Kim “Howard” Johnson, Monty Python: The First 200 Years (New York: Thomas Dunne, 1989), 203. 7. Ian Wilkie, “Very Silly Party Politics: Surrealism and Satire in the ‘Pythonesque,’” Comedy Studies 10, no. 2 (2019): 213–23. 8. Paul Risker, “The Terry Gilliam Retrospective Part 2: Escaping the Shadow,” Flickering Myth, February 12, 2013. www​.flickeringmyth​.com​/2013​/02​/THE​-TERRY​ -GILLIAM​-RETROSPECTIVE​-PART​-2. 9. Risker. 10. Peter Marks,Terry Gilliam (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009), 75. 11. Glynne Wickham,The Medieval Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 120. 12. See Anon.Mankind in Glynne Wickham, ed. English Moral Interludes (London: Dent, 1976). 13. Augustine,City of God, trans. Harry Bettenson (New York: Penguin, 2004), 440. 14. Anon. “The Towneley Plays: The Creation,” inThe Broadview Anthology of Medieval Drama, eds. Christina M. Fitzgerald and John T. Sebastian (Buffalo: Broadview, 2013), 140–41. 15. For the history and evolution of the devil, Jeffrey Burton Russell’sThe Prince of Darkness (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988) and Ryan E. Stokes’s The Satan: How God’s Executioner Became the Enemy (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2019) are highly recommended, both demonstrating the process by which Satan as an agent of YWHW slowly transformed under Christianity to become the source of all evil in the world. 16. Genesis 1:20–25. 17. Genesis 1:3. 18. Jeff Birkenstein, “Divorced from Reality:Time Bandits in Search of Fulfilment,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad, Mad World, eds. Jeff Barker Stein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell (New York: Wildflower, 2013), 139. 19. Matthew 10:29. 20. Luke 10:18. 21. Terry Gilliam and Michael Palin,Time Bandits: The Shooting Script (New York, Ganga, 1981), 119. 22. Genesis 19:26. 23. Gilliam and Palin,Time Bandits: The Shooting Script, 122. 24. Alvin C. Plantinga,God, Freedom and Evil (Grand Rapids: Eerdman, 1974). 25. Birkenstein, “Divorced from Reality,” 133. 26. See, for example, Birkenstein, “Divorced from Reality”; Marks,Terry Gilliam; Tony Hood, “Grail Talks: The Preoccupations of Terry Gilliam,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad, Mad World, eds. Jeff Barker Stein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York: Wildflower, 2013); and George Perry, Life of Python (Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1983), the last of whom dismisses it as “an adventure that would appeal to children” (83). 27. Marks,Terry Gilliam, 10; 67–68. 28. Hood, “Grail Talks,” 32.

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29. Ibid. 30. Marks,Terry Gilliam, 78.

REFERENCES Augustine. City of God, translated by Harry Bettenson. New York: Penguin, 2004. Ehrman, Bart D. God’s Problem: How the Bible Fails to Answer Our Most Important Question—Why We Suffer. New York: Harper One, 2009. Fitzgerald, Christina M. and John T. Sebastian, eds. The Broadview Anthology of Medieval Drama. Buffalo: Broadview, 2013. Gilliam, Terry and Ben Thompson. Gilliamesque. New York: Harper Collins, 2015. Gilliam, Terry and Michael Palin. Time Bandits: The Movie Script. New York: Ganga, 1981. Johnson, Kim “Howard.” Monty Python: The First 200 Years. New York: Thomas Dunne, 1989. Leibnitz, Gottfried Wilhelm. Theodicy: Essays on the Goodness of God, the Freedom of Men, and the Origin of Evil, translated by E.M. Hapgood. London: Routledge, 1952. Marks, Peter. Terry Gilliam. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009. Milton, John. Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. New York: Signet, 1982. Plantinga, Alvin C. God, Freedom and Evil. Grand Rapids: Eerdman, 1974. Perry, George. Life of Python. Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1983. Risker, Paul. “The Terry Gilliam Retrospective Part 2: Escaping the Shadow.” Flickering Myth, February 12, 2013. https:​//​www​.flickeringmyth​.com​/2013​/02​/ THE​-TERRY​-GILLIAM​-RETROSPECTIVE​-PART​-2. Russell, Jeffrey Burton. The Prince of Darkness. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988. Scott, Mark S.M. Pathways in Theology: An Introduction to the Problem of Evil. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2015. Stein, Jeff Barker, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, eds. The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad, Mad World. New York: Wildflower, 2013. Stokes, Ryan E. The Satan: How God’s Executioner Became the Enemy. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2019. Wickham, Glynne, ed. English Moral Interludes. London: Dent, 1976. ———. The Medieval Theatre. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987. Wilkie, Ian. “Very Silly Party Politics: Surrealism and Satire in the ‘Pythonesque.’” Comedy Studies 10, no. 2 (2019): 213–23.

Chapter 6

Meet to Eat. The Restaurant in Terry Gilliam’s Brazil (1985) and The Fisher King (1991) Sabine Planka

THE RESTAURANT . . .

. . . IN BRAZIL (1985) Movie lovers will immediately recognize the following scene as a quotation from the script of Terry Gilliam’s dystopian film Brazil (1985). MRS. TERRAIN: I can’t make up my mind whether to have a number one or a number two. What do you recommend, Spiro? SPIRO: (conspiratorially) Between you and me, Madam, today the number two. MRS. TERRAIN: Thank you, Spiro. Shirley, what are you going to have? . . . SPIRO: (conspiratorially) Between you and me, Mademoiselle, today the number one. Madam Lowry? 101

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MOTHER: Oh, to hell with the diet, a number eight, please. SPIRO: A most perceptive choice, Madam, if I may say so. (to Sam) Monsieur? SAM: (brusquely) A steak, please. Rare. (to his mother) Mother, I need to . . . SPIRO: (piqued) Monsieur. Quel numero. SAM: (handing back menu) I don’t know which numero. SPIRO: (writing on pad) Numero, trois. Everyone is a bit embarrassed here. Mother gives Sam a withering look. Spiro stalks away. MOTHER: (trying to restart things) Alma, you wicked thing . . . (indicating bandages) you’ve started your treatment. MRS. TERRAIN: You noticed. (enthusiastically) I must tell you all about it. SAM: (to his mother) Mother, will you listen to [. . .] At this moment the food arrives. Spiro elaborately lifts off the silver covers and with a flourish distributes the plates of food. Each order looks identical a big splodge of brown lumpy stuff. The only differences between the lumps are the Identifying photographs on sticks stuck in each. The beautiful colour photos match the photos which were on the menus.1

This sequence continues as follows: while guests are eating and practicing small talk, a bomb attack destroys parts of the restaurant, but the guests are shielded by screens and are able to continue their night out. This scene in Brazil is essential and represents most of all the style and the behavior of this society’s inhabitants in all its absurdity, especially expressed by the mashed-up food that is no longer recognizable, apart from having different colors, as separate dishes.



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. . . IN THE FISHER KING The restaurant scene in Gilliam’s The Fisher King, a kind of fairy-tale movie about guilt, forgiveness, and responsibility, combined with the search for the Holy Grail in New York City, is no less complex but contains less dialogue. Jack (Jeff Bridges) meets Harry “Parry” Sagan (Robin Williams) in the streets of New York and finds out that he can, at least in his own mind, be blamed for a shooting rampage that cost the life of Parry’s wife. He feels guilty and wants to help Parry—at first because he feels indebted, but later on because he recognizes that he really wants to help and support him on the search for the Grail. What was originally Parry’s quest, becomes Jack’s quest now. The restaurant is used as a place for bringing protagonists together: Jack and his girlfriend Anne (Mercedes Ruehl) as well as the two singles, Lydia (Amanda Plummer) and Parry who has a crush on Lydia, all go to a Chinese restaurant. In this manner, Jack and Anne help Parry to date Lydia, who is at first not really interested in Parry, but the longer the visit continues the more she feels attracted to him. This increasing attraction can be observed on a visual level: it seems as if their attraction depends on their similar ‘behavior’—if it could be called that, because actually it is a lack of behavior as critically observed by Jack and Anne: at first Parry is imitating Lydia’s behavior until they later mirror each other while eating. They interact at the dining table in their own special way and against every social rule a dinner is connected to. Food becomes a kind of toy, Lydia blows her nose and coughs over a dish, they touch the food with their hands, and the soundscape they ‘produce’ while putting the food on their plates and while eating is enormous. Their behavior differs from what diners expect when eating out, and it evokes chaos and turmoil—and makes Anne whisper to Jack: “I think they are made for each other. Scary. But true.” At the end of the meal, Parry serenades Lydia—a non-conformist act to perform in the public space of a restaurant—the camera fades out and reveals their table standing in front of a (maybe) wooden, carved ornament in front of an illuminated blue wall. There are no guests sitting at the other tables around them. Only some waiters are sitting and standing around, having become viewers of this theatrical play, with Parry and Lydia as the main cast and their growing attraction for each other as the main theme. . . . AS REPRESENTATIONS OF MODERN FOOD-FORMS It is noticeable that most of the core functions of a restaurant have not changed in Gilliam’s movies: the restaurant remains a place where food is

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consumed and belongs, therefore, to those “options currently available for eating outside the home.”2 The food served in the restaurant of the future (in reference to the restaurant in Brazil) is edible but seems to be strange at first sight as seen from our current perspective, because it is established as a kind of ‘science fiction future food.’ On the other hand, and after taking a second glance, the presented food is surprisingly connectable to current food-trends like molecular cuisine. It is clear that by showing this special kind of food Gilliam has picked up on a cultural food-trend that is currently well known and which came into existence at the end of the 1960s. Modern molecular gastronomy started with Nicholas Kurti’s essay “The physicist in the kitchen” in 1969. Together with Hervé This-Benckhard, he founded what is today called molecular gastronomy. Kurti and This-Benckhard believe that it is the duty of scientists to acquaint culinary artists with principles and techniques that may stimulate their imagination, just as they have previously done for painters, composers and musicians. The time seems ripe for such an approach. Physics is beginning to explore the state of emulsions, suspensions, solid dispersions and foams . . . that often occur in cooking. Advanced structural chemistry can now elucidate the behavior of large molecules such as complex carbohydrates and proteins. New chromatographic methods make it possible to isolate the components of foods that give rise to tastes and smells. Scientific explanations are already appearing for many old and seemingly obscure culinary tricks.3

Interestingly, they also point to the physical aspects of heating that are necessary for cooking and, therefore, able to transform food from raw into cooked or grilled food—an aspect that can be connected to Claude Lévi-Strauss’s culinary triangle as will be discussed further below. Kurti and This-Benckhard note that “[t]raditional cooking embraces two methods of bringing heat to foods. One is to expose the material to a hot liquid (as in boiling, stewing, frying and sautéing) or to a hot gas (as in oven roasting and baking).”4 Both describe, therefore, a special kind of active preparation of food that sounds similar to what Lévi-Strauss defines in his culinary triangle contained out of raw, cooked and rotted food: Within the basic culinary triangle formed by the categories of raw, cooked, and rotted, we have, then, inscribed two terms which are situated: one, the roasted, in the vicinity of the raw; the other, the boiled, near the rotted. We are lacking a third term, illustrating the concrete form of cooking showing the greatest affinity to the abstract category of the cooked. This form seems to us to be smoking, which like roasting implies an unmediated operation (without receptacle and without water) but differs from roasting in that it is, like boiling, a slow form of cooking, both uniform and penetrating in depth.5



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Without going too much into detail—Lévi-Strauss’s culinary triangle is far more complex than apparent from the previous quote because he offers various options for the confrontation of nature and culture with each other6 depending on the application of various kitchen tools like pots or pans—it is interesting to read what Lévi-Strauss notes in the context of the boiled and rotted: its affinity with the rotted is attested in numerous European languages by such locutions as pot pourri, olla podria, denoting different sorts of meat seasoned and cooked together with vegetables; and in German, zu Brei zerkochtes Fleisch, “meat rotted from cooking.”7

Here Lévi-Strauss mentions “meat rotted from cooking,” and when we additionally take into consideration that using a pot expresses a well-advanced form of culture—“cooking food and boiling water thus help transform humans from nature to culture”8—we see that in Gilliam’s Brazil the preparation of food does not show a lack of culture in the future but, contrastively, an interesting development as has been described above: the food is mashed up and presented like ice scoops. Its consistency has nothing to do with the original dish the guests ordered. It is, therefore, necessary to stick pictures of the ‘original’ dish into the served food to identify what is being served—and pictures are needed because only colors make the single scoops distinguishable. . . . IN THE CONTEXT OF FOOD CONSUMPTION, FOOD SYSTEM AND FOOD CULTURE Eating itself is a social process, which varies from society to society; and sometimes “people’s eating patterns form in relation to other people, alongside everyday activities that take place in family groups, work and school. Eating does involve isolated choice, but it is choice conditioned by the context in which it occurs.”9 While Delormier et al. point to the social environment influencing the choice of food, we also have to take into consideration that choosing a restaurant is connected to social aspects too. When thinking about the restaurants Gilliam has represented in Brazil and The Fisher King, turning them into relevant settings, it is not only important but also necessary to think at first in general about the restaurant as space/ place in “the context of food consumption (the participants and the social settings of eating)” as well “as the text (the foods that are to be consumed)” itself as Yungxiang Yan states.10 Consumption itself is generally meant to satisfy needs that go beyond the basic use value:11 food consumption means basically to satisfy hunger but is also influenced by the “availability of products,

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the salience of foods, and the size of dinnerware.”12 Food consumption is, therefore, connected to multiple reasons for food choices such as sociological or ecological ones13 and is also dependent on the social status of a person and their familiarity with special social codes. Yan notes importantly that “[r]estaurants thus should be regarded as part of a system of social codes; as institutionalized and commercialized venues, restaurants also provide a valuable window through which to explore the social meaning of food consumption.”14 These social codes, which Yan describes as inscribed in the concept of a restaurant as well as into the meaning of food, go along with lots of other forms “of cultural capital, or the knowledge, behaviors, and skills that people possess that shows off their cultural competence and standing in a society.”15 They have to be able to use this cultural knowledge especially in places like restaurants that belong to the food system itself: “A food system involves all activities, infrastructure, social institutions, and cultural beliefs within a social group across stages of the production, processing, transport, and consumption of food.”16 The term food culture, on the other hand, describes “what we eat, as well as how and why and under what circumstances.”17 Caroline Counihan describes food culture as “the beliefs and behavior surrounding the production, distribution, and consumption of food.”18 It can be argued thus that a restaurant represents both the food system, especially in terms of the processing of the food; and the food culture, because of the special cultural knowledge about food, namely the served dishes, but also because of the connection to the special knowledge of how to handle and eat a dish and how to generally behave in this setting. It is obvious that the protagonists Jack and Anne, in Gilliam’s The Fisher King, are more familiar with the Chinese restaurant food system and food culture than Parry and Lydia are. This familiarity can be connected to their different social statuses: while it seems to be obvious that Jack and Anne are able to visit a restaurant more regularly because of their income—Anne is running a video shop while Jack has worked (and is later again working) as a radio host—Parry has lost his job as a college professor—he is currently and constantly distancing himself from his previous identity because it is too painful to remember in the light of his wife’s death—and is now homeless, while Lydia is working in an open-plan office and seems to have a socially inept personality generally. It seems as if the latter have not got much of an option to visit a restaurant regularly. Of course, another interpretation could be that they are not really interested in visiting a restaurant but lay their focus on things other than expressing their social statuses. This leads to the observation that Parry and Lydia are not really familiar with the expected behavior in a restaurant; or simply choose to ignore it. They do not follow implicit rules and as a result they do not seem to take the whole



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visit seriously. The best example is their usage of the chop sticks that express a cultural specification by themselves and have “multiple functions . . . as a social token, literary symbol, cultural artifact and religious object.”19 Parry and Lydia convert them partly into a toy with which they play at the table.20 It is more than obvious that they do not follow social norms as “implicit codes of conduct that provide a guide to appropriate action” that are expected when eating in a restaurant and the “consequence of not following a social eating norm [ . . . is] embarrassment [ . . . and] the disapproval”21 of Anne and Jack. Interestingly, this aspect of not following social rules is announced within the previous scene, when Jack loans a suit to Parry. The suit does not fit, Jack has to shorten it with a stapler, but the suit still remains too large. This aspect of being too large combined with the aspect of ‘not matching’ fits Parry with Lydia, who is, by the way, also dressed up and, therefore, changed by Anne. Parry and Lydia both seem to be misplaced in this restaurant. But instead of feeling unwell, they change the atmosphere in favor of themselves. The chopsticks are of interest by themselves because they symbolize a group of eaters who differ, in their use of chopsticks, from the other two groups of eaters, namely those who eat with fingers and those who eat with knives and forks.22 It is fascinating that only because of “the increasing global popularity of Asian foods in recent decades [ . . . that] people outside the zone23 have increasingly adopted chopsticks while eating Asian foods.”24 Chopsticks are an expression of culture and, therefore, a sign that (potential) users are familiar with (parts of) the Asian food culture that have become a kind of food trend all over the world.25 And while chopsticks have the ability to divide or unite people from different cultures they also have the ability to unite people within one, namely the Asian culture; and work, together with the food, as an identity-forming element:26 if we put aside the difference between high-quality vs. ‘normal’ chopsticks and the costs that go along with it, this tool “can be enjoyed by people of different social backgrounds.”27 When Wang argues that “[f]or a non-Asian customer, using chopsticks to convey food, perhaps, is the culmination and crystallization of the dining experience in a Chinese/Asian restaurant,”28 it seems to be obvious when observing Parry and Lydia that especially at the beginning of the dinner the “dining experience” becomes a challenge for them in contrast to Jack and Anne who seem to be familiar with this eating tool. On the other hand, Parry and Lydia are able to transform the chopsticks into a playful tool—and they have fun with them. It is this ‘game’ which brings them closer together. When chopsticks are understood as a bridge that connects cultures29 it seems to be logical that they can bring people together, too: Parry and Lydia give them a new meaning and interact socially with their help. In contrast with this use of a social phenomenon to expresses a kind of individuality, it is interesting to see that Joanne Finkelstein argues that a

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restaurant may be a social place but without the chance to act like an individual being.30 Gilliam has perverted this aspect perfectly in The Fisher King to underline that Parry and Lydia are (partly) exceptional outsiders of society. It is obvious that they are not familiar with “existing manners and customs”31 in restaurants or especially this restaurant that they are currently visiting. The result is that they still remain individuals, act unswervingly, and seem, therefore, to be misplaced, while Jack and Anne therefore work as a kind of background for them with their adjusted behavior. Both films therefore use the restaurant as an important vehicle of social critique: the absurdity of the elite restaurant in Brazil seems to be part of Gilliam’s overall critique of certain aspects of the society represented in the film. Indirectly it could be seen as a certain feature of contemporary society. . . . AS A PLACE OF PLEASURE Besides the above-named aspects that a restaurant is connected to—its reflecting social codes and expecting an appropriate behavior—a restaurant is additionally a place of emotions and, therefore, of pleasure32—especially “the social dimension of eating out is almost always important and would appear to be the most readily articulated source of pleasure”33—and has been designed to be a place of experience that leads to the restaurant’s atmosphere being created by design with an emphasis on style itself: “Atmosphere is arguably as important in the promoting of restaurants as is the food itself.”34 Its design as well as the served food set the frame for a restaurant experience. And such, a restaurant ‘experience’ is indeed provided in Brazil: single dishes are no longer distinguishable by single ingredients but only by photographs; and a bomb attack does not deter people from remaining in the restaurant to continue their dinner. It is, above all else, this behavior that reveals people as obsessed with the pleasure of dining out: they go on no matter what is happening around them. With reference to Joanne Finkelstein, Yan points to three categories of restaurants:35 “(1) ‘formal spectacular’ restaurants, where ‘dining has been elevated to an event of extraordinary stature’; (2) ‘amusement’ restaurants, which add entertainment dining; and (3) convenience restaurants such as cafes and fast-food outlets”36 it seems obvious that the restaurants Gilliam constructs in Brazil and The Fisher King belong to the first category. Especially the restaurant in Brazil, that can also be interpreted as a form of parody that shows Gilliam’s social critique, reveals an absurd, exaggerated atmosphere with extroverted characters that move the restaurant into the direction of an amusement restaurant too.



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. . . AS A PUBLIC SPACE, A THIRD PLACE AND A STAGE In connection to the statements above, a restaurant (being part of the food system and the food culture it represents) is at first sight also a public space, in comparison for example to a kitchen that generally remains a private space. This quality of being a public space may become quite clear when it is differentiated from a private space that is often combined with the aspects of individuality and seclusion. As Giorgio Agamben states, “What does it mean that private life accompanies us as secret or a stowaway? First of all, that it is separated from us as clandestine and is, at the same time, inseparable from us to the extent that, as a stowaway, it furtively shares existence with us.”37 It depends on the inhabitants of the private space what they want to share and when they want to open the private space, thus transforming it partly into a public space, as explained by Jeff Weintraub.38 When Jen Jack Gieseking and William Mangold, therefore, note that “[r]ather than existing in a binary opposition, public and private spaces operate at a variety of scales that overlap and intersect, creating a mosaic of spaces and degrees of access,” they show that the border between private and public spaces is fluid: “Rarely is a space either public or private, but is instead multi-layered.”39 This multilayered conception of rooms that overlap and intersect allows it to point to Ray Oldenburg’s concept of a third space that combines those private and public spaces that can, respectively, be understood as first places, namely the home, and second places, namely the working place, in accordance with Oldenburg.40 He argues that [t]hird places exist on neutral ground and serve to level their guests to a condition of social equality. Within these places, conversation is the primary activity and the major vehicle for the display and appreciation of human personality and individuality. Third places are taken for granted and most have a low profile. Since the formal institutionsof society make stronger claims on the individual, third places are normally open in the off hours, as well as at other times. The character of a third place is determined most of all by its regular clientele and is marked by a playful mood, which contrasts with people’s more serious involvement in other spheres. Though a radically different kind of setting from the home, the third place is remarkably similar to a good home in the psychological comfort and support that it extends. Such are the characteristics of third places that appear to be universal and essential to a vital informal public life.41

Especially the aspect of social unification seems to be of importance for a restaurant as was previously seen: sharing the same knowledge of food culture that could, for example, be expressed in the usage of chopsticks or in the love of a special cuisine like Italian or Chinese. These things bring people

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together and show that they have something in common and could, therefore, easily interact in this “third place [that] is a generic designation for a great variety of public places that host the regular, voluntary, informal, and happily anticipated gatherings of individuals beyond the realms of home and work.”42 The restaurant is, therefore, such a third place, similar to the cafés and bars that Oldenburg refers to when describing the different kinds of “hangouts at the heart of a community” in the subtitle of his book.43 When we now take a closer look at the restaurant in Gilliam’s The Fisher King, we could say that the restaurant is indeed meant to bring people with different social backgrounds together, only there is a lack of knowledge, on the part of Parry and Lydia, about this special food culture combined with a similar lack of knowledge about how to behave in a restaurant. It is obvious that all four people will not become close friends—and this is not the intention of Jack and Anne. Their plan to unite Parry and Lydia works since the latter are indeed united by the same state of unknowingness they show in the restaurant—or rather by the same form of idiosyncratic individuality they live out. They do not even try to adapt to this new food culture they are confronted with, but they remain and act as individuals. And this aspect of ‘acting’ brings us to the last aspect a restaurant is connected with as Ashley et al. argue. They credit the restaurant with theatrical qualities and “metaphors [that] have long been a feature of restaurant reviews.”44 A restaurant can, thus, be seen as a stage with waiters and the chef as cast.45 At first—and connected to the element of behavior—it has to be noted that “people adjust their eating behaviour [sic!] to manage their public image and create a certain impression on others.”46 It is quite clear that Parry and Lydia do not want to impress others. Their behavior is exceptional and different, and this is exactly what differentiates them from the other guests. This exceptional behavior underlines the thought of a restaurant as a theater, as a stage, and, therefore, as a “symbolic space” that “influences our presentation of self” as Allen Shelton labels it.47 Shelton describes the theatrical restaurant as a “semiotic field surrounding the individual like a text waiting to be read in the sense that the participants experience a fashioning on the self in concert with the surroundings.”48 He specifies the process of being seated— “the ladies are seated; the gentleman secure the seats”49—and refers to the [i]ntimate conversation between the diners [that] is encouraged by the choreography of the meal. The space of time between courses, the small, discreet portions, the doting service, the drinks, and finally the commodity of privacy that rests on the separation of the tables like an ideological defense of private property compose a space of luxury and leisure that conversation is expected to fill.50



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What he describes varies from restaurant to restaurant and depends on the type of eating space. High-class restaurants demand special skills and special behavior while fast-food restaurants like McDonald’s “require no special skills.” The differentiation between these two poles is extreme: Whereas McDonald’s places a commodity over its employees, Francisco’s [the high-class restaurant Shelton is referring to; note SP] is dependent on the success of its employees to ingratiate themselves with the clientele and to become familiar with them. The kitchen is absent from sight. . . . Because it is removed from sight, the idea still has an ideological power. Whether there is a chef or not, the idea reinforces the aristocratic imagery.51

It is clear that Gilliam has neither in Brazil nor in The Fisher King constructed a kind of fast-food restaurant. The opposite is the case: both restaurants seem to be connected to a higher standard, the restaurant in Brazil more so than the one in The Fisher King. The theatrical aspect in Brazil is underlined by Spiro, the waiter, who is making several different recommendations to the guests who have dressed up in a special way for this event (of going into a restaurant). This element—the standing waiter suggesting special dishes to the guests—is constitutive of a high-class restaurant in contrast to a fast-food restaurant where both guests and waiters stand separated from each other by a counter. The guests have to carry the food on a tray to the table. The differentiation between the individual customer on the one side and the mass on the other side52 is more explicit than implicit. Explicit is the architecture, too, that underlines the theatrical aspect. In Brazil, the screen that should protect or shield the guests from the bomb attack can be interpreted as a theatrical background that exposes the actors and actresses on the stage. The Fisher King has doubled this backdrop: the colored background with a foregrounded ornament works in complementary contrast to the high backrest covered with red textile that emphasizes the intimacy of the scenery at the round table. A second view reveals the theatrical character of the scene as a whole: the protagonists are seated half around the table and nobody’s back is turned to the viewer. This constellation reminds one of the typical theatrical composition with the missing fourth wall that enables the viewer to follow the play on the stage but that is pretended by the actors to be there and that functions as an invisible border between viewers and actors. This construction is revealed when the camera fades out at the end of the scene when Parry sings a song for Lydia. The more the camera moves back the more the viewer is aware that the position of the table is an exposed one directly in the center at the back of the restaurant, accessible from every side. Privacy is not given.

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. . . AND THE END All the above-mentioned aspects lead to the guests themselves being not only visitors but also actors in this often artificially designed and prepared space. As described above, the restaurant dictates special rules the guests have to follow and they become, therefore, involved in “role-playing, and the roles have been fixed in advance for [the guests] to slot into” as Ashley et al. describe in reference to Joanne Finkelstein’s negative interpretation of a restaurant.53 The restaurant as an open public-space includes a special code of behavior54 guests have to be familiar with. Guests become both visitors and actors, they are seen but they also watch the other guests, what they wear, how they behave and what they eat—and everything leads to conclusions about one’s social status and, therefore, one’s familiarity with the anticipated behavior. But guests can break out of these rigid rules as can be seen in Gilliam’s The Fisher King where at least two of them remain individual and non-conformist. As shown above, Shelton has pointed to the semiotic field surrounding the individual being in the restaurant as the perfect culmination of the food system and the food culture: it distributes the prepared food to customers that are willing to buy and to eat it. After dining the guests are released from the show that took place in this special cultural space, (normally) satisfied and enriched with new insights and emotions. The stories of both movies realized by Gilliam represent restaurants in all of their complexity with their typical functions and equipment. The viewers recognize immediately that the protagonists are not eating at home: the protagonists follow a special kind of dress code, order food via menus and are served. The differentiation lies in the plots themselves: while the restaurant in Brazil is orchestrated as a future place of food style and food preparation and exhibits aspects of the theatrical, The Fisher King provides, with the represented restaurant, an even more theatrical place that gives the guest the option to act as individuals. The latter can be labeled as a place of (in)correct behavior—even if the role of the restaurant still remains the same as stated above.​​​​​​​ NOTES 1. Terry Gilliam, Tom Stoppard and Charles McKeown, Brazil. Screenplay. Final Draft. 1983. www​ .dailyscript​ .com​ /scripts​ /brazil​ .html (accessed on 22 February 2021). 2. Bob Ashley, Joanne Hollows, Steve Jones and Ben Tylor, Food and Cultural Studies (New York: Routledge, 2004), 141.



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3. Nicholas Kurti and Hervé This-Benckhard, “Chemistry and Physics in the Kitchen,” Scientific America (1994): 70. 4. Ibid., 70. 5. See Claude Lévi-Strauss, “The Culinary Triangle,” in Food and Culture. A Reader, 3rd edn., edited by Carole Counihan and Penny Van Esterik, 40–47 (New York: Routledge, 2013), 44. 6. “Within [the culinary triangle of raw, cooked, and rotted; noted by SP] we traced another triangle representing recipes, at least the most elementary ones: roasting, boiling and smoking. The smoked and the boiled are opposed as to the nature of the intermediate element between fire and food, which is either air or water. The smoked and the roasted are opposed by the smaller or larger place given to the element air; and the roasted and the boiled by the presence or absence of water. The boundary between nature and culture, which one can imagine as parallel to either the axis of air or the axis of water, puts the roasted and the smoked on the side of nature, the boiled on the side of culture as to means; or, as to results, the smoked on the side of culture, the roasted and the boiled on the side of nature.” Lévi-Strauss, “The Culinary Triangle,” 46. 7. Ibid., 42. 8. Edward Q. Wang, Chopsticks. A Cultural and Culinary History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 168. 9. Treena Delormier, Katherine L. Frohlich and Louise Potvin, “Food and eating as social practice—understanding eating patterns as special phenomena and implications for public health,” Sociology of Health & Illness 31, no. 2 (2009), 217. 10. Yungxiang Yan, “Of Hamburger and Social Space: Consuming McDonald’s in Beijing,” inFood and Culture. A Reader, 3rd edn., ed. Carole Counihan and Penny Van Esterik, 449–471 (New York: Routledge, 2013), 450. 11. See Aytekin Firat, Kemal Y. Kutucuoğlu, Işil Arikan Saltik and Özgür Tunçel, “Consumption, Consumer Culture and Sonsumer Society,”Journal of Community Positive Practises, XIII, no. 1 (2013): 182–83. 12. Eric S. Robinson et al., “Will smaller plates lead to smaller waists? A systematic review and meta-analysis of the effect that experimental manipulation of dishware size has on energy consumption,”Obesity Reviews 15, no. 10 (2014): 185. 13. See Maartje P. Poelman and Ingrid H.M. Steenhuis, “Food choices in context,” inContext. The Effects of Environment on Product Design and Evaluation, ed. Herbert L. Meiselman, 143–68 (Duxford: Woodhead Publishing, 2019), 143. 14. Yan, “Of Hamburger and Social Space,” 450. 15. Willa Zhen,Food Studies. A Hands-On Guide (London: Bloomsbury, 2019), 1. 16. Ibid., 19. 17. John T. Edge (ed.),Foodways (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2007), 8. 18. Carole Counihan,The Anthropology of Food and Body. Gender, Meaning, and Power (New York: Routledge, 1999), 2. 19. Wang,Chopsticks, 3. 20. That food itself becomes part of this toy is another aspect that cannot be taken into consideration at this point.

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21. Suzanne Higgs, “Social norms and their influence on eating behaviours,”Appetite 86 (2015): 38–44. pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/25451578/ (accessed on 4 April 2022). 22. See Wang,Chopsticks, 67. 23. Wang means “China, where the utensil originated, [and in addition] the chopsticks cultural sphere encompasses the Korean Peninsula, the Japanese archipelago, certain regions of Southeast Asia, the Mongolian Steppe and the Tibetan Plateau.” Ibid., 2. 24. Ibid. 25. Wang goes on by noting that “the Japanese call the utensil ‘the sticks for one’s life,’ and they are, therefore, a symbol for life. This is suggested by the great number of folktales, fables, fairytales, myths, and legends about chopsticks and their use that have appeared in the region. While growing up, children not only learn how to hold the sticks correctly with their fingers, they are also told these stories by their parents and grandparents until they remember them by heart and can retell them to their children in future years.” Ibid., 170. 26. Zhen,Food Studies, 58. 27. Wang,Chopsticks, 9. 28. Ibid., 144. 29. Ibid. 30. See Joanne Finkelstein,Dining Out: A Sociology of Modern Manners (New York: New York University Press, 1983), 5. 31. Yan, “Of Hamburger and Social Space,” 450. 32. See Ashley,Food and Cultural Studies, 145–46. 33. Ibid.,146. 34. Ibid., 143. 35. These categories have been criticized for example by Shelton (see Allan Shelton, “A Theater for Eating, Looking, and Thinking: The Restaurant as Symbolic Space,”Sociological Spectrum 10 [1990]: 510). 36. Yan, “Of Hamburger and Social Space,” 450, referencing Finkelstein,Dining Out, 68–71. 37. Giorgio Agamben,The Use of Bodies. Homo Sacer IV, 2, translated by Adam Kotsko (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2016), xx. 38. See Jeff Weintraub, “The Theory and Politics of the Public/Private Distinction,” inPublic and Private in Thought and Practise. Perspectives on a Grand Dichotonomy, ed. Jeff Weintraub and Krishan Kumar, 1–42 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 5. 39. Jen Jack Gieseking and William Mangold (eds.), “Section 6: ‘Public’ and ‘Private’ Realms. Editors’ Introduction and Suggestions for Further Readings,” inThe People, Place, and Space Reader, ed. Jen Jack Gieseking and William Mangold (with Cindy Katz, Setha Low and Susan Saegert) (New York: Routledge, 2014), 183. 40. See Ray Oldenburg,The Great Good Place. Cafés, Coffee Shops, Bookstores, Bars, Hair Salons and other Hangouts at the Heart of a Community (Philadelphia: Da Capo Press, 2004), 16. 41. Ibid., 42. 42. Ibid., 16.



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43. Ibid. 44. Ashley,Food and Cultural Studies, 144. 45. Ibid. 46. Higgs, “Social norms and their influence on eating behaviours.” 47. Shelton, “A Theater for Eating,” 507–08. 48. Ibid., 507. 49. Ibid., 515. 50. Ibid. 51. Ibid., 519. 52. For this differentiation see Shelton, “A Theater for Eating,” 521. 53. Ashley,Food and Cultural Studies, 147. 54. Ibid., 147.

​​​​​​​REFERENCES Agamben, Giorgio. The Use of Bodies. Homo Sacer IV, 2, translated by Adam Kotsko. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2016. Ashley, Bob, Joanne Hollows, Steve Jones, and Ben Taylor. Food and Cultural Studies. New York: Routledge, 2004. Brazil. Dir. Terry Gilliam. Century City, CA: 20th Century Fox, 1985. Counihan, Carole. The Anthropology of Food and Body. Gender, Meaning, and Power. New York: Routledge, 1999. Delormier, Treena, Katherine L. Frohlich, and Louise Potvin. “Food and eating as social practice—understanding eating patterns as special phenomena and implications for public health.” Sociology of Health & Illness 31, no. 2 (2009), 215–28. Edge, John T. (ed.). Foodways. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2007. Finkelstein, Joanne. Dining Out: A Sociology of Modern Manners. New York: New York University Press, 1989. Firat, Aytekin, Kemal Y. Kutucuoğlu, Işil Arikan Saltik, and Özgür Tunçel. “Consumption, Consumer Culture and Sonsumer Society.” Journal of Community Positive Practises, XIII, no. 1 (2013): 182–203. The Fisher King. Dir. Terry Gilliam. Culver City, CA: TriStar Pictures, 1991. Gieseking, Jen Jack, and William Mangold (eds.). “Section 6: ‘Public’ and ‘Private’ Realms. Editors’ Introduction and Suggestions for Further Readings.” In The People, Place, and Space Reader, edited by Jen Jack Gieseking and William Mangold (with Cindy Katz, Setha Low, and Susan Saegert), 183–86. New York: Routledge, 2014. Gilliam, Terry, Tom Stoppard, and Charles McKeown. Brazil. Screenplay. Final Draft. 1983. www​.dailyscript​.com​/scripts​/brazil​.html. Higgs, Suzanne. “Social norms and their influence on eating behaviours.” In Appetite, 86 (2015): 38–44. http:​//​pure​-oai​.bham​.ac​.uk​/ws​/files​/18168261​/Higgs​ _2014​_Appetite​.pdf.

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Kurti, Nicholas. “The physicist in the kitchen.” Proceedings of the Royal Institute of Great Britain 199 (1969): 451–67. ———and Hervé This-Benckhard. “Chemistry and Physics in the Kitchen.” Scientific America (1994): 66–71. Lévi-Strauss, Claude. “The Culinary Triangle.” In Food and Culture. A Reader. 3rd edition, edited by Carole Counihan, Penny Van Esterik, 40–47. New York: Routledge, 2013. Oldenburg, Ray. The Great Good Place. Cafés, Coffee Shops, Bookstores, Bars, Hair Salons and other Hangouts at the Heart of a Community. Philadelphia: Da Capo Press, 2004. Poelman, Maartje P., and Ingrid H.M. Steenhuis. “Food choices in context.” In Context. The Effects of Environment on Product Design and Evaluation, edited by Herbert L. Meiselman, 143–68. Duxford: Woodhead Publishing, 2019. Robinson, Eric, S. et al. “Will smaller plates lead to smaller waists? A systematic review and meta-analysis of the effect that experimental manipulation of dishware size has on energy consumption.” Obesity Reviews 15, no. 10 (2014): 812–21. Shelton, Allan. “A Theater for Eating, Looking, and Thinking: The Restaurant as Symbolic Space.” Sociological Spectrum 10 (1990): 507–26. Wang, Q. Edward. Chopsticks. A Cultural and Culinary History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Weintraub, Jeff. “The Theory and Politics of the Public/Private Distinction.” In Public and Private in Thought and Practise. Perspectives on a Grand Dichotonomy, edited by Jeff Weintraub and Krishan Kumar, 1–42. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997. Yan, Yungxiang. “Of Hamburger and Social Space: Consuming McDonald’s in Beijing.” In Food and Culture. A Reader. 3rd edn., Carole Counihan, Penny Van Esterik, 449–71. New York: Routledge, 2013. Zhen, Willa. Food Studies. A Hands-On Guide. London: Bloomsbury, 2019. ———. Food Studies. A Hands-On-Guide. London: Bloomsbury, 2019.

Chapter 7

A Bittersweet Apocalypse Averted Endings and Suspended Hope in 12 Monkeys Andrew Grossman

THE QUIXOTIC QUEST MEETS THE APOCALYPTIC ENDING One could argue that Terry Gilliam never needed to attempt a film version of Don Quixote. For the director, a literal visualization of Quixote is gratuitous: quixoticism already courses through so many of his heroes, often cast as holy fools or anointed madmen poised against (or crushed beneath) the “realism” of conformist institutions. The only sane response to modernity is flamboyant quixoticism, Gilliam tells us, even if it condemns us to the asylums and straightjackets that recur throughout his films. Through 12 Monkeys (1995), Gilliam’s films use escapist fantasy to maintain a delicate balance between wish-fulfillment and cynicism, between surreal spiel and mordant disillusionment. While he never entirely abandoned the Boschian grotesquerie of his days as Monty Python’s animator, his feature films are tempered with the innocence of a filmmaker who steadfastly believes in the liberating powers of cinema. Yet his quixotic heroes must face an ending, simply because cinematic fantasies, unlike delusions or daydreams, can last but a few precious hours. The result is a fantastic sense of the bittersweet that unleashes the imagination only to remind us that human imaginations are circumscribed, both societally and spatiotemporally. On the level of content, Gilliam’s protagonists are enlightened Cassandras fighting the willful blindness of societies 117

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enthralled to self-destructive rationalism (usually represented by bureaucratic institutions). On the level of form, Gilliam’s heroes must, as fantastic agents, accomplish impossible feats within a film’s brief running time, much as we futilely attempt to deny a mortality that imbues our lives with finite meaning. Gilliam’s endings are sometimes sanguine, sometimes sadistic, and often coy. From an intertextual perspective, he is able to render the same quixotic mission as either fundamentally preposterous or disarmingly inspirational. The Arthurian search for Christ’s grail in Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975, co-directed with Terry Jones) becomes a sophomoric lampoon of blind Christian faith. But the same search, transposed to present-day Manhattan in The Fisher King (1991), can be desacralized and imbued with allegorical grace. Robin Williams’s tragicomic Perry in The Fisher King is not a pious knight like his namesake, Perceval, but a traumatized clown with nondenominational visions of redemption. Gilliam’s happy endings tend to smack of self-conscious contrivance, however. The Fisher King is a modern fable painfully aware of its fabulism, even ending with a Hollywood display of fireworks bursting over the Manhattan skyline. Gilliam had little choice but to invest The Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1988) with an artificially happy ending. The film’s very point is to elevate the time-conquering dreamer above Reason and claim that Man is his own God. But for every optimistic ending, there is another in which fate overwhelms the human spirit. In Time Bandits (1981), time and space are literally collapsed into a dusty map rolled up by God, who is revealed as nothing more than a tedious headmaster (impersonated by Ralph Richardson, no less). The rebellious, elderly corporate “raiders” of The Crimson Permanent Assurance (1983), which comprises the first part of Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, are crushed with comic abruptness by a larger corporate behemoth (rendered through Gilliam’s animation). The fantasy of a benevolent corporate uprising is too good to be true and must come to a crashing end. Likewise, in Brazil (1985) the dream of a happy ending becomes something less than a dream, merely the mock-heroic figment of hero Sam Lowry’s anaesthetized imagination. In 12 Monkeys, Gilliam’s quixoticism collides with apocalypticism, here threatened by the malicious spread of a manmade virus. Apocalyptic storylines generally tend toward moralism: a decadent, self-destructive species deserves nothing less than deadening closure. That Nature is itself apocalyptic—all suns die—does not dissuade us from attributing moralism to grandiose ends. We have difficulty conceiving of the end of existence as anything but a cosmic punishment—or a deliverance—designed for those who are momentarily alive. The end needs to arrive during our lifetimes, not thousands of years hence. The apocalypse is also anthropocentric, seldom (perhaps never) applying to cockroaches, paramecia, viruses, or other amoral organisms for whom cosmic punishments would be absurd. The virus in 12

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Monkeys, like all viruses, is morally neutral. The viral apocalypse punishes us for our lack of foresight, not for sins against a prescientific god. And unlike sin, a virus spreads without the human need to choose evil over good. One might say that it was not Nietzsche but the modern propensity for mass destruction that announced the death of God. In the age of atomic bombs and manmade viruses, the apocalypse became a tangible possibility, not a moralistic myth. Gilliam is too much of an ironist and bittersweet humanist to be a real messenger of the apocalypse. Though he occasionally takes the posture of a moralist, he does not believe in the society from which (conventional) moralism arises. In the director’s agnostic hands, apocalyptic thinking becomes another means of gamesmanship and trickery. In 12 Monkeys, he imagines the apocalypse only to delay it indefinitely, sending his hero in quixotic spirals suspended in time. The spiral becomes a motif: the film’s credits sequence opens with spinning decorative mandalas, and composer Paul Buckmaster’s main theme, a hurly-burly tango, suggests the hero’s swirling comic journey. Whereas Quixote wanders in circles he mistakes for a linear quest, Gilliam’s hero circles through time only to stumble across his own fate. There is a crucial difference between Quixote and the hero of 12 Monkeys, however. Quixote, who unwittingly transforms himself into a literary fiction, has the luxury of forever living inside his head; Gilliam’s hapless hero must face the self-knowledge into which he is thrust and from which he cannot escape. At heart, 12 Monkeys is an extended, expensive riff on Chris Marker’s La Jetée (1962), among the most (over)analyzed works of the French New Wave. Marker’s experimental yet lyrical science fiction short uses still images to relate the postapocalyptic tale of a man forced to return to a double past—that of history and that of his own obsessive memory. In Marker’s film, the loop of time and remembrance form an intimate apocalypse, as the hero’s childhood memory retains only the time-traveled image of his own death. 12 Monkeys retains Marker’s temporal circuity but invests the hero’s quest with a bittersweetness absent in Marker—bitter, because the time-traveling hero cannot escape his circumscribed fate, and yet sanguine, because Gilliam holds out the possibility that humanity might still avert its apocalypse. As such, 12 Monkeys relocates the balance between hope and cynicism found across the endings of Gilliam’s films to the level of one film’s content. If the respective heroes of Time Bandits and Brazil lose everything but their lives as a callous world continues to spin around them, the hero of 12 Monkeys endures a prearranged death that might redeem a corrupted humanity. The film’s bittersweet tone splits Gilliam’s usual quixoticism across two separate characters. Rather than a reverse-aging Baron Munchausen or a dechristianized Perceval, 12 Monkeys offers the heroic James Cole (Bruce

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Willis) and the mad Jeffrey Goines (Brad Pitt), the son of a prominent virologist. As he circles through time, Cole represents only certain elements of the quixotic. The temporally circular form in which he travels mirrors the geographic circles through which Quixote stumbles, and his quest to save humanity from the virus turns out to be impossible and ill-informed, the figment of misremembered memory. Unlike Quixote, however, Cole is painfully self-conscious of his travels. As a man embroiled in a grim prophecy who still hopes that he can freely shape his destiny, the time-traveling Cole is in one sense more like Macbeth than Quixote. As Frank Kermode says, Macbeth desires “to feel the future in the instant [and] be transported beyond the ignorant present” and yet must also “examine the relation between what may be willed and what is predicted.”1 Trapped in a time warp, manipulated by callous scientists, and on a mission with an apparently predetermined outcome, Cole exercises his will at least as impotently as Macbeth does, if not more so. Quixote’s unselfconsciousness is displaced to the character of Goines, an anti-capitalist anarchist whom Cole wrongly suspects will release the virus. But Goines, like Quixote, is all bark and no bite; he is too scatterbrained to pose any real threat to society. The real villain is revealed as Dr. Peters (David Morse), a subordinate of Goines’s father, the virologist. Gilliam provides only a slight window into Dr. Peters’ madness. While attending a book signing, he remarks, “Isn’t it obvious that ‘Chicken Little’ represents the sane vision and that homo sapiens’ motto ‘Let’s go shopping’ is the cry of the true lunatic?” In the person of Dr. Peters, Gilliam’s usual anti-capitalist commentary becomes apocalyptic. Beyond Gilliam’s auteurism, 12 Monkeys falls into a pattern of ambitious puzzle-films that appeared in Hollywood in the mid- to late 1990s, works that consciously toyed with the linearity of Hollywood narrative formulae. Like Alex Proyas’s Dark City (1998), David Fincher’s Fight Club (1999) and Spike Jonze’s Being John Malkovich (1999), 12 Monkeys is a vaguely postmodern film that interrupts the straight narrative lines of Hollywood with the fractured perceptions of characters’ psyches. Cleverly, these films use Hollywood technology against itself. As Garrett Stewart observes, such films exploit exorbitant, “risk-hedged budgets” and corporate financing to twist and fracture the storytelling conventions of the studio system.2 Narratives begin in the middle or at the end; disordered memories and unreliable narrators simultaneously determine and undermine narrative sequencing; and the filmic worlds into which audiences are sutured are slippery and unstable, sabotaging the expectations that narratives contrive. Only in the end—because every film must end—does the all-powerful auteur deign to zoom back and provide a complete view of the narrative puzzle, fully intelligible at last. Yet, the puzzle had been already assembled from the get-go—the film’s spatiotemporal

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fractures simply denied viewers a sufficiently expansive, bird’s-eye view that could see the pieces assembled all at once. Before analyzing Gilliam’s film (and its New Wave inspiration), we can briefly reflect on the “puzzlelike” conceit of the time travel narrative itself. Cinema, a medium that splits up and sews together spatiotemporally disparate chunks of narrative, is ideally suited to stories dealing with time travel. There could hardly be a happier consonance of form and content. While we cannot fully examine the relationship between filmic temporality overall and time travel narratives that exploit the possibilities of time-jumping montage, we can make a few basic observations. Literary conventions had long prepared us to accept (and adapt to) the implied transitions and synthetical meanings contrived by the early montage of D.W. Griffith and Lev Kuleshov, the Soviet pioneer whose experiments with juxtaposed images went beyond realist representations of time and space and opened up dialectical realms of “re-created space.”3 In his landmark essay, “The Cinematographic Principle and the Ideogram,” Eisenstein theorized the ideographic underpinnings of montage, arguing that printed language automatically generates spaces through which readers must perform dialectical operations.4 Even readers of the Latin alphabet must create dialectical meanings as their eyes move between the line breaks of poetry, across pages that divide novelistic chapters, and through ellipses, parentheses and even the aporias created by paratactic semicolons. Narrative cinema conventions, as developed through the hegemony of classical Hollywood, replaced Eisenstein’s collisional dialectic with a straightforward chronology in which cuts are telegraphed and ordered by the diegetic movements of characters and spoken dialogue. Montage solely driven by exigencies of the narrative flow—the Hollywood model—standardized conventions of realism and annulled Eisenstein’s idea of intellectual montage, in which juxtaposed images create symbolic associations above and beyond realistic representations of time and place. The postmodern puzzle films of the 1990s attempt to negotiate these two divergent traditions, interlacing Hollywood storytelling conventions with the disorientations and intellectual associations of achronological or “literary” montage. Certainly, these negotiations are not fifty-fifty compromises between Hollywood and the avant-garde: 12 Monkeys, even more than Dark City or Being John Malkovich, is essentially a mainstream adventure beautifully spiced with temporal perplexities.

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GILLIAM’S 12 MONKEYS RE-MEMBERS MARKER’S LA JETÉE In 12 Monkeys, as in Marker’s genuinely avant-garde La Jetée, structural disorientations are symptomatic of the characters’ unstable memories. As such, these two films compound the fantastic time travel of science fiction with the “psychic” time travel endemic to films about memory and reminiscence, such as Alain Resnais’ Last Year at Marienbad (1961) or Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in America (1984). A film’s introduction of science fiction tropes as a justification for “impossible” time travel literalizes the montage that in Resnais’s film (for instance) splits the fabric of an individual psyche (rather than the fabric of space-time). Admittedly, this formulation is reductive in one sense, as the introduction of fantastic time travel prepares us to be conscious of temporal leaps greater than those possible within realist aesthetics. Compared to avant-garde practice or even Leone’s Once Upon a Time in America, Gilliam’s representation of time travel in 12 Monkeys is fairly blatant, following many of the “rules” of Hollywood. Temporal motion is often (though not always) signaled redundantly by auditory motion (sound effects) or physical motion (the mobile camera). The audience fills in narrative gaps not through exercises of the imagination but by patiently waiting for Gilliam to unveil the completed puzzle at the conclusion—enduring the film’s duration is the audience’s primary function. Gilliam’s concessions to the “oppressive” style and narratology of Hollywood are especially noteworthy because 12 Monkeys is a remake of La Jetée. For Marker, time travel was one trope among many that could destabilize the linear storytelling that cinema inherited from nineteenth-century romanticism. A story of memory and nuclear apocalypse, Marker’s twentyminute short consists only of music and narration over a series of still black-and-white images, interrupted by a fleeting, symbolic shot of live action. As has often been observed, “motion” in La Jetée is displaced from the realm of the image to the duration of the soundtrack’s music and meditative voiceover. Marker does not simply ask audiences to imagine what transpires through the liminal spaces announced by cuts or fades. He also challenges audiences to imagine how still objects in each frame might “act” had they been subject to conventions of cinematic motion. At the same time, the goal of inferring or inventing “action” from still photographs proves a formidable challenge. Essential to the film’s success is the near impossibility of imposing conventional action onto Marker’s poetic stillness. After four of five minutes of the film’s twenty-minute length, we come to accept La Jetée’s alternate visuality, though we cannot imagine the film without its helpful expository voiceover.

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Announced in the opening credits as a photo-roman, La Jetée’s sense of temporality stems from the rate and rhythm of the voiceover, spoken over Trevor Duncan’s pseudo-religious choral score. The film begins with an onscreen title: “This is a story of a man marked by an image from his childhood.” The image includes a mysterious woman, perhaps a lost love, and the death of a man he belatedly realizes is himself. The film takes place after World War III has irradiated the earth’s surface and rendered it uninhabitable. Survivors are condemned to a black-and-white existence in underground caverns, festooned with artifacts from the pre-apocalyptic world. One still image shows a cherubic statue, a slim glimmer of grace in an otherwise stillborn world. In 12 Monkeys, Gilliam alludes satirically to Marker’s cherub by picturing a plastic angel dangling above consumer goods in a department store at Christmastime—a potent image to which we shall return. Through bizarre experiments, a cadre of scientists aims to return the film’s nameless hero to a time before the nuclear apocalypse. The scientists claim that the “only hope for humanity lies in Time . . . to summon the Past and the Future to aid the Present.” The hero is specially chosen because his obsessive childhood memories predispose him to temporal regression. Oddly, the scientists bend time not to avert World War III—as do the scientists of 12 Monkeys—but simply to gather “food, medicine, and energy,” implying that the war’s unspecified causes were inexorable. After some painful trial-and-error—the technology is imperfect—the hero begins to drift backwards in time, signified by fades from one still image to the next. Temporal movement transpires through and among the film’s images rather than within them. Through the use of “primitive” fades (rather than costly special effects), Marker echoes the liminality of memory with greater verisimilitude than can be realized with brute cuts. On the thirtieth day of experimentation, the hero returns to the past deeply enough to recognize the woman who haunts his memory. They meet (ironically) in a natural history museum, where they are surrounded by ancient stuffed giraffes. As the still images only theoretically express the movements of the characters, juxtaposed against the doubly still, taxidermical giraffes, Marker seems to parody André Bazin’s claim that the cinematic camera (unlike still photography) makes “the image of things . . . the image of their duration, change mummified as it were.”5 At the end of 12 Monkeys, Gilliam knowingly subverts Marker’s historic mummies: as anarchists liberate zoo animals that run rampant across the city, Gilliam reanimates the animals that Marker condemns to a temporal prison. In the last sequence of La Jetée, the scientists propel the hero into the future, where newly evolved, three-eyed humans equip him with a “power unit, strong enough to set all human industry in motion again” (perhaps not the most desirable outcome). He requests that they, also time-travelers, return

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him to the woman of his memory; her sleeping face is seen in a series of stills that give way to the film’s only moment of motion. In a shot lasting about five seconds, she opens her eyes, gazes into the camera, and smiles lovingly. But the affirmation is short-lived. As the narrator declaims, “He realized there was no escape from time,” as “the moment he’d been granted to see as a child, and that had obsessed him ever after, was the moment of his own death.” While La Jetée has been the grist for much formalistic analysis, less examined are its moral dimensions. Regardless of how one theorizes its negotiations of the photographic and the cinematic, La Jetée is a paradox: a sentimental avant-garde film, affected with romantic longing. One could argue that, for all its revolutionary posturing and Brechtian antirealism, the French New Wave often retained romantic love as a central, irreducible theme (for this reason, perhaps, Godard renounced his early films as “bourgeois”). Steven Dillon suggests that the film, at heart, expresses “the impossible desire for the loved one . . . by speaking at the same time not only of the man’s love for the woman, but also of the child’s intense memory of the image.”6 This statement is probably true, though we can ask if Marker’s elaborate visual poetry can or should be reduced to an “impossible desire” for a loved one, a banal theme expressible through any number of nonexperimental means. Though a commercial film, 12 Monkeys notably deemphasizes the trite element of (heterosexual) romance that La Jetée is unable to jettison. Making only perfunctory attempts at a romantic subplot between the fugitive hero and a female doctor he kidnaps, 12 Monkeys prioritizes the mechanics of the quest itself, rather than the romantic love that complicates it. Though 12 Monkeys superficially adapts La Jetée, the two films are contrary in tone, style and intention. Marker’s film is a rarefied, poetic tragedy, adrift in the chaos of memory. Gilliam’s film is whimsical and ironic, even as the apocalypse looms. If La Jetée is a work of contemplative stillness, 12 Monkeys is a ceaseless swirl of motion, often depicted through frames within frames. Gilliam, a consummate (re)animator, places in the backgrounds of numerous scenes televisions that broadcast old cartoons, still drawings sped up at twenty-four frames per second. Gilliam makes the nameless everyman of La Jetée into a Hollywood superstar, Bruce Willis, though Gilliam puts his character, James Cole, through the wringer. Not the invincible hero of Die Hard (1988), he spends much of the film beaten, misunderstood, imprisoned, and stripped naked for antibacterial cleansing. Like La Jetée, the film opens after an apocalypse, though here the desolation is virally wrought. In the opening scene, wild animals roam through what were once government buildings and department stores, violating orthodox divisions between nature and civilization. One of numerous test subjects kept in a retrofuture prison—the mock-Orwellian set design echoes that of Brazil—Cole is selected to travel

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back to 1996, one year before an apocalyptic virus will be released by an unidentified saboteur. As in La Jetée, the hero is chosen for time travel because his obsessive memory is tethered to the past. He is also prone to raging violence, a symptom of his unsettled, traumatic memories. He fixates on the image of a boy (himself as a child) witnessing a man killed at an airport—perhaps the man, in one possible reality, responsible for releasing the plague. In Gilliam’s film, too, temporalizing technology is imperfect. The scientists accidentally send Cole to 1990 rather than 1996. Not only out of time but out of the wrong time, he is remanded to an insane asylum, where he meets Jeffrey Goines, a paranoid schizophrenic—the film’s real Quixote figure—who rants about “screwdrivers with miniature build-in radar devices” and “stereo systems with brain-implanted headphones.” Surrounded by doped, dribbling madmen and motioning toward shelves filled with children’s games, he tells Cole, “If you play the[se] games, you’re voluntarily taking a tranquilizer.” Within Jeffrey’s rant, however, is a Gilliam-esque critique of consumer capitalism that betrays his relative sanity. “If you buy a lot of stuff,” he says, “then you’re a good citizen . . . but if you don’t, what are you? Mentally ill.” Yet a critique of capitalism cannot save him from capitalism. He must act, which he does by producing a hidden key and helping Cole escape the asylum. As he hands Cole the key, the dayroom TV plays the Marx Brothers’s Monkey Business (1931), a sign of the anarchic freedom that Goines proposes through willed action, but which remains unavailable to Cole, who only moves from a physical prison to the larger temporal prison he intertextually inherits from La Jetée. The theme of apocalypse comes to the fore when Cole’s doctor at the asylum, Kathryn Railly (Madeleine Stowe), delivers a lecture entitled “Madness and Apocalyptic Visions.” She references the Book of Revelations and speaks of a young, English-speaking soldier—unbeknownst to her, the time-traveling Cole—who curiously appeared in a World War I trench with strange predictions about a future plague. Railly likens the soldier to Cassandra, the unheeded prophetess of Homer’s Iliad (8th c. BC) and Virgil’s Aeneid (19 BC). In Virgil, as in Hector Berlioz’s opera Les Troyens (1858), Cassandra is a tragic figure. More than a Cassandra, however, Cole becomes like Macbeth, as we have said. Much as Macbeth believes he behaves willfully but in fact acts prophetically, Cole embarks on his mission in futility, destined to fulfill a prophesy he cannot foil or sabotage. As the plot progresses, Cole is shuttled through time once more but becomes increasingly disoriented. In the asylum, Cole had met a schizophrenic who described his own temporal disconnectedness as a psychic “divergence,” and Cole now wonders if he actually experiences divergence (i.e., madness) rather than time travel. Returning again to

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the past—this time voluntarily—Cole pursues and kidnaps Railly, hoping she can cure him of his madness. He believes that only by escaping his time warp and living in the present can he ever ground himself. “I want the future to be unknown,” he tells Railly, “I want to be a whole person again. I want this to be the present. . . . I want to stay here, in this time . . . with you.” As in La Jetée, however, intimations of romantic love cannot impede the velocity of time or seize the fugacious present. Noting that Cole travels simultaneously “in the past, present, and future,” Patricia Pisters suggests that he echoes, albeit glibly, Henri Bergson’s fluid conception of durée.7 But Cole’s recurrence through identifiable time periods is more a refutation of Bergson than a glib echo. For Bergson, time does not exist in discrete periods but is a process of continuous duration that humans apperceive and intuit; the past and future are immanent in an ineffable present. According to Pogson, the first English translator of Bergson’s Time and Free Will (1889), the “unfolding multiplicity” of time “constitutes duration, which is a succession without distinction, an interpenetration of elements so heterogeneous that former states can never recur.”8 Our everyday “notion of a homogeneous and measurable time” is thus an “artificial concept” drawn from mathematical and physical disciplines—the material quantities of space are imposed on our immaterial intuitions of time.9 We speak of clocks as timekeepers, deluding ourselves that time can be “kept.” Standing outside of Bergsonian durée, Cole is mired in the artificial time slots of science fiction, which demarcate and parcel out past, present, and future with the distinctive cuts of cinematic montage. Compounding the artifice of Cole’s temporality is the monosemy of the English word “time.” Recall that the Greeks had two words for time—chronos, our common chronological understanding of events, and kairos, a critical moment of time that instigates action or opportunities for action. If the time-traveling cinematic apparatus robs Cole of chronos, he has even less access to kairos. Unable to will himself into “real” time, he instead undergoes a passive process of revelation at the film’s climax, as does the audience when the film’s narrative puzzle pieces are finally resolved. 12 Monkeys ends—as it must—when the boyhood visions embedded in Cole’s psyche become moments of self-realization. Cole and Railly follow Dr. Peters to the airport, determined to stop him from releasing the virus. By this point, Cole realizes that he is not mad and that he has, in fact, a firm grasp on reality. He can, to a limited degree, act freely, whether by foiling Dr. Peters’s plan or by expressing his unexpected love for Railly. At the airport, time finally comes full circle: Cole as a boy witnesses the adult Cole shot to death before his latter self can prevent Dr. Peters from sneaking the virus past security. Yet Gilliam softens the moment of death by focusing on telling glances between the young Cole and the adult Cole as they finally

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meet in the same space-time. As Sean Cridland suggests, slow motion images of the young Cole “twinkling his eyes” as he witnesses the adult Cole die suggest a hint of cosmic acknowledgment, the implication that young Cole appreciates, at least in this iteration of time, the returning cycle in which he is enveloped.10 His self-knowledge does not deliver him from a preordained death, but perhaps he has learned to accept it. The film’s coda further sweetens an otherwise pessimistic trajectory. On the plane, one of the scientists in charge of Cole’s experiment—identified only as “Astrophysicist” in the credits—sits next to Dr. Peters. When he asks her name, she enigmatically responds, “Jones is my name—I’m in insurance.” The implication is that the Astrophysicist has received Cole’s reconnaissance and has sent herself back in time to compete the job Cole could not. TIME-TRAVELING PURGATORIES AND WILLFUL PLEASURES As one of the scientists manipulating the flow and function of time, the Astrophysicist emerges with a will-to-power Cole has already surrendered. Occupying an alternate, looping space-time, Cole is suspended above the narrative, theoretically repeating his fatalistic journey ad infinitum, while more autonomous characters can exist prior and subsequent to his actions. Hovering between mortality and immortality, yet also invested with a higher, sacrificial purpose, Cole inhabits what might be called a quasi-angelic space. This perspective recalls our earlier observation of the cherubic statue pictured conspicuously in one of La Jetée’s frames. Graceless in its underground cave, the cherub becomes an imprisoned gargoyle, ogling humanity’s (time-) warped attempt to redeem itself. The angelic image recurs ironically in 12 Monkeys, as Cole and Railly, on the run from the authorities, shop for disguises in the same department store seen desolate and overrun by animals in the film’s futuristic prologue. It is now Christmastime, and cheap plastic angels dangle from the ceiling, a commercialized renunciation of the cherub that in La Jetée signified unlikely grace. Store employees yank a chintzy angel upward on strings, a parody of the Ascension. Cole’s strings are pulled even more tightly by the Astrophysicist, who ensures that Cole can never transcend his time loop. The angel of Christian theology inhabits what Aquinas (in his 1265–1273 Summa Theologica) called the aevum, the fantastically “in between” temporality enjoyed by beings who are neither timeless nor mortal. On the surface, Frank Kermode’s description of the aevum might describe the space-time Cole inhabits: in angels’ “beginning exists their middle and their end, their past invades the present, and even the most extreme attention to the present

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is invaded by concern for the future.”11 In his circumscribed time warp, Cole exists in perpetuity but not in eternity; he is forced to obsess for the future of humanity even as his past dictates present actions. Yet he, a mortal in Gilliam’s agnostic universe, can only parody an angel. He is not only a pawn of fate with delusions of autonomy (like Macbeth), but he is ensconced within a mock-apocalyptic fantasy that lacks the definitive morality of a true apocalypse. How could one floating within an indeterminate, interstitial space confront even a mock-apocalyptic future? Gilliam’s Baron Munchausen, facing the threat of Ottoman hoards, has the luxury of insulating himself within a mythmaking of his own creation. Cole, who cannot create for himself a fictive autonomy, attempts a more mundane escape: he grounds himself in material, bodily experience, if only to resist becoming an angelic martyr. Indeed, the only time Cole rebecomes “himself” is when he stumbles across momentary pleasures on his journey, and Gilliam seems to invest his small enjoyments with redemptive potentials. As Cole zigzags through time, he stumbles across a poet admonishing the audience to seize the day and quoting from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyám: “Drink! For you know not whence you came, nor why: Drink! For you know not why you go, nor where.” While on the run with Railly, Cole bursts into a rare moment of joy when he hears Fats Domino’s “Blueberry Hill” on the radio. For a few brief seconds, the pleasurable memories conjured by the song ground him in the present moment. The carpe diem theme is voiced explicitly toward the film’s end, when Railly and Cole hide in a theater showing a double feature of Hitchcock’s Vertigo (1958) and The Birds (1963). They watch the sequence in Vertigo in which Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak’s characters examine the cross-section of a fivethousand-year-old redwood, a single ring of which represents a human life span. Cole then compares the relativistic experience of rewatching a familiar film to his own predicament: “The movie never changes—it can’t change— but every time you see it, it’s different because you’re different.” Railly deadpans to Cole, “If you can’t change anything because it’s already happened, you may as well smell the flowers.” That sentiment is macabrely rebuffed when Gilliam cuts to Tippi Hedrin, mercilessly pecked by vengeful Nature in The Birds. Another airborne apocalypse dispels the joys of the present. To be sure, we should not take at face value the film’s simplistic admonitions to seize the day. One cannot seize the day while being forcibly throttled through time; one cannot stop to smell the roses when one cannot stop. Carpe diem is also precisely the kind of sunny platitude Gilliam usually mocks—for instance, when the crucified masses sing, “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” at the end of The Life of Brian. In his colder moments, Gilliam presents platitudes only to deflate them, and 12 Monkeys is no exception. When James is yanked back into the future by scientists who want to monitor his progress,

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he hallucinates them unmusically singing a unison chorus of “Blueberry Hill.” The hyper-technological institution colonizes his fantasies, much as it reduces Sam Lowry to a state of delusional stupor at the end of Brazil. Cole’s “Blueberry Hill” moments—his grounding yet fleeting pleasures—obviously cannot negate the pulls of time and memory. As a man condemned to and martyred within a pseudo-religious space, he fails to will himself beyond apocalyptic thinking. Cocooned in a cinematic fantasy, Cole is trapped in an idealized window of space-time that offers no latches or apertures. (Movie audiences have a somewhat similar experience, but at least they can exit the theater before the movie ends.) Cridland suggests that underlying Cole’s cyclical temporality is Nietzsche’s notion of eternal recurrence, and certainly there is evidence for this argument. Recall that Nietzsche’s idea is grounded in willful assertion, not passive acceptance. The eternal recurrence must be contingent upon an exertion of will and free choice: one must live a life one would willfully repeat. It is true that, as the story progresses, Cole increasingly resists fate by taking assertive, willful action, especially in his “Blueberry Hill” moments and by pursuing and expressing his love for Railly. Emphasizing the link between willful choice and eternal recurrence, Heidegger focuses on a passage from The Gay Science (1882), entitled “The Greatest Weight”: What if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: “This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, and in the same succession and sequence—even this spider and this moonlight between the trees, and even this moment and I myself . . . Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine!”12

For Cridland, there is enough evidence in 12 Monkeys to suggest that Cole would accept the demon’s bargain and voluntarily live his fate again, in perpetuity. Cridland emphasizes the “twinkling” of the young Cole’s eyes in the airport scene as a moment of self-knowledge that stands outside the loop of time and becomes a larger, more sanguine “affirmation of mortality.”13 This “affirmative” reading certainly conjures up Gilliam’s inveterate bittersweetness and is likely the meaning he intended to convey (otherwise, the young Cole’s conspicuous eye-twinkling would signify nothing). But how should we, the audience, “affirm” this affirmation? To affirm something is merely to acknowledge its truthfulness and reality; by affirming a reality, we do not

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necessarily condone, embrace, or even cooperate with it. That which we affirm could well cripple, torment, or destroy us. The young Cole may twinkle his eyes, but the “totalized” Cole remains the unwitting prisoner of a larger, idealized temporal system. For Heidegger, eternal recurrence “springs from the soil of the most stringent confrontation with Platonic-Christian modes of idealization.”14 If we accept the notion that Cole, floating in Gilliam’s agnostic version of the static aevum, takes on a quasi-angelic existence, he becomes a prisoner of Platonic-Christian idealization, not a “most stringent” confronter or challenger. How much meaning, then, should we ascribe to the young Cole’s knowing ocular twinkle or to the middle-aged Cole’s “Blueberry Hill” moments? To what degree can meek sparks of willfulness mitigate a recurrence not of one’s own choosing? For Cole, what Nietzsche’s demon proposes could well be irrelevant, for Cole’s vision and version of recurrence is farcical and eunuchized. Trapped in an “eternal hourglass” (to borrow a phrase from The Gay Science), he should curse the demon (or the Astrophysicist) who condemns him to purgatory. We can contrast the narrowly idealized space-time that ensnares Cole to the unbounded space-time traversed by Kevin (Craig Warnock), the boy-hero of Gilliam’s more nihilistic Time Bandits. The demon’s proposition is perfectly appropriate for Kevin. Following a series of adventures that draw upon Greco-Roman mythology, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, The Wizard of Oz and other fantastic sources, Kevin returns home only to witness his parents explode after touching a steaming brick of evil (a fugitive chunk of David Warner’s detonated “Evil Genius”). Gilliam delights in this moment of homicidal cruelty. The parents are disposable dullards who are better off dead; they vegetate before the television and only suppress Kevin’s hidden, youthful potential. When the family home bursts into flames, Kevin’s mother shows greater concern for the well-being of the blender than for the welfare of her son. Such parents are the brainwashed mad people who in 12 Monkeys are decried by the anarchist Goines and condemned to death by the virus-spreading Dr. Peters. It is easy enough to say that the deaths of vapid, callous parents are not a calamitous cosmic loss. But does a boy—even one partly initiated into cosmic mysteries—deserve to have no parents? Or would Kevin, at the age of twenty-five or thirty, realize that his parents’ premature demise freed him from the prison of lower-middle-class banality? We can ask how parentless Kevin, liberated from the past that ensnares Cole, might answer Nietzsche’s demon. With greater maturity, he might one day repeat his accidental adventure as a matter of free will, knowing his parents must die—knowing that the greatest pleasures are inextricable from the most necessary pains. In the recurrence of a theoretical sequel, perhaps he could empower himself and oppose Ralph Richardson’s antique, paternalistic god. Unmade sequels remain deferred to our imaginations, but Kevin’s future

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is demonically free from the foregone images of death that haunt the young Cole, who is about Kevin’s age. Kevin will know the bitter and the sweet, but not that impotent, angelic hybrid we call the bittersweet, a state of ruminative regret as static as the frames of La Jetée. Cole remains cocooned safely and frustratedly in the past. Lacking any sense of futurity, his return perhaps evokes Kierkegaard more than Nietzsche. Cole’s trials of “forced recollection” bring to mind the musings of Constantin Constantius, the hero of Kierkegaard’s philosophical novel Repetition (1843). Constantin theorizes that repetition “is [the] actuality and the earnestness of existence,” and without the grounding repetition provides, life would be a series of chaotic, unintelligible occurrences, ordered chronologically but not logically.15 While it might seem bizarre to extol repetition—that which seems to render life not only dull but unwilful—there are some basic truths to Constantin’s claim. Many of life’s pleasures—eating, drinking, sex—necessitate repetitive bodily functions. Artistry of every kind must be practiced—that is, repeated—in order to achieve fruition. A life of continuous novelty would not only be disorienting but incomprehensible to a human mind that learns only through repetitive processes. Without repetition, the idea of anticipation could not exist, and it is anticipation that deepens and personalizes our pleasures. And without repetition, we could never rarefy our accumulated knowledge into matters of taste and judgement, for our knowledge would never properly accumulate into memory. But foolhardy Constantin attempts to go beyond these commonsensical claims. He tries to recover and recollect (literally, “re-collect”) specific experiences and extract new pleasures from them. As Edward F. Mooney suggests, trying to will the past into the present is a fool’s errand. Constantin does “not scour the past for the source of its echo” but quite literally retraces the old steps he took on a trip to Berlin, embracing the past as a potentially recurring wellspring of present epiphany.16 As he attempts to restage his past, Constantin tries to accomplish willfully what Cole replays unwittingly—a past indelibly and irresistibly burned into the memory. Eventually, Constantin finds comfort in the story of Job, a man who refuses to denounce an apparently uncaring God after the devil robs him of his property and arranges the death of his family. The tale ends as God reveals himself to Job and rewards his perseverance, just as fate is revealed to the young, cosmically patient Cole in the airport scene, and just as the audience of 12 Monkeys waits for Gilliam-the-auteur to reveal all the pieces of his cinematic jigsaw. It is perhaps odd that Gilliam, who presents prophecy and apocalypse agnostically, as mere entertainment, should find comfort in revelation, which releases us from more active responsibilities. But, of course, cinema’s pleasures repeat too: 12 Monkeys yields fresh perspectives with repeated viewings, much as Cole understands more about his vertiginous place in time whenever he

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rewatches Hitchcock’s Vertigo. We tend to invest our momentary pleasures with great meaning because we know that they are not really momentary—we can replay them again and again, cultivating private edifices of meaning from our unique regimes of repetition. We come to understand that our repetitions are our own, and no one else can repeat them. NOTES 1. Frank Kermode, The Sense of an Ending (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 85. 2. Garrett Stewart, Framed Time: Toward a Post-filmic Cinema (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 236. 3. Lev V. Kuleshov, “The Origins of Montage,” in Cinema in Revolution, eds. Jean Schnitzer Luda and Marcel Martin, 65–76, trans. David Robinson (New York: Da Capo Press, 1973), 70. The “re-created space” of the so-called Kuleshov effect is produced when the viewer intuits a dialectical and relational meaning between juxtaposed images. Meaning is thus constructed in the spaces between (or among) images and not solely within them. Kuleshov’s theorizations date from 1917, a year after Griffith used parallel montage to span millennia in Intolerance (1916). Kuleshov recognized Griffith’s technical precedent but considered himself the first formal theorist of montage. See 69. 4. Sergei Eisenstein, “The Cinematographic Principle and the Ideogram,” in Film Form, edited and translated by Jay Leyda (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1977), 28–30. Eisenstein suggests that the dialectical principles of montage—the intellectual meanings produced by the strategic collision of proximate images—are embedded in the morphology and combinatory structures of ideographic languages, such as Japanese. In another essay, “Laocoön,” Eisenstein more problematically likens montage to the chromatic harmonies of Scriabin, even though music employs simultaneous counterpoint, while conventional cinema cannot (unless one uses split-screens or superimpositions). See Sergei Eisenstein, “Laocoön,” in Selected Works, Vol. II: Towards a Theory of Montage. eds. Michael Glenny and Richard Taylor, trans. Michael Glenny, 109–202 (London: I.B. Taurus, 2010), 109–202. 5. André Bazin, “The Ontology of the Photographic Image,” in What is Cinema? Vol. 1, trans. Hugh Grey (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2005), 14–15. 6. Steven Dillon, The Solaris Effect (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2006), 118. 7. Patricia Pisters, The Matrix of Visual Culture (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003), 39. 8. F.L. Pogson (trans.), “Translator’s Preface,” in Henri Bergson, Time and Free Will (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1950), xi. 9. Ibid. 10. Sean Cridland, “In the Twinkling of an Eye: Nietzschean Undercurrents in Terry Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys,” Film and Philosophy, Vol. 3 (1996): 130–137, 134.

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11. Kermode, The Sense of an Ending, 71–72. 12. Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science, translated by Walter Kaufmann (New York: Vintage Books, 1974), 273–74. In Volume Two of his four-volume study of Nietzsche, Heidegger draws special attention to this passage as the first instance in which Nietzsche clearly articulates his doctrine of eternal recurrence, which Heidegger takes to be the central tenet of all Nietzsche’s thinking. As Heidegger stresses, much of Nietzsche’s development of the idea is found in unpublished manuscripts and fragments. See Martin Heidegger, Nietzsche, Volume Two: The Eternal Recurrence of the Same, trans. David F. Krell (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1984), 19–27. 13. Cridland, “In the Twinkling of an Eye,” 135. 14. Martin Heidegger, Nietzsche, Vol. Two: The Eternal Recurrence of the Same, trans. David F. Krell (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1982), 7. 15. Søren Kierkegaard, Repetition and Philosophical Crumbs, translated by M.G. Piety (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 4. 16. Edward F. Mooney, “Introduction,” in Søren Kierkegaard, Repetition and Philosophical Crumbs, translated by M.G. Piety (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), xii.

​​​​​​​REFERENCES 12 Monkeys. Directed by Terry Gilliam. USA: Atlas Entertainment, 1995. Bazin, André. “The Ontology of the Photographic Image.” What is Cinema? Vol. 1. Translated by Hugh Grey. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2005. Cridland, Sean. “In the Twinkling of an Eye: Nietzschean Undercurrents in Terry Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys.” Film and Philosophy, Vol. 3 (1996): 130–37. Dillon, Steven. The Solaris Effect. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2006. Eisenstein, Sergei. “The Cinematographic Principle and the Ideogram.” In Film Form, edited and translated by Jay Leyda. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1977. Eisenstein, Sergei. “Laocoön.” In Selected Works, Vol. II: Towards a Theory of Montage, edited by Michael Glenny and Richard Taylor, translated by Michael Glenny, 109–202. London: I.B. Taurus, 2010. Heidegger, Martin. Nietzsche, Vol. Two: The Eternal Recurrence of the Same. Translated by David F. Krell. San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1982. La Jetée. Directed by Chris Marker. France: Argos Films, 1962. Kermode, Frank. The Sense of an Ending. New York: Oxford University Press, 2000. Kierkegaard, Søren. Repetition and Philosophical Crumbs. Translated by M.G. Piety. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Kuleshov, Lev V. “The Origins of Montage.” In Cinema in Revolution, edited by Jean Schnitzer Luda and Marcel Martin, 65–76. Translated by David Robinson. New York: Da Capo Press, 1973.

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Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Gay Science. Translated by Walter Kaufmann. New York: Vintage Books, 1974. Mooney, Edward F. “Introduction.” In Søren Kierkegaard, Repetition and Philosophical Crumbs. Translated by M.G. Piety. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Pisters, Patricia. The Matrix of Visual Culture. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003. Pogson, F.L. (trans.). “Translator’s Preface.” In Henri Bergson, Time and Free Will. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1950. Stewart, Garrett. Framed Time: Toward a Post-filmic Cinema. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007.

Chapter 8

The Art of Deserts in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas‌‌‌ and The Man Who Killed Don Quixote Philip van der Merwe

In 1994, the American video artist Bill Viola made a film, Deserts, based on the composition Déserts (1950–1954) by Edgard Varèse (1883–1965). This musical, as well as visually artistic representations of deserts, can be understood in narratological terms of Gérard Genette’s “focalization,” the content which is selected or restricted and presented causing the ‘reader’ to look at a story as if through a window or at contents passing through a goulaut, the neck of a bottle.1 David Jasper evaluates Viola’s and Varèse’s Deserts as “as much an interior experience born in the mind as a landscape of objects and sounds.”2 Considering Terry Gilliam’s films, one’s curiosity is drawn to the auteur’s artistic use of deserts as part of his focalization on interior experiences. In both The Man Who Killed Don Quixote (2018) and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998), desert landscapes form a prominent part of the mise-en-scène. This prompts the question of whether there is a connection between these ‘desert stories,’ and how Gilliam employs these landscapes artistically? Although the desert settings are realistic, the combination of places with colorful characters is ostentatiously artistic. Gilliam, like Miguel de Cervantes, is what Donnell calls a “mischievous storyteller.”3 This is comparable to how Riley describes Cervantes’s pretense to present Don Quixote’s authentic biography and history: There is talk of historians, annals, and archives. Yet this pretense aims to take no one in. . . . On the contrary, it is a pretense which they are intended to see through; they are to recognize the illusion created by literary art for what it is.4 135

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Gilliam makes it obvious that his films are artistic. Singh points out that the reproductive capabilities of the cinematic medium itself “are foregrounded as an attractive showcase through its ability to be ‘realistic’ and therefore present a specific kind of spectacle for its audience.”5 Scott’s estimation of Gilliam is that he, “like Cervantes, is a wily inventor who also serves as an analyst and evangelist of the imagination.”6 The reflexive nature of his films is an aspect of the ‘non-naturalistic’ genre for which he has a predilection. Apart from his cartoons for Monty Python, he often combines drama and comedy with hallucinations and dreams as in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, but also with genres like fairy tales, as is the case with The Brothers Grimm (2005); adventure like Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975); science fiction as in 12 Monkeys (1995); horror like Tideland (2005); and surrealism, in The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus (2009). Most, if not all, of his films, can be deemed to be experimental with figurative effects. Also, in those films in which stark landscapes such as deserts appear, imagination and fantasy are prominent. Cinematically, Gilliam is a Don Quixote, an “ingenious gentleman”7 who presents unusual stories. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell call his films “national allegories . . . that challenge viewers to reconsider the experience of watching films.”8 The stories of his desert films are artificial, defamiliarizing, and about ideas. This artistic approach is reminiscent of Victor Shklovsky’s observation in his essay “Art as Technique” (1917) that the technique of art is to make objects “strange” or “unfamiliar.”9 In this sense, the desert landscape can function as metaphoric imagery that are poetic tropes.10 For example, associations with deserts like aridness, infertility/unproductiveness; desolation; isolation; death; wilderness; and being lost can provide a metaphoric context for characters and their actions. Like Bertolt Brecht’s defamiliarizing epic theater, Gilliam’s films task the viewers with thinking about and finding their meaning themselves. Peter Marks observes that the director “remains committed to a particular and personal vision for his films, but his approach also downplays his authority over their meaning, instead encouraging audiences to acts of creative interpretation.”11 Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is, on its surface level, a story about two men traveling to Las Vegas and indulging in an excess of drugs. The Man Who Killed Don Quixote is about a film director traveling as Sancho Panza with a shoemaker who believes that he is the real Don Quixote since he was cast in this role ten years before. But both these films also have secondary meanings as allegories. The deeper meaning of these productions is one of being lost. Being lost evokes the association of finding it physically difficult to find one’s way back to a safe environment as, for example, in Lee Tamahori’s film The Edge (1997)—about men who are lost in the Alaskan forests and literally



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must fight for their survival. However, in Gilliam’s films (extended) metaphors are then also enriched by the figuratively employed settings. In literature, it is certainly not new that the motif of the desert, within the larger framework of allegories, has metaphorical and symbolic functions. David Jasper indeed refers to William Wordsworth when arguing that “the desert encounter gives rise to poetic symbols and associations meet in the imagination of the poet or novelist”12—and one may add—auteur. The function of the desert in Wordsworth’s The Prelude is a place of fear and solitariness.13 Deserts as spaces that are arid and challenging, are representative of the disorientation underlying the characters’ identities and their quest for personal fulfillment. The artistic representation of deserts in Gilliam’s films is symbolic and metaphoric on a basic conceptual level, but also as an extended metaphor or allegory vis-à-vis the narration, in which the desert plays a central role. CINEMATIC ART AND DESERTS In both Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, portrayals of spaces that include deserts and places that are surrounded by deserts evoke the “actual world,” which means the world in which “what has actually existed or happened and what will actually exist or happen, as well as what now exists or happens.”14 Philip Sheldrake describes the desert as a physical boundary that “symbolizes a state of liminality—of living between two worlds, the material and the spiritual.”15 In this liminal space, the realistic, hyperrealistic, or naturalistic effect of the desert in the textual, ‘actual’ world and the mental states of the characters merge and symbolize each other. Gilliam’s wildernesses imply a connection between space and the spiritual crises of the main characters. Since characters appear in space, Jakob Lothe regards them as “spatial elements of a kind.”16 Deserts that exist in the actual world as literally extreme nature marked by heat and drought, “in her most rugged scorching, barren, arid, and forbidding form”17 are re-presented as challenging ‘psychological space’ and, in this manner, the deserts and the characters merge. In Film Worlds: A Philosophical Aesthetics of Cinema (2015), Daniel Yacavone provides insights into the possibility and production of interpretative meaning that comes about in the cinematic and artistic reinvention of the real or factual. He explains that narrative works contain “a mixture or blend in terms of real and fictional persons, places, things, events, and so forth, as well as all their properties and relations as described by the work in words or perceived in its visual depictions.”18 This is the “textual actual world” which

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Ryan defines as the world for which the text claims facts.19 It is the real past, present and future world of a character as real people understand the actual world, our real world.20 When Yacavone affirms that in every narrative fiction the true, factual, or historical is intertwined with the ‘false’ and the merely fancied, one could also understand this as meaning that actual-world elements are adopted by the textual actual world.21 This helps to recognize the cinematic use of spaces, landscapes, and places such as the desert and half-desert landscapes, the village Los Sueños, the Mojave desert, Las Vegas and Baker, California, in the films under examination here. These spaces and places become “artistic exemplifications”22 of the story worlds that are about journeys through deserts and to locations surrounded by deserts and which do not only delineate the journeys for the sake of the apparent purpose of the journeys. In Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Raoul Duke (Johnny Depp) is the journalist assigned to report about a motorcycle race in Las Vegas and is accompanied by Dr. Gonzo (Benicio del Toro). Javier (Jonathan Pryce) as the knight-errant Don Quixote in The Man Who Killed Don Quixote is traveling to find adventures, defend those who cannot fight for themselves; and live out his prowess in battle. However, the films also exemplify other possible meanings which the creative cinematic worlds offer. The journeys are artistic means of employing actual world spaces, landscapes and places to re-envision actual-world experiences. Like the epic theatre of Bertolt Brecht’s plays, Gilliam’s films do not hide their overt artificial nature with the purpose of communicating both directly and indirectly. Yacavone describes artistic exemplification as self-reflexive, “but a specific type of reflexivity . . . one that is literal and metaphorical simultaneously, as it were.”23 When, in the course of viewing and in subsequent interpretation, critics, theorists, and other knowledgeable viewers attach such labels and descriptions as “self-reflexive,” “self-aware,” “auto-critique,” “Brechtian,” “acknowledgment of the viewer,” and so on, the above-noted images and sequences . . . , they are not . . . describing only what those elements refer to (denote) literally, but what they and the work, evoke and elicit by symbolic association.24

From this perspective, then, Yacavone states that “(self-)reflexivity must be understood as a specific symbolic, artistic, and stylistic feature of a highly ‘self-conscious’ kind possessed by some films as created and intended artworks.”25 The literary deserts in films, fiction and poetry thus often portray psychological, or spiritual, journeys that contain the challenges that the physical nature of deserts artistically employed can imply. Jasper considers the desert as a space in which God can be encountered through self-discipline or ‘asceticism,’ the latter derived from the word



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askesis, which means to exercise or train,26 a state of affairs corresponding to Javier’s/Don Quixote’s state of mind. However, the opposite is also possible, as is the case with Duke and Gonzo in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: “In the loneliness of the desert, the monks are visited by angels and devils.”27 This echoes Lindemann’s assessment that the desert has a religious or mythological potential with a spectrum that extends from the demons of the desert up to the desert as a place of divine revelation.28 In Gilliam’s film, Duke and Gonzo accept the seduction of the demons and become grotesque. In contrast to them, Javier as Don Quixote becomes ‘angelic.’ A striking example of another film employing the spatial harshness of a desert as a literary device to reflect the inner turmoil of the characters is Michelangelo Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point (1970) in which the desert is, according to Matthew Gandy, “not only a concrete space to be conveyed in all its aesthetic complexity but also an allegorical and metaphorical realm through which we can explore different facets of human consciousness and experience.”29 Other films in which the desert plays metaphorical, allegorical, and/or symbolic roles regarding the psyches of the characters are Antony Minghella’s The English Patient (1996), based on Michael Ondaatje’s 1992 novel; Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Sheltering Sky (1990), based on Peter Bowles’s 1949 novel; Wim Wenders’s Paris, Texas (1984); and Burt Kennedy’s Welcome to Hard Times (1967), based on E.L. Doctorow’s novel of 1960. In Doctorow’s novel, after the town has been destroyed by the Bad Man from Bodie, the inhabitants rebuild the town. However, Molly (previously a prostitute who sustained wounds during a fire that the Bad Man had started) intuitively feels that the steps forward do not prevent the town from being a “wilderness”30 since the real threat is the town’s lack of community. According to Winifred Bevilacqua, the hyper-realistic presentations of the desert landscape in Doctorow’s novel confer on it the significance of a symbolic “Wasteland” in which one also recognizes social breakdown, individual powerlessness and entrapping feelings of doubt, loss and disorientation.31 She describes the relationship between the capitalistically-inclined inhabitants of the town Hard Times and the landscape on the Dakota Flats as follows: “The material bareness of the landscape they inhabit becomes the objective correlative of their spiritual poverty.”32 Blue, the self-appointed mayor of the town, says: “Bad Men from Bodie weren’t ordinary scoundrels, they came with the land, and you could no more cope with them than you could with dust or hailstones.”33 As in Gilliam’s films, the nature of the space metaphorically coincides with the psychological state of the characters, as will be shown in the next section.

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THE DESERT OF PAST HOPES IN FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS Including the introduction, the plot of the film can be divided into six sections: two men traveling through Nevada to Las Vegas, which Terry Gilliam, in line with Harter S. Thompson, depicts as a place that represents a disappointment with the American Dream; a first sojourn in the city; both briefly leaving the city; then returning; and finally, again departing from Las Vegas for Los Angeles. In 1971, Duke feels that everything that they did during the 1960s was in the spirit of anti-authoritarian protest movements in the interest of peace—and therefore noble and right and in the interest of a new American Dream which would be less focused on the possibilities for the individual, but a dream of social justice which also evokes Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I have a dream” speech. The main characters of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas experience a sense of loss for this foregone era and culture. The settings of a desert and a city within a desert are functional as metaphors for aridness in terms of their psychological well-being. The behavior of the characters is consequently either ambiguous or has multiple possibilities of interpretation. Their actions are expressions of insecurity because of their perceived lack of social value which turns into fatalistic compensation. Ironically, their continued and excessive use of drugs is both contradictorily escapist and selfish to relieve them from the suffering of their existence but also as a form of self-punishment following the failure of the protest movements of the previous decade. Gilliam refers to their self-destructiveness as a way they punish themselves for the madness of the society for which they feel responsible.34 Elucidating this, the director affirms that they are “driven towards madness in response to a certain madness they experience . . . the madness of the world is represented in Las Vegas, and the city represents the farthest reaches of what is possible to experience or of what is even imaginable in the context of American culture.”35 Gilliam’s film is an artistic depiction of how American society creates itself. The process is cyclical: the nature of their lives is not only self-destructive but also socially destructive, which means that they contribute to creating the metaphorical desert. The desert as a metaphor therefore refers not only to the individual lives of Duke and Gonzo but also to American society at large, which failed in terms of the American Dream. Considering the title of the film, it “repudiates the American Dream, as epitomised by the nineteenth-century dime novels of Horatio Alger, which celebrate the triumph over adversity of poor, honest, hard-working boys.”36 San Francisco, aligned to the American Dream of the counterculture of the 1960s, is for Duke in direct opposition to Las Vegas,



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aligned to the failed American Dream as the ironic subtitle of Hunter S. Thompson’s novel, “A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream,” distrustfully, even mockingly, expresses. Las Vegas, nicknamed ‘Sin City,’ stands for greed, capitalist exploitation, self-destruction, escapism, and the absence of mutual social concern, an absence of spiritual value—and self-punishment. Marks describes it as “the lurid and pulsating symbol of American corruption and excess.”37 In the novel as well as in the film, it is a city in which gamblers are, according to Duke, still “humping the American Dream, that vision of the Big Winner.”38 Hope for personal and social fertility is absent in this merciless desert. In this light, the first seventy seconds of the film contain the rationale of the Harter S. Thompson story as adapted by Gilliam. As Jurij Lotman explains, the beginning of a story “has a defining and modeling function; it is not only evidence of existence, but also a substitute for causality, a category of later origin.”39 The book begins in medias res and only offers piecemeal clues regarding the characters’ behavior. The first clue in the book is the disappointment expressed about a 1971 song: “‘Power to the People–Right On!’ John Lennon’s political song, ten years too late.”40 Soon afterward the regret about the activism of the 1960s becomes more apparent: “But that was some other era, burned out and long gone from the brutish realities of this foul year of Our Lord, 1971.”41 The beginning of the film therefore explains why the characters are in a (metaphorical) desert. Everything after the introduction is causally related to a post-sixties American society that is marked by disappointment and the loss of the American Dream. The beginning of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas consists of three very distinct and significant elements starting with war. Gilliam confirms that although the film was released only a few years after the Gulf War, it deals with the Vietnam War.42 The first image is of a Sikorsky helicopter releasing a chemical agent, immediately followed by a protestor holding a sign reading “Get out of Saigon and into Selma.” Then a clean-shaven, short-haired police officer with sunglasses—whom Shepherd describes as “a Southern-looking Good Ol’ Boy cop,”43 somewhat amused and smug—apparently looks at protestors demanding the unconditional withdrawal of all US troops from Vietnam, demanding peace, “not pacification.” The young protestors at an anti-war rally target the administration of Lyndon Johnson with a sign that reads “Wanted for murder.”44 Secondly, the images of protests are juxtaposed with images of stylized blood splattering intermittently, pointing to the bloodshed of the Vietnam War. Michael O’Sullivan calls the film “a wideangle snapshot of the great American dystopia” against a background of the Vietnam War and social change of the “foul year” of 1971.45 The title of the film then appears in the same “cartoon” blood that drips from the letters. This blood signifies the causal relationship between the Vietnam War and

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the whole fictional world. The third element is the first verse of the Rodgers and Hammerstein song “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music “sung dreamily by the relentlessly wholesome Lennon Sisters, the songbirds of conservative American culture.”46 In this song, a conservative American Dream–like naïve society is equated to the cloying lyrics “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,” et cetera, ironically contrasted to television-news footage of realized hell. This leads to the motto of Thompson’s book, a quotation from Dr. Johnson, “He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man,” which underlines the causal connection and rationale between the past and the failure of the present. This coincides with Duke and Gonzo, driving through the desert on their way to Las Vegas while on drugs. Duke announces in a macho matter-of-fact manner: “We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold,”47 also the first sentence of Thompson’s book. Drug abuse is famously very central to this ‘desert story,’ and it offers escapism from reality, but it also heightens the experience of ‘fear and loathing’ for the year 1971 which represents lost purpose and ideals. Marks summarizes the function of the beginning of the film as follows: Opening the film with this brief historical and political snippet supplies a context for what follows, both for the audience born after the period in which the book first appeared, and for the failing or erased memories of an older generation.48

Meaningfulness during the 1960s in San Francisco, which Duke describes as a very special time and place to be part of, has been erased. Ironically, and over-compensating, Duke and Gonzo ascribe, from the beginning, in exaggerated and unconvincing manner, an importance to the assignment of having to cover the Mint 400 motorcycle race in Las Vegas. This ‘importance’ is exceedingly relativized by them already being under the influence of drugs while driving through the desert. Moreover, Duke’s eccentric dress style and Gonzo’s unkempt appearance, and their psychotic states and behavior, depict them as social misfits despite their socially respectable professions. They pick up a hitchhiker (Toby Maguire), a timid and pale long-haired young man, who also does not seem to belong to the ‘respectable’ middle class of 1971. Terrified—because of their strange behavior and Dr. Gonzo pulling a revolver from a brown paper bag, accompanied by an invented story of having to settle a score in Las Vegas—when the car stops, he jumps out of the car and runs away. The first period in this city portrays—as with the hitchhiker—Duke’s and Gonzo’s inability to interact reasonably and politely with each other as well as anybody else. The experiences of fear and loathing, due to hallucinations because of their drug-induced states, are prominent during subsequent



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encounters: when they check into the hotel in Las Vegas; when they briefly meet their photographer, Lacerda (Craig Bierko); and when they attend a motorcycle race. The uncouth pair is thrown out of a Debbie Reynolds concert. Subsequently, they visit the Bazooka Casino Circus. Back in the hotel room, a flashback shows a television reporter (Cameron Diaz) in a lift mistaking Gonzo for a motorcycle rider which ends in him threatening a member of her crew with a knife. In the hotel room, after Gonzo threatens Duke with a knife, Duke goes to the casino. When the latter returns, Gonzo asks him to kill him by throwing a tape recorder in the filthy tub in which he sits. Instead, Duke throws a grapefruit at his head and keeps the bathroom door closed with a chair so that he can work at his typewriter. The first sojourn is concluded with Duke sitting at his typewriter and thinking back to 1965 in San Francisco and the loss of the feeling that anything that one did was right. This scene (which follows keeping Gonzo in the bathroom and precedes Gonzo having left the following day) is juxtaposed to the preceding first period in Las Vegas and the subsequent desert scenes with Duke. The desert scenes are at this point functional in the sense that they draw attention to the concept of ‘being lost in the wilderness,’ which is heightened because of Duke’s predicament that he is unable to pay the very high hotel bill and his frantic state. Leaving Las Vegas and driving into the desert is a case of ‘out of the frying pan into the fire.’ Duke slips out of the hotel and drives into the desert where he is blackmailed and molested by a traffic officer (Gary Busey), which disgusts him and adds to his self-degrading actions. In the desert town of Baker, Duke is horrified and urgently tries to flee when he again comes across the hitchhiker, who is still trying to hitchhike his way out of the desert. His horror at seeing the hitchhiker in Baker creates the impression that it is impossible to escape this location. When Duke speaks in a telephone booth in Baker to Gonzo sitting in his attorney’s office in L.A., the illusion of liberation presents itself. Reproachfully, Gonzo tells him that he sent him a telegram, which Duke indeed never opened. The telegram was sent to inform him that Gonzo organized a suite for Duke at another hotel to cover the National District Attorney’s Conference. However, the next phase in Las Vegas confirms that they are lost. The events and interaction with other people during the second sojourn spiral towards disaster. That they are never arrested is ironic and indicative of how much society is allowed to mishandle situations. At the hotel, Duke—still with cocaine on the side of his nose—fearfully enters the lobby surrounded by attendees of the National District Attorney’s Drug Convention. Once in the hotel suite, Duke is distressed when finding Gonzo with an underage girl, Lucy (Christina Ricci), whom he “wanted to help” in his intoxicated state, reminiscent of the protagonists wanting to help the hitchhiker at the beginning of the film. Duke recognizes the potential of being suspected of

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statutory crimes and is motivated to take her away and part company with her. Barely hiding their drug-user identity, Duke and Gonzo also attend a presentation about drug addicts at the convention. Back in the hotel room, Lucy telephones them, which again causes the fear of ending up in court. The stress of this leads Duke to start using Gonzo’s adrenochrome, which finally leads to the destruction of the hotel room. The latter is initially clean and tidy, but, during their stay, they transform it into an artificial wilderness. They do not just destroy it, but phenomenally befoul it. Duke remembers events from roving across Las Vegas that are marked by causing people to fear and loathe them: “We’d abused every rule that Vegas lived by. Burning the locals, abusing the tourists, terrifying the help.” At one point, Gonzo tyrannizes a waitress (Ellen Barkin) working alone in a diner and a cleaning lady (Jenette Goldstein) in their hotel room. When they see Lucy again in the city, their frantic reaction is similar to Duke’s when he saw the hitchhiker in Baker. Also Lucy finds it impossible to escape. Finally, the hotel suite—like the desert—becomes representative of their looming spiritual suicide which seems to occur in the sum of a multitude of revolting events. However, the film ends open-ended. Gonzo leaves Las Vegas first. Duke drives him and, to be in time for his flight, he drives the car off the road and through a semi-desert area to the departing plane. When Duke leaves by car, he passes animal skeletons in the desert and a sign that reads: “You are now leaving Fear & Loathing. Pop. 0. Founded (97).” This seems to be somewhat hopeful because it implies that he is leaving the figurative desert: as Marks argues, “This time the American flag attached to the car’s damaged convertible roof ironically celebrates America’s energy and love of liberty.”49 If not coincidental, this sign could be an intertextual reference to E.L. Doctorow’s novel Welcome to Hard Times (1960). The title of the novel refers to a sign welcoming visitors and potential inhabitants to the town and the spiritual condition of ‘Hard Times.’ In Gilliam’s film, the desert symbolizes not only the absence of practical and spiritual personal social productivity but destruction. But it is a side effect of characters who cannot identify themselves with the conservative values of American politics during the previous two decades. Birkenstein, Froula, and Randell aptly comment that Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas crystallizes this tragic past, as gleaned through the lens of a traumatic (or traumatized) present in which the lessons of jingoism, dehumanization and expenditure on weapons of mass destruction have yet to be learned.50 The desert setting of the film and the actions of Duke and Gonzo metaphorically reflect the arid context of their abusive country in which the citizens find themselves and have reason to fear.



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THE DESERT OF THE ARTIST’S IDENTITY IN THE MAN WHO KILLED DON QUIXOTE The desert has two different symbolic meanings for Javier and Toby (Adam Driver). It has, for Toby, a dismal meaning relatable to the Nietzschean sense that the “desert grows.”51 Vitiello explains that Nietzsche prophetically pronounced that the “desert of our history is created by values.”52 One can transpose the loss of the belief in art, artistry and the artist’s identity onto Toby. Toby was once an idealistic film student whose final assignment is nothing less than to pull off an adaptation of Don Quixote, but now, years later, he wears white suits and sunglasses; and in a capitalist spirit he cynically shoots commercials for an Asian power company.53 The desert is therefore a negative space for Toby. In contrast to ‘Toby’s desert,’ a poetic reference to his artistic past is when he encounters Angélica (Joana Ribeiro), which coincides with stumbling upon an oasis, a water-filled cave. However, as Vitiello also points out, the desert is far older than the thought of Nietzsche, and its sense has not always been negative.54 After Javier ‘freed’ Toby from the police, the difference in their mindsets is clear when Javier announces: “This will be a marvellous day for adventure, Sancho. I feel it in my bones.” Javier’s quasi-religious artistic mentality is juxtaposed against Toby’s ‘rational’ response, unbelieving in art: “I need to call my office.” The wide-angle shot during this dialogue shows an arid desert landscape which symbolically strengthens the notion of the arid state of Toby’s artistic personality. Javier’s expression of joy, on the other hand, is a confirmation that the desert is for him a place of self-discovery.55 For Javier, the desert and semi-desert spaces are places that hold promise for creativity. In the desert, his artistic calling to be Don Quixote is holy. This may be ‘false’ but comparable to Vitiello’s remark that “Jesus’ speaking obliquely, in parables, is false in the highest and most noble sense.”56 Knowing full well that one sees Javier and Toby, in this desert space they visually appear very convincingly as Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. The realism of this representation can be explained in terms of the Hegelian dialectic. Thus, Greg Singh argues that the film’s ability to simulate photo-realism draws out the relationship between real/simulation and fantastic/spectacular as tension in constant struggle.57 Javier lives out an artistic identity by being Don Quixote—and as in Cervantes’s story: “let it suffice that in relating we do not swerve a jot from the truth.”58 The basic concept of the film is about a film director, Toby, who travels together with a man who previously made his living as a shoemaker, Javier, who now believes himself to be Don Quixote in modern-day Spain. Toby is given the role of Sancho Panza by this Don Quixote. The deeper meaning of

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the journey through the desert is the loss of meaning in Toby’s life because of the loss of his creativity as an artist. Incidentally, the theme of loss as the prevention of an artist from creating is also played with for the title of the ‘desert documentary’ Lost in La Mancha (2002). In terms of allegory, this is the secondary meaning which arises from the primary surface of a literal narration as Angus Fletcher describes the relationship between the two levels of narration or the plot itself and the interpretation of it as an extended metaphor that the story provides in his book Allegory: The Theory of a Symbolic Mode (1964).59 The desert, therefore, reflects the wilderness of Toby’s world without art—and especially Toby’s spiritual situation. In the beginning of the film, Toby is dissatisfied with the shooting of a commercial. This commercial reflects Toby’s obsession with Don Quixote since it also features Cervantes’s character attacking a windmill. On a motorcycle, Toby finds near a village Javier, a shoemaker, who played Don Quixote in a student project ten years before. When Toby found him in his workshop, Javier appeared to be depressed. He struggles at first to be as an actor a convincing Don Quixote as an actor. Once he manages to ‘be Don Quixote,’ it is not at all playing the part of him as an actor, but rather having found his alter ego. Javier fights this aridness by fully embracing his imagination. In the process of Toby fleeing from Javier in the present, a fire accidentally starts. The Spanish police take Toby with them for questioning together with a Romani hawker (Óscar Jaenada) who is thought to have broken into the hotel room of the Boss (Stellan Skarsgård). It has been, in fact, Toby, who hooked up with his wife, Jacqui (Olga Kurylenko). They come across Javier, who, like Don Quixote, insists that the police release his “squirrel” (not ‘squire’), Sancho Panza (or Toby). When Javier, while sitting on his horse, attacks the police vehicle with a lance, it leads to one of the police officers being shot and the Gypsy stealing the car. The combined adventurous journey of Javier and Toby as Don Quixote and Sancho Panza begins now. Javier fights a windmill which he sees as a giant threatening a woman; they are brought to undocumented immigrants living in miserably rundown conditions. The following day it becomes clear that Toby dreamed and/or hallucinated the night before that they were terrorists. Then Toby and Javier leave but are separated for a while. Toby’s hallucinations continue when, next to a decaying donkey, he finds ‘gold coins’ which he clumsily allows to spill from the torn saddlebag. Like Toby, the audiences also sees the gold coins, but later it becomes clear that they are nothing but ordinary disc washers. He loses most of these ‘gold coins’ when he stumbles down into a cave where he comes across Angélica. Angélica has become a prostitute and later one sees her as the ‘property’ of a wealthy Russian vodka manufacturer, Alexei Miiskin (Jordi Mollà). When Angélica and Toby are separated, Javier wants to help Toby to find her again.



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Subsequently, Javier fights ‘the Knight of Mirrors’ who is revealed to be Angélica’s father, Raul (Hovik Keuchkerian), as part of a ploy to bring Javier back to Los Sueños, the village. Raul holds Toby responsible for Angélica having become a prostitute and punches him unconscious. When Toby wakes up, he finds Javier flogging himself with thorny branches because of his love for Dulcinea. While washing Javier’s wounds at a river, a party in medieval dress on horseback passes them, including Jacqui, on their way to a costume party held by Alexei at his castle. Toby’s Boss tries to please Alexei for the business advantages which a relationship with him could offer. Alexei is a self-centered and inhumane individual who demands subservience. Then, at the castle, Javier as Don Quixote accepts Alexei’s dare to ‘ride to the moon.’ This becomes an entertaining performance that is jeeringly laughed at afterward. When Alexei suspects that Toby and Angélica are interested in each other, he reminds her of her place (as she says). On purpose, he spills ice cream on his shoe and expects her to clean it by licking it off. Toby wants to leave with Javier and Angélica, but he fails to convince them that they should leave the castle with him. In a room with a balcony on the first level of the castle, Toby finds that he has not managed to rescue Angélica, but that it is Jacqui wearing a mask. Meanwhile, next to the tree of discarded possessions to be lit in the courtyard, Toby sees from above that Angélica is tied at the stake and surrounded by flames that are just scarfs blown to resemble flames. When Javier storms into the room, Toby accidentally knocks him over the balcony. While dying, Javier admits that he is a shoemaker, a statement that Toby refuses to accept. He refers to Don Quixote’s immortality, which materializes when Toby becomes the new Don Quixote and attacks windmills that he sees as giants. The plot events above are part of Javier’s assistance in letting Toby experience adventures—and create a story that coincides with the collection of episodes that make up the film. As a narrative about a frustrated and unfulfilled film director, Toby, who then becomes an authentic artist and discards his previous life as a director using his skills for the sake of an income, the film is indeed a cinematic Künstlerroman. As a postmodernist work which merges genres, it is also a road movie that depicts the whole journey narrative as an allegory, in which the recurrent setting of the desert serves as a metaphor for Toby’s struggle or ‘drought’; his lack of the ‘life’ of being an authentic artist. The two central artists in the film, Toby and Javier, share similarities. Both experience the inner conflict of being artists as opposed to doing work for the sake of a livelihood. At the beginning of the film, Toby directs a commercial that features the Don Quixote and Sancho Panza characters after he had already made a more artistic film about Don Quixote as a student project. This is regression. However, the end of the film centers around Toby wanting

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to flee Alexei despite the money that he could offer the Boss for film projects—which draws attention to the film as semi-autobiographical, already indicated by markers such as the morphological similarity of the names Toby Grummet, Terry Gilliam and Tony Grisoni, the last of whom wrote the screenplay together with Gilliam. Donnell also points out the fictionalized autobiographic relation between the characters: during the opening of Lost in La Mancha which can be transposed onto The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, Gilliam is like Quixote, serving as a spectator, actor, narrator, author and sometimes a director.60 Indeed, the beginning of Lost in La Mancha firmly establishes Don Quixote’s (creative) delusions, fictionalizing windmills as giants, as directly comparable to Gilliam’s vision for the film. As Sancho Panza, Toby is an apprentice to Don Quixote, subconsciously in search of his former authentic artist self when he jumps on the motorcycle, a ‘substitute Rocinante,’ to rediscover the people who were part of his film ten years before. This journey then also leads to the vision(s) of the artists that surface in the form of hallucinations and dreams. Both Javier and finally Toby as Don Quixote of course also mistake windmills for threatening giants. Javier’s attraction to art is less that of being an actor than to be a ‘different kind of shoemaker’: someone who creates (or repairs) a work of art. The metaphoric ‘shoe’ is in this sense reality. This Don Quixote’s art is to creatively change reality (like windmills) into fiction (giants). Toby’s creativity, in the form of hallucinations and dreams, during the journey together with Javier is juxtaposed against the beginning of the film when he is represented as a disgruntled filmmaker. He is represented as a hotshot director who is so bored and dissatisfied with his current project (the commercial) that he flirts with set personnel and has an affair with the Boss’s wife. However, as soon as he embarks on his adventures with Javier, he sees threats where there are none. The poor illegal immigrants become something more exciting and interesting: terrorists. The disc washers that he finds the next day are gold coins. When Angélica’s father hit him unconscious, he dreams that he kisses Angélica—only upon waking up to find that he is kissing a sheep. The climax of his hallucinations occurs when he believes that Angélica is surrounded by flames. These ‘fictionalizations’ are involuntary and culminate in not being able to see the windmills at the end of the film as windmills, but as enormous charging giants with clubs. The desert symbolizes for the lost Javier and the doubting Toby hardship to find their true artist identity as Don Quixote. The desert is for them “a space of self-discovery through pain, solitariness, and suffering” as it was for Jesus and John.61 However, this artistic state of mind is in a continuous struggle with its opposite throughout Toby’s journey. His adventures are associated with difficulty, suffering and skepticism. He is always clumsy and falls so much that it is reminiscent of a toddler learning to walk—a metaphor for the blundering



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artist. Despite his dreams and hallucinations, Toby often expresses disbelief in Javier’s invented reality. When Javier smirks at Toby’s simplicity which he describes as charming, the latter cynically responds by saying: “Yeah, and you are really Don Quixote.” Javier, embracing the persona which he continuously creates, asks confoundedly: “You doubt that?” When Toby tries to pull Javier back to the reality of his past, the latter affirms: “I was lost. Forgotten.” This was a state that Javier, a shoemaker once, managed to escape. But it is for Toby still one in which he finds himself, cynically clinging to ‘reality’ until he succeeds Javier as Don Quixote. In the context of this allegorical film, the instance of Javier’s death is also metaphorical. The rational cynic kills the dreamer and the artist. Skepticism and being too focused on reality do not provide space for imagination. Toby struggles with his belief in his own identity as an artist, as ‘a’ Don Quixote like Javier. In this sense, Toby is the man who killed Don Quixote. But the end of the film also allows for the resurrection of Don Quixote. When the master dies, the student is convinced of his validity and the artist’s immortality. When that happens, all doubt vanishes—and Toby as the new Don Quixote becomes completely ‘mad’ and sees windmills for giants. CONCLUSION One could contextualize Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas adaptation of Harter S. Thompson’s novel as a late addition to the desert films of the early 1970s. It depicts the loss of meaning in the lives of Raoul Duke, the narrator, and Gonzo in 1971 following the ‘chivalrous’ protest movements of the 1960s that Duke associates with “riding the crest of psychedelia, love, and peace.” This is juxtaposed to the “intense and unforgiving tone of so much of the book.”62 Bastings awards Gilliam’s film the status of an “apex adaptation” based on its fidelity to the source text.63 Like a Don Quixote, Gilliam is, with this film, also a “redresser of wrongs and abuses.”64 The quest for the ‘Holy Grail’ of the American Dream—including the use of drugs—came to mean ‘sticking it to the man’ in the interest of rights, equality and harmonious society. The true purpose of the film is, therefore, to represent the effects of this loss of purpose which occurred once the 1960s protest-movement subsided. The nature of drug abuse, outside of the context of the 1960s counterculture, then becomes part of the Duke’s and Gonzo’s defeat as it is combined with the American social mores of consumerism. Indeed, as Daniel Worden observes, “Thompson’s gonzo journalism documents the perpetual derailing and failure of radical politics in the 1970s, as emergent neoliberalism accommodates the drug culture as consumerism rather than resistance to American hegemony.”65 Drug (ab)use becomes pathological, leading to revolting and

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criminal behavior—“pushing consumerism to its limits— . . . consumerism becomes less a progressive facet of modern life, . . . and more of a dangerous, threatening violation of conventional morality and the self.”66 Las Vegas, but also its surrounding desert landscape, is a microcosm representative of the United States and its inner conflicts. The city surrounded by the Mojave Desert, therefore, reflects the main protagonists’ defeat and, subsequently, inner wilderness and infertility. Duke’s crazy story about succumbing to destructive and immoral choices that focus on material, escapist greed makes Las Vegas (like the town Hard Times in E.L. Doctorow’s novel) symbolic of the characters’ “modern wilderness of the spirit,” as Jasper defines it.67 According to Gandy, films such as Werner Herzog’s Fata Morgana (1971), Nicolas Roeg’s Walkabout (1970) and Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Arabian Nights (1974) represented a kind of cinematic frontier that could enable the exploration of new kinds of imaginary spaces: “By the early 1970s, the cinematic desert had become a kind of tabula rasa around which countercultural discourses could develop in opposition to the perceived hegemony and cultural inauthenticity of industrial capitalism.”68 Like many others, both of Gilliam’s ‘desert films’ are about personal experiences. Thomas Elsaeser and Malte Hagener indeed group Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas together with Roger Corman’s The Trip (1967), Stanley Kubrick’s A Space Odyssey (1968), Dennis Hopper’s Easy Rider (1969) and Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting (1996) as “the idea of cinema as a trip (into another world, into the self, into an artificial paradise or a synthetic hell).”69 The completely different internal worlds that these films unlock are the secondary, deeper level of the allegorical film. As Jeff Bridges narrates in Lost in La Mancha, these “internal worlds” coincide with the landscapes as stark as Gilliam already envisioned for the failed attempt of the film in 2000. One can transpose this starkness onto both the desert films. Gilliam’s latest film is interpretable as a metanarrative, a visual or cinematic artist’s narrative. It is the story of two individuals who are artists at heart, but who have become too realistic and cynical about their art and, as such, have lost their sense of purpose as artists. Javier and, finally, also Toby rediscover their artist identity as Don Quixote who stands for the ability to create new worlds out of reality. Both Miguel de Cervantes’s character, Javier, and an equally determined Toby (as Don Quixote) are unrelenting in pursuing this goal. The artistic cinematic employment of desert spaces therefore has a ‘symbolistic’ nature in the sense that they render the films as artefacts that are an alternative to naturalistic films that attempt to absorb (or ‘deceive’) the audience. The viewer recognizes Gilliam’s Don Quixote and Sancho Panza from infinite illustrations and paintings and Gilliam’s Duke and Gonzo from Ralph Steadman’s drawings in Thompson’s book. Terry Gilliam’s films are, as he says himself, indeed “more like cartoons”: “Distorted. Hyperreal. I



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don’t think I can ever see the world in a banal way. I am always inventing stuff to highlight reality.”70 NOTES 1. Gerard Genette, Narrative Discourse (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1980), 162. 2. David Jasper, The Sacred Desert: Religion, Literature, Art, and Culture (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006 [2004]), 117. 3. Sidney Donnell, “Quixotic Storytelling, Lost in La Mancha, and the Unmaking of The Man Who Killed Don Quixote,” Romance Quarterly 53, no. 2 (2009): 103. 4. Edward C. Riley (ed.), “Introduction,” in Don Quixote de la Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, vii-xvi (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), x. 5. Greg Singh, Film after Jung: Post-Jungian Approaches to Film Theory (London: Routledge, 2009), 28. 6. Anthony O. Scott, “‘The Man Who Killed Don Quixote’ Brings Him Back to Life.” April 18, 2019. www​.nytimes​.com​/by​/a​-o​-​-scott. Accessed on April 26, 2022. 7. Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote de la Mancha, edited by Edward Riley (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992 [1547, 1616]), 23. 8. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (eds.), “Introduction: Fear and Loathing in Hollywood: Looking at Terry Gilliam through a Wide-angle Lens,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, 1–8 (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 2. 9. Victor Shklovsky, “Art as Technique.” In Modern Criticism and Theory: A Reader, 9th edn. edited by David Lodge, 16–30 (London: Longman, 1994 [1917]), 20. 10. Ibid., 18. 11. See Peter Marks, Terry Gilliam (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009), 9. 12. Jasper, The Sacred Desert, 2. 13. Ibid. 14. Lubomír Doležel, “Fictional and Historical Narrative: Meeting the Postmodernist Challenge,” in Narratologis: New Perspectives on Narrative Analysis, edited by David Herman, 247–73 (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1999), 254. 15. Philip Sheldrake, Spaces for the Sacred. Place, Memory, Identity (Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 2001), 91. 16. Jakob Lothe, Narrative in Fiction and Film: An Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 50. 17. Keith Polette, “Desert Voices: Southwestern Children’s Literature.” Children’s Literature in Education 28, no. 3 (1997): 163. 18. Daniel Yacavone, Film Worlds: A Philosophical Aesthetics of Cinema (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015), 4. 19. Marie-Laure Ryan, Possible Worlds, Artificial Intelligence, and Narrative Theory (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991), n.p. 20. Doležel, “Fictional and Historical Narrative,” 254. 21. Yacavone, Film Worlds, 5.

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22. Ibid., 131. 23. Ibid. 24. Ibid., 133. 25. Ibid. 26. Jasper, The Sacred Desert, 27. 27. Ibid., 32. 28. Uwe Lindemann, Die Wüste. Terra incognita—Erlebnis—Symbol. Eine Genealogie der abendländischen Wüstenvorstellungen in der Literatur von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag C. Winter, 2000), 13–14. 29. Matthew Gandy, “The Cinematic Void: Desert Iconographies in Michelangelo’s Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point,” in Landscape and Film, edited by Martin Lefebvre, 315–32 (New York: Routledge, 2006), 316. 30. E.L. Doctorow, Welcome to Hard Times (New York: Plume, 1996 [1960]), 144. See also Philip van der Merwe, “Fictional Worlds and Focalisation in Works by Hermann Hesse and E.L. Doctorow” Ph.D. Thesis (Potchefstroom: North-West University, 2011), 144. 31. Winifred Bevilacqua, “The Revision of the Western in E.L. Doctorow’s Welcome to Hard Times,” American Literature 61, no. 1 (1989), 78–95: 89. 32. Ibid. 33. E.L. Doctorow, Welcome to Hard Times (New York: Plume, 1996 [1960]), 7. 34. Barry Norman, Barry Norman Interviews Terry Gilliam (Film 98 at Cannes, BBC). September 7, 2020 [1998]. https:​//​www​.youtube​.com​/watch​?v​=sqQ2EZi2avo. Accessed on April 26, 2022. 35. Schuy R. Weishaar, Masters of the Grotesque: The Cinema of Tim Burton, Terry Gilliam, the Coen Brothers and David Lynch (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012), 107–08. 36. Marks, Terry Gilliam, 176–77. 37. Ibid., 177. 38. Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream (New York: Vintage, 1998 [1971]), 57. 39. Jurij Lotman, The Structure of the Artistic Text (Michigan: University Press, 1977), 212. 40. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, 21. 41. Ibid., 23. 42. Karen Randell, “Terry Gilliam Interview with Karen Randell—3 May 2012,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell, 9–15 (London: Wallflower Press, 2013), 13. 43. Barrett J. Shepherd, “Adaptation from Novels into Films: A Study of Six Examples, with an Accompanying Screenplay and Self-analysis,” M.A. dissertation (Waikato: University of Waikato, 2009), 46. 44. Marks, Terry Gilliam, 184. 45. Michael O’Sullivan, “‘Fear’: Worth the Trip.” May 22, 1998. www​ .washingtonpost​.com​/wp​-srv​/style​/longterm​/movies​/videos​/fearandloathinginlasvega sosullivan​.htm. Accessed on April 26, 2022. 46. Marks, Terry Gilliam, 184.



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47. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, 3. 48. Marks, Terry Gilliam, 184. 49. Ibid., 192. 50. Birkenstein, Froula, and Randell, “Introduction,” 2. 51. Vincenzo Vitiello, “Desert, Ethos, Abandonment: Towards a Topology of the Religious,” In Religion, edited by Jacques Derrida and Gianni Vattimo, 136–69 (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1998 [1996]), 137. 52. Ibid. 53. Nicolas Freund, “‘The Man Who Killed Don Quixote’ im Kino: Was, wenn Don Quixote als Einziger klar sieht?” September 30, 2018. https:​//​www​.sueddeutsche​.de​ /kultur​/kino​-was​-wenn​-don​-quixote​-als​-einziger​-klar​-sieht​-1​.4143984. Accessed on April 26, 2022. 54. Vitiello, “Desert, Ethos, Abandonment,” 137. 55. See Jasper, The Sacred Desert, 15. 56. Vitiello, “Desert, Ethos, Abandonment,” 165. 57. Greg Singh, Film after Jung: Post-Jungian Approaches to Film Theory (London: Routledge, 2009), 28. 58. Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote de la Mancha, 23. 59. Angus Fletcher, Allegory: The Theory of a Symbolic Mode (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1970 [1964]), 220–21. 60. Sidney Donnell, “Quixotic Storytelling, Lost in La Mancha, and the Unmaking of The Man Who Killed Don Quixote,” Romance Quarterly 53, no. 2 (2009): 102. 61. Jasper, The Sacred Desert, 15. 62. Marks, Terry Gilliam, 177. 63. Dakota Bastings, “Fear and Loaning: Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas as Apex Adaptation,” The Midwest Quarterly 61, no. 2 (2020): 298. 64. Cervantes Saavedra, 44. 65. Daniel Worden, “Neoliberal Style: Alex Haley, Hunter S. Thompson, and Countercultures,” American Literature 87, no. 4 (2015): 811. 66. Ibid., 812–13. 67. Jasper, The Sacred Desert, 7. 68. Gandy, “The Cinematic Void,” 328. 69. Thomas Elsaesser and Malte Hagener, Film Theory: An Introduction through the Senses (New York and London: Routledge, 2010), 51. 70. Michael Tapper, “Beyond the Banal Surface of Reality: Interview with Terry Gilliam.” Film International 4, no. 1 (2006): 60–69.

REFERENCES Bastings, Dakota. “Fear and Loaning: Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas as Apex Adaptation.” The Midwest Quarterly 61, no. 2 (2020): 289–303. Bevilacqua, Winifred. “The Revision of the Western in E.L. Doctorow’s Welcome to Hard Times.” American Literature 61, no. 1 (1989): 78–95.

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Birkenstein, Jeff, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell (eds.). “Introduction: Fear and Loathing in Hollywood: Looking at Terry Gilliam through a Wide-angle Lens.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, 1–8. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de. Don Quixote de la Mancha, edited by Edward Riley. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992 [1547, 1616]. Doctorow, E.L. Welcome to Hard Times. New York: Plume, 1996 [1960]. Doležel, Lubomír. “Fictional and Historical Narrative: Meeting the Postmodernist Challenge.” In Narratologies: New Perspectives on Narrative Analysis, edited by David Herman, 247–73. Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1999. Donnell, Sidney. “Quixotic Storytelling, Lost in La Mancha, and the Unmaking of The Man Who Killed Don Quixote.” Romance Quarterly 53, no. 2 (2009): 92–112. Elsaesser, Thomas and Malte Hagener. Film Theory: An Introduction through the Senses. New York and London: Routledge, 2010. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Directed by Terry Gilliam. New York: Universal Pictures, 1998. Fletcher, Angus. Allegory: The Theory of a Symbolic Mode. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1970 [1964]. Freund, Nicolas. “‘The Man Who Killed Don Quixote’ im Kino: Was, wenn Don Quixote als Einziger klar sieht?” September 30, 2018. www​.sueddeutsche​.de​/kultur​ /kino​-was​-wenn​-don​-quixote​-als​-einziger​-klar​-sieht​-1​.4143984. Genette, Gerard. Narrative discourse. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1980. Gandy, Matthew. “The Cinematic Void: Desert Iconographies in Michelangelo Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point.” In Landscape and Film, edited by Martin Lefebvre, 315–32. New York: Routledge, 2006. Jasper, David. The Sacred Desert: Religion, Literature, Art, and Culture. Oxford: Blackwell, 2006 [2004]. Jordaan, Doret. Die uitbeelding van Afrika-woestyne in Afrikaanse, Engelse, Duitse en Franse fiksie (Ph.D. Thesis). Stellenbosch: Stellenbosch University, 2017. Lindemann, Uwe. Die Wüste. Terra incognita—Erlebnis—Symbol. Eine Genealogie der abendländischen Wüstenvorstellungen in der Literatur von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag C. Winter, 2000. Lost in La Mancha. Directed by Keith Fulton and Louis Pepe. New York City: IFC Films, 2002. Lothe, Jakob. Narrative in Fiction and Film: An Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Lotman, Jurij. The Structure of the Artistic Text. Michigan: University Press, 1977. The Man Who Killed Don Quixote. Directed by Terry Gilliam. London: Sparky Pictures, 2018. Marks, Peter. Terry Gilliam. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009. Norman, Barry. Barry Norman Interviews Terry Gilliam. (Film 98 at Cannes, BBC). September 7, 2020 [1998]. https:​//​www​.youtube​.com​/watch​?v​=sqQ2EZi2avo. O’Sullivan, Michael. “‘Fear’: Worth the Trip.” May 22, 1998. www​.washingtonpost​ .com​/wp​-srv​/style​/longterm​/movies​/videos​/fearandloathinginlasvegasosullivan​ .htm.



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Polette, Keith. “Desert Voices: Southwestern Children’s Literature.” Children’s Literature in Education 28, no. 3 (1997): 163–75. Randell, Karen. “Terry Gilliam Interview with Karen Randell—3 May 2012.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell, 9–15. London: Wallflower Press, 2013. Riley, Edward.C. “Introduction.” In Don Quixote de la Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, edited by Edward C. Riley, vii–xvi. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992. Ryan, Marie-Laure. Possible Worlds, Artificial Intelligence, and Narrative Theory. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991. Scott, Anthony O. “‘The Man Who Killed Don Quixote’ Brings Him Back to Life.” April 18, 2019. www​.nytimes​.com​/2019​/04​/18​/movies​/man​-who​-killed​-don​ -quixotereview​.html. Sheldrake, Philip. Spaces for the Sacred. Place, Memory, Identity. Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 2001. Shepherd, Barrett J. “Adaptation from Novels into Films: A Study of Six Examples, with an Accompanying Screenplay and Self-analysis” M.A. dissertation. Waikato: University of Waikato, 2009. Shklovsky, Victor. “Art as Technique.” In Modern Criticism and Theory: A Reader, 9th edn., edited by by David Lodge, 16–30. London: Longmans, 1994 [1917]. Singh, Greg. Film after Jung: Post-Jungian Approaches to Film Theory. London: Routledge, 2009. Tapper, Michael. “Beyond the Banal Surface of Reality: Interview with Terry Gilliam.” Film International 4, no. 1 (2006): 60–69. Thompson, Hunter S. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream. New York: Vintage, 1998 [1971]. Van der Merwe, Philip. “Fictional Worlds and Focalisation in Works by Hermann Hesse and E.L. Doctorow” Ph.D. Thesis. Potchefstroom: North-West University, 2011. Vitiello, Vincenzo. “Desert, Ethos, Abandonment: Towards a Topology of the Religious.” In Religion, edited by Jacques Derrida and Gianni Vattimo, 136–69. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1998 [1996]. Weishaar, Schuy R. Masters of the Grotesque: The Cinema of Tim Burton, Terry Gilliam, the Coen Brothers and David Lynch. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012. Welcome to Hard Times. Directed by Burt Kennedy. New York: Metro-GoldwynMayer, 1967. Worden, Daniel. “Neoliberal Style: Alex Haley, Hunter S. Thompson, and Countercultures.” American Literature 87, no. 4 (2015): 799–823. Yacavone, Daniel. Film Worlds: A Philosophical Aesthetics of Cinema. New York: Columbia University Press, 2015.

Chapter 9

Between the Forest and Civilization Liminal Spaces in Terry Gilliam’s The Brothers Grimm (2005) Sabine Planka and Philip van der Merwe

When thinking of the brothers Grimm, one might naturally think about fairy tales like Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, and Sleeping Beauty. These folk stories and fairy tales—and many others—had been collected by Jakob Grimm (1785–1863) and Wilhelm Grimm (1786–1859), two brothers born in Hanau (Germany) who were academics and philologists in the period of Romanticism in the nineteenth century. Traditional folk stories and fairy tales were popular during these times. The brothers Grimm were not the only ones to collect folk tales, but also, for example, Clemens Brentano together with Achim von Arnim: well-known is their collection Des Knaben Wunderhorn: Alte deutsche Lieder, three volumes that were published in 1806 and 1808. The folk and fairy tales collected by the brothers Grimm became famous and were adapted in various ways. It is, therefore, no wonder that Terry Gilliam, with his love for the fantastic, adapted them too—but in a very different way than one would expect. Gilliam’s film The Brothers Grimm (2005) presents the characters Jake and Will Grimm (Heath Ledger and Matt Damon) themselves, who collect various fairy tales, but also become part of them. It is interesting that fairy tales are presented or utilized in Gilliam’s film, but they are not exclusively Grimm fairy tales. It is most notably the English fairy tale Jack and the Beanstalk that is part of the intertextual collection of references to fairy tales that are not one of the Grimms’ stories. But the film, as a whole, also presents a new 157

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fairy tale itself. This story focuses on the brothers who had both as children and in their later lives remained strongly connected to folk stories and fairy tales. It is worth paying attention to the construction of Gilliam’s film: the brothers pursue mysterious and miraculous occurrences that various villagers tell them about. They then promise to ward off (fake) evil presences like the witch of the mill near Karlsbad—of course, in exchange for money. Jake and Will stage occurrences and make sure that there is at least one gullible witness who will tell others how they destroyed the evil. However, coming to the village of Marbaden, they realize very soon that real magical power is interfering with their plans and that the villagers are in real danger. Unsurprising considering the fairy tales of the historical brothers Grimm, such a real power is located in the forest outside of the village. According to Jurij M. Lotman, the forest is a place in which the awful and miraculous occurrences can occur1 and that oscillates between threat and freedom, as Anna Stemmann mentions.2 When Hanau’s mayor, Claus Kaminsky, used words like “wondrous,” “fantastic,” “mysterious,” and “magic”3 in the opening speech for the Brothers Grimm Festival during May and June 2022, it is very easy to apply them to the forests in the original Grimm folk stories and fairy tales, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, to the forest in Gilliam’s film and to the film as a whole. While everything outside of the forest seems to be more sober, ordinary, and credible, Gilliam’s film makes the forest a prominent and conspicuous place—especially on the basis of the contrast between the forest and the adjacent human civilization. The forest in Gilliam’s film marks the center of magic and functions as an antagonist to the village, normally a magic-free zone in which the brothers Grimm aim to establish their false magic. This opposition sparks not only curiosity about the relationship between these two spaces, but especially what is to be found between them. How can magic cross the border of the edge of the forest and reach into the village? In attempting to answer this question, it is helpful to consider especially the border between the forest and the village, in all its variation, as composed of liminal spaces that can be transgressed by magic. LIMINAL SPACES AND PLACES Coined for the first time by Arnold van Gennep in his book Rites de Passage in 1909, the term “liminality” has become popular due to Victor Turner’s writings in the 1960s and has been used in several scientific disciplines to explain various transitional phenomena and thresholds. In van Gennep’s three-step model, “‘[l]iminality’ as a sociologically useful concept denotes the middle phase of any ritual process that can be divided . . . into three

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analytically distinct phases and during which an individual undergoes a transition from one social status to another. . . . During the middle phase of such a process the individuals involved are understood to be ‘no longer’ and simultaneously also ‘not yet.’”4 As Turner notes himself, individuals are “neither here nor there; they are betwixt and between the positions assigned and arrayed by law, custom, convention, and ceremonial.”5 This concept has been applied in various intensities—some studies are more general,6 some are more specific and focused on a special topic—to various other disciplines such as literature,7 art,8 and film.9 Therefore, it seems to be of interest to subject Gilliam’s film The Brothers Grimm to an analysis which attempts to see whether liminal spaces and places indeed exist in his film; who can cross the transitional space into which direction; how this process of crossing this border works; and where these transitional spaces are located. Before doing so, and in the context of an overview of Gilliam’s film, the two general spaces of inside and outside of the forest already beg the question of what one would find between them. The content of Gilliam’s film can be summarized in only a few sentences: the protagonists, the brothers Grimm, pretend to be the liberators of people oppressed by horrible magic. They travel to towns and villages like Karlstadt and Marbaden, listen to the inhabitants and their ‘experiences’ with magical phenomena, collect them by writing them down, and stage a solution—for cash. When they travel to the small village of Marbaden, they are confronted with the case of abducted young girls—and experience real magic and magical power inflicted by the Thuringian queen of the forest. She vegetates in a kind of deep sleep in a tower in the middle of the forest that itself seems to have magical qualities. With the help of Angelika (Lena Headey), they trace the missing girls and then destroy the power of the queen. One must understand liminal spaces or the spaces between the forest and civilization in the larger context of liminality in the film, because the relationship between characters and space is mutually interactive as observable in films and fiction in which space typifies characters. Jakob Lothe asserts that specific parts or characteristics of narrative space influence and shape characters, who normally appear in space and are thus also spatial elements of a kind.10 But characters can also characterize space, like the suburb in Tim Burton’s Edward Scissorhands (1990). The setting in The Brothers Grimm is Germany occupied by the French. The space in the film in which most of the meetings between the two worlds of the supernatural and the natural occur is in and near the town of Marbaden, like the meadow adjacent to the forest. However, these liminal spaces also belong to civilization since they are simply not the forest. The most ‘civilized space,’ in contrast to the forest, would be the castle that General Vavarin Delatombe (Jonathan Pryce) occupies and where he holds a banquet for the advisors of the emperor. Delatombe says

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to the guests: “Your shining examples illuminate this dark German forest of ignorance and superstition.” The space between the forest and civilization is not necessarily a specified place or no-man’s land, functioning as a border that belongs to neither the forest nor civilization. Rather, liminality is also actualized by representatives of the forest moving into civilization and representatives of civilization moving into the forest. This occurs physically, but also cognitively. Liminal interfaces are, therefore, not only fixed in geographical locations like the edge of the forest. The only static zone in the film which can be considered as liminal is the meadow next to Marbaden on the one side and the forest on the other: where Little Red Riding Hood disappears in the film. Mostly liminal spaces do not have a separating function, but one that connects the rational world with the magical world. Liminality is represented through the movement of characters and phenomena. The liminal space is therefore not fixed, but a zone that is liable to change and activated (as liminal) once certain characters move between civilization and the forest. For example, a liminal space comes into being through a golem who travels from the forest, up a well in Marbaden, and into a house. The most obvious movement that transforms an ‘ordinary space’ (like the well and its surrounding area in the town) into a liminal space is thus when there is movement from the supernatural world into the rational world. LIMINAL CHARACTERS Moreover, liminal spaces also occur through the consciousness of the characters of both the natural world and the supernatural world. Firstly, there are ‘liminal characters’ or ‘marginals’ like Jacob and Angelika that accept and believe in the supernatural. Marginals are, according to Turner, “outsiders” or people who find themselves in a liminal position as, for example, women in atypical roles; people of an ethnically mixed origin; migrant foreigners; et cetera.11 They are excentric or “ex-centric,” a term which Homi K. Bhabha12 also uses (in terms of postmodernism, postcolonialism, and postfeminism). Peter Marks says, “somewhere in between” the “earthy but defeated Germans” and the “conquerors, the rationalist and arrogant Napoleonic French, personified in Delatombe”13 fall the Grimms, who also embody the belief in folk myth (Jake) and reason (Will). Jake and Will are certainly marginals in the sense that they market themselves as exorcists, but marginals are also any characters who believe in the supernatural; characters who veer from the new world-perspective of the Enlightenment which rejects superstitions. That is why Jake and Angelika are more notable as marginals. They are more accepting of what is on both sides of the liminal door sill.

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Jake, already as a child, believed in magic and happy endings when he was tricked by a con artist. At the end of the film, he confesses to Will that he has not believed in the rational world. However, in Cavaldi’s (Peter Stormare) torture chamber, which also becomes a liminal space because of the tension between obtuse reason and the supernatural, Jake learns the necessity of recognizing and acknowledging the rational world. He first communicates to the general that the occurrences in the forest are the result of “authenticated enchantment.” When this causes the general and Cavaldi to want to execute Angelika, Jake manipulates reason to prevent this. The space and knowledge of magic often coincide. For example, when Angelika talks about her father’s disappearance and the story of the evil queen, she does so in the forest at the tower of the evil queen. Also, Will eventually becomes a liminal character, once the supernatural becomes undeniable. At first, when he sees magical phenomena in the forest, his response is to say that nothing makes sense there; that it is “like being in Jake’s head.” But Will is finally convinced when Jake tells him that “it’s not beans, it’s real” and when he witnesses the werewolf’s transformation: “The rationalist Will is also forced to recognize powers beyond the explanatory power of reason.”14 Whether characters like General Delatombe and Will reject these powers or accept them (like Jake does), whenever the supernatural is a theme of the discussions, they change the nature of the space (in which they are) into a liminal space between the rational world and the supernatural world. The end of the film then offers a creolized world in which the natural and supernatural both belong to a new order. Turner15 sees liminality as a stage of transformation. By referring to Bhabha’s third space of enunciation, in The Location of Culture (1994),16 in which opposites meet and where new blends take place, Viljoen and Van der Merwe define creolization as a way out of the old dividing structures of the past.17 Liminality is for Will and Delatombe marked by denial and the desire for confirmation; but creolization proves to be a new and successful narrative. THE GRIMM FAIRY TALES IN THE FILM THE BROTHERS GRIMM Such a new narrative as Gilliam’s film is based on the fact that magic cannot be denied anymore. It is part of the (real) world of the characters. But how it is to be understood is deferred. In the relationship between the fairy tales and Gilliam’s film, there is liminal and reciprocal value. We can therefore recognize a Derridean deconstructionist relationship. There are various ‘references’ to the Grimm fairy tales in the film that only partially represent the Grimms’ stories that suggest their meaning, but their (absolute) signification remains

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deferred.18 For example, in the film Hans and Greta are in the forest and Hans does leave breadcrumbs on a path like the Grimms’ Hansel. However, Greta’s bewitched scarf, and her being captured by a creature whose shadow is all the audience sees, is a new variation on the original story. The gingerbread man can also be seen as a variation of an original myth, namely the golem, a human-shaped creature made from clay and brought to life.19 It finally transforms into a gingerbread man which continues the eerie surprises of the sequence also underscoring the fairy-tale motif. The gingerbread man is, likewise, a new variation when it comes about when a golem is formed from mud that a crow that fell into a well claps loose from its wings. Bettelheim describes fairy tales as “suggestive” and implying solutions that are left to the child’s imagination, but which are not spelled out.20 Gilliam’s reworkings do retain the characteristic entertainment value, but, instead of the hermeneutic evocation as with the original fairy tales, they rather draw attention—but only in the first instance—to the intertextual effect. After that, they challenge (or frustrate) the viewer into finding new meanings. This means that the ‘references’ to magic beans, Rapunzel, Little Red Riding Hood, et cetera, are signifiers that refer to other signifiers. Thus, the forest and civilization function as narrative spaces in The Brothers Grimm that evoke the spaces of the Grimms’ fairy tales. They are signifiers that share similar, but also different characteristics. One can translate this as the forest being like civilization and civilization as being similar to the forest. Angus Fletcher points out that the imagery of trees and forests produces a type of natural banner or flag.21 Because of the supernatural, Will and the general consider the forest to be ‘unnatural,’ but this is ironic since as nature it is of course natural. That is also what one would expect—as Lefebvre remarks, the “more a space partakes of nature, the less it enters into the social relations of production.”22 However, the forest is of course also supernatural, but as a textual construct in a relationship with the actual world, it implies the naturalness of imagination and creativity. Yet, because of rationality, the forest remains as a signifier in limbo. The signification of either natural (ordinary) or unnatural (extraordinary) remains liminally undecided. Likewise, one can regard the ‘rational’ world as ‘ordinary’ and as ‘natural,’ but, in comparison to nature, civilization is artificial and therefore also unnatural. The ambiguity of the rational world as a signifier in the film therefore leaves it, in terms of signification, uncommitted as well. The film only represents the two opposing worlds as signifiers and leaves the audience to think about the cinematic story (the film as a whole) and the stories, the references to the fairy tales. This is reminiscent of Gilliam’s announcement of his aim in the introduction of Tideland (2005). Before the film commences, the director looks straight at the camera, introduces himself to the viewer and says that he has a confession to make. He says that there a “many of you” who are going

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to hate the film but that many will also love it. The third group that he identifies are those who are not going to know what to think when the film finishes: “But, hopefully, you will be thinking.”23 An interpreted, signified meaning might be that the real forest—or the wilderness, darkness, inscrutability, and evil lurking in the forest—is not the forest itself that is transformed by the evil queen, but the civilized world. Both the Thuringian queen and General Delatombe idealize order. Delatombe’s last words are: “All I wanted was a bit of order. A slice of quiche would be nice.” However, this is not a meaning that the film itself accentuates. The poetic value of the film is that this meaning is unexclusive—or deferred. PHYSICAL AND COGNITIVE MOVEMENT BETWEEN THE FOREST AND CIVILIZATION Physical movement occurs when the border between the forest and civilization—especially represented by Marbaden—is crossed from the one side to the other side. Movement from the forest to civilization takes the form of supernatural phenomena as in the case of the golem, the possessed horse in the stable, both in Marbaden; and the unspecified presence of someone/something that captures Little Red Riding Hood on the meadow between the forest and Marbaden: “We never see what is chasing her, but music, pacing, lighting and her scream as a giant shadow overwhelms her create a sense of something ominous, eerie and powerful.”24 Since the supernatural phenomena all stem from the evil queen who is acquainted with both the human and magic worlds, she (the queen) has the upper hand. When people like the brothers Grimm, the Grimms’ assistants Hidlick (Mackenzie Crook) and Bunst (Richard Ridings), as well as Cavaldi and General Delatombe’s soldiers go into the forest, they are not accepting of what is on the other side. The result is that they are disorientated, exposed and vulnerable to the dangers that the magic world of the queen poses. However, cognitive movement between the forest, on the one hand, and civilized spaces, on the other hand, also establishes liminal spaces, that is, what is between the enchanted world and the ‘world of order and reason.’ There is thus movement of the natural and the supernatural across the borders of the two worlds through the consciousness of characters as well. Hein Viljoen and Chris N. van der Merwe compare borders to membranes that act like filters both allowing certain things through but also blocking others. They explain that this usually happens at places (doors or gates) where one is allowed to cross the boundary, often marked as a significant in-between zone called a threshold: “This is a place where you can cross into a different zone—in literature often into different worlds or states of being.”25

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The first instance of a person with a certain perspective that crosses a boundary is when Jake as a little boy arrives home with the magic beans. However, also as adults, after they staged getting rid of the witch in the mill, Will mockingly asks Jake whether he would prefer to be paid in magic beans. Jake answers in the affirmative. He makes the point that he still believes in magic by sacrificing his share of the money. The notion of beans being magic transforms the space between the person who sold the beans to Jake and the Grimms’ house, in which their mother, sister and the brothers live, into a liminal space between (the belief in) magic, which Jake represents, and sobriety, which Will, who becomes very angry about the loss of the cow that could have meant money for a doctor for their sick sister, represents. With this belief in ‘beans’ Jake contributes to transforming Marbaden into a liminal space in the same way that he transformed his family home into one. According to Marks, the beans therefore become a marker for belief or skepticism about the power of magic.26 But one could add to that it also becomes a marker for the belief in magic. Whenever there is a reference to magic in a rational place, a liminal space is generated. Whether the magic is real or fake (in the story world) does not make a difference. Magic as a concept enters the rational world through the consciousness of some of the characters. Liminal spaces therefore come about through people who are involved in this tension between the ordinary and the extraordinary. This occurs when Jake talks about magic in the pub, when Greta’s disappearance is discussed in the church, and when the old woman in Marbaden says that “the old ways have returned,” turning Marbaden into a physical and a temporal liminal space between the past and the present. This is also the case when the witch at the mill stream is discussed in the mayor’s office of Karlstadt: the miller imitates the witch’s cry startling those present as if she were really there. The miller therefore artistically brings her into this office. Another example is the fake witch that the brothers Grimm create in the mill: it, too, brings the two worlds together. Will and Delatombe resist belief in the supernatural. However, their rationality is overwhelmed by magic, and they must concede in the end. When Will sees magical phenomena in the forest, he tries to explain the “devouring trees and flying wolves” in the same rational terms in which Cavaldi describes the forest to Delatombe. When the horse swallowed Elsie, he says that there must be a “rational explanation for all of this.” A most significant case is the transformation of the reality of General Delatombe’s occupied castle into a liminal space between his rational space and the magical Thuringian Forest, all on account of the disappearance of children which he desires to be untrue. He describes it as a “thorn in his side.” Marks explains that he abhors the hold that folk wisdom has over the German peasantry, not only because it is an affront to his own very French and, in his estimation, superior rationalism, but

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also because the supernatural powers undermine French political control.27 Between the forest and his occupied castle lies his fear of lack of control: if the magic proves to be true, there is chaos, no order. Delatombe therefore tries to change the liminal space into a rational one by visiting the town and decapitating Hidlick and Bunst. He affirms they were “telling tales of extraordinary occurrences in the Thuringian Forest, spreading superstition and rumors amongst my troops.” A further, desperate attempt of Delatombe to destroy liminality is his attempt to burn down the forest. This is a reaction to his experience of the unfamiliar world “beyond the threshold which often causes anxiety, even the desire to return to the familiar life of the past; only to find out that the door is locked, the ways of the past are irretrievable.”28 In Delatombe’s mind, the whole world would be rational if there were not a forest. He therefore says: “Adieu, Grimms, and your tales. They will not be remembered.” This evokes liminality between the actual world and the fictional world because the fairy tales of the real Grimms are also, in the twenty-first century, well-known and popular. He fails to do this since the supernatural world reacts: the queen blows out the fire with an icy breath. THE EDGE OF THE FOREST AND THE FOREST AS LIMINAL SPACE The most central place in Gilliam’s film is the forest, which, with its magical qualities, stands in contrast to the village Marbaden. The motif of the forest in fairy tales itself has been examined in various ways.29 Therefore, it seems to be obsolete to repeat all these studies in detail. Of particular interest here is how Gilliam has constructed and implemented the forest in his cinematic narration. First, the forest, shown in the film, works with its inherent magic as a counterpart to the rational world in which the protagonists fake the occult horrors that seem to pursue ordinary people. But it is not so easy as it seems to be. Both—forest and nature on the one side, and the village as a civilized counterpart on the other side—contain rational and irrational elements. The forest itself seems to act independently; it confuses the intruders and only those familiar with natural magic can find their ways through it. Though, in the center of the forest lives the queen in a tower, who needs the blood of twelve young girls to regain her beauty and power. Thus, it could be argued that her magic infiltrates the forest and makes it a magic place itself. She uses her magic powers in her own rational way to manipulate the natural environment. The Thuringian queen fears and denies reality, that is, the natural course of ageing. She therefore manipulates the environment in her attempt to regain her youth and beauty.

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On the other hand, there is an interaction of three elements: firstly, the village that could be seen as a microcosm of Germany at the time; secondly, the rational French that control Germany as well as the rational-minded general who detests the supernatural phenomena; and, thirdly, the brothers Grimm, who are ready to deceive the inhabitants. This implies that the inhabitants believe in magic and, therefore, although skeptical because of the strength of the evil, covertly hope for the expulsion of the evil that the protagonists promise. But where do the magic and the rational meet in order to open up a liminal space that enables the magical power of the forest and the power of the queen to penetrate the world the brothers Grimm live in and what happens when the protagonists enter the magical spaces? The edge of the forest marks a divide between the two sides, two worlds that are basically enemies. The forest is a space personified as demonized, shrouded in mystery, and a real threat. It is precisely the edge of the forest that Little Red Riding Hood disappears from. The beginning of it is marked by the red hood stuck in the branches of the trees that can be seen clearly from the side of the town. This signals the abduction, but also personifies the forest as actively aggressive. Such a location itself becomes a character of sorts that poses a physical threat to the rational world—especially if one is a young girl in Marbaden. The fact that the threat is ‘invisible,’ at first, makes the liminal space terrifying, which is also the case when the girl Elsie disappears after having gone to the stable. THE STABLE AS A LIMINAL SPACE While the Grimm brothers are in the forest, the queen’s servant, the huntsman who can transforms himself into a wolf, feeds white spiders to one of the brother’s horses that enchant the horse. There are certainly many white spider species in nature, which also unites them with transformed nature, implying liminality though change or development once transformed nature meets the ordinary world: “while trees move and sprout magically, ravens and countless bugs signaling large malevolent forces. The fairy tale realm encompasses death and life, destruction and creation.”30 Once it is back in its stable in Marbaden, a little girl, Elsie, hears the restless horse and at night goes to the stable to pacify it. The horse then casts a spider’s web around her and swallows her. Nobody sees what happens, but the commotion of the horse swallowing the child and Elsie screaming all draws attention. Will, Jacob, Angelika, Cavaldi, Letorc (Julian Bleach) and Dax (Bruce McEwan) become aware that the escaping horse has something to do with Elsie’s disappearance and follow it. Once the horse runs back to the forest along a path at night with

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its grotesquely enlarged belly, the stable reverts to being an ordinary location. But while there was a transient development taking place, it was characterized by liminality. The first liminal space associated with Marbaden, the edge of the forest, is very dark and mysterious. There is a progression of liminal spaces becoming increasingly closer and exhibiting magical phenomena. Once in the forest, the encounter between the rational and the magical becomes more visible. Will tries to understand the moving tree branches and roots as the sophisticated technology of other con artists. Marks explains this liminality, that is, Will’s sober disbelief on meeting real magic, as an attempt “to fit the bizarre into his established frame of reference.”31 If one focuses on the word ‘artist’ in the term “con artist” we can consider it ironic that it is indeed a kind of ‘con artist’ that creates the magical forest: the storyteller, Terry Gilliam. In this sense, magic becomes a metaphor for imagination. In this film, the storyteller also uses his creativity to introduce a progression by which the mysterious and incomprehensible become more visible and closer to reality. With the next liminal space, the threat of the forest takes on a vivid form as a golem. Coming from the queen in the forest it enters the rational world through a well. THE WELL AS A LIMINAL SPACE The well is a space that enables magic to transit the barrier between the forest and its opposite to the center of the village. This scene shows another girl, Sasha, pulling up a bucket from the well and finding in it a raven. Sasha sympathizes with the wet, mud-covered black bird, calling it “poor birdie.” The raven then starts to clap its wings, covering Sasha in mud. When the girl wipes the mud from her face, the latter consists only of skin without eyes, nose holes and a mouth. Sasha makes anxious sounds that create a suffocating effect. The items that the queen enchants as vehicles are ordinary and natural things like the well, buckets, water, mud, a bird. The well, where these come together, is therefore the liminal meeting point. From the bottom of it, another bucket tips water from mud in the bucket and moves up the well. Once it is above, the mud falls to the ground, and already an indistinct bodily form captures Sasha’s eyes that were lying next to the well, magically removed from her face. Cavaldi and Angelika are, at this stage, already aware that something strange is happening. The mud continues to take the shape of a figure with a head, legs, and arms. The ‘mud man’ then exhibits eyes, a nose, and a mouth; it emerges as a golem. Sasha blindly and clumsily tries to run away with it following her. An inhabitant shoots with a rifle at it and it bursts apart, but it ‘heals’ itself. The golem

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makes the space liminal through its presence, traveling from its source, the queen, to Marbaden. The ensuing development creates a sense of inevitability and powerlessness. The “in-betweenness” of the real and the fantastic is made concrete through the supernatural occurrences in a realistic setting. While the golem collects itself, Angelika has time to shout to Sasha to run to her voice. She gives the girl to Cavaldi, who keeps her deep inside a house behind a closed wooden door. Once the golem is whole, it approaches running. Angelika cuts it in half with a hay fork. But now it collects itself and reanimates quickly. With enough power to break the wooden door, it extends long mud arms and grabs Sasha from Cavaldi’s arms sitting on a chair. It ‘places’ Sasha into its body, in a manner ‘swallowing’ it (reminiscent of the horse swallowing Elsie) and transforms into the gingerbread man. Therefore, it can be said that the golem, who seems to be a preliminary being changing into the gingerbread man, is a liminal figure itself because, and regarding Victor Turner, the golem/gingerbread man is “no longer classified and not yet classified.”32 The gingerbread man takes a bite from its own hand, and exclaims: “Mm, I taste good!” While Sasha’s father and Angelika desperately call for her, the gingerbread man runs away singing: “Can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man!,” it jumps into the well and disappears. The idea that the presence of the supernatural is beyond doubt is humorously underlined by Bunst, after having witnessed the golem’s actions and transformation, when he says: “I think I have soiled myself,” to which Hidlick answers: “I thought it was me.” Denial is not possible anymore because magic has become visible and tangible. This reaction to the “unbelievable” is that it has become credible. Creolization has taken place. The space of Marbaden has irretrievably changed with a more extensive, if also more confusing, knowledge of the world. CONCLUSION With The Brothers Grimm, Gilliam has created a film that shows the brothers Grimm, on the one hand, as the collectors of fairy tales and folk stories, but, on the other hand, as the producers of fairy tales. They let them become reality and fake them, until they are confronted with real magic that intrudes deeper and deeper into civilization, mainly represented by Marbaden, with the magic’s origins being the middle of the forest, where the Thuringian queen lives. Her magical powers overcome barriers and change normal places into liminal places and spaces where individuals are no longer in their old state of being but have not yet reached a new state. These spaces and places develop during the narration: besides the forest that is contrasted to the civilized world, there are also, for example, the edge of the forest, the stable

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and the well that are liminal spaces or change into liminal spaces. It seems obvious that people and non-human beings are influenced by this magic and, therefore, by these liminal spaces. The forest is particularly important in that it not only represents the queen’s power, but a Foucauldian heterotopian place33 because only people who are familiar with its rules, find their way into and out of it. The primary rule is to believe in the existence of the supernatural. In concrete and realistic terms, one could say that nobody will be able to or attempt to go to a location that they believe not to exist. However, openness changes the possibility of movement, liminality and creolization which is cognitively preceded before physically actualized. A more obvious symbolic meaning ‘between’ the forest and civilization is that the forest signifies magic opposed to civilization that signifies logic. Magic is related to fictional inventions and looked down upon by ‘enlightened’ civilization in the light of their crude and primitive pre-Enlightenment basis in superstition. Stories therefore represent chaos, reminiscent of the chaotic times of wars and the Black Plague during the Baroque period in Germany. However, the supposedly rational world can also be seen as a forest in the sense that it is incredible or difficult to believe. The pathways and movement of magical phenomena into the world outside of the forest are impermanent. Once the golem and the possessed horse have the children, they return to the woods. This shows that the worlds of the incomprehensible and the rational temporarily interpenetrate each other. The incomprehensible can include belief in readings of the actual world that lead to abstract ‘narratives’ or reasoning that hope, imagination, miracles, art—including fairy tales and other fiction—offer. The rational mind tends to be closed off and to reject these as invalid and childish. The receptive mind, on the other hand, tends to have a creative perspective that allows possibilities of understanding on both sides of a liminal door or via destinations connected by a path, change and healing. In this sense, Terry Gilliam’s film is an original work of art that tells the story about the discovery of magic in a (textual) real world. The new narrative is that it cannot be denied anymore that magic is part of the civilized world (in the film). But it also suggests metaphorically that the ‘magical’ effect of stories cannot be excluded from the actual world of the viewers, which lends validity and credibility to the imaginary. NOTES 1. See Jurij M.Lotman, Die Struktur literarischer Texte, 4th edn., trans. Rolf-Dietrich Keil (Munich: Fink 1993), 327.

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2. See Anna Stemmann, Räume der Adoleszenz. Deutschsprachige Jugendliteratur der Gegenwart in topographischer Perspektive (Berlin: Metzler/Springer Nature 2019; Studien zu Kinder- und Jugendliteratur und -medien; Vol. 4), 131. 3. Claus Kaminsky, “Grusswort des Oberbürgermeisters der Stadt Hanau (Brüder GrimmFestspiele Hanau von Mitte Mai bis Ende Juli im Amphitheater Hanau),” May 22, 2022. www​.festspiele​-hanau​.de​/festspiele​.de​/mam​/doc​/sonstiges​/2022​-05​-04​_​ _presseinformationen​_zur​_38​.​_spielzeit​_der​_br​%C3​%BCder​_grimm​_festspiele​.pdf (accessed on May 12, 2022). 4. Harry Wels, Kees van der Waal, Andrew Spiegel, Frans Kamsteeg, “Victor Turner and Liminality: An Introduction,” Anthropology Southern Africa 34, no. 1 and 2 (2011). www​.researchgate​.net​/profile​/Frans​-Kamsteeg​/publication​/285283496​ _Victor​_Turner​_and​_liminality​_An​_introduction​/links​/61b341e263bbd93242810c2f​ /Victor​-Turner​-and​-liminality​-An​-introduction​.pdf (accessed on April 30, 2022). 5. Victor Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (Chicago: Aldine, 1969), 95. 6. Like, for example, Dara Downey, Ian Kinane, Elizabeth Parker (eds.), Landscapes of Liminality. Between Space and Place (London: Rowman & Littlefield, 2016). 7. For example, Gustavo Pérez Firmat, Literature and Liminality. Festive Readings in the Hispanic Tradition (Durham: Duke University Press 1986); Hein Viljoen, Chris N. van der Merwe (eds.), Beyond the Threshold. Explorations of Liminality in Literature (New York: Peter Lang 2007); Sandor Klapcsik, Liminality in Fantastic Fiction. A Poststructuralist Approach (Jefferson, NC: McFarland 2012); Jochen Achilles and Ina Bergmann (eds.), Liminality and the Short Story. Boundary Crossings in American, Canadian, and British Writing (New York: Routledge, 2014); Kristin J. Jacobson, Kristin Allukian, Rickie-Ann Legleitner, and Leslie Allison (eds.), Liminality, Hybridity, & American Women’s Literature. Thresholds in Women’s Writing (Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018). 8. For example, Lynn F. Jacobs, Thresholds and Boundaries. Liminality in Netherlandish Art (1385–1530) (London: Routledge, 2017); Klára Doležalová and Ivan Foletti, “Liminality and Medieval Art: From Space to Rituals and to the Imagination,” Convivium 6, iss. Supplementum (2019), 11–21. 9. For example, Steven Allen, “British Cinema at the Seaside—the Limits of Liminality,” Journal of British Cinema and Television 5, no. 1 (2008), 53–71; Terrie Waddell, Wild/lives. Trickster, Place and Liminality on Screen (London: Routledge, 2010); Thomas Ballhausen, “Postscript: A Cinema of Liminality,” in Habsburg’s Last War. The Filmic Memory (1918 to the Present), ed. Hannes Leidinger, 329–42 (New Orleans: University of New Orleans Press, 2018); Brandon West, At the Edge of Existence: Liminality in Horror Cinema since the 1970s (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2022). 10. Jakob Lothe, Narrative in Fiction and Film: An Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 50. 11. Victor W. Turner, Dramas, Fields and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society (Ithaca: Cornell Paperbacks, 1974), 233, 237. 12. Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 6.

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13. Peter Marks, Terry Gilliam (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009), 209. 14. Ibid. 15. Turner, Dramas, Fields and Metaphors, 47. 16. See Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 28, 198–99. 17. Hein Viljoen and Chris N. van der Merwe, “Introduction: A Poetics of Liminality and Hybridity,” in Beyond the Threshold: Explorations of Liminality in Literature, edited by Hein Viljoen and Chris N. van der Merwe, 1–26 (New York: Peter Lang, 2007), 3. 18. See Jacques Derrida, L’écriture et la différence (Paris: Éditions du Seuil), 411. 19. For the origins of the golem see, for example, Gabriele von Glasenapp, “Created from Clay. Configurations of the Golem in Literature for Children and Young Adults,” in Critical Perspectives on Artificial Humans in Children’s Literature, ed. Sabine Planka, 87–110 (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann 2016). Interestingly, von Glasenapp points to the brothers Grimm who were familiar with various legends of the golem. She notes that, in general, “Romantic publications contained a variety of golem characters. Although sometimes modified, with different names, even a different gender, they were all man-made creatures which nevertheless (or perhaps because of this) proved without exception to be highly dangerous to humans” (90). 20. Bruno Bettelheim, The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1991), 45. 21. Angus Fletcher, Allegory: The Theory of a Symbolic Mode (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1970 [1964]), 92. 22. Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), 83. 23. Tideland, dir. Terry Gilliam (London: Revolver Entertainment, 2005). 24. Marks, Terry Gilliam, 211. 25. Hein Viljoen and Chris N. van der Merwe, “Introduction: A Poetics of Liminality and Hybridity,” in Beyond the Threshold: Explorations of Liminality in Literature, 10. 26. Marks, Terry Gilliam, 209. 27. Ibid., 208. 28. Viljoen and Van der Merwe, “Introduction,” 2. 29. See, for example, Deborah Ann Lokai, Es war einmal ein Wald: Die Märchen der Brüder Grimm, die Deutschen Wälder und die heutige Reaktion der Deutschen zum Waldsterben (PhD Dissertation. Wayne State University, 1989); Klaus Seeland, “Der Wald als Kulturphänomen—von der Mythologie zum Wirtschaftsobjekt,” Geographica Helvetica no. 2 (1993): 61–66. https:​//​gh​.copernicus​.org​/articles​/48​/61​ /1993​/gh​-48​-61​-1993​.pdf; Gertrud Ennulat, “Der Wald im Märchen,” MÄRCHENSPIEGEL. Zeitschrift für internationale. Märchenforschung und Märchenkunde no. 4 (1995). http:​//​www​.ennulat​-gertrud​.de​/Wald​.htm (accessed on April 30, 2022); Pia Mayer-Gampe, Der Wald als Symbol in Märchen und Mythen (Forstwiss: Fak. der LMU, 1999); Ute Jung-Kaiser, Der Wald als romantischer Topos. 5. Interdisziplinäres Symposion der Hochschule für Musik und Darstellende Kunst (Berlin: Peter Lang, 2008); Robert P. Harrison, Wälder—Ursprung und Spiegel der Kultur (München: Carl Hanser Verlag, 2013).

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30. Marks, Terry Gilliam, 214–15. 31. Ibid., 215. 32. Victor W. Turner, “Betwixt and Between: The Liminal Period in Rites of Passage,” The Proceedings of the American Ethnological Society for 1964, 4–20 (Seattle: 1964), 6. 33. See the fifth principle of heterotopias in Michel Foucault, “Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias,” trans. Jay Miskowiec, Architecture /Mouvement/ Continuité (October 1984 [1967]), 7. https:​//​web​.mit​.edu​/allanmc​/www​/foucault1​.pdf. Accessed on June 15, 2022.

​​​​​​​REFERENCES Achilles, Jochen and Ina Bergmann (eds.). Liminality and the Short Story. Boundary Crossings in American, Canadian, and British Writing. New York: Routledge 2014. Ballhausen, Thomas. “Postscript: A Cinema of Liminality.” In Habsburg’s Last War. The Filmic Memory (1918 to the Present), edited by Hannes Leidinger, 329–42. New Orleans: University of New Orleans Press 2018. Bettelheim, Bruno. The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1991. Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994. The Brothers Grimm. Directed by Terry Gilliam. New York: Miramax, 2005. Derrida, Jacques. L’écriture et la différence. Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1967. Ennulat, Gertrud. “Der Wald im Märchen.” MÄRCHENSPIEGEL. Zeitschrift für internationale. Märchenforschung und Märchenkunde no. 4 (1995). Online. www​ .ennulat​-gertrud​.de​/Wald​.htm (accessed on April 30, 2022). Fletcher, Angus. Allegory: The Theory of a Symbolic Mode. [1964] Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1970. Foucault, Michel. “Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias.” Translated by Jay Miskowiec. Architecture /Mouvement/ Continuité, October (1984 [1967]). web.mit.edu/allanmc/www​/foucault1​.pdf (accessed on June 15, 2022). Gampe, Pia. Der Wald als Symbol in Märchen und Mythen. Forstwiss: Fak. der LMU, 1999. Harrison, Robert P. Wälder—Ursprung und Spiegel der Kultur. München: Carl Hanser Verlag, 2013. Jacobs, Lynn F. Thresholds and Boundaries. Liminality in Netherlandish Art (1385– 1530). London: Routledge 2017. Jacobson, Kristin J., Kristin Allukian, Rickie-Ann Legleitner and Leslie Allison (eds.). Liminality, Hybridity, & American Women’s Literature. Thresholds in Women’s Writing. Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018. Jung-Kaiser, Ute. Der Wald als romantischer Topos. 5. Interdisziplinäres Symposion der Hochschule für Musik und Darstellende Kunst. Berlin: Peter Lang 2008. Kaminsky, Claus. Grusswort des Oberbürgermeisters der Stadt Hanau (Brüder GrimmFestspiele Hanau von Mitte Mai bis Ende Juli im Amphitheater Hanau). 2022.  www​.festspiele​-hanau​.de​/festspiele​.de​/mam​/doc​/sonstiges​/2022​-05​-04​_​

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-​_presseinformationen​_zur​_38​.​_spielzeit​_der​_br​%C3​%BCder​_grimm​_festspiele​ .pdf. Klapcsik, Sandor. Liminality in Fantastic Fiction. A Poststructuralist Approach. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012. Lefebvre, Henri. The Production of Space. Oxford: Blackwell, 1991. Lokai, Deborah Ann. Es war einmal ein Wald: Die Märchen der Brüder Grimm, die Deutschen Wälder und die heutige Reaktion der Deutschen zum Waldsterben. PhD Dissertation. Wayne State University, 1989. Lothe, Jakob. Narrative in Fiction and Film: An Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Lotman, Jurij M. Die Struktur literarischer Texte, 4th edn. Translated by Rolf-Dietrich Keil. Munich: Fink 1993. Pérez Firmat, Gustavo. Literature and Liminality. Festive Readings in the Hispanic Tradition. Durham: Duke University Press, 1986. Marks, Peter. Terry Gilliam. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2009. Seeland, Klaus. “Der Wald als Kulturphänomen—von der Mythologie zum Wirtschaftsobjekt.” Geographica Helvetica no. 2 (1993), 61–66. https:​//​gh​.copernicus​.org​/articles​/48​/61​/1993​/gh​-48​-61​-1993​.pdf. Stemmann, Anna. Räume der Adoleszenz. Deutschsprachige Jugendliteratur der Gegenwart in topographischer Perspektive. Berlin: Metzler/Springer Nature 2019 (Studien zu Kinder- und Jugendliteratur und -medien; Vol. 4). Tideland. Directed by Terry Gilliam. London: Revolver Entertainment, 2005. Turner, Victor W. Dramas, Fields and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society. Ithaca, NY: Cornell Paperbacks, 1974. ———. The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. Chicago: Aldine, 1969. ———. “Betwixt and Between: The Liminal Period in Rites of Passage.” In The Proceedings of the American Ethnological Society for 1964, 4–20. Seattle: 1964. Van Gennep, Arnold. The Rites of Passage. Translated by M.B. Vizedom and G.L. Caffee. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1960 [1909]. Von Glasenapp, Gabriele. “Created from Clay. Configurations of the Golem in Literature for Children and Young Adults.” In Critical Perspectives on Artificial Humans in Children’s Literature, edited by Sabine Planka, 87–110. Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2016. Viljoen, Hein and Van der Merwe, Chris N. “Introduction: A Poetics of Liminality and Hybridity.” In Beyond the Threshold: Explorations of Liminality in Literature, edited by Hein Viljoen and Chris N. van der Merwe, 1–26. New York: Peter Lang, 2007. Waddell, Terrie. Wild/lives. Trickster, Place and Liminality on Screen. London: Routledge, 2010. Wels, Harry, Kees van der Waal, Andrew Spiegel, and Frans Kamsteeg. “Victor Turner and Liminality: An Introduction.” Anthropology Southern Africa 34, no. 1 and 2 (2011). Online. www​.researchgate​.net​/profile​/Frans​-Kamsteeg​/

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publication​/285283496​_Victor​_Turner​_and​_liminality​_An​_introduction​/links​ /61b341e263bbd93242810c2f​/Victor​-Turner​-and​-liminality​-An​-introduction​.pdf. West, Brandon: At the Edge of Existence: Liminality in Horror Cinema since the 1970s. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2022.

Chapter 10

Tideland and the Ossification of the Imaginary Faculties Jonathan Fruoco

Upon his first encounter with Mr. Nick, Parnassus explains the reason why stories need to be told.1 They sustain the universe, he explains to his highly skeptical antagonist, they are the central force without which there is nothing.2 Humankind has indeed always been sustained by stories, they give meaning to one’s life and nourish one’s culture. This vision of storytelling as a way to keep the world turning is in many ways representative of Terry Gilliam’s approach to cinema as a whole, and more precisely of the liberating journey through childhood that is Tideland. First released in 2005, a few days after The Brothers Grimm3—Gilliam’s alternative look at the fairy-tale genre—Tideland tells the story of a young girl named Jeliza-Rose (portrayed by Jodelle Ferland). Following the lethal overdose of her mother, Queen Gunhilda (Jennifer Tilly), she is brought to a remote and derelict Texas farmhouse by her father Noah (Jeff Bridges), who, shortly after they have settled, overdoses as well. Alone and isolated, Jeliza-Rose manages to cope by seeking refuge in a fantasy world of her own creation, in which she lives with her friends, the decapitated heads of Barbie dolls that act as her companions and that mirror various aspects of her psyche. During her adventures in the surrounding countryside, she meets and befriends a mentally impaired young man named Dickens (Brendan Fletcher) and his older sister, Dell (Janet McTeer). This newly found mother-figure starts taking care (in grim and eccentric ways) of Jeliza-Rose, going so far as preserving Noah’s body via taxidermy, while the young girl and Dickens develop a childlike romance. Because of its premise, the film was received with mixed, if not negative, reviews.4 Gilliam’s adaptation of Mitch Cullin’s novel (published in 2000) 175

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even had tremendous difficulties finding an audience and was barely released theatrically in the United States in 2006. Yet, although Gilliam has always had to fight the windmills of reality to have his films financed and released, the audience and critical reaction to Tideland is rather different from any other movie, with people either loving or hating it, as Gilliam remarks in his DVD introduction to the film. The reason why the audience reacts this way seems straightforward enough when one looks at the backbone of Tideland, namely the innocence and resilience of a child in the face of adversity. The movie may be shocking, hence its mixed reviews. Yet, fairy tales are designed to be so, they are meant to illustrate the dangers and beauties of this world so that children may learn from them. Gilliam perfectly captured this opposition. As the filmmaker famously explained in his introduction, the best way to understand Tideland is to forget about everything life has taught us and to find one’s inner child. Some will find it easy; others, much more afflicted by adulthood, will have to fight their way through Jeliza-Rose’s looking glass. That is at the heart of Tideland’s ambivalence. The purpose of this chapter will accordingly be to underline the contrast between children’s fantasy, as a coping mechanism, and adulthood’s ossification of the imaginary faculties. “FIGHTING THE LONELY BATTLE”: CHILDREN, ADULTS, AND REALITY Gilliam’s legendary struggles as a filmmaker against the studio system to protect his films’ aesthetic and narrative integrity are widely known. From Brazil (1985) to The Man Who Killed Don Quixote (2018), he has had to defend his cinematic vision—a vision marked by a confrontation between the importance of storytelling and the reality of the economic and bureaucratic world. However, this ceaseless fight against “the oppressive yoke of [a] new corporate management” (The Crimson Permanent Assurance, 1983) has often been a lonely battle, resulting from the friction between a sterile adult thought-system and the imaginary energy of an artist who never lost touched with his own childhood. No surprise then that Gilliam saw so much of himself in Cullen’s Tideland. In Salem’s Lot, published in 1975, Stephen King developed a concept that perfectly captures the societal dichotomy between childhood and adulthood. Having just been visited by the reanimated corpse of another child in the middle of the night, Mark, who is only twelve years old, lies terrified in his bedroom while his father, alerted by the screams, checks up on him. Mark’s father fails at this precise moment to “understand the trembling feeling of dread he had wakened with”5 and, convinced that his son just had a

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nightmare, leaves Mark alone. The adult lacks, here, the imaginary faculty to accept that there may indeed be monsters hiding in the shadows of a child’s bedroom—refusing to admit this possibility, he has in effect left his son to fight back a vampire on his own and has failed to recognize the primal fear that had awakened him. Before eventually falling asleep, Mark starts to wonder about the peculiarity of adults: They took laxatives, liquor, or sleeping pills to drive away their terrors so that sleep would come, and their terrors were so tame and domestic: the job, the money, what the teacher will think if I can’t get Jennie nicer clothes, does my wife still love me, who are my friends. They were pallid compared to the fears every child lies cheek and jowl with in his dark bed, with no one to confess to in hope of perfect understanding but another child. There is no group therapy or psychiatry or community social services for the child who must cope with the thing under the bed or in the cellar every night, the thing which leers and capers and threatens just beyond the point where vision will reach. The same lonely battle must be fought night after night and the only cure is the eventual ossification of the imaginary faculties,6 and this is called adulthood.7

This ossification of the imaginary faculties is what lies at the heart of Tideland’s ambiguity. Adulthood is clearly defined by King in this passage as a disease, something that somehow solidifies the mental capacity of adults, and prevents them from perceiving the world the way they used to. Thus afflicted, adults tend to focus on domestic terrors and ignore the horrors, but also beauties of the world as perceived by a child. King communicates that adults deny terror and leave it unresolved, something that can clearly be conceived as a form of self-deception. Denial is an effective coping strategy, namely “a regulatory process mediating the interrelation between the individual and the environment.”8 It can protect a victim from emotional pain, but in order to heal one has to confront traumatic events. Unlike adults, children may do so by developing healthier coping mechanisms powered by their imagination. This statement identifies the value of the honest perspective of a child. After all, it is indeed the domestic horror (child abuse, drugs, death of the parents, underage exposure to sexuality) experienced by Jeliza-Rose that tends to channel the most visceral and negative reactions to Tideland to the detriment of the rest of her journey down the rabbit hole. This part of domestic horror is undeniable, but our mistake is to focus on it and ignore the beauty that also characterizes her life. What about the adventures with her brave sea captain, Dickens? Her friendship with fairies? Her mission to save her squirrel friend from Dell’s taxidermic experiments? Ignoring them would be looking at just one side of the coin that is Tideland. When questioned about this ossification of the imaginary faculties and his own connection with reality, Gilliam seems eager to underline once more

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the importance of childlike wonder in Tideland and its place in his career as a whole: “I have always worked hard not to grow up. ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’ had been one of my guiding lights; the child is the only one who can see the truth (at least that’s the case in that tale).”9 Keeping sight of the truth is thus paramount, no matter what the situation may be, and children have this unique ability to see the world as it really is, an ability we tend to lose with age. Gilliam’s three films whose narrative is told from a child’s perspective (Time Bandits, 1981, The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, 1988 and Tideland) allow the viewer to discover, as Anna Froula has remarked, “fantastic visions of endless possibilities and reflect his sense that children are as intelligent as adults (if not more so).”10 Indeed, children keep the ability to play out of a difficult situation: “Play is a fundamental part of a child’s life, while autonomous coping skills become increasingly important in adulthood. Coping is akin to walking across a bridge over troubled waters, but play shows children different options and enables them to choose which route to take.”11 In other words, the imaginary faculties of children, unafflicted by adulthood, remain intact as they have not yet been limited and defined.12 The film’s subjective perspective is nuanced, however, by the incorporation of an adult vision of the world that underlines how neglected Jeliza-Rose is; such is also the case with hyper-consumerism in Time Bandits, or warmongering in Baron Munchausen, themes which contrast with the childlike fantasy of the characters.13 To understand Tideland, we must accordingly start by adopting Jeliza-Rose’s gaze. As King remarks, faced with so much horror an “adult might have had hysterics,”14 while a child, much more resilient, will simply feel terror slip away in imperceptible degrees. “THOSE WISE EYES OF YOURS, THOSE BIG SKIES OF YOURS”: INTRODUCING JELIZA-ROSE Jeliza-Rose’s eyes are in many ways the key to Tideland’s narrative structure as Gilliam always tries to see the world from the point of view of his characters. In this particular instance, the filmmaker tries to capture the innocence with which Jeliza-Rose sees the world. The casting of Jodelle Ferland was accordingly critical, not only because she supports the entire movie, appearing in almost every scene, but because her eyes have the ability to express an impressive range of emotions. Being both innocent and dark, “those big skies of” hers—to quote the lyrics of the song Noah wrote about his daughter—epitomize the duality between children’s innocence and adults’ self-deception.

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Gilliam remarks that “Jeliza-Rose was supposed to be approaching puberty . . . 11 or 12 years old, but all the young actresses around that age had already lost their innocence, corrupted by TV, music, and film.”15 Yet, Ferland was childlike enough to have that “magical and innocent quality” while being experienced enough as an actress to “fire up and shock with an apparent maturity beyond her years without losing her sense of playful innocence”16 whenever needed. She is both the innocent child Gilliam wants the viewer to sympathize with and the monster described by Dell, who destroys the body of “Mama” and, more generally speaking, Dell and Dickens’s home. Is it a coincidence if the shadow of her dollhouse, back at her parents’ place, looks suspiciously like Noah’s country house, where most of the drama will take place? While filming the scene, Gilliam even remarked, laughing, that “It’s all the dream of a nasty little girl who wants to kill her parents.”17 In other words, the movie’s ambivalence is encoded in Jeliza-Rose’s own dual attachment to both childhood and adulthood, innocence and horror. She is the prism allowing the viewer’s contrastive reception of this nightmare of a fairy tale. Likewise, when Dickens provokes the disastrous train crash at the end of the movie, Gilliam refuses to grant us the comfort of a happy ending. While Cullin’s final paragraphs in the book are set in a sort of amnesia, symptomatic of a child’s resilience in the face of trauma (a very effective coping strategy allowing a child’s psyche to survive), Gilliam’s film leaves the viewer with a much more ambiguous ending. Jeliza-Rose is finally taken care of when her firefly friends return: the “fireflies reflected in her eyes meld with the night sky in an unsettling image of eyes without a face. Has she been rescued—or will the monster claim more victims?”18 Once again, Gilliam, and co-screenwriter Tony Grisoni, joke, in the film commentary, about Jeliza Rose’s ambiguity, comparing the child with a serial killer leaving behind her a trail of dead bodies. Though they both clearly exaggerate in this instance, one may still wonder what will happen to Jeliza-Rose following this new traumatic experience. It is, as a result, no surprise if the film’s poster plays with the viewer’s sense of orientation and perception. In this fairy tale universe, up is down; the branches of the dead tree become its roots, and Jeliza-Rose ends up sitting on a branch of the tree—or one of its roots, depending on how one chooses to look at things—and through whose eyes. LOOKING AT THE WORLD THROUGH WIDE LENSES If Jeliza-Rose’s eyes offer us a reflection of the drama taking place within the diegetic frame, they effectively represent the extension of Gilliam’s own cinematographic eyes, his camera lenses.

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In Tideland we are quite far from the filmmaker’s earliest films. By 2005, Gilliam had stopped relying extensively on storyboards, finding them limiting, and was rather willing to let actors take the lead and impose their own rhythm. Although not as graphic as they used to be, his latest films continue to show his unique artistic approach: “I shoot most of the time the same way: expressionistic, wide-angle lenses, tilted viewpoints. I don’t tend to intellectualize what I do, I just do what feels right for the moment.”19 This expressionistic tendency to present the world from a subjective and distorted perspective is indeed quite clearly at work in Tideland, where it is reinforced by Gilliam’s choice of camera lenses. His pioneering use of 12mm lenses, now usually nicknamed “the Gilliam,” is well documented. But in Tideland, this choice of wide lenses somehow reflects the movie’s attachment to Jeliza-Rose’s gaze. The endless sense of field and skewed perspective that have become his visual hallmark are the doorways into his cinematic universe and the mind of his characters. As Gilliam’s cinematographer, Nicola Pecorini, notes, his wide approach to filmmaking is a wide approach to life itself.20 Just as a child would, Gilliam lets life in—it is not confined by a restrictive choice of lenses and it gives the audience the freedom to choose what to look at, and as a result how to look at it. In Tideland, this vision closely follows Jeliza-Rose’s perception as Gilliam was trying to avoid being a “65-year-old man making a decision about how a child would see the world.”21 He was well aware this film would be his riskiest artistic effort to date, but as he notes, he was not trying to shock anyone consciously, he was merely adapting the book and trying “to approach this film in a totally innocent way as a child would approach it.”22 As a result, his tilted angles and all-encompassing vision of the world imitate a child’s vision. If we look at the film’s aesthetic expression of the narrative’s most disturbing elements, we may notice that none of Gilliam’s shots are in any way moralizing; they present with honesty (potentially ugly and dangerous) situations and introduce a child within the frame. Whether it is shocking or amoral has nothing to do with Gilliam’s expressionistic point of view. Those in the audience suffering from King’s ossification of the imaginary faculties will just lack the mental flexibility to adapt to Jeliza-Rose’s innocent emotional reactions to certain events, such as her interaction with Noah’s putrefying corpse (she puts a wig on him and applies lipstick on his lips).

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CONTRASTIVE CLAUSTROPHOBIA: WITHIN AND OUTSIDE OF JELIZA-ROSE’S MIND Everything in Tideland is a question of where and how to look at things. Contrast is accordingly central in the film’s thematic and filmic structures; it underlines the link between the monstrous and childhood, but it also allows opposite readings of the film as a result of its contrastive claustrophobia, namely the opposition between the inside and outside of both Jeliza-Rose’s mind and of the house. Alternating between “dark, rotting interiors and the open, sunny landscapes,” inspired by Andrew Wyeth’s painting Christina’s World, “between fresh air and decay, despair and hope,”23 Gilliam seems not only to evoke Jeliza-Rose’s moods and emotions but his own “escape from the complications of” The Brothers Grimm. As the director notes: “It’s through fairy tales that I perceive much of the world” and shooting “Tideland restored my spirit.”24 Playing in a world clearly located outside any possible genre definition, both Cullen and Gilliam’s Tideland adapt fairy tale motifs into a Southern Gothic ambience. The use of Gothic elements is especially visible in Noah’s country house: decay and death inhabit this place long before both father and daughter pass its threshold. Gilliam’s wide angles reinforce this claustrophobic feeling, as every piece of rotten furniture enters the viewer’s visual range. Likewise, his tilted angles, which usually express a light and fantasist vision of the world, suddenly indicate that something is skewed— one cannot help but feel uneasiness settling in as the set brings to mind the derelict house of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974). The music slowly fades away when Jeliza-Rose and Noah first reach its steps, with the realization that the long-promised home and haven are nothing but “dust, protruding nails and general dilapidation.”25 It is in this house, aptly described by graffiti on a wall as a “fucking shithole,” that Noah will die shortly after arriving and slowly decay as well, confirming that the place people live in affects them as much as they affect the place itself. Interestingly enough, this contrast between the colorful, wide and beautiful exteriors and the house mirror Jeliza-Rose’s own mind. Noah does not seem to see the rotting house the way we do; for him, it is still his family home, and he happily walks in calling for his mother. Once again, as King noticed, an adult finds refuge in self-deception. Jeliza-Rose, on the other hand, reacts with horror and disbelief, for as Gilliam notices “reality has a way of getting the better of most dreamers in my films.”26 Reality strikes back, as often, and will continue to do so, but Jeliza-Rose quickly gets over it, her imaginary faculties acting as a coping mechanism and compensating for the horrors to come. She starts playing with her doll heads and imaginary friends as soon as

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the situation becomes unbearable, play being a well-known biological function mediating adaptation to unpredictable threats.27 The juxtaposition between the house and the exteriors thus echoes what is going on with her life, how her imaginary faculties allow her to process events and deal with trauma. But whether the house or the outside represents her mind remains to be determined. Once again, it depends on how one perceives the narrative. The derelict house might represent Jeliza-Rose’s reality, namely “two dead parents and no hope in sight,”28 a nightmare from which she would like to escape, admitting, at the end of the movie, that she hopes to wake up inside her father’s dream: You’re dreaming yourself far away, daddy. Further than the Hundred Years Ocean. Beyond Jutland . . . deep, deep, deep . . . in the place where dreams are made. We’ll be a happy family. We’ll build a castle of crooked branches . . . and flattened pennies. Eat meat . . . and butter tarts . . . and drink lemonade . . . from gold-plated paper cups. I’ll dream myself there too. If I shut my eyes and try hard enough . . . maybe, I’ll wake inside your dream.29

It is at this point in the movie that Dell will effectively turn Noah’s body into one of the bog men that used to give Jeliza-Rose nightmares, thus splicing dream with reality.30 Yet, Jeliza-Rose still finds ways to turn her new home into a playhouse, exploring it with her doll heads and friends Mystique and Sateen Lips. The trunk in the attic thus magically expands as we half expect her to stumble into a kind of Narnia, the fantasy world—developed by C.S. Lewis in a book series that became a classic of children’s literature—that the Pevensie children initially travel to by entering a wardrobe in an old house. Jeliza-Rose, however, does not cross any magical threshold, and shortly after she starts playing with a squirrel, she wonders whether everybody in the house has been turned into one. The whitewashing of the house, once Noah has been taken care of by Dell, additionally blurs the viewer’s perception of what is happening, as Gilliam’s “appropriation of the happy singing-and-dancing montage popular in romantic comedy films”31 takes us further down the rabbit hole and into Jeliza-Rose’s mind. Dell, Dickens, and Jeliza-Rose paint over everything, yet the house conserves the traces of the wreckage that it used to be. It is a clumsy attempt at regaining a sense of normality, as the following meal shows, in which the protagonist finds herself with a substitute family—though highly dysfunctional and symptomatic of the Southern Gothic genre. Dell plays the role of the mother figure (cooking, saying graces), and Noah’s taxidermic body occupies the seat usually reserved to the father at the other end of the table. The house accordingly oscillates between Jeliza-Rose’s playground and the metaphorical representation of neglect.

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But is the outside in any way better than the house? The seemingly endless field of swaying grass surrounding the place offers another visual representation of the infinite potential of a child’s imaginary faculties and all-encompassing vision of the world. The opening sequence of the film, marked by the recitation of Lewis Carroll’s words,32 leaves no doubt in the audience’s mind that Jeliza-Rose’s journey will somehow mimic Alice’s own adventures. The image of a child striding and singing through this beautiful golden field, fools the viewer into believing in this pastoral imagery. But the outside world and the audience’s vision of it are suddenly turned upside down when Jeliza-Rose starts introducing her decapitated dolls to her new friends, the fireflies/fairies, in the overturned wreck of a school bus. This wreck sequence symbolizes the ambiguity of the outside world. Jeliza-Rose has, quite clearly from the start, dropped out of school: she is cut off from the educational and social world that is school. As the film poster shows once more, everything is topsy-turvy in Tideland and this overturned school bus is symbolic of Jeliza-Rose’s life: it is the place where she comes to play with her imaginary friends. The sudden roar of the train violates the serenity of the opening sequence, but we instantly notice that Jeliza-Rose is screaming with delight rather than with terror. It is all part of her game, and both the train and wreck are part of her playground. The outside world, which seemed positive at first sight, gradually turns into something much more ambivalent, as the train and wreck both foreshadow the disastrous accident later provoked by Dickens. Likewise, it is in this outside sunny environment that Jeliza-Rose first encounters the dark-clad figure, soon to be identified as Dell, but that the child first identifies as a ghost. In other words, the juxtapositions of sets and ambiances produce a contrastive claustrophobia that takes us within and outside of Jeliza-Rose’s mind: reality in both worlds is made bearable because it is remodeled by a child’s imaginary faculties. RESISTING INNOCENCE In his documentary about the making of Tideland, Vincenzo Natali describes Gilliam as a trickster figure, associating him with the Cheshire cat of Alice in Wonderland.33 This characterization seems especially relevant in the case of the 2005 film. Gilliam indeed knew from the start what he was aiming for with Tideland, namely, to confuse his audience in a playful manner. As the filmmaker himself observes, that is the point of making movies; they allow you to turn the world into a bigger place and to force people into accepting a different vision of the world. Tideland is, as a result, meant to be thought-provoking, and although Gilliam wants the viewer to perceive it through the eyes of a child, it is still possible to have a different, even darker,

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reading. As mentioned before, to understand Tideland as a vehicle underlining a child’s use of imagination to cope with trauma, one has to see it from the point of view of Jeliza-Rose. But that is not going to be easy for everyone, mainly because of the self-deception that seems to be part of an adult perspective. Tideland is in effect a demanding movie for those whose imaginary faculties have been ossified by adulthood; the narrative wants you to see the movie with innocent eyes, while at the same time making it possible for you to keep an adult perspective. It is, as a result, extremely therapeutic because it offers the viewers the chance to face their adult fears and to get over them: Gilliam’s manipulation of, notably, conventional horror codes (dark color palettes in a large family house in a secluded location . . . ) provoke certain expectations in the audience but that never lead to the expected conclusions of horror movies. As Laity notes, this “horrific impulse drives the twin narratives of childhood resilience and creativity. Gilliam uses such motifs to assail the viewer and to create fearful expectations as the film unfolds.”34 Gilliam thus skillfully subverts horror conventions, such as the religious iconography here associated with Dell, so as to confront the adults in the audience with the domestic terror described by King in Salem’s Lot. There is no need to comment on the many horrific elements of the plot, most of which depend on the tropes of the Southern Gothic genre, nor on how Gilliam exploits them visually, but more needs to be said about Jeliza-Rose’s exposure to sexuality. As Cullin remarked, writing about it is one thing, filming it is another.35 If some people might have been shocked by Jeliza-Rose’s habit of preparing Noah’s heroin shots,36 Gilliam knew from the start that the real taboo would be the sexual tension arising between Dickens and Jeliza-Rose. “Clearly,” the director says, “some people are uncomfortable with the situations Jeliza-Rose finds herself in, judging those moments as an adult, void of her innocence and curiosity.”37 And yet, there is still an undeniable tension in the scene where they both kiss for the first time, with Gilliam, ever the trickster, manipulating the audience’s emotional reaction by a skillful shot composition. As playful as the characters might be, one cannot help but feel increasingly uneasy as Gilliam pulls out from a close-up and back for a long shot, where the viewer instantly gets the sense that Dickens is, despite his handicap, an adult flirting with a child in a derelict house located in the middle of nowhere. With a new closeup on Dickens, the audience hears him describe how he was abused as a child by Jeliza-Rose’s grandmother, thus increasing the underlying pedophilic tension of the scene, a declaration that is shortly afterwards followed by a kiss. Jeliza-Rose remains in control of the situation, however, laughing and kissing him a second time, as the tension continues to grow until an explosion from the nearby mine breaks

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the scene and allows the tension to fall back. With respect to this sequence, Gilliam comments, Jodelle was extraordinary. Brendon Fletcher who played Dickens was so hypnotized by her focus as she was tenderly applying lipstick to his lips that he froze, forgetting his lines. It’s astonishing the power a child can have. I always think of the power Alice Liddel had over Lewis Carroll, especially when you see the photos he took of her. Alice in Wonderland was the guide for me in Tideland.38

So, should the viewer be shocked by Jeliza-Rose’s exposure to sex? Only if one looks at it that way. From her point of view, Dickens is her brave sea captain, her future husband, and there is nothing particularly disturbing about the fact that she would like to kiss him. She is completely innocent and has none of the viewer’s moral and ethical prejudices about sex—is she not, in the end, convinced that a kiss was enough for her to be pregnant? Their relationship is completely innocent even though there is indeed an undeniable danger that she does not yet perceive. The movie’s ambivalence and duality are accordingly pushed to the extreme here as Gilliam exposes the danger and uneasiness of reality while wanting the audience to see the world the way Jeliza-Rose does. The friction between adulthood and childhood is brought to the fore as the audience is asked by the filmmaker to make a choice: resist innocence because of an ossified imaginary faculty or reconnect with one’s inner child. CONCLUSION Tideland is in many respects an outrageous cinematic adventure through childhood. Unlike Alice’s own journey in Wonderland, however, Cullen’s novel and Gilliam’s film choose to expose a child to reality, with all that it entails. All the elements in the film that Jeliza-Rose experiences, whether it is death, drugs, neglect, sex, decay, religion, or mental illness, are horrific for a lot of viewers because they are aspects of real life. They just happen to be condensed within the narrative over a few days. The point is, for Gilliam, how does a child react to that? Well, for him the answer is clear: “A child makes sense of what would depress an adult. Children are not victims, this is nonsense, they are designed to last, adults are more vulnerable, they die. She survives.”39 And she does so thanks to her fantasy and her ability to keep playing her way through trauma. Play enables her to assimilate everyday experiences, to act out established behaviors, and to adapt reality to her own thoughts.40 She explores reality and learns how to deal with it. The movie thus shows us how Jeliza-Rose uses her imaginary faculties as a coping strategy,

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but the ambiguous ending nonetheless gives one reasons to be skeptical about what will later happen to her. The movie is, in effect, ambiguous in the sense that, just like Jeliza-Rose herself, it has a foot in both worlds: adulthood and childhood. If the filmmaker’s expressionistic aesthetic requires the viewer to perceive events from the point of view of a child, the narrative also presents a domestic horror that is difficult to ignore if one is afflicted by an ossification of the imaginary faculties. To get at the heart of Tideland one requires enough mental flexibility to reconnect with the child within. Gilliam himself was sixty-four when he directed the movie, and sixteen years later, he remarks that “I’m currently sliding into acceptance of reality and the limits of achieving my dreams. Ossification at eighty? Or just weariness? Luckily, I have not lost my wonder of nature.”41 By making a movie about how a little girl’s innocence can be tested by reality, Gilliam somehow illustrated his wonder of nature (it is in the countryside that Jeliza-Rose’s imaginary faculties are indeed liberated) and reconnected with his own innocence in a soul-consuming industry. Many years and films later, one may wonder how Gilliam’s inner child is doing. “The child within me is still alive but currently living outside me in the form of my 4 and a half-year-old granddaughter. She has a firmer imagined grasp of the world than I do.”42 NOTES 1. I would like to thank Terry Gilliam for kindly accepting to discuss his vision of Tideland with me, and Holly Gilliam for facilitating the discussion—this chapter would not be what it is without their contribution. 2. See The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, 2009. 3. The Brothers Grimm was filmed in 2003 but Gilliam’s conflict with his producers—whom he still calls “the Brothers Grimmer (the malignant Weinstein brothers)”—delayed post-production. The film was accordingly released in North America on 26 August 2005, while Tideland, shot in late 2004, had its world premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival, 9 September 2005. 4. Michael Palin has famously described Tideland as either the best or the worst movie his Monty Python co-star ever made, to which Gilliam answers: “I agree with Mike that Tideland might be one of the best movies I have made, but it’s definitely not my worst.” Terry Gilliam, “Tideland and the Ossification of Imaginary Faculties,” interview by Jonathan Fruoco, 2021. 5. Stephen King, Salem’s Lot (New York: Doubleday, 2008), 167. 6. The emphasis is mine. 7. King, Salem’s Lot, 167–68.

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8. Michele Capurso and Benedetta Ragni, “Bridge Over Troubled Water: Perspective Connections between Coping and Play in Children,” in Frontiers in Psychology 7 (2016): 1953. 9. Gilliam, interview. 10. Anna Froula, “Steampunked: The Animated Aesthetics of Terry Gilliam,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam, ed. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell (London and New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 18. 11. Capurso and Ragni, “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” 12. David Sterritt and Lucille Rhodes, Terry Gilliam: Interviews (Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 2004), 17. 13. Froula, “Steampunked,” 18. 14. King, Salem’s Lot, 167. 15. Gilliam, interview. 16. Ibid. 17. Getting Gilliam, directed by Vincenzo Natali (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, Capri Films, The Movie Network, 2005), DVD. 18. Kathryn A. Laity, “‘Won’t Somebody Please Think of the Children?’: The Case for Terry Gilliam’s Tideland,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam, ed. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell (London and New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 126. 19. Gilliam, interview. 20. Getting Gilliam, 2005. 21. Alice in Gilliamland, directed by Christophe Goffette (Bandits Company, Bac Video, 2006), DVD. 22. Ibid. 23. Ibid. 24. Ibid. 25. Laity, “The Case for Terry Gilliam’s Tideland,” 123. 26. Gilliam, interview. 27. M.J. Ellis, “Play and the origin of the species,” in Readings From–Play as a Medium for Learning and Development, ed. Bergen D. (Olney, MD: Association for Childhood Education International, 1998), 29–31. 28. Laity, “The Case for Terry Gilliam’s Tideland,” 124. 29. Tideland, directed by Terry Gilliam (Paramount, 2007), DVD. 30. Debbie C. Olson and Andrew Scahill, ed., Lost and Othered Child in Contemporary Cinema (Lanham, MD, Lexington Books, 2012), 30. 31. Laity, “The Case for Terry Gilliam’s Tideland,” 126. 32. During the opening sequence, Jeliza-Rose is reading from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland: “The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next.” Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (New York, Sam L. Gabriel and Sons, 1916), 4. 33. Getting Gilliam, 2005.

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34. Laity, “The Case for Terry Gilliam’s Tideland,” 119. 35. Getting Gilliam, 2005. 36. Gilliam explains, still slightly annoyed by people’s reaction to this aspect of Jeliza-Rose’s relationship with her father: “I think people are frightened by the honesty of Jeliza-Rose’s depiction, especially in a few particular scenes. Many people switch off the first time they realize she is cooking heroin and helping her father shoot up. They can’t see that she is simply looking after Noah and his needs, like a nurse would. She is not judgemental. It’s a ritual dance of love: she anticipates his next move before he does. In those moments she is the responsible adult in the room.” Gilliam, interview. 37. Gilliam, interview. 38. Ibid. 39. Alice in Gilliamland, 2006. 40. Capurso and Ragni, “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” 41. Gilliam, interview. 42. Ibid.

REFERENCES Baudrillard, Jean. Screened Out. New York: Verso, 2002. Capurso, Michelle, and Benedetta Ragni. “Bridge Over Troubled Water: Perspective Connections between Coping and Play in Children.” Frontiers in Psychology 7 (2016): 1953. Carroll, Lewis. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. New York: Sam L. Gabriel and Sons, 1916. Cullin, Mitch. Tideland. Chester Springs, PA: Dufour Editions, 2000. Del Signore, John. “Director Terry Gilliam, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus.”Gothamist, December 2009. https:​//​gothamist​.com​/arts​-entertainment​ /director​-terry​-gilliam​-the​-imaginarium​-of​-doctor​-parnassus. Ellis, M.J. “Play and the origin of the species.” In Readings From–Play as a Medium for Learning and Development, edited by D. Bergen. 29–31. Olney, MD: Association for Childhood Education International, 1998. Fruoco, Jonathan. “Adapting Don Quixote: Terry Gilliam’s Picaresque Journey in the Film Industry.” CultureCom—La Revue 2, 2019. http:​//​culturecom​-larevue​.com​ /n2​-adapting​-don​-quixote​-terry​-gilliams​-picaresque​-journey​-in​-the​-film​-industry​ -jonathan​-fruoco​/. Furby, Jacqueline. “The Fissure King: Terry Gilliam’s Psychotic Fantasy World.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam. It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell, 79–91. London and New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Gilliam, Terry. “Tideland and the Ossification of Imaginary Faculties.” Interview by Jonathan Fruoco. February 2021. Gilliam, Terry, and Ben Thompson. Gilliamesque: A Pre-Posthumous Memoir. London and Edinburgh: Canongate, 2015.

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Goffette, Christophe. Alice in Gilliamland. Produced by Bandits Company, Bac Video, 2006. DVD. Holland-Toll, Linda J. As American as Mom, Baseball, and Apple Pie: Constructing Community in Contemporary American Horror Fiction. Bowling Green, OH: Bowling Green State University Popular Press, 2001. Hood, Tony. “Grail Tales: The Preoccupations of Terry Gilliam.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam. It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell, 32–41. London and New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. King, Stephen. Salem’s Lot. New York: Doubleday, 2008. Laity, Kathryn, A. “‘Won’t somebody please think of the children?’: The Case for Terry Gilliam’s Tidelands.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam. It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell, 118–29. London and New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Mathews, Jack. The Battle of Brazil with the Director’s-Cut Screenplay Complete and Updated by Terry Gilliam, Tom Stoppard, & Charles McKeown. New York: Applause Books, 1987. Natali, Vincenzo. Getting Gilliam. Produced by Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC), Capri Films, The Movie Network (TMN), 2005. DVD. Olson, Debbie C., and Scahill, Andrew (eds.). Lost and Othered Child in Contemporary Cinema. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2012. Sterritt, David, and Lucille Rhodes. Terry Gilliam: Interviews. Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 2004. Wollen, Peter. “Terry Gilliam.” In Spellbound: Art and Film, edited by Philip Dodd and Ian Christie, 61–66. London: British Film Institute and Hayward Gallery, 1996. Yule, Andrew. Losing the Light: Terry Gilliam & The Munchausen Saga. New York: Applause Books, 1991.

Chapter 11

Wonderland and the Wasteland The Colorfully Dirty Mise en Scene of The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus (2009) Ivy Roberts

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus (2009) opens on a “dingy street” where a boisterous group of drunken fools accosts the downtrodden performers of a ramshackle traveling show.1 Parnassus’s theater, or more accurately the pullout stage on the back of a horse-drawn wagon, appears to be from another age. Parked out in front of a gothic cathedral, it marks a dramatic juxtaposition against the skeevy venue across the street. Medusa’s Bar announces itself with bright, multicolored neon signs. Anton (Andrew Garfield), in silver makeup, armor, and wings, emerges from behind the tattered red curtain: “Ladies and gentlemen . . . Step up! Step up! . . . I, Mercury, the messenger of the gods, invite you . . . tonight, for one night only . . . at this very venue . . . to enter the mind, the very great mind, of Doctor Parnassus!” The curtain opens as Parnassus (Christopher Plummer) floats onto the stage, supported on a semi-transparent pedestal. His face is painted pale white, an exaggerated kind of bindi on his forehead, long white hair and beard, and a lotus in his lap. Swathed in monk-like garb, he appears to be in a deep meditative state. The theater must have been something in its heyday. But today, in 2007 London, most of the red and yellow lights lining the marquee have died. Anton alone is spritely and full of life. Dr. Parnassus looks to be on death’s door. Drunken denizens walk by, paying little attention to the spectacle, or else jeering at Anton’s ridiculous garb. Among them, “Martin” acts particularly lustfully upon the appearance of young Valentina (Lily Cole).2 On cue, Percy (Verne Troyer) appears on stage dressed as a hobgoblin. A flying bottle 191

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shatters on stage. Martin proceeds to taunt Anton, dragging him off the stage and taking his place. He pushes Percy off, too, and plays with still-sleeping Parnassus’ beard. Valentina intervenes, yelling at him to get off the stage. But he has only one thing on his mind. He chases her as she runs for safety behind the mylar curtain into the oversized Victorian mirror at center stage. Martin emerges dumbstruck on the other side of the mirror-world, with his face in the mud. The camera moves out to reveal that he has landed in a pit of discarded bottles in a dark forest. His attitude becomes more and more frantic as he crawls through the detritus. But our attention is diverted when a dismembered hand flies in on a translucent and glimmering vine, and grabs Martin by the collar. Martin flies up into the sky and into outer space as it is revealed that the vine is one of many tentacles of a swarm of giant, glowing rainbow jellyfish. Looking up, Martin discovers that the hand has a face—it is a green-faced, red-haired goblin! Martin swears on his life that he will never drink again—just to be free! Then, plummeting back to Earth, he lands in a wasteland at the base of a mountain. The longest stairway you will ever see, built for giants, reaches up into the sky, where the sunlight streaks down through the mountain’s peaks. Chiseled into the first step reads: “12 X 12 X 12 STEP PROGRAM.” But before he can begin to contemplate the effort it would take to make it to the top, he is distracted by the sound of piano music coming from behind. “Old Nick’s Lounge Bar” appears in the wasteland as an ominous, red glow looms on the horizon. Martin goes right in without giving it a second thought. As the camera pulls back, the Lounge explodes in a burst of fire and broken glass. This sequence opens The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus on an altogether distasteful note, with overtones of rape and alcoholism and a holier-than-though attitude. Pitting the heavenly heights of the “12 Steps” against a grungy bar foreshadows Parnassus’ black-or-white moral attitude, to say nothing of its Heaven and Hell imagery. Martin’s peculiar descent into “Mr. Nick’s Lounge” establishes a mise en scene that will continue to be as patchwork as it is ostentatious throughout the rest of the film. Parnassus was met with mixed reviews when it premiered at the Cannes Film Festival in May of 2009, with critics noting its inconsistent look, distracting visual effects and convoluted plot. To this day, the film retains 6.8/10 stars in IMDb and a 65 percent score on Rotten Tomatoes. In his memoir, Gilliam recalls: “I remember watching it all the way through and thinking, ‘This is good—I can’t make a better film than that.’ As it turned out, not as many people as I’d hoped agreed with me.”3 Upon its theatrical release later that fall, the film was overshadowed by its unofficial title, The Film Heath Ledger Was Making When He Died, a fact that continues to haunt the film.4 Certainly, familiarity with the film’s production circumstances and background aids the viewer in understanding certain key aspects of its mise

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en scene: the four famous actors who each portray the film’s protagonist, Tony; and the film’s extravagant use of digital visual effects. “That Heath Ledger turns into Johnny Depp, who turns into Jude Law, who turns into Colin Farrell is actually one of the least startling things that happens. . . . ”5 Perhaps for these reasons, Parnassus has not received much scholarly attention beyond opinionated reviews. In the words of Sight and Sound’s Newman, “The thing about proper Terry Gilliam films is that . . . the flaws are so much a part of the pattern that the movies can never be ‘fixed.’”6 All the beer you could ever drink, shoes of every style and color: the imaginarium shows us too much of a good thing. No fantastic world could contain its grandiosity. Its larger-than-life facade must inhabit many worlds—worlds enough to contain the wildest fantasies of every child and the filthiest desires of every adult. This is Gilliam’s magic. What any mainstream director would portray as a desirable object, Gilliam upends to reveal the ugliness beneath. Critics who panned the film often noted its convoluted plot. Indeed, much of the storytelling relies on the mumbled dialogue between Parnassus and Mr. Nick (Tom Waits). The frame story, as well, takes several twists and turns along the way. The film’s 1001 Nights–style structure amounts to what could be perceived as a series of disconnected tales were it not for Parnassus’ guiding presence. That being said, the mystic is incapacitated throughout most of the film, whether asleep, in deep meditation or drunk. Additionally, perhaps more troublesome is the visual aesthetic that Gilliam strove to achieve with Parnassus. To the blind eye, the film’s extravagant CG sequences possess neither rhyme nor reason. Parnassus appears to be a visual feast to the senses, arranged as potluck rather than a curated menu. As is often the case with the inordinate use of spectacular visual effects in films, they distract from the flow of the narrative. Discriminating film critics panned the film largely because of the way it looked. Parnassus does not fit into an easily defined mould, nor does it try to meet the expectations of an audience watching a fantasy film directed by Terry Gilliam. The CGI visual effects look bad when viewing the film under such expectations. Gilliam recalls: “It’s a very funny thing, reading some of the reviews coming out of Cannes. Some of them said, ‘Fantastic looking!’ Another said, ‘Just crap special effects.’ I thought: what the fuck do they think we are doing? It’s just that they can’t even make the leap to understand that we are not trying to do what other people are doing with special effects. I find that quite bizarre.”7 In many ways, the film’s visual effects defy explanation because they bring to life different mise en scenes within one diegetic universe. Critics and viewers alike struggled with the lack of consistency in Gilliam’s visual universe. The characters wander from modern-day London to an underwater dreamscape adorned with giant shoes, down a magical river on a gondola toward the fiery ruins of an ancient city, across rolling hillsides of Technicolor green, and over

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barren wastelands in search of salvation. There are many worlds inside the imaginarium, each representing the unique desires of Parnassus’ patrons. On its surface, Parnassus is an effects film. But at its heart, Parnassus is a heartbreaking romance, a love letter, a eulogy and an apology set against the backdrop of a centuries-old conflict between good and evil over our very souls. Yet, the patchwork mise en scene is part of the film’s allure. It only takes a little bit of patience to appreciate Parnassus for what Gilliam intended it to be. It is a rookie mistake to dismiss a film for what is perceived to be an inconsistency or pitfall in design. One has but to remember that everything placed in a film has been put there for a reason—a deliberate facet of its design. This mantra is nowhere truer than when it is applied to Gilliam’s The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. Contrarily, these perceived faults could be seen as components of the film’s complex, layered worldview. One person’s inconsistency is another’s kaleidoscopic display. Parnassus deserves a second chance. Gilliam’s animator’s eye and wild imagination bring the story to life in a manner larger than words can say. Inside the imaginarium, the director explores conflicts latent in the plot, with reality often standing in for the ugliness of the world, and the mirror-dream for enchanting beauty. Upon closer inspection, Gilliam reveals that there is also beauty beneath the ugliness of society and ugliness is to be found in our dreams. In the worlds of the filmmaker: “As an artist I invent more interesting worlds with striking images. They don’t necessarily have to be beautiful, but they have to be strong and meaningful and have something to say.”8 The purpose of this chapter is to clarify the potential pitfalls of Parnassus—to identify those characteristics of the film that critics and viewers dislike. Then, it will describe the multiple mise en scenes that exist in the film in order to justify Gilliam’s design choices. Ultimately, this chapter will explain why Parnassus looks the way it does in the context of the film’s diegetic universe. In the process, this chapter establishes a place for Parnassus in Gilliam’s oeuvre. The premise of the film itself is straightforward. Thousands of years ago, Parnassus entered into a Faustian bargain with Mr. Nick, winning the gift of immortality. Enraged over his defeat, Mr. Nick haunted Parnassus. Over time, Parnassus finds humankind becoming more and more disillusioned with his stories. He makes another bargain with Mr. Nick, rescinding his immortality for the chance of living a happy life in exchange for the greatest ultimatum. Any offspring born to Parnassus will become the property of Mr. Nick upon the child’s sixteenth birthday. Subsequently, Parnassus falls in love and has a child, Valentina, but the mother dies in childbirth. On the eve of his daughter, Valentina’s, sixteenth birthday, as she romanticizes about a life away from the theatre, Mr. Nick returns to make yet another bargain: the first to save (or damn) five souls wins Valentina. With the help of a mysterious stranger, Tony (Heath Ledger), the troupe revamps their image in order

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to attract more promising patrons. The imaginarium manifests the desire of those who enter, powered by Dr. Parnassus’ will. In some cases, those desires manifest as dreams and fantasies. In some cases, they manifest as regrets; and in others they become nightmares. The journey through the imaginarium is also a test—to see if an individual fundamentally good or evil. If a person’s intentions are virtuous, Dr. Parnassus purifies him/her. If the intentions are bad, Mr. Nick lays claim to the individual’s immortal soul. Yet one would be hard-pressed to grasp the intricacies of Parnassus and Mr. Nick’s conflicted relationship from a single casual viewing. Gilliam pulls out all the stops with an over-the-top utilization of CGI visual effects. No other Gilliam film to date has incorporated CGI to such an extent. For this reason, Parnassus is conspicuous in Gilliam’s oeuvre. COMPUTER-GENERATED IMAGERY As a director known for his evocation of fantasy worlds on screen, Gilliam’s films have always relied on special effects. But the degree to which the visual effect merges with the live-action footage has always been a matter of contestation for the filmmaker. Before CG matured in the late 1990s, Gilliam preferred analog effects like costumes, makeup, props and set construction. George Lucas and the pioneering efforts of Industrial Light and Magic in bringing optical effects and spatial editing into the mainstream can be found on the opposite end of the spectrum. While Gilliam was shooting Jabberwocky (1977) at Pinewood Studios, Lucas was just next door with Star Wars. The differences in approach to special effects were acutely perceptible at the time. When interviewed about his “low-tech ‘artisanal’ special effects” in films like Time Bandits (1981), Gilliam replied, “I prefer them not only because I’m learning all the time, but because also I can discover things along the way which wouldn’t happen if it was farmed out to somebody else. I think that’s why so many of my films look the same when they move into ‘effects world’: It’s brilliant, but it’s all the same.”9 Though the films he made in the analog years employ a large number of special effects, one might be surprised to discover that Gilliam embraces CG wholeheartedly. He began using computer-aided design as early as 1995, in 12 Monkeys, and has used them consistently, though minimally, in every film he has made since.10 Parnassus stands out as having the most CG of all of Gilliam’s films combined. One could go so far as to say that Gilliam’s twenty-first-century films belong in a new category altogether because of the way digital technologies such as the digital intermediate, color-grading and computer-graphic imagery are utilized in the process of digital cinema.11 The difference between the director’s twentieth- and twenty-first-century films feels all the more acute,

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also, since The Brothers Grimm (2005) marked Gilliam’s return to Hollywood after a seven-year sabbatical. In the eyes of many film and media theorists, twenty-first-century film differs in form and practice from twentieth-century celluloid cinema. Some would go so far as to say it is a different medium altogether. Lev Manovich, for instance, claims that digital cinema owes more to the history of painting than it does to photography; therefore, digital cinema should be understood as a new medium of animation.12 As such, it would be appropriate to say that Parnassus is more essentially Gilliamesque than any of his other films; CGI gave Gilliam the flexibility to design the world of the film in a way that would approximate the images in his outlandish imagination. In The Brothers Grimm, the Queen’s porcelain face shatters into mirror shards at the moment of her death, symbolizing the severance of her magical powers. The moment is unmistakable and jarring; such eye-popping digital visual effects have never before graced the screen of a Gilliam movie. A similar moment occurs in The Man Who Killed Don Quixote (2018), when the eponymous anti-hero hallucinates cartoon-faced pig carcasses hanging from the rafters in a barn. Surprise occurrences such as these remain memorable if only as non-sequiturs. But the visualization of CG environments in Parnassus is by far the most extensive example of visual effects in Gilliam’s oeuvre. They bathe the film in a garish Technicolor glow. They are gaudy and sometimes in bad taste. But then again, this is not altogether out of character for Gilliam. New Yorker critic Anthony Lane remarks that he cannot decide “whether CGI was the best or the worst thing that could have happened to Terry Gilliam.”13 In Parnassus, the director achieved what he had planned— to mirror the dreams, desires, ambitions, and tensions of the characters audacious enough to enter the imaginarium. Oddly enough, Gilliam has consistently stated that his adoption of CG is not based on an aesthetic choice. If Gilliam has a philosophy about visual effects, it might be: “Whatever works best is what I do. I don’t have any aesthetic thing about one or the other.”14 But this is a hard reality for Gilliam’s fans to live with. Gilliam’s films of the analog era maintain a consistent look and feel, largely due to the use of practical visual effects developed from sets, costumes, and makeup. In the digital age, Gilliam’s aesthetic has changed slightly with the introduction of CG, but only in short bursts—Parnassus being the exception to that rule. For the director, the use of CG comes down to a simple pragmatic decision: “CGIs [Computer Generated Images] make it so much easier. You can do almost anything you want. It’s a great asset, and it will help more people make movies since it’s relatively cheap. . . . You do whatever is necessary to tell the story.”15 Gilliam’s concentration on cost over aesthetic makes more sense in the context of The Adventures of

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Baron Munchausen (1989), an epic “special effects movie” that went $25M over budget, saddling Gilliam with the worst reputation in Hollywood.16 Munchausen was neither his first nor his last clash with Hollywood money. Gilliam, in fact, maintains a rather consistent position on the use of CG in his films. He designs these moments to evoke the hyperrealism of his fantasy worlds. In this way, Gilliam’s films belong to a small handful of titles that can be described as “non-naturalistic”: The Mask (1991), Alice in Wonderland (2010), Happy! (2017–2019), Ready Player One (2018), and Cats (2019), to name just a few.17 This is in response to the trend toward realistic or invisible CG visual effects that promote the verisimilitude of digital objects, characters, or environments, regardless of their level of believability. Take Jurassic Park (1992) or Transformers (2007), for example. Dinosaurs and giant robots come to life on the big screen in a way that makes them look realistic against their live-action backdrops. “Realistic-looking” superheroes Iron Man and Hulk battle aliens on the streets of Manhattan in The Avengers (2012). Visual effects are designed in these films to merge CG elements with live-action footage. In fact, during production, actors come to set dressed in green and perform their lines against green backgrounds. Gilliam pines in his memoir: “Either way, as the computer-game element in films comes more to the fore, less and less is allowed to be left to the imagination.”18 Critics panned Parnassus in part because of the “non-naturalistic” aesthetic of its CG worlds. Yet, Gilliam reminds us, “I think we’ve all gotten caught in this world of naturalism being the truth and naturalism isn’t any more truthful than the stuff I do or the stuff Tex Avery does. I mean it’s all artifice.”19 The “false dichotomy” between realism and fantasy dates back to the earliest days of the cinema.20 In the end, what matters is that a story is told truthfully and that its cinematic world is a believable one. Gilliam thus defended Parnassus to Guerrasio of Filmmaker Magazine: “Most films are naturalistic no matter how fantastical they are. I’ve always wanted to be hyperrealistic but not naturalistic, and in this one in particular. In the imaginarium those landscapes are obviously not naturalistic but they’re believable.”21 The director pushes the limits with CG to make hyperrealist extravagance, representing the characters’ wildest fantasies. Gilliam’s special touch here is that the CG world inside the imaginarium sustains the same mixture of gaudiness and decrepitude as the real one. According to the filmmaker’s own confession, Parnassus looks the way it does because it was designed with a non-naturalistic aesthetic in mind. The world inside the imaginarium is not supposed to be beautiful; it mirrors the ugliness in us all, in our desires; and in our ridiculous fantasies.

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THE COLORFULLY DIRTY MISE EN SCENE The trouble with describing its multiple mise en scenes is that they are kaleidoscopic. Each setting has a different look, feel, color and contrast. “Patchwork” is a fit term to describe Parnassus’ mise en scene. A major contributing factor to critics’ responses to the film’s lack of consistency, its mise en scene can be roughly broken up into two categories: modern London and the worlds inside the imaginarium. The spaces of London are dirty and grimy. Parnassus and his traveling theater troupe inhabit the rubble-strewn wastelands of the city and the less-trodden back alleys. The creaky wagon is strewn with junk and antiques, candles burnt down to the end, cracking paint, raggedy costumes and props in disarray like the wings of a decrepit old theater—or the prop department. They live like gypsies. Even before we enter the imaginarium, Gilliam populates the everyday world with a mixture of grunge and glitz: a colorful yet dirty mise en scene. The “dingy street” outside of Medusa’s bar opens the film with an immediate juxtaposition that establishes the dual nature of the mise en scene. On one side of the street, the wagon is parked: a throwback to an earlier time, worn out and tired, out of place in modern London. The theater is shown to approximate the fantasy only poorly. It is a fool’s errand: a gaudy, garish display. It fails to enchant. The mirror on the stage is unmistakably fake and flimsy. On the other side of the street, the inebriated patrons of Medusa’s Bar flicker under neon lights. Both contrasting aspects of this first scene are equally dirty and colorful. “The steampunk design of Parnassus’ anachronistic theatre stands utterly opposed to the corporate world of shopping centers and skyscrapers that surrounds it.”22 There is a sick nostalgia in the film, in the mise en scene of everyday life, which romanticizes the Victorian era while simultaneously heralding its demise against the backdrop of twenty-first-century urban dwelling. Parnassus has multiple mise en scenes bound together loosely with thematic and aesthetic traits within one cohesive diegetic universe of the Doctor’s storytelling. The consistent dichotomy between dirty and colorful binds the mise en scenes together on a thematic level. “Dirty” elements persist across settings: the shabby wagon, the industrial wasteland in which the troupe establishes their homestead, shopping-center carparks. A performance casting Percy in blackface and Anton in drag deliberately produces a gaudy, ostentatious patina over the rendition. Inside the imaginarium, the settings are equally dirty but colored in a different sort of light: a landfill of empty bottles in which Martin frantically scrambles, Tony’s (Jude Law’s) greasy hair and plastic smile, a gondola ride down a river streaked with oil. “Colorful” elements also persist. A strong color palette highlights magenta, crimson, goldenrod, and teal against London’s grit. Wonderland worlds inside the

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imaginarium burst with different color palettes, each drawn from distinct arthistorical sources: a candy-cane city reminiscent of Doctor Seuss; the underwater dreamscape in which Tony (Johnny Depp) serenades “Louis Vuitton Woman” in a consumer’s fantasy inspired by upscale department-store displays; the bright-blue skies and lush, rolling hills of “Ladder World” borrowed from the artwork of Grant Woods. THE WASTELAND London, 2007. Gilliam sets Parnassus amid the detritus of the modern city. The Players’ lives revolve around the industrial wasteland: the “derelict buildings” and dusty dunes down by the banks of the Thames (41; 58). Gilliam scoped out the famous Battersea Power Station as a primary, recurring location. According to art director Dan Warren, “Terry had always wanted to use the power station, he loved its dereliction.”23 If the wagon appears out of place riding along the streets of modern London, it finds an appropriate home amid the “derelict” industrial ruins along the Thames at Battersea Station. The industrial wasteland of such a location provides the backdrop against which the trope sleeps and performs its daily lives. The trash heaps among the dunes resemble a medieval barnyard. The carriage horses graze in the sand among the rubble. The place is scattered with junk: a three-legged Victorian armchair, fire burning in a trashcan, a yellow duckie spring rider, broken palettes; and later the laundry and a makeshift kitchen. In identifying the resonances of steampunk design in Parnassus, McCallister calls Gilliam’s portrayal of modern London as “junk-yard modernity.”24 “The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus [uses] all [its] steampunk characteristics to depict urban environments as wastelands: devoid of natural foliage or light, littered instead with refuse of materialistic production and scrap-metal.”25 The wasteland at Battersea is where we first catch a glimpse of the film’s color scheme: magenta, crimson, goldenrod and teal. This palette works like the seams that hold the otherwise patchwork film together. The color scheme established at Battersea grounds the film, but not well enough to eliminate the gross inconsistencies. In the world of everyday life, the colors are somewhat muted. But especially in the light of day amid the sand dunes under the broken towers of Battersea, the colors pop. Valentina’s teal ribbons, her magenta robe, Parnassus’ crimson jacket and the broken, yellow umbrella he is often seen carrying, light up this space. This color scheme returns to the fore in later sequences that occur beyond the mirror’s mylar portal. “Louis Vuitton Woman’s” underwater fantasy dips the universe in blue, which functions to reflect upon Valentina’s teal ribbons which she wore in the Wasteland.26 Later in the film, Valentina and Tony (played by Colin Farrell this time) walk the

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red carpet in a majestic ballroom. The crimson carpet clashes with Valentina’s scarlet evening dress. In a bizarre sequence, Valentina runs down a corridor so dark it appears the floor and walls have collapsed into nothingness. Shards of enormous glass drift and fall around her, reflecting the brilliant red of her evening gown. In this moment, the crimson in the mise en scene mirrors those established in the props and costuming in the Battersea wasteland mirror. The color scheme established at the wasteland at the power station functions to ground the mise en scene and it becomes increasingly exotic. WONDERLAND Just as the mise en scene of modern-day London is draped in grime and grit, so are the imaginarium dreams gaudy and garish. The sequence that particularly sticks out is “Ladder World,” which features Jude Law, as Tony, playing a slimy motivational speaker with a plastic smile. In the “Ladder World” sequence, Tony retreats into the imaginarium, pursued by a swarthy gang of Russian henchmen. In this fantasy, the sun rises on a landscape like something out of Roger Rabbit’s Toontown, the sky bluer than it ever should be. The combination of dirty and colorful appropriately counterpart the industrial wasteland at Battersea. In this sequence, “Ladder World” was inspired by the art of Grant Wood (1891–1942), best known for “American Gothic.” “Ladder World” derives from several 1931 canvases, including “Young Corn” and “Fall Plowing.” This landscape is also reminiscent of some backgrounds Gilliam was fond of during the Python era, which he used and reused for the backdrops of his cut-out animations. The director provided the following description to David Morgan of CBS News: “Painterly is what we were going for. It would have to be believable, but nothing in it is naturalistic.”27 The green, rolling hills and sky-blue background clash dramatically with the mise en scene established in the film thus far. But, insofar as the industrial wasteland at Battersea is representative of Parnassus’ modern-day London, “Ladder World” represents the best and worst of the imaginarium fantasies. For one thing, its overwhelmingly green color palette contrasts with the magenta/crimson/goldenrod/teal established at the power station. In this way, “Ladder World” stands out because its green has, up until this point in the film, not been present in the design. But “Ladder World” is, at the same time, representative of the imaginarium’s mise en scene because the balance between dirty and colorful is sustained. Law’s sleaziness mirrors the dingy back-alley pubs and the shopping-center parking-lots we saw in modern-day London. Set against the cartoonish, Technicolor background,

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Law’s motivational-speaker persona accentuates that contrast between dirty and colorful. “Ladder World” is representative because of the way we now transition into the dream’s dark side and then back to the everyday world. In close pursuit of Tony, the henchmen follow as a chasm erupts, cutting through the landscapes now dividing the Grant Wood hills and Mr. Nick’s dark, chiseled mountain range. Mr. Nick’s presence is a more literal wasteland, this time painted in the style of Odd Nerdrum (1944–). Parnassus intervenes with a lineup of policemen in fishnets, dancing a chorus line. The diversion is enough to save Tony from the gangsters, but not from Mr. Nick. A windstorm comes through, and Tony awakens in a landscape much like the industrial wasteland at Battersea. There is continuity here. Tony argues with Anton over the sudden appearance of the gangsters. Anton, still in drag and a fat-suit sans wig, wrings the truth out of Tony before literally pulling back the curtain on the dream to return to the everyday world hidden in plain sight behind the mylar veil. The scene fades back to the Battersea setting. The curtain is another palpable image that symbolizes the boundary between reality and the imagination; and at this moment it is thinner than it will ever be. Imaginarium imagery associating Mr. Nick with the wasteland appears from the outset. In the film’s opening sequence, Martin is coaxed toward Nick’s Lounge, a dive bar in the shape of a bowler hat that sits alone in a barren desert. Throughout the film, Mr. Nick’s appearance in the imaginarium marks a transition from Technicolor dream to wasteland nightmare, literally cutting rifts in the landscape. In the greater scheme of things, Mr. Nick’s appearance in the imaginarium mirrors the dirtiness of the wastelands that appear in Parnassus’ modern-day London. The not-so-subtle transition from Grant Woods to Odd Nerdrum, between Parnassus’ fantasy and Mr. Nick’s nightmare, introduces the presence of harsh dichotomies. Rigidly black and white divisions indicate the mythic origins of Gilliam’s storytelling. But fantasy worlds established as freestanding universes are rarely found in the director’s pictures. The brilliance of the filmmaker’s style can be found in the way he delicately injects fantasy into the everyday. REALITY AND FANTASY It does not take an expert to appreciate the way Gilliam intermingles reality and fantasy. His films regularly portray a very thin distinction between the two; in prize moments, overlapping realities and fantasies contribute to the primal ambiguity between the two. There comes a point in 12 Monkeys, for example, when Dr. Railly has to convince James that his delusions are real. Within Gilliam’s oeuvre, the overriding impression is one of a fantastic

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worldview rooted in the real world. That is part of their charm. The real world is infinitely richer because of the proximity to which the director places it to fantasy. Gilliam’s films thrive on the intermingling of fantasy and (fictional) reality. Sam Lowry dreams himself into a hero in Brazil (1985). In The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, the eponymous hero convinces the victims of a war-torn city that there is no Turkish invasion—and so there is peace. In The Fisher King (1991), Parry’s delusion of The Red Knight is as real as his mind makes it. In Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, one is not immediately sure whether those bats are actually swarming. In The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, Toby encounters a rich medieval procession heading through the forest. At this moment, they are both twenty-first-century natives and medieval time-travelers. As David Sherritt and Lucille Rhodes argue, Gilliam freely collapses the distinction between notions of ‘the real’ and ‘the surreal’; between the organic and the mechanistic; between control and chaos, using the animated form to ultimately delineate the absurdity of humankind in submitting to the illusory notion that existence may be ordered and subjected to human will. . . . His work resists the idea that the rational is preferable, debunking the very existence of reason in literally illustrating the collapse of the boundaries between what is assumed to be real and what is assumed to be fantasy.28

This commingling of fantasy and reality leads to an indeterminate and ambivalent relationship that can be productive. Both/and. But not so in Parnassus. We are here in reality, in modern-day London, in a world made up of ridiculing drunkards and trash heaps and a dying old man. Whereas in Gilliam’s earlier films, the line between reality and fantasy is blurred at best, the imaginarium divides the two into strict binaries: heaven and hell; good and bad; liars and zealots; beautiful and ugly; the dirtiness of the real and the technicolor opulence of the dream; the chaos of the imagination and the order of reality; Parnassus’s virtue against Mr. Nick’s devilry. The dichotomy between reality and fantasy is much more acute in Parnassus than in any of Gilliam’s other films. Extremes of color and lighting and rapid transitions between modern-day London and the imaginarium exaggerate this dichotomy. The director also designs contrasts in the real and the fantasy realms, as Parnassus’s neo-Victorian theater appears out of place in a shopping-mall parking-lot and Mr. Nick’s nightmares intrude on Parnassus’s carefree fantasies. Gilliam’s worldview hinges on the precariousness of the reality-fantasy relationship. In Parnassus, an artificial split between the two, in the form of the imaginarium’s portal, creates a dichotomy between the real and the fantasy world. This binarism leaves too much weight and responsibility on either world to sustain themselves on their own. In the imaginarium, we emerge into Technicolor fantasies that are sometimes so bright they are

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blinding, so candy-coated it makes your teeth hurt. When the dreams turn sour, there is no one to blame but the devil. Rapid transitions from technicolor to everyday dinginess through CG visual effects accentuate the division between worlds. The oddity of Parnassus is that the everyday world of modern London exists separate and solitary from the imaginarium’s dreams and nightmares. This makes for a flat, unproductive relationship. CONCLUSION The jury is still out on Parnassus. Returning to the question this chapter posed at the outset, where does Parnassus fit in Gilliam’s oeuvre? On the director’s films of the 1990s, Ian Christie observes: “although all seeming to be rooted in a recognizable contemporary world, [they] also veer disturbingly into the supernatural or the fantastic. But is this a failure to unify their tone, to resist the temptations of caricature and excess; or is it the creation of a distinct Gilliamesque world, in the sense that we speak of ‘Carrollian’ or Kafkaesque’?”29 While Parnassus defies many of the traits that would characterize it as Gilliamesque, it prescribes to just as many of them as well. In a characteristic tone, Gilliam packs every inch of real estate with imaginative nuggets to the extent that the frames become busy and the story incomprehensible. The overwhelming presence of computer-generated landscapes in Parnassus distracts to the extent that character development and plot progression screech to a halt every time we transcend the mirror. Gilliam used a familiar design-approach of drawing inspiration from painting—Dr. Seuss, Grant Wood, Odd Nerdrum, and more. But this time, the source material is so diverse that the resulting mise en scene becomes kaleidoscopic. To add to the chaos, in the degree to which CGI was used to saturate the imaginarium’s landscape, Parnassus diverges from the historical look of Gilliam’s films: handmade. This is not to judge CGI against an analog standard; it is only to discern the unique aesthetic of Parnassus’s non-naturalistic imagery. Unfortunately, the magenta-crimson-goldenrod-teal color palette established in the wasteland at Battersea is not persistent enough to tie all of Parnassus’s worlds together. Aesthetics aside, Parnassus’s moral center lies in a place far removed from Gilliam’s larger oeuvre. The film is ultimately about an old man trying to resuscitate imagination back into the world. But the division between reality and fantasy is very different from his other films. The imaginarium establishes a separate, freestanding universe. This opens Parnassus to the danger of unwieldy fantasy. By manifesting dreams in painted spectacles, the film suggests the transformative power of fantasy—but only for its own sake and

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on its own terms. So there appears to be a fundamental tension in Parnassus between its storytelling and its aesthetic. Narrative-wise, Gilliam presents us with a mirror that projects our real-world fantasies into an imaginary realm. But visually, these two dimensions work against each other, presenting the audience with contrasting visual worlds. Indeed, the moral qualities of Gilliam’s story contradict his visual aesthetic. Perhaps for this reason, the film is an anomaly. There is a larger question worth asking here: which way does Parnassus’ moral compass point? Of all of Gilliam’s films, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus bears the most resemblance to The Adventures of Baron Munchausen. Each production focuses on an old man’s relationship with a young girl, and the lengths they will go to bring the rich power of imagination back to the world. But, in the end, the films’ morality could not be more different. In Munchausen, reality and fantasy blend; fantasies are just as insidious as the war-torn reality. Parnassus’ Modern London is devoid of the fantastic elements that Gilliam’s imaginative characters usually bring. Reality is strictly cordoned off from the imaginarium by means of a mirror-portal. Within Gilliam’s oeuvre, Parnassus is an anomaly for many reasons. In Parnassus, good and evil manifest in a binarism that separates the everyday world from the imaginary on a global scale. The binary division between good and evil functions like a tent pole that supports the arching plot. The presence of dichotomies in the director’s films is another borrowed attribute—from myths. The Angel of Death in Munchausen masquerades as a doctor, but the real enemy is reason and bureaucracy. Gilliam’s villains function as symbols of the evil in ourselves and the world. Evil manifests on the levels of dreams and delusions. But this is not so in The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. Of any single factor, it is the presence of Mr. Nick that is the most perplexing. He is a one-dimensional devil, made of flesh and blood. The only insidious thing about the imaginarium is that it makes it look as if your wildest dreams have come true—it gives shape to your fantasies. Light becomes dark. The goodness and virtue of people turn dark amid poor intentions. The only insidious thing is what you bring along with you. In the film, the strict demarcation between reality and fantasy contributes both to the film’s patchwork feel and to its underlying, undermining ideology. Even the wonderlands are wastelands in disguise. In Parnassus, there are no real wonderlands. They are always tinged with cruel intentions. NOTES 1. Terry Gilliam and Charles McKeown, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus (2007).

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2. Ibid., 4. 3. Terry Gilliam and Ben Thompson, Gilliamesque: A Pre-posthumous Memoir (HarperDesign, 2015), 278. 4. Ramin Setoodeh, “Let Heath Ledger Rest in Peace,” Newsweek, December 2, 2009; Peter Biskind, “The Last of Heath,” Vanity Fair, August 2009; Karen Randell, “Celebrity Trauma: The Death of Heath Ledger and The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, ed. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 145–57. 5. Charles McGrath, “Seeking Harmony with the Gods of Cinema,” New York Times, December 11, 2009. 6. Kim Newman, “The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus,” Sight and Sound 19, no. 11 (2009): 66–67. 7. Paul Stubbs, “Terry Gilliam reflects to Dreams about the making of Dr Parnassus,” Dreams, Accessed Feb. 7, 2021, www​.smart​.co​.uk​/dreams​/parntgrf​.htm. 8. Michael Tapper, “Beyond the banal surface of reality: Terry Gilliam interview,” Film International 4, no. 1 (2006): 64. 9. Ian Christie, Gilliam on Gilliam (Faber and Faber, 1999), 97. 10. David Sherritt and Lucille Rhodes, Terry Gilliam: Interviews (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2004), 191. 11. Jon Witmer, “Through the Looking Glass,” American Cinematographer 19, no. 1 (2010): 28. 12. Lev Manovich, “What is Digital Cinema?” Telepolis, May 21, 1996, http:​//​ manovich​.net​/index​.php​/projects​/what​-is​-digital​-cinema; Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media (MIT Press, 2002); Stephen Prince, Digital Visual Effects in Cinema: The Seduction of Reality (Rutgers University Press, 2011), 154. 13. Anthony Lane, “Free and Easy,” The New Yorker, December 21, 2009. 14. Anna Froula, “Steampunked: The Animated Aesthetics of Terry Gilliam in Jabberwocky and Beyond” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, ed. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell (New York: Wallflower Press, 2013), 16. 15. Tapper, 66. 16. Roger Ebert, “Fantastic Effects Overcome Confusion in Munchausen,” Chicago Sun Times, March 10, 1989; Andrew Yule, Losing the Light: Terry Gilliam and the Munchausen Saga (Hal Leonard Corporation, 1991). 17. See also Christie, 217. 18. Terry Gilliam and Ben Thompson, Gilliamesque: A Pre-posthumous Memoir (HarperDesign, 2015), 279. 19. Ian Penman, “The Big Picture,” The Face, February 1989; see also Skerritt and Rhodes, 197. 20. Prince, 222. 21. Jason Guerrasio, “Carnivalesque: Terry Gilliam’s The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus,” Filmmaker Magazine, Winter 2010; see also Gilliam and Thompson, 278. 22. Robbie McCallister, “Reengineering Modernity: Cinematic Detritus and the Steampunk Blockbuster,” Neo-Victorian Studies 11, no. 1 (2018): 23.

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​​​​​​​23. Phil Stubbs, “Dave Warren—On the Design of The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus,” Dreams, accessed February 7, 2021, http:​//​www​.smart​.co​.uk​/dreams​/parnwarr​ .htm; see also Witmer, 28. 24. McCalister, 28. 25. Ibid. 26. Gilliam and McKeown, 86. 27. David Morgan, “Designing Terry Gillliam’s Imaginarium,” CBS News, December 18, 2009, https:​//​www​.cbsnews​.com​/pictures​/designing​-terry​-gilliams​ -imaginarium​/. 28. Sherritt and Rhodes, 125. 29. Christie, vii.

REFERENCES Bennett, Ray. “The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus—Film Review.” Hollywood Reporter, May 22, 2009. www​.hollywoodreporter​.com​/news​/imaginarium​-doctor​ -parnassus​-film​-review​-93211. Biskind, Peter. “The Last of Heath.” Vanity Fair, August 2009. Christie, Ian. Gilliam on Gilliam. Faber and Faber, 1999. Dargis, Manohla. “A Traveling Show Comes to Town, but Its Guests Are the Ones on a Journey.” New York Times, Dec 24, 2009. Ebert, Roger. “Fantastic Effects Overcome Confusion in Munchausen.” Chicago Sun Times, March 10, 1989. Froula, Anna. “Steampunked: The Animated Aesthetics of Terry Gilliam in Jabberwocky and Beyond.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 16–31. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Furino, Giaco. “Terry Gilliam Looks Back on Imaginarium.” Outtake. Medium, February 22, 2017. medium.com/@GiacoFurino/ exclusive-terry-gilliam-looks-back-on-imaginarium-e996ed466112. Gilliam, Terry, and Charles McKeown. The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. 2007. Gilliam, Terry, and Ben Thompson. Gilliamesque: A Pre-posthumous Memoir. HarperDesign, 2015. Giralt, Gabriel F. “The interchangeability of VFX and live action and its implications for realism.” Journal of Film and Video 69, no. 1 (2017): 3–17. Guerrasio, Jason. “Carnivalesque: Terry Gilliam’s The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus.” Filmmaker Magazine, Winter 2010. Jenkins, Mark. “Gilliam’s Man ‘Doctor’ Spins an Elusive Tale.” NPR, December 23, 2009. www​.npr​.org​/templates​/story​/story​.php​?storyId​=121712620. Lafrance, James. “Flights of Fancy.” Dreams. Accessed February 7, 2021, www​.smart​ .co​.uk​/dreams​/bmvive​.htm. Lane, Anthony. “Free and Easy.” The New Yorker, December 21, 2009. Manovich, Lev. “What Is Digital Cinema?” Telepolis, May 21, 1996. manovich.net/i ndex.php/projects/what-is-digital-cinema.

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———. The Language of New Media. MIT Press, 2002. McAllister, Robbie. “Reengineering Modernity: Cinematic Detritus and the Steampunk Blockbuster.” Neo-Victorian Studies 11, no. 1 (2018): 15–37. McGrath, Charles. “Seeking Harmony with the Gods of Cinema.” New York Times, December 11, 2009. Mineo, Andrea. “The Making of ‘The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus.’” CNN, Dec 18, 2009. www​.cnn​.com​/2009​/SHOWBIZ​/Movies​/12​/17​/terry​.gilliam​.interview​/ index​.html. Morgan, David. “Designing Terry Gilliam’s ‘Imaginarium.’” CBSNews. Accessed February 7, 2021, www​.cbsnews​.com​/pictures​/designing​-terry​-gilliams​ -imaginarium​/. Newman, Kim. “The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus.” Sight and Sound 19, no. 11 (2009): 66–67. Penman, Ian. “The Big Picture.” The Face, February 1989. Prince, Stephen. Digital Visual Effects in Cinema: The Seduction of Reality. Rutgers University Press, 2011. Randell, Karen. “Celebrity Trauma: The Death of Heath Ledger and The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus.” In The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, edited by Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell, 145–57. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. Setoodeh, Ramin. “Let Heath Ledger Rest in Peace.” Newsweek, December 2, 2009. Sherritt, David and Lucille Rhodes. Terry Gilliam: Interviews. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2004. Stubbs, Phil. “Dave Warren—On the Design of The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus.” Dreams. Accessed February 7, 2021. www​.smart​.co​.uk​/dreams​/parnwarr​.htm. ———. “Terry Gilliam reflects to Dreams about the Making of Dr Parnassus.” Dreams. Accessed February 7, 2021. www​.smart​.co​.uk​/dreams​/parntgrf​.htm. Tapper, Michael. “Beyond the banal surface of reality: Terry Gilliam interview.” Film International 4, no. 1 (2006): 60–69. “Terry Gilliam: The ‘Imaginarium’ That Almost Wasn’t.” All Things Considered. National Public Radio, December 19, 2009. www​.npr​.org​/templates​/story​/story​ .php​?storyId​=121636569. Witmer, Jon. “Through the Looking Glass.” American Cinematographer 19, no. 1 (2010): 24–31. Yule, Andrew. Losing the Light: Terry Gilliam and the Munchausen Saga. Montclaire, NJ: Applause Books, 1991.

Chapter 12

Black Hole The Zero Theorem and the Pointless Quest Michael Charlton

Terry Gilliam’s films are filled with dreamers on a quest. Many of his main characters are defined by their use of imagination and fantasy to escape and to transcend the grim worlds in which they live. Consider Parry (Robin Williams) in The Fisher King (1991), whose life of trauma, grief, mental illness, and homelessness is transformed by his self-imposed search for the Holy Grail in this more poignant, less satirical revisit of the quest object from Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975).1 His quest leads him into friendship, romance, and a second chance at his life. The Baron (John Neville) in The Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1988) looks for whimsy and escapades in a grim, war-torn world.2 His quest leads him to outer space; to realms of mythology; and to the evasion of death itself. Jake Grimm (Heath Ledger), the less cynical of the titular Brothers Grimm (2005), longs to believe in a world beyond the rational and mundane.3 His quest heads through fairy-tale horrors to real-world heroism in a trajectory similar to Dennis (Michael Palin), the reluctantly dragon-slaying protagonist of Jabberwocky (1977).4 Kevin (Craig Warnock) in Time Bandits (1981) journeys through time with that timeless fixture of the quest, the priceless map; and encounters the Supreme Being.5 Darker, more psychedelic quests through visions both psychological and chemical are at the center of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998) and Tideland (2005).6 In The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus (2009) the guided quests through the mirror lead to a crucial choice: self-enlightenment or willful ignorance.7 The Man Who Killed Don Quixote (2018) deals with perhaps 209

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world literature’s best-known quester, who, like many a Gilliam character, is both delusional and noble in his delusions.8 The dystopian duo of Brazil (1985) and 12 Monkeys (1995) have two very different quests at their heart.9 Sam Lowry (Jonathan Pryce) in Brazil seeks to escape through dreams by using absurd fantasies to leave behind an absurd world. Cole (Bruce Willis) in 12 Monkeys is sent back in time to investigate the apocalyptic virus and yet his death is an ironic fulfillment of his quest, providing the answers to not only the virus, but to his own dreams and memories. In Gilliam’s films, there is often a price to be paid for the quest—illness, injury, humiliation, loss and death. Yet even those films which end in tragedy (such as 12 Monkeys and Brazil) do not end in total defeat. Something has been gained, whether a horrible insight or a Pyrrhic victory of escape into the mind. Those films which do at least partly parody the heroic quest (such as Holy Grail, Fear and Loathing, and arguably the end of Time Bandits) still acknowledge that the protagonist has won something, if only experience. At their most romantic, Gilliam’s films (perhaps particularly The Fisher King) present an almost utopian idea of the quest, with the search ending in healing and community. In this strain of his films, Gilliam could be seen as symbolically linked to Doctor Parnassus (Christopher Plummer), Don Quixote (Jonathan Pryce), and the Baron—dreamers and storytellers who use a fantastical truth against the Devil (ignorance and selfishness) and Death (the defeat of the individual). Most critics and reviewers of The Zero Theorem (2013) have linked the film to its fellow dystopias, usually making the comparison in negative terms.10 Typical of this strain is A.O. Scott’s review of the film, which states that “admirers of [Brazil] will find echoes of its themes and traces of its look here, but they will miss its intellectual vigor and narrative momentum.”11 Scott describes those themes as “the erosion of individuality in a technocratic, corporate-dominated society and . . . the collapsing boundary between work and leisure.”12 Leslie Felperin called it “a muddle of unfunny jokes and half-baked ideas” that “at best, momentarily recalls the dystopian whimsy of the director’s best-loved effort, Brazil.”13 Deborah Young panned it as “facetiously wacky about man’s search for the meaning of life in a chaotic modern world,” though noting that the visuals and themes made it “unmistakably” Gilliam’s work.14 Robbie Collin accused the film of “openly pilfering its central themes” from Brazil but not developing those themes.15 Xan Brooks compared the film’s main character and his delusional quest to the “spectacularly ill-starred recent career” of the director himself: “he’s a little like [Qohen], who sits waiting for a phone call that will definitively explain the meaning of life. Of course, there’s no phone call; it’s all a delusion. Yet still, he sits, because there’s hope in the waiting and what else is the point?”16

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Despite this rather bleak description, he describes the film as having “a certain sweet melancholy.”17 Anthony Lane also compared the film’s main character to Gilliam himself and the recent troubles facing his career (particularly the ill-fated Don Quixote adaptation), though noting that the film (with its inevitable comparison to Brazil) “both hunts for and despairs of meaning.”18 Geoff Pevere dismissed the film as a restaging of Brazil “in miniature” and as a “concentrated distillation” of other dystopias.19 One of the more positive reviewers of the film, Mary Corliss, still described it almost entirely in terms of its relationship with Brazil and as a satire: “Gilliam still has the cartoonist’s imagination from his Monty Python days, and social rage expressed not in a frown but a giggle.”20 While making the inevitable comparison to Brazil, Kim Newman at least touched on the theme of the quest: “Even the mad geniuses who pursue the Zero Theorem admit no one would really want the proof of pointlessness which lies at the end of this quest.”21 As will be argued later, comparisons to Brazil were probably inevitable, given the visual design and dystopian setting of the film, but critical reviewers of the film on its first release seem to have missed how the tone and ending of The Zero Theorem mark a considerable departure from Brazil. Lengthy critical examinations of the film are few. Teodor Mladenov discussed it in terms of Lyotard, postmodernity and disability studies, but otherwise, it seems to have been treated as a minor work in Gilliam’s filmography.22 One of the more interesting interpretations of the film comes from Bo Moore’s interview with Gilliam for Wired, in which Moore notes that each of the director’s films can be read as “an exercise in escaping” from “the real world.”23 As has been argued, the quest to escape or transcend the mundane world is crucial to his filmography. In Gilliam’s own words, “Everybody lives for their selfies and their tweets—to actually exist, somebody has to be talking to you or listening in on you. . . . Qohen just wants to be disconnected, wants to escape from the world that’s out there, full of people just filling the Internet with pictures of the food they’re eating.”24 The director made a comparison with Brazil and 12 Monkeys himself in an interview with Alex Suskind, noting that the three films make up an accidental trilogy of dystopias, though casting the world of The Zero Theorem as partly his own reaction to the always-connected climate of social media and new technology: “Now we’re living in such a happy world where everybody is connected all the time and everybody’s selfie-ing each other and showing pictures of what they’re eating. It’s just so much fun now. So I thought, let’s make it a utopia out there where it’s colorful and bright. There’s only one guy who doesn’t seem to be playing ball with the rest of the world.”25 Perhaps his most revealing comment came from a post on Gilliam’s Facebook page, in which the director praised reviewer Dave Lancaster for describing the main character

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as “tragic”: “Despite lots of humor in the film, the main character is a ‘tragic one’ and he saddens me.”26 Screenwriter Pat Rushin noted, in an interview, that the film was inspired by the Biblical book of Ecclesiastes: “That’s the book in the Old Testament that asks the major questions. What is the value of life? What is the meaning of existence? What’s the use?”27 The main character Qohen (Christoph Waltz) is a play on Qoheleth, the ambiguous seeker of wisdom who is the namesake of this biblical book. Ecclesiastes is famously a text subject to myriad, sometimes contradictory interpretations. As theologians Kimmo Huovila and Dan Lioy have noted, the ambiguity of key words in the text (particularly the Hebrew word hebel, which has traditionally been translated as “vanity” or “mere breath”) can lead interpreters in vastly different directions, from interpreting the book as describing the meaninglessness of life to interpreting the book as describing the “transience of life” to interpreting the book as describing the absurdity of life and the absurdity of any search for meaning.28 Aron Pinker notes how the translation and understanding of other key words in Ecclesiastes (in this case hote and tov, sometimes translated as “sinner” and “righteous”) lead to radically different interpretations of how “Qoheleth” viewed divine justice and wisdom and whether those views were “pious” or orthodox.29 Douglas Miller’s rhetorical reading of the text rather amusingly starts out by describing the apparent confusion of its author: “The Book of Ecclesiastes has generated such a diversity of understandings, such a variety of readings, that we must wonder at times at the quality of its communication. Perhaps the Preacher [another translation of ‘Qoheleth’] forgot to include something, a key to unlock his thoughts.”30 Much the same charge seems to have been leveled at Gilliam by the critics when it comes to his Ecclesiastical film. Interpreting this odd narrative poses multiple questions about genre, tone, and the director’s own history. If the film is not primarily an afterthought to Brazil and 12 Monkeys—one more trip into dystopian settings and tropes—then what is it in terms of genre? Is Gilliam simply repeating himself? Is the film a dark satire about addiction to technology, as a few critics and some of Gilliam’s own remarks have suggested? If it is a comedy (even a dark comedy like Brazil, Fear and Loathing, and parts of 12 Monkeys), is its often stark and depressing tone an accident or a miscalculation? If it is a tragedy, as again a few critics and some of Gilliam’s own remarks have suggested, what gives the story and/or its main character a tragic dimension? The following reading seeks to tie together these threads—the argument that the dominant theme of Gilliam’s filmography is the quest narrative and that analyzing The Zero Theorem as a quest narrative resolves some of these questions about genre, tone and the director’s recurring theme about a search for meaning or escape. It contends that readings which have focused almost

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exclusively on the connections between this film and the two other dystopias have underappreciated other aspects of the film, particularly the implications of the ending. The Zero Theorem inarguably shares certain dystopian tropes and certain retro-future features of production design, costume design and character with Brazil in particular. Yet there are key differences hinted at in Lancaster’s use of the word “tragic” and Newman’s insight that this is a quest no one really wants to see completed, as it would prove nothing but “pointlessness.” Given how central technology is to the film’s quest, it is useful to place The Zero Theorem in the context of other narratological analyses of high-tech quests. In his reading of the Wachowskis’ 1999 film The Matrix, Scott Stroud posits what he calls the “technological hero-quest.”31 Drawing from the mythic hero-quest as interpreted by Joseph Campbell and from narrative and philosophical theorists, Stroud argues for a particular kind of hero-quest peculiar to modern technology and reflecting both the promises of and anxieties surrounding that technology. In his reading, the “hacker” is the prototypical hero of the technological quest but this hero is a figure of some ambivalence, embodying both “fears of alienation due to technological advance” and “imposed, albeit empowered, separation from mainstream society to achieve noble ends.”32 The “technological hero-quest” in the form of the hacker is both closely tied to technology—a certain degree of social isolation and expertise in technology is necessary for the hacker to work—and centers itself around a figure who overcomes technology in favor of humanity, thus embodying the “urge to destroy technology, or at the very least, to transcendentally subdue it to the power of the human mind.”33 Essentially, this is what Qohen imagines himself to be, though with him technology is merely a necessary instrument in the search for larger truths. Fixated on the phone call which he believes would have illuminated the meaning of life for him if only he had listened, Qohen seeks to use his role as a cog in Management’s system to find this meaning through other means. By bringing order to the Neural Net, he will help to solve the assigned Zero Theorem equation and thus justify the lifetime he has spent waiting for that phone call and searching for answers. In his conversations with Bob (Lucas Hedges) and his electronic therapist, he seems to recognize that he will have to pay a price for this, as all heroes do (in this case, his isolation, his mental illness, and his nightmares).34 What lends Qohen a tragic dimension is his refusal to believe that his positive qualities (his capacity for belief, his technological skills, his thirst for knowledge) are being co-opted by others. Indeed, he seems to cast himself as a minor revolutionary using the materialistic system for his own spiritual ends. Though Bob starts out by mocking Qohen’s delusions of grandeur (“You’re the chosen one, Q”), he also attempts to be honest with him by revealing how Management sees him (“a workdog”) and what the Zero

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Theorem is. One of the more striking visuals in the film comes as Bob scrawls equations on top of faded, forgotten religious paintings—one search for truth (or un-truth) supplanting another. “All for nothing” is how Bob sums it up; according to the theorem, life and matter are a “glitch” and “everything that’s something” will end in a black hole (“nada, nothing, zilch, zip, zero”). Qohen is instantly repulsed by the idea while the teenager seeks to find comfort in the transience of existence (“nothing’s perfect, nothing lasts forever, nothing to worry about”).35 Bob (who viewers later learn is seriously ill and thus facing his own oblivion) seeks to redirect Qohen’s thinking. Instead of spending your life seeking for answers which will give you no comfort, why not accept that the only answer is oblivion and get on with living? Bob directly warns Qohen that he is being used as a “tool,” but the quester refuses to accept this (much later in the film, after the truth of how he has been manipulated is laid bare, he will complain about having the “wrong tool”). Similarly, Bainsley (Melanie Thierry) tries to make Qohen accept that he has been coerced into his quest when she apologizes to him and endeavors to convince him that their connection should be his new quest—one focused not on an end goal but on human connection (“I don’t know where I’m going. Will you come with me?”). This is the one stretch of the film in which he seems to reconsider his priorities, reflecting on the fact that Bainsley is a lost possibility (“We’re afraid it is too late . . . we have work to do”) and rejecting the picture of life with her on a tropical island, though with obvious regret. This regret transforms into evading his work for a day outside with Bob, where an unusually self-reflective Qohen reveals his failed marriage. The closest he ever comes to rejecting his quest seems to be in these moments when he realizes how removed his search has made him from human connection. Tragically for him, it is too late; Bob’s health collapses and Qohen’s attempts to care for him—which come with his most active rejection of Management’s supervision and coercion—end in failure. Qohen is not on the “technological hero-quest,” however much he imagines himself to be. He certainly has the urge to destroy technology, but when he actually does so by attacking Management’s surveillance devices and damaging his other equipment, he nearly kills himself in the process. Arrogant in his belief that he is the master of technology, Qohen is easily deceived by the machinations of the psychiatric program and the digital manipulations of Bainsley. While in a deceptive relationship with her, he is all too eager to accept the false paradise provided by virtual reality. Bob and Bainsley, the only two people in Qohen’s world who seem genuinely fond of him and eager to connect in a human, non-corporate, non-technological way, are quick to tell him that he completely misunderstands the situation and his role in it but, in his hubris, he rejects this.

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His quest for meaning and his belief that this makes him transcend the system do not make him heroic; indeed, these are the very qualities that Management (Matt Damon) needs from him in order for him to do his job properly. This is the brutal truth Management reveals to him in their final conversation, as Qohen is being abandoned due to no longer being useful (and, perhaps, for wavering in his quest by considering a human connection with Bainsley or Bob). This scene is in some ways one of the bleakest in Gilliam’s filmography, as Qohen’s heroic fantasies are torn apart one by one. He has attempted to escape isolation by forming an odd, quasi-paternal relationship with Bob, but this scene reveals that the boy has been hospitalized and there is little hope of recovery. Throughout the film the character has positioned himself as a quasi-religious seeker, housing himself in an abandoned place of worship and surrounding himself with religious iconography. Management dismisses hopes of deliverance (“Well, if I believed in miracles, I’d be praying for one right now”). Qohen has sought to distinguish between the real and the imaginary (“Are you real or just in my mind?”) and Management rejects the question entirely (“It doesn’t matter at all,” he responds, revealing that Qohen is now permanently part of the Neural Net). When Qohen asks about the fundamental mystery of his existence (“So there’s no answer?”) Management bats it away as essentially trivial (“That depends on the question”) and stresses that he is “not the source of his call” and, as such, has no reassurance to provide. Qohen desires revelation while Management has nothing to provide but the black hole which has haunted the protagonist’s programs and his nightmares—“chaos encapsulated . . . that’s all there is at the end. Just as it was at the beginning.” Yet Management dispassionately insists that even this knowledge of oblivion is not useful. In his words, he is a “businessman” and “nothing is for nothing.” What they truly sought was not the truth of the universe, however horrifying that truth might be, but a way to profit from chaos and disorder. “The saddest aspect of mankind’s need to believe in a god or, to put it another way, a purpose greater than this life is that it makes this life meaningless,” Management declares; the reason that he chose Qohen is that Qohen’s need to believe in an answer “perversely” made him the person for the job because it meant he would waste his life in search of that answer. Since he has failed to turn up anything profitable in the chaos, he is cut loose from the system which he despised but which gave him the only structure he had. Despite all of this, Qohen still seeks to rebel in the way that the “technological hero” rebels—by destroying technology, by transcending it. Yet there is nothing but a constantly replaying audiovisual recording of him being fired and his efforts at destruction are instantly repaired. This world fractures to reveal what he has feared all along: a void of senseless, scattered images

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spiraling into the ultimate finality of a black hole. At first fleeing from it, he seems to come to a calm acceptance and hurls himself into its well. Beyond it he stands naked and alone on his virtual reality beach, indifferent to reminders of Bainsley and her previous offers of escape to a tropical island, childishly tossing a beach ball and then the illusory sun itself. The film ends with Qohen apparently willing the sun to set and ignoring Bainsley’s distant, disembodied calls to him while a jazzy, slinky rendition of Radiohead’s “Creep” plays (“What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here”). This final sequence is bleak, as befits a sequence where a character trapped within a computer system accepts life in a black hole from which he can never return. Qohen now knows that he has squandered his life and severed any possible connection to other human beings. He also knows that there is no answer to be found here—no knowledge to be gained after he has consciously chosen to surrender to chaos, disorder, and finality. While the visual is one of paradise, it is an isolated and lonely paradise. Though the image of Qohen bouncing the sun seems to be one of willed control, this is an environment he knows to be artificial and illusory. Technology has not been destroyed or subdued; it has been surrendered to in absolute terms. The technological hero is meant to help humanity, but Qohen has rejected any hope of connecting with other human beings. The only thing which gives Qohen release is the acceptance of the pointlessness he feared. He has not truly failed in his quest because it was never possible to succeed (except, perhaps, in terms that profited Management). Beyond the point of no return and with nothing further to want or achieve, he is playful but abandoned. The quest has lost its religious overtones and traveled beyond a search for meaning by denying any possibility that the individual could find meaning, thus rejecting the very idea of the quest. Dystopias require some distance from the system—a possibility that the world could be different than it is, that the world has taken a dark turn. In the same way, satires require a degree of distance—the recognition that something valued by characters within the world is ridiculous, that values and systems are flawed. Even tragedy requires some gap between what the character might have been and might have achieved and the depths into which he or she falls. In a certain sense, The Zero Theorem confounds genre classifications because it takes apart each of the genres it uses. The hero embarks on a quest but the quest itself proves the pointlessness of questing. The world around the hero is dystopian. Given the ultimate indifference of the universe and the futility of any search for meaning, things cannot be improved. The world around the hero and the hero himself are sometimes comic and ludicrous because existence itself is absurd. The one avenue the film leaves open for Qohen—the possibility that some connection or meaning could be found in relationships—is closed off by misunderstandings, deceptions, and human frailty.36

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In terms of quest narratives, the two films most often compared to The Zero Theorem are markedly different from it. Brazil ends with an escape into the mind which is, in terms of the character’s options, a partial triumph over the system. 12 Monkeys ends in a death which, in its own peculiar way, brings definitive answers to lifelong questions. It is hard to find precedents for The Zero Theorem’s ending in Gilliam’s other work, either. This is clearly not the restorative, if bittersweet, narrative of The Fisher King, Baron Munchausen, Doctor Parnassus, Brothers Grimm or Don Quixote, in which the quest is either won or continues under a new banner. Neither is it the humorous mock-quest of Holy Grail, Jabberwocky, Time Bandits, or Fear and Loathing, in which the quest itself is either called off for comical reasons or is completed in satirical terms.37 The Zero Theorem is, in many ways, a closer thematic cousin to Tideland than most interpretations have suggested. Like The Zero Theorem, which seems to mix elements of dystopian science fiction with satire, tragedy and religious drama, Tideland is difficult to pin down in terms of genre.38 Also like The Zero Theorem, Tideland centers on a socially awkward protagonist who shows clear signs of mental illness and delusion. Both Qohen and Jeliza-Rose (Jodelle Ferland) are characterized by empty, isolated homes. Each has retreated into fantasy (his search for non-answers and his romantic aspirations, her dolls) and a disconnected, dispassionate examination of the fractured world around them. Neither has any real family ties except those defined by morbidity and decay. Their attempts to form connections are thwarted by the internal maladies of the other (Bainsley’s ulterior motives, Bob’s unspecified illness, Dell and Dickens’ mental illness and violent tendencies). While Qohen is much more driven in his quest for answers than Jeliza-Rose is in any aspect of her life except for her mostly inarticulate quest for companionship, both have fractured psyches due to alienation and trauma. The Zero Theorem ends in a quest defined by pointlessness and self-oblivion, with the character embracing isolation and nothingness. Yet the end of Tideland is hardly less apocalyptic in terms of both imagery and character trajectory. The wreckage of her life, the trauma of death, and her futile attempts to imagine and build companionship burst into a literal inferno. She is mistaken for the victim of one accident while truly being a victim of the troubled adults who surround her and their own selfish, misguided delusions. There is no real comfort to be found for her here, despite promises that she will be cared for, because her emotional blankness and focus on the imaginary suggest that she is beyond rescue in a psychological sense. Like Sam, she has retreated into fantasy to avoid harsh realities (“They’re my friends, you know. They have names”). Yet, like Qohen, there is no feeling of escape or transcendence here. Both seem to hear the voices of their would-be rescuers

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only faintly, having abandoned their quests (knowledge, companionship) in favor of a protective solipsism. Far from being a simple repetition of Gilliam’s themes, this is a deepening and a darkening of them. These are quests which end in nothingness and defeat and, as such, constitute an aberration in his filmography. Instead of healing or partially liberating the person undergoing the quest or at the very least providing closure (as in the closed loop of 12 Monkeys), The Zero Theorem culminates in decay, morbidity and fractured, hopeless personal relationships. Religious imagery and themes exist in other Gilliam films; as noted before, the Holy Grail itself turns up in more than one film and religious figures crop up repeatedly (not to mention Gilliam’s creative, though non-directorial, role in Life of Brian).39 Yet perhaps no other Gilliam film is infused with religious and existential questions to such an extent. This is the anti-quest—the quest ending not in enlightenment or release but in, in both figurative and quite literal senses, nothing. As Qoheleth himself says in the King James Version of Ecclesiastes: “For in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow” (1:18). NOTES 1. The Fisher King, dir. Terry Gilliam (Burbank, CA: Sony Home Entertainment, 1991); Monty Python and the Holy Grail, dir. Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones (Burbank, CA: Sony Home Entertainment, 1975). 2. The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, dir. Terry Gilliam (Burbank, CA: Sony Home Entertainment, 1988). 3. The Brothers Grimm, dir. Terry Gilliam (New York: Miramax, 2005). 4. Jabberwocky, dir. Terry Gilliam (New York: Criterion, 1977). 5. Time Bandits, dir. Terry Gilliam (New York: Criterion, 1981). 6. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, dir. Terry Gilliam (Universal City, CA: Universal Home Entertainment, 1998); Tideland, dir. Terry Gilliam (Los Angeles, CA: Velocity, 2005). 7. The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, dir. Terry Gilliam (New York: Sony Pictures Classics, 2009). 8. The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, dir. Terry Gilliam (Los Angeles, CA: Cinedigm, 2018). 9. Brazil, dir. Terry Gilliam (New York: Criterion, 1985); 12 Monkeys, dir. Terry Gilliam (Universal City, CA: Universal Home Entertainment, 1995). 10. The Zero Theorem, dir. Terry Gilliam (Burbank, CA: Sony Home Entertainment, 2013). 11. A.O. Scott, “Work, Love, and Therapy in So Many Bytes: Review of The Zero Theorem,” The New York Times, posted September 18, 2014, www​.nytimes​.com​/2014​ /09​/19​/movies​/christoph​-waltz​-drowns​-in​-technocracy​-in​-the​-zero​-theorem​.html.

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12. Ibid. 13. Leslie Felperin, “Review of The Zero Theorem,” Variety, posted September 2, 2013, https:​//​variety​.com​/2013​/film​/reviews​/the​-zero​-theorem​-review​-venice​ -1200595787​/. 14. Deborah Young, “Review of The Zero Theorem,” The Hollywood Reporter, posted September 2, 2013, https:​//​www​.hollywoodreporter​.com​/review​/zero​-theorem​ -venice​-review​-619361. 15. Robbie Collin, “Review of The Zero Theorem,” The Telegraph, posted October 12, 2013, www​.telegraph​.co​.uk​/culture​/film​/filmreviews​/10282642​/The​-Zero​ -Theorem​-review​.html. 16. Xan Brooks, “Review of The Zero Theorem,” The Guardian, posted September 2, 2013, https:​//​www​.theguardian​.com​/film​/2013​/sep​/02​/zero​-theorem​-venice​-2013​ -review. 17. Ibid. 18. Anthony Lane, “What’s It All About? Review of The Zero Theorem and 20,000 Days on Earth,” The New Yorker, posted September 15, 2014, https:​//​www​.newyorker​ .com​/magazine​/2014​/09​/22​/whats. 19. Geoff Pevere, “Review of The Zero Theorem,” The Globe and Mail, posted August 1, 2014, https:​//​www​.theglobeandmail​.com​/arts​/film​/film​-reviews​/the​-zero​ -theorem​-terry​-gilliam​-drags​-us​-back​-to​-brazil​/article19879027​/. 20. Mary Corliss, “Review of The Zero Theorem,” Time.com, posted September 6, 2013, entertainment.time.com/2013/09/06/postcards-from-venice-previews-of-toronto/. 21. Kim Newman, “Review of The Zero Theorem,” Empire, posted July 18, 2013, www​.empireonline​.com​/movies​/reviews​/zero​-theorem​-review​/. 22. Teodor Mladenov, “Performativity and the Disability Category: Solving the Zero Theorem,” Critical Sociology 46, no. 1 (2020): 51–64. 23. Bo Moore, “Terry Gilliam on his epic new dystopian film The Zero Theorem,” Wired, posted September 10, 2014, https:​//​www​.wired​.com​/2014​/09​/zero​-theorem​/. 24. Ibid. 25. Alex Suskind, “Interview: Terry Gilliam on The Zero Theorem, Avoiding Facebook, Don Quixote, and His Upcoming Autobiography,” IndieWire, posted on September 17, 2014, https:​//​www​.indiewire​.com​/2014​/09​/interview​-terry​-gilliam​-on​ -the​-zero​-theorem​-avoiding​-facebook​-don​-quixote​-and​-his​-upcoming​-autobiography​ -272204​/. 26. Dave Lancaster, “Review of The Zero Theorem,” Cinemas Online, posted March 23, 2014, https:​//​cinemas​-online​.co​.uk​/; Terry Gilliam, Facebook post, posted March 13, 2014, www​.facebook​.com​/photo​.php​?fbid​=674531892605628​&set​=a​ .256735074385314​.62810​.256730041052484​&type​=1​&theater. 27. Kevin Craig, “Meet a Professor Coming to a Screen Near You,” UCF Today, posted on August 30, 2013, www​.ucf​.edu​/news​/meet​-a​-professor​-coming​-to​-a​-screen​ -near​-you​/. 28. Kimmo Huovila and Dan Lioy, “The Meaning of Hebel in Ecclesiastes,” Conspectus 27 (March 2019): 36. 29. Aron Pinker, “How Should We Understand Ecclesiastes 2:26?” Jewish Bible Quarterly 38, no 4. (2010): 226.

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30. Douglas Miller, “What the Preacher Forgot: The Rhetoric of Ecclesiastes,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 62, no. 2 (2000): 215. 31. The Matrix trilogy, dir. Lana and Lilly Wachowski (Burbank, CA: Warner Brothers, 1999–2003); Scott R. Stroud, “Technology and Mythic Narrative: The Matrix as Technological Hero-Quest,” Western Journal of Communication 65, no 4 (2001): 417. 32. Ibid. 33. It might be noted that, while this is an interesting reading of the first Matrix film, it is arguably made much more problematic by the then-unreleased The Matrix Reloaded (in which the “technological hero,” Neo, discovers that his quest is really nothing more than a necessary programming glitch in the technology itself and that he is simply the latest iteration of this glitch) and The Matrix Revolutions (in which Neo essentially sacrifices himself at the end of his quest in order to create an unsteady and impermanent truce between technology and humanity). In some ways, the Matrix trilogy and The Zero Theorem are similar in terms of starting with a recognizable traditional quest narrative (hero seeks power and knowledge through technology) only to show how that quest is either subverted by the system or ends with a questionable or non-existent benefit to society and oblivion for her; Stroud, “Technology and Mythic Narrative,” 436. 34. The closest the film comes to dealing explicitly with Gilliam’s apparently negative feelings about technological communication and social media is in the therapy sessions with the programmed, falsely empathetic electronic therapist. While Qohen comes close to human insights with Bob and Bainsley, this digital “helper” provides nothing meaningful or useful to him. He is effectively talking to himself. 35. It could be argued that Qohen, Bob, and Bainsley all represent different common interpretations of Ecclesiastes as described by the theological critics—Qohen is pious and believes that wisdom can be found, Bob believes that the only wisdom is to recognize the transience of life, and Bainsley takes a pragmatic view that life’s flaws and contradictions must be accepted and that we must get on with living. 36. Given space, this discussion could be extended far beyond the treatment of the quest theme in Gilliam’s filmography to the larger genre of the post-modern or existentialist quest. For example, Ilana Shiloh’s discussion of how writer Paul Auster is indebted to the existentialist philosophies of Sartre and Camus in his own post-modern, intentionally open-ended and meaningless quest stories while also drawing on the American obsession with “road” stories (Paul Auster and the Postmodern Quest: On the Road to Nowhere [New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2002]) could be usefully compared to Gilliam’s many mock-heroic quest and “road” movies, such as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. 37. There are seeds of this quest-mocking ending in all the Monty Python films, from the camera-busting police raid at the abrupt end of Monty Python and the Holy Grail to the Terry Jones-directed Life of Brian (the non-messiah is crucified because of a lifetime of misunderstandings) and The Meaning of Life (which unveils the meaning of life in anti-climactic fashion and describes it as “nothing very special”).

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38. The film’s Wikipedia page rather awkwardly crams together some genre descriptors (“neo-noir fantasy horror”), while critical reviews tend to describe it as a fairy tale or a Southern Gothic. 39. Monty Python’s Life of Brian, dir. Terry Jones (Burbank, CA: Sony Home Entertainment, 1979).

​​​​​​​REFERENCES 12 Monkeys. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Universal City, CA: Universal Home Entertainment, 1995. The Adventures of Baron Munchausen. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Burbank, CA: Sony Home Entertainment, 1988. Brazil. Directed by Terry Gilliam. New York: Criterion, 1985. Brooks, Xan. “Review of The Zero Theorem.” The Guardian. September 2, 2013. www​.theguardian​.com​/film​/2013​/sep​/02​/zero​-theorem​-venice​-2013​-review. The Brothers Grimm. Directed by Terry Gilliam. New York: Miramax, 2005. Collin, Robbie. “Review of The Zero Theorem.” The Telegraph. October 12, 2013. www​.telegraph​.co​.uk​/culture​/film​/filmreviews​/10282642​/The​-Zero​-Theorem​ -review​.html. Corliss, Mary. “Review of The Zero Theorem.” Time.com. September 6, 2013. enterta inment.time.com/2013/09/06/postcards-from-venice-previews-of-toronto/. Craig, Kevin. “Meet a Professor Coming to a Screen Near You.” UCF Today. August 30, 2013. www​.ucf​.edu​/news​/meet​-a​-professor​-coming​-to​-a​-screen​-near​-you​/. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Universal City, CA: Universal Home Entertainment, 1998. Felperin, Leslie. “Review of The Zero Theorem.” Variety. September 2, 2013. variety .com/2013/film/reviews/the-zero-theorem-review-venice-1200595787/. The Fisher King. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Burbank, CA: Sony Home Entertainment, 1991. Gilliam, Terry. Facebook post. March 13, 2014. www​.facebook​.com​/photo​.phpfbid​ =674531892605628​&set​=a​.256735074385314​.62810​.256730041052484​&type​=1​ &theater. Huovila, Kimmo, and Dan Lioy. “The Meaning of Hebel in Ecclesiastes.” Conspectus (South African Theological Seminary) 27 (March 2019): 35–49. The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. Directed by Terry Gilliam. New York: Sony Pictures Classics, 2009. Jabberwocky. Directed by Terry Gilliam. New York: Criterion, 1977. Lancaster, Dave. “Review of The Zero Theorem.” Cinemas Online. March 23, 2014. cinemas-online.co.uk/. Lane, Anthony. “What’s It All About? Review of The Zero Theorem and 20,000 Days on Earth.” The New Yorker. September 15, 2014. www​.newyorker​.com​/magazine​ /2014​/09​/22​/whats. The Man Who Killed Don Quixote. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Los Angeles, CA: Cinedigm, 2018.

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The Matrix trilogy. Directed by Lana and Lilly Wachowski. Burbank, CA: Warner Brothers, 1999–2003. Miller, Douglas B. 2000. “What the Preacher Forgot: The Rhetoric of Ecclesiastes.” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 62 (2): 215–35. Mladenov, Teodor. “Performativity and the Disability Category: Solving the Zero Theorem.” Critical Sociology 46, no. 1 (2020): 51–64. Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Directed by Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones. Burbank, CA: Sony Home Entertainment, 1975. Monty Python’s Life of Brian. Directed by Terry Jones. Burbank, CA: Sony Home Entertainment, 1979. Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life. Directed by Terry Jones. Universal City, CA: Universal Home Entertainment, 1983. Moore, Bo. “Terry Gilliam on his epic new dystopian film The Zero Theorem.” Wired. September 10, 2014. www​.wired​.com​/2014​/09​/zero​-theorem​/. Newman, Kim. “Review of The Zero Theorem.” Empire. July 18, 2013. www​.empireonline​.com​/movies​/reviews​/zero​-theorem​-review​/. Pevere, Geoff. “Review of The Zero Theorem.” The Globe and Mail. August 1, 2014. www​.theglobeandmail​.com​/arts​/film​/film​-reviews​/the​-zero​-theorem​-terry​-gilliam​ -drags​-us​-back​-to​-brazil​/article19879027​/. Pinker, Aron. “How Should We Understand Ecclesiastes 2:26?” Jewish Bible Quarterly 38, no. 4 (2010): 219–29. Scott, A.O. “Work, Love, and Therapy in So Many Bytes: Review of The Zero Theorem.” The New York Times. September 18, 2014. www​.nytimes​.com​/2014​/09​ /19​/movies​/christoph​-waltz​-drowns​-in​-technocracy​-in​-the​-zero​-theorem​.html. Stroud, Scott R. “Technology and Mythic Narrative: The Matrix as Technological Hero-Quest.” Western Journal of Communication 65, no. 4 (2001): 416–41. Suskind, Alex. “Interview: Terry Gilliam on The Zero Theorem, Avoiding Facebook, Don Quixote, and His Upcoming Autobiography.” IndieWire. September 17, 2014. www​.indiewire​.com​/2014​/09​/interview​-terry​-gilliam​-on​-the​-zero​-theorem​ -avoiding​-facebook​-don​-quixote​-and​-his​-upcoming​-autobiography​-272204​/. Tideland. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Los Angeles, CA: Velocity, 2005. “Tideland.” Wikipedia. Accessed February 13, 2021. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tideland_(film). Time Bandits. Directed by Terry Gilliam. New York: Criterion, 1981. Young, Deborah. “Review of The Zero Theorem.” The Hollywood Reporter. September 2, 2013. www​.hollywoodreporter​.com​/review​/zero​-theorem​-venice​ -review​-619361. The Zero Theorem. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Burbank, CA: Sony Home Entertainment, 2013.

Chapter 13

The Zerø and One Theorem A Meta/Physics of the Digital Ulrich Meurer

DIGITAL FORCES, DIGITAL FLUIDS In the beginning,1 there is a vast black hole spiraling upon the face of the deep. As the camera pulls back, calmly rotating around its optical axis, the bald skull of the ‘entity cruncher’ Qohen Leth drifts into the frame like another somber celestial body. This binary constellation of black hole and human occiput keeps receding—until, finally, the dreamlike tracking-shot reveals Qohen sitting naked and motionless in infinite darkness, bestrewn with scarce luminous dots and candle flames, in front of a large computer display on which the cosmic vortex is revolving. Then, abruptly jolted from this hypnotic void by the ringing telephone, he switches from the sublime black hole panorama to a diagrammatic representation composed of volutes of (strangely Egyptian) symbols. He pulls a lever on his operating console to save the data, the notification ‘Exporting to Vial’ appears on the screen, and later—after brushing his teeth and before leaving for work that morning—he puts into his briefcase the small glass tube filled with greenish-glowing fluid that serves as storage device for his nighttime project.2 This opening scene introduces a theme that will return in ever-new modulations throughout Terry Gilliam’s cyber-onto-romantic chamber play The Zerø Theorem (2013)—namely the multiple intersections of the continuous or ‘analog’ and the discrete or ‘digital.’ The circling black hole first appears as one ceaseless expanse of merging currents in space. Thinned-out regions, agglutinations of mass, distant ignitions of energy all convey the impression 223

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of an uninterrupted flow caused by homogeneous physical forces. Since the sphere of these forces, of matter or ‘nature,’ has traditionally been conceived of as a continuum (and treated mathematically in the continuum of real numbers),3 the CGI shot itself means to veil its composite structure by layering multiple digital vortices on top of each other until their palimpsest dissolves in continuous depth and motion.4 At the same time, however, Gilliam’s opening tableau cannot entirely dispose of its disjointedness and synthetic structure: after all, it is no analog photograph but undeniably generated by digital software. Likewise, the black hole on Qohen’s computer display is built from discrete units of information (even if computational machines in this fictional world might not necessarily run on a binary code of ones and zeros). And as gravitational objects, black holes themselves are components, and composed, of what astrophysicist Jean Audouze characterizes as macrocosmic mosaics: “from super-clusters of galaxies to objects of our terrestrial environment,” the entire architecture of the universe juxtaposes individual entities and integrates them in quasi-digital formations of higher complexity without erasing the properties of their elements.5 In each instance—as a special effect image, as the hero’s object of research, and as a body in space—the black hole’s continuous pull and dark halo seem to result from separate ‘bits.’ Since “the behaviour of the biggest structure of the Universes [sic] indeed reflects . . . the physics of particles,”6 this latent digitality of the cosmos recurs on its smallest scale, in the molecular organization of Qohen’s ‘memory stick.’ As Gilliam’s visions of the (near) future habitually conflate clunky steampunk and contemporary technology, The Zerø Theorem adopts cutting-edge conceptions of liquid memory (although, according to the director, this future had already been superseded by the use of DNA for computer memory when the film was finished).7 At first, a lucent vial holding dissolved knowledge like fluid light may spontaneously evoke notions of the unpartitioned, smooth and continuous. Different from the either/or-logic of a conventional USB drive’s interlocking components (mass storage controller, flash memory chip, crystal oscillator), the gentle micro-currents of information in a watery solution seem ripple-less and almost uncoded. But once more, this idea of continuity is, literally, undercut: even if fluid memory in “aqueous computing” uses “initially identical molecules dissolved in an appropriate solvent,” it writes “bits on the memory molecules” by selecting locations on them “which can be set in two distinct conditions” and thus function as bistable devices representing 0 or 1.8 In the end—or rather: from the very beginning—all macro-cosmic events and micro-cosmic particles of The Zerø Theorem, the black hole’s force field and tubes of fluid memory, are traversed, informed, or brought forth by digitality.

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DIGITAL REALITY, ANALOG REALISM From mathematics to anatomy, from cybernetics to art theory, from computer science to philosophy, the concept of ‘digitality’ iridesces with ever-changing meanings (the preceding paragraphs have already applied several of them). However, in accord with an—admittedly loose—definition of the digital as an organization of a complex in discrete units whose values can be manipulated individually, Qohen Leth operates digital machines, leads a digital life, exists in a digital world. Its technological as well as metaphorical ‘digitality’ manifests itself early on in the many monochrome grounds patterned with dots, the repetitive shapes, the shimmering points projected on Qohen’s skin, the chessboard tiles on the floor of his decaying residence, the stained-glass pieces of its windows . . . In an even broader sense, the digital seems to spill over into the exterior space of Gilliam’s futuristic London, pieced together from sites of real-life Bucharest, whose cohesive, pale-grey urban landscape is occupied by a sprawling diagram of illuminated LED panels, animated billboards, sequences of electronic letters, QR codes, advertising slogans, and video screens. Imitating “Piccadilly Circus, or Times Square, or the Shinjuku junction,”9 this split between architectural body and informational façade replicates a structural dichotomy—of analog vs. digital, hardware vs. software, object vs. system, black box vs. interface—that runs through cybernetics and computing technology.10 (Moreover, the semantic layers of Gilliam’s urban space are themselves created digitally, with “heavy use of CGI for set extensions, digital mattes, touch-ups, and post-production work.”11) In the sense that the historical architectural expanse underneath is studded with isolated signals, buildings become ‘devices.’ John von Neumann’s proposition that electrical computing machines perform “discrete actions [which] are in reality simulated on the background of continuous processes”12 and his colleague John Stroud’s belief that digitality treats the ‘gaps’ between definite values “as if these transition states did not exist”13 both assume a latent analog ground obscured by scattered readable digits—thus giving an apt description of how lived reality may sink back behind a post-capitalist bit pattern of consumer information. A similar digital layout characterizes much of the professional and subjective life in The Zerø Theorem. Its overall segmentation into units that transfer discrete bits to an all-embracing informational complex (the omniscient Mancom mainframe computer) finds its expression in the design of Qohen’s programming station—“a cubicle where we work independently amid other workers similarly cubicled.” And eventually, the aesthetic, technological, mental, and social digitality of this world will absorb the hero completely.

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Outfitted with a “prototype soul-searching device,” a sensor suit that picks up his innermost energetic data and relays them to the supercomputer, Qohen becomes one with Mancom’s neural net: The Zerø Theorem ends with the protagonist waking up in a bravely, newly, entirely digitized reality. In its metaphoric transfer from technology to society, from a mode of coding to the structure of human relations, the digital turns increasingly pejorative. ‘Discrete,’ ‘disconnected,’ ‘abstract’ no longer only describe the individual positions of a data set, but the individuals of Gilliam’s fictional world who dance at parties with their eyes glued to their screen devices and prefer “tantric bio-telemetric interfacing” to physical love.14 Even outside the diegesis, in its original technological sense, Gilliam appears critical of digitality: in film images, it seems to cause the same disconnection from ‘life’ and entrapment in artificial illusions, whereas “[the] behavior of real physical interactions is much more unpredictable than computer-generated action, and we seem to empathize with it subconsciously.”15 Thus, director Toby Grummett, Gilliam’s alter ego in The Man who Killed Don Quixote (2018), will not CGI his Iberian giants back in London and “wants it all hand-crafted”; Brazil’s (1985) dream sequence uses a mechanical model of the hero in flying gear pulled through cumulus clouds made from puffs of kapok on chicken wire and steam pumping up through dry ice—the wings moving the clouds “in swirls that were just magic, which you could never animate.”16 And in contrast to the meticulous digital design of every inch of Guillermo del Toro’s Pacific Rim (2013), Gilliam’s Zerø Theorem starts from the physicality of the “real world” to evolve from this material base into a surreal, futuristic movie.17 Apparently, the notion of unnatural, usurpatory, impotent, dehumanizing digitality evokes a binary counterpart—the ‘analog’ as a supposedly direct imprint of reality. Unlike discrete coding, the analog follows and responds to human, non-human and material existence; it is ‘true to life.’ Because natural processes, space, and time have been understood, by thinkers like Heraclitus, to be a continuous panta rhei, their continuous representation appears not only formally adequate but as participation in the essence of nature itself (far beyond mere physical ‘motivation’ or ‘indexicality’). This motif of a ‘natural continuum’ persists in the most seminal differentiations between analog and digital, for instance when John von Neumann points out “that in almost all parts of physics the underlying reality is analogical, that is, the true physical variables are in almost all cases continuous, or equivalent to continuous descriptions. The digital procedure is usually a human artifact for the sake of description.”18 However, since nature is full of accidents, excess and noise, analog representation proves equally difficult to grasp or conceptualize. On a technical level, “analog devices comprise a motley crew” so that philosopher John Haugeland is “not at all confident that a satisfactory general definition

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is possible.”19 While the ‘digital’ has a distinct meaning, the concept of the ‘analog’ seems to behave analogous to its content and remains without clear contours.20 DIGITAL PLEASURES, DIGITAL PAINS But what if the godfather of the internet J(oseph) C(arl) R(obnett) Licklider was right and the “analogue and digit are not words that the ordinary person . . . holds up and says: These are opposite?”21 What if the digital could not shed the trace of its inseparability from, and embeddedness in the world?22 (And what if the analog organized this world as discretely as the digital?) This menacing idea—that digitality might, in the end, not be abstract and worldless enough—is what worries Qohen Leth who depends deeply on his unnatural habitat of protective virtuality and shuns the incalculable contingencies outside his door. Despite its technological ‘Manichaeism,’ numerous instances of The Zerø Theorem begin to merge ‘digital’ simulation and ‘analog’ materiality. Many of its computational appliances resemble, function, or look like pre- or non-digital equipment, and many of its virtual spaces seem closer to the ‘world’ than any real-life actuality. To fill in his browser’s address bar, Qohen uses (the animated 3D graphics of) an electric ball-head typewriter;23 Mancom’s colossal mainframe computer is modeled on a dilapidated ferroconcrete Ceausescu-era blast furnace24—two retro-objects that lead the digital back to a homely province of tangible, auratic industrialism. Apart from such obvious skeuomorphs, Gilliam’s film stages digital animation and virtual environments as spheres of bodily connectedness and satisfaction. The ‘entities’ that Qohen crunches appear on his computer screen as flying cubic elements; to assign them the right position in his vast mathematical equations, he steers them with a kind of Xbox controller through mountainous full-screen landscapes that resemble the inside of a Menger sponge.25 Swooping through these infinite ravines of light blue building blocks affords immediate pleasure and involves Qohen’s whole physicality as he bends his body around virtual cliffs, straightens it in abrupt ascents, writhes, bites his tongue, and hums while piloting the cubes in swift curves and dashes.26 All this surpasses the mere ‘visualization’ of data or the common integration of ‘analog’ controls into a computer interface (to activate the operator’s habitual motor and cognitive skills).27 Just like Qohen’s visits at the lush virtual beach that cyber-escort Bainsley provides as their erotic playground, his flying feats bespeak a ‘continuous’ life in/of the digital, a sensory and affective connection to the individual’s mind and body. The game spaces of The Zerø Theorem are regions of vivid analog experience in which the interrelation of

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all elements leads to pleasure gain. The digital becomes embodied, discreteness dissolves in attraction, and—as Qohen’s schoolboy-humored whizz-kid collaborator Bob searches for the “least little en-titty” that “drags the rest behind”—physical attraction becomes (sexual) allurement. On the other hand, the pleasures of attraction may turn into pain, namely inasmuch as the analogization of the digital and continuization of the discrete affect not only the sensory surface but the underlying system itself. When Qohen insists on being called ‘entity cruncher’ instead of ‘number cruncher,’ since he works “with esoteric data that have a life on their own and are substantially more complex than numbers,” this foreshadows the catastrophic complications of interconnected computational units. Their com-plexity is a literal one: they are plaited, twined, woven together so much that Qohen complains to his personalized at-home Dr. Shrink ROM that the “entities refuse to remain crunched. Each has its own meaning, but that changes depending on the meaning of the following, which then changes depending on the meaning of the next. . . ” Such continuous ripple effects subvert the strict experimental logic of Qohen’s method which is based on repeatedly changing one variable at a time and inserting it into the formula until every ‘bit’ of the universe is integrated. While the digital structure of his entity clusters should ensure that modifying a single value does not affect all neighboring ones, the entire edifice is brought down, time and again, as soon as he imports one incongruous term. It seems as if between the ‘voxels’ of this conceptual architecture— where cube equals mathematical term equals cosmic component—, discreteness is not adequately implemented: the destruction of the whole fragile world of digits results precisely from its lack of partitioning and dangerous proximity to a reality of fluid connections and smooth continuities: the constellation disintegrates before Qohen’s eyes, its building blocks tumble, its columns collapse. CERTAIN TIMES OF (NON)REALITY All the pleasures and pains of a ‘continuized digitality’ bring to mind that every digital code is, in fact, nothing but a succession of arbitrary instances which have been selected, in regular intervals, from its analog reference. As “artifacts of decision,” digital models isolate a small number of ‘stable’ states and exclude intermediate ones; their periodic discretions follow a “strategy of avoidance”28 (this also holds true for the processes inside the machine itself: whereas 0 and 1 are distinct values, the change of voltage potentials between them does not happen instantaneously but as a rise or drop with a very steep slope.29 After all, the apparatus cannot but run continuously in space and time). While discreteness is simulated on the background of continuous

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processes, it prefers extremes over transitory states and declares the vague realm between digits—what Norbert Wiener famously dubs “certain times of non-reality”30—a forbidden ground that must not be interpreted.31 The Zerø Theorem, however, begins to ‘re-realize’ these non-realities, analogize the digital and fill the gaps between patches of information with matter and noise—until computational physics gets physical and gravitational mathematics becomes aerobatics. A surface effect of this infection with, and attraction to, the indiscrete is a loss of absolute precision, for the analog only knows ‘finite reading accuracy’ and ‘approximate values’: “0 (zero) currently equals 97.38926%. 0 (zero) must equal 100%!” As a depth effect, however, the influx of the continuous real actuates deeper shifts and unforeseen forces: in the end, it seems capable of transforming a mere computer simulation into a very real black hole in the heart of the film’s physical world . . . Despite such profound existential consequences, the ‘smoothing’ and ‘becoming analog’ of digitality is perhaps not so much an essential or qualitative remodeling as it is an additive and quantitative process. It might well be the sheer amount of data that makes Qohen’s formulaic cosmos verge on the continuous, since a sequence of discrete digits obviously increases its degree of ‘likeness’ to the represented system (in some circumstances: reality) by multiplying the individual bits of information: “A signal is digitized by scanning it at different points; if these scanning points lie close enough together, a seemingly perfect copy can be created from them so that, for example, our ear does no longer perceive a succession of separate tones but one continuous sound.”32 Thus, infinitely minimizing the gaps between digits will finally result in an analog signal. In fact, Nelson Goodman defines the ‘analog’ precisely and exclusively through density, an infinite number of characters “so ordered that between each two there is a third.”33 By the same token, however, the analog passes over into the digital (zoom in on the continuum and it gets discrete, a photograph decomposes into grains, matter itself dissolves into atomic particles). On the level of representing or coding information, the analog and digital are translatable into each other: there is no ‘real’ difference between them as both are methods of creating differences. The digital ‘makes’ sense by selecting and separating, “as a practical means to cope with the vagaries and vicissitudes, the noise and drift of earthly existence.”34 But as a record, the analog does the same: “Both analog and digital systems require some stage of choice and reduction to turn phenomena from the world into data that can be processed. The most common error about digital systems is to think that the data is effortlessly stable and unchanging; the most common error about analog systems is to think they’re natural and simple, not really encoded.”35 The emphatic distinction between analog and digital is meaningful solely from the techno-anthropological perspective of machine encoding and human perception. Meanwhile, all one can

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say about the physical universe (the unmediated events, things, forces, actualities that we live among) is that it is neither the one nor the other. We might be tricked by the digital and analog alike into seeing progressive change when 24 images per second remain under our perceptional threshold,36 but the continuum of the real must always escape our finest and most accurate code. In this respect, Henri Bergson’s theses on duration and fragmentation can just as well be read as theses on ‘digitality’ (of the digital and, equally, of the analog). Selecting a number of points, trying to connect them by slipping a third between two others, setting points alongside points ad infinitum will not get hold of the fluid evolutions of the real: [With] these successive states . . . , you will never reconstitute movement. Call them qualities, forms, positions, or intentions, as the case may be, multiply the number of them as you will, let the interval between two consecutive states be infinitely small: before the intervening movement you will always experience the disappointment of the child who tries by clapping his hands together to crush the smoke.37

MOSAICS AND METAPHYSICS However, The Zerø Theorem is about more than representing the wisps of ‘smoke’ (Bergson) or swirls of ‘dry ice steam’ (Gilliam) that constitute physical reality: after all, the protagonist’s very name refers to Qōheleth (Greek: Ekklēsiastēs), a book of the Hebrew and Christian Bible in which all vain and insubstantial earthly things are rejected as mere hevel, ‘vapor’ or ‘breath.’ Accordingly, Qohen’s assigned task exceeds the rendition of worldly phenomena, whether photochemically or electronically, and aims at the transcendent structure of creation itself. He is chosen to prove the hypothesis of the entire existence adding up to nothing—a meditation on Old Testament vanitas in the form of gravitational physics. The result would not just be a plain ‘theory of everything’ in the sense of a “final mathematical code about the whole world” that makes factually true generalizations regarding the “absolute (objective) reality” of everything “embedded in space-time.”38 Far beyond that, the attempt to verify the ‘zero theorem’ touches on metaphysical issues that crystallize in the film’s complex religious motifs and imagery. Although Management, the elusive puppet master of this fictional universe, may insist on being “not God or the devil,” he certainly appears as a higher power instructing Qohen to compute the meaning(lessness) of existence. Bob, his only son and prodigy, is sent by him to help the ascetic protagonist—“a man of faith”—on his quest, but suffers a symbolic death (complete with entombment in a bathtub and subsequent pietà) that he would only overcome,

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says his father, through a “miracle.” Qohen lives in a burnt-out church filled with religious murals, working in the shadow of a large crucifix, behind him an altar painting of John the Baptist, while the Holy Spirit visits him in the form of multiple doves that inhabit his sanctuary.39 Outside the chapel, canonical Christian faith is succeeded by the Church of Batman the Redeemer; the entire city is illuminated by signs of secular seduction that act, at the same time, as fully functional promises of salvation, “replacing cathedral portals with . . . the new Biblia pauperum” of flickering screens.40 Obviously, though in plainly more religious terms, The Zerø Theorem transcends issues of representation to reconsider the fundamental question of The Meaning of Life. But how does this question coincide with the digital? Where do religious meaning and discrete encoding meet? Their point of intersection lies not so much in some mystical narrative of ‘digital deliverance’ (even if Bob assures Qohen: “You are the chosen one. You’re the one the oracle said would someday come to us”—leaving Qohen, oblivious to both cinema pop culture and intertextuality, mildly baffled). Instead, a ‘metaphysics’ of the digital begins with what media theorist Wolfgang Ernst calls the “tipping point between analog and digital, [where] media of world-representation become organs of world-creation.”41 After millennia of depicting continuous reality, the ‘proto-digital’ event of Malevich’s Black Square reduced referentiality to absolute zero, thus clearing the way for imaging procedures which are only possible as calculation and in mathematical terms. It is this originative as well as computational essence of the digital—no ‘afterimage’ of the actual but a ‘prescription’ of the virtual—which links scientific signal theory to religious imagery and explains, according to Ernst, the deep interest of (mathematician and physicist) Pavel Florensky in the (formulaic, non-naturalistic) vision of Orthodox icons.42 While the analog or the photographic image are chained to processes of representation, while film can offer redemption of physical reality alone, the digital exceeds the continuum of the real. It is, however, not only this detachment from a ‘profane’ object world that may open digitality to some form of hyper-naturalistic ‘transcendence.’ Beyond that, its discreteness brings forth gapped or granular structures which remain permeable to every kind of appearance. Contrary to the dense analog screen of a panel painting, photograph, or film image that blocks the view of its physical referent by installing continuous outlines, opaque color fields and perspectival projections in front of it, the digital creates an interface whose mosaic organization seems porous enough to mediate between operator and opposite, user and otherworld. Such digital surfaces, penetrable constellations, and mosaic assemblages constitute the aesthetic backbone of The Zerø Theorem, thus providing a formal correlative to its religious iconography. As digitality (a complex whose discrete units can be manipulated individually) informs Qohen Leth’s

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diegetic environment, as it spirals inward to the hypodiegetic cubicled cyberworld as well as outward to the extradiegetic level of electronic imaging or the almost contingent rearrangement of scenes during editing,43 it no longer appears merely as a trope for the corrosion of reality, deceptive simulation, or social isolation. Despite Gilliam’s critical stance towards CGI or social media and his frequent depiction of computing systems as Kafkaesque instruments of control, the film envisions digitality’s non-photographic, non-reproductive, non-mimetic relation to the world as a chance to touch the realm of imagination, alternative states of matter or mind, and transcendence. The ‘zero theorem’ project may eventually fail, Mancom’s giant mainframe computer implodes, Qohen exiles himself to a delusory virtual beach paradise—but the film’s overall digital morphology, its abundance of mosaic constellations, its 260 computer-generated effects shots, even the universally compatible 16:9 aspect ratio of what Gilliam calls a one size fits all full gate semi-vinyl motion picture44 indicate that digitality (and post-cinematographic screen media) cannot simply be dismissed as lacking ‘reality’ or aesthetic stature. The digital bears within itself the meta/physical. On the one hand, it possesses ‘worldliness’ because its codes always build on and refer to a preceding flow of phenomena. On the other, it implies ‘otherworldliness’ through a principle of mediation that replaces (photographic) verisimilitude with the communicational presence of the otherwise inaccessible, whether it is a scientific theorem, inner vision, or celestial sphere. BYZANTIUM AND THE POST-CINEMATIC ICON Hence Qohen’s manipulation of digital symbols amid religious artworks; hence the film’s correlation of meta/physical ‘digitality’ (program codes, pictorial patterns, computer imagery) with the chapel’s biblical iconography. But while its architecture and sprawling murals combine all conceivable branches of English and Romanian pseudo-proto-Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox Christianity, while they merge Anglican strictness, baroque exuberance, and the heavily frescoed walls and ceremonious saints of Eastern churches, it is first and foremost the pronounced “Orthodox interior feel”45 and Byzantine visuality which set the tone and—more importantly—are most closely related to the digital: When Otto Demus’ (aged but certainly still seminal) analysis of middle Byzantine church decorations points out their “small uniformly shaped cubes, fitted together in a close network,” this evokes the discrete units and structure of both digital coding and pixilated imagery. When, in his church interior, each pictorial scene is set “in individual receptacles—in spatial units which are . . . excrescences of the general space,” this seems to correspond to the selection of periodic ‘digits’ from the continuum of spacetime

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(and equally to Gilliam’s recurring organization of images as large complexes of discrete elements). Finally, when Demus sees Byzantine pictures “[opening] into the real space in front, where the beholder lives and moves” so that “[his] space and the space in which the holy persons exist and act are identical,”46 this suggests a user’s virtual presence in the three-dimensional image world of immersive VR environments—be it the simulation of a gargantuan black hole or opulent tropical beach. Meanwhile, of all the similarities between the Byzantine and the digital (mosaic and pixel, encapsulation and discreteness, involvement and immersion, formulaic canon and coded repetition) it is, most notably, their shared rejection of ‘realism’ that resonates with Gilliam’s work. Recalling Ernst’s distinction between analog ‘world-representation’ and digital ‘world-creation,’ Byzantine imagery is regularly conceived as antithetic to the optical nature and transparent spaces of Renaissance art. Alluding, for instance, to Alberti’s famous Quattrocento metaphor of painting as a ‘window,’ Demus states that the Byzantine image is no “imaginary glass pane . . . behind which an illusionistic picture begins.”47 Art historian Rico Franses contrasts the Renaissance regime of color, visible detail and clear outline with a Byzantine visuality that tolerates uncertainty and “dark intervals” (the golden sparkle of church mosaics), thus transforming such dematerialized, ungraspable traces of divine immanence into a “visual theology in process.”48 And the early motion-picture theoretician Vachel Lindsay sets the cinematic “touch of life” in Cimabue or Giotto apart from Byzantine art, “noble in color . . . , but curious indeed to behold from the standpoint of those who crave a sensitive emotional record.”49 All this—the lack of naturalistic surface appearances and reliable lines of sight, the non-realistic, undetermined, shimmering, curious, aloofness of Byzantine imagery—seems to accord not only with Gilliam’s penchant for darkly enigmatic alternative worlds but equally with the hope for ethical and spiritual meaning that pervades them. The Zerø Theorem is digital, The Zerø Theorem is Byzantine. As it explores the ‘mathematical imaging procedures’ of scientific formulas as well as Orthodox icons, it turns away from the continuum of the real. Its luminous screens and religious decorations, the gaps and ‘times of non-reality’ between its mosaic tiles erode the illusion of natural coherence (from fifteenth-century Florence to twenty-first-century Hollywood) to display, beneath this illusion, a wonderous matrix of colored tesserae. Beyond mere optical faithfulness, these porous image surfaces open onto the unworldly and otherworldly: The Zerø Theorem becomes a site of digital abstraction and transcendental speculation.

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AFTERTHOUGHT (ECONOMY OF CHAOS, ECONOMY OF SKHÉSIS) Marie-José Mondzain describes such mediations between the physical and metaphysical as oikonomoia: Christian thinking basically consists of nothing but correspondences and passages between separate realities. In their comprehensive ‘exchange,’ the Byzantine image acts as a relay that initiates the “entry of the visible and the flesh”; it makes an absent entity accessible without, however, reducing it to the “simple and intelligible visibility of reality.”50 What is more, this economy realizes skhéseis, relations that are not based on logical ‘equivalence’ but on the intimate, emotional connection of “grace that ties the image to its model. Skhésis . . . is the mark of things that live, the mark of life itself.”51 A different economy (an economy of ‘difference’ but not of the ‘Other’) is promoted by Mancom and Management. Amassing all data provided by its enthusiastic employees and users, the decentered corporation and its half-transparent headman embody a model of capitalization that pervades the whole universe of things, thoughts and images. While the God of Byzantine economy “distributes himself out, exerts himself, makes himself known,”52 the arcane God of Mancom remains indistinguishable from the backgrounds of post-capitalist life, never declares himself “with a face-prosopon”53 and invents the ‘zero theorem’ as an immense scheme to exploit even meaningless chaos and the informational noise of existence: “ex inordinatio veni pecunia: there’s money in ordering disorder. . . . Chaos comprises a rich vein of ore that, with Mancom’s muscle, will be all mine . . . to mine.” Thus, the film’s closing scene reveals all data, images and ‘entities’ inside the colossal machine, the desires and memories of the entire planet, as a terrifying vortex not of ‘things that live’ but of virtual, bodiless apparitions floating upon the face of the deep. This is where the issue of transcendence or meaning becomes political. It may sound like an uncanny neoliberal echo when Mondzain’s Byzantine economy “leads to a management of the totality of the visible,”54 but its system of affective and essential skhéseis is set against any commercial interrelation of values. Far beyond Christian theology, such an economy (of life, of images) does not modulate consumer desires but points to a sphere of true ‘virtuality,’ of the ‘non-realized’ and that which is ‘in coming’—a phone call, even better: a form of justice, or a sunset that finally brings the eternal simulation of romantic twilight to its end.

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NOTES 1. I am especially grateful to Kyriakos Barbounakis and Anthi Oikonomou from theMOST LP software developers for their considerate help in designing a ‘mongrel idiom’ for this chapter that interspersed ‘analog’ English with elements of ‘digital’ HTML code. Unfortunately, the present version of the text has to dispense with this attempt to translate its subject into the layout. 2. A later scene suggests that Qohen’s vial contains the “transfinite paradox project.” Together with the black hole on his screen, this seems to indicate that he has been working on the ‘black hole information paradox’ which results from incompatibilities between quantum mechanics and the gravitational laws of general relativity. Their reconciliation would demand “some form of a quantum gravity theory” (El Naschie, “Resolution of the Black Hole Information Paradox,” 249), a happily unified ‘world formula’ that would have Qohen’s ‘zero theorem’ as its dark and perverse double. 3. Jörg Pflüger, “Wo die Quantität in Qualität umschlägt: Notizen zum Verhältnis von Analogem und Digitalem,” in HyperKult II. Zur Ortsbestimmung analoger und digitaler Medien, ed. Martin Warnke, Wolfgang Coy, Georg Christoph Tholen (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2005), 28. 4. See the breakdown of digital components, created with 3D procedural software like Houdini or Maya, in the video “Making of ‘Zerø Theorem Black Hole’” by the British visual effects studio Lenscarefx: https:​//​vimeo​.com​/109596052. 5. Jean Audouze, quoted in Georges Chapouthier, The Mosaic Theory of Natural Complexity: A Scientific and Philosophical Approach (La Plaine-Saint-Denis: Éditions des maisons des sciences de l’homme associées, 2018), 44; 50, books.openedition.org/emsha/200. 6. Ibid., 44. 7. “Terry Gilliam on The Zero Theorem (70th Venice International Film Festival 2013),” YouTube (channel of ETV Film Inc.), Sept. 6, 2013, www​.youtube​.com​/watch​ ?v​=ItZvaqonw50. 8. Tom Head, Susannah Gal, “Aqueous Computing: Writing into Fluid Memory,” in Current Trends in Theoretical Computer Science: The Challenge of the New Century Vol. 1, ed. Gheorghe Păun, Grzegorz Rozenberg and Arto Salomaa (Singapore, World Scientific Publishing, 2004), 493–94. Terry Gilliam’s depiction of aqueous computing in glowing fluids gains plausibility in light of Head and Gal’s “hope . . . that it will eventually be possible to write on molecules in a sealed transparent container using light sources of prescribed wavelengths.” 9. Maciej Stasiowski, “Built as Rain: Film Analysis of Unbuildable Architectural Speculations—A Case Study of Instant City (dir. Peter Cook and Ron Herron, 1968) and The Zero Theorem (dir. Terry Gilliam, 2013),” in Kwartalnik Filmowy 109, 160. 10. Ibid., 162. Stasiowski reads Gilliam’s futuristic London as a critical remake of Peter Cook and Ron Herron’s Instant City (1968–1970), an experimental architectural project that wants to alter a city’s social structures by covering it with media applications and educational billboards. Reflecting “cutting-edge advances in cybernetics,” the concept links urban environments to computing systems. By citing this “physical and electronic, perceptual and programmatic” architecture, influenced by ARPANET

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or Norbert Wiener’s study of intelligent artificial systems (164), the cityscape of The Zerø Theorem appears as ‘digital’ in a not all too metaphorical sense. 11. Ibid., 168. 12. See the Transactions of the 7th Macy Conference on Cybernetics, “Circular Causal and Feedback Mechanisms in Biological and Social Systems” (March 23–24, 1950, New York), in Cybernetics: The Macy Conferences 1946–1953, Transactions, ed. Claus Pias (Zurich, Berlin: Diaphanes, 2016), 177. 13. Ibid., 184. 14. Regarding digital (social) media, Terry Gilliam laments both tendencies of isolation and hyper-connectivity: “So many of us are becoming neurons. . . . Without some other bit of information coming in we don’t exist. So, as soon as you get a bit of information, you have to pass it on to somebody else. . . . We’re all becoming a gigantic brain. And now we’re going to have some sort of stroke or embolism at one point, Peng!—and then we’re all walking around like: [mumbling inarticulately from the corner of his mouth]. Wouldn’t that be nice if all of us were: [mumbling, with dangling arm]?” “Terry Gilliam: Zero Theorem Interview,” YouTube, March 23, 2014, www​.youtube​.com​/watch​?v​=b5Sir1aYzZY. 15. Terry Gilliam, Salman Rushdie, “An Interview with Terry Gilliam,” The Believer 1 (March 1, 2003), believermag.com/an-interview-with-terry-gilliam/. 16. Ibid. 17. Terry Gilliam, “Terry Gilliam on The Zero Theorem.” 18. John von Neumann in Pias, Cybernetics, 181–82. 19. John Haugeland, “Analog and Analog,” Philosophical Topics 12, no. 1 (Spring 1981), 220. 20. Pflüger, “Wo die Quantität in Qualität umschlägt,” 34. 21. J. C. R. Licklider in Pias, Cybernetics, 185. 22. Wolfgang Ernst, “Den A/D-Umbruch aktiv denken—medienarchäologisch, kulturtechnisch,” in Analog/Digital—Opposition oder Kontinuum?, eds. Alexander Böhnke, Jens Schröter (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2004), 57. 23. While not coding signals as 1 or 0, even a mechanical typewriter can of course be understood as digital; it builds on the principle of discrete alphabetic signs which are discontinuously printed on paper. Its merging of analog (mechanical) and digital (alphabetic) aspects illustrates how both modes are probably part of every technical apparatus. 24. Phil Stubbs, The Zero Theorem: Production Notes (London: Voltage Pictures, 2013), 9. 25. Production designer David Warren mentions the Menger cube—a three-dimensional fractal curve, first described in 1926 by the mathematician Karl Menger—as reference for designing the film’s virtual space: “It’s like a fractal cubic environment. The logic of this world is this massive fractal landscape, made out of conventional six-sided cubes, which are a form of packaging information.” Stubbs, The Zero Theorem, 16. 26. When asked about these scenes’ video game aesthetics and mentality, Gilliam explains that instead of a black background with columns of numbers, he needed something “that would allow [Qohen] and the film to fly for a moment. He’s in

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his element, so I wanted it to be like a video game: it’s the only time when there is real action in the film—you’re swooping, you’re soaring, you’re flying around. . . . ” Terry Gilliam, “Uncovering the Zero Theorem with Terry Gilliam,” YouTube (channel of IGN Entertainment), Sept. 20, 2014, https:​//​www​.youtube​.com​/watch​?v​ =jCL8K7OA9HQ. 27. Pflüger, “Wo die Quantität in Qualität umschlägt,” 72. Interfaces with ‘analog’ components use human skills of orientation in continuous environments (regarding distance, proximity, figure/ground differentiation, object isolation) for the interactive handling of large amounts of on-screen data. Such analog embeddings reflect that humans are not fit for an ‘unarmed’ processing of discrete data or number clusters and cope much better with continuous space and time (75). 28. Ibid., 41. 29. Ibid., 41. See also Haugeland, “Analog and Analog,” 217. 30. Norbert Wiener in Pias, Cybernetics, 158. 31. Pflüger, “Wo die Quantität in Qualität umschlägt,” 43. 32. Ernst, “Den A/D-Umbruch aktiv denken,” 61 (my translation). 33. Nelson Goodman, Languages of Art (Indianapolis et al.: Bobbs-Merrill, 1968), 136. See also John Lavagnino, “Digital and Analog Texts,” in A Companion to Digital Literary Studies, eds. Ray Siemens, Susan Schreibman (Chichester: Blackwell, 2013), 403: Lavagnino describes analog systems as continuous ranges where “there could always be more gradations between two selected values on a scale.” 34. Haugeland, “Analog and Analog,” 217. 35. Lavagnino, “Digital and Analog Texts,” 405. 36. Ernst, “Den A/D-Umbruch aktiv denken,” 61. 37. Henri Bergson, Creative Evolution (New York: Random House, 1944), 334. 38. Wolfram Schommers, Cosmic Secrets: Basic Features of Reality (Singapore: World Scientific Publishing, 2012), 220. 39. Gilliam points out the religious iconography when asked for another exemplary ‘visual motif’ in his films like the omnipresent ductwork in Brazil. “Terry Gilliam Webchat—As It Happened,” The Guardian, Oct. 07, 2015, 1:15 pm, https:​//​www​ .theguardian​.com​/film​/live​/2015​/oct​/05​/terry​-gilliam​-webchat​-gilliamesque. 40. Stasiowski, “Built as Rain,” 161. 41. Ernst, “Den A/D-Umbruch aktiv denken,” 59. 42. Ibid., 60. 43. Gilliam explains that “with the material we had, it was like a jigsaw puzzle”: more so than in any other of his films, “scenes that should go here end up there.” “Terry Gilliam: Zero Theorem Interview.” 44. See, for instance, Daniel Krupa, “IGN UK Podcast #222: BAFTAstic with Terry Gilliam,” March 14, 2014, 7:38 p.m., https:​//​www​.ign​.com​/articles​/2014​/03​/14​ /ign​-uk​-podcast​-222​-baftastic​-with​-terry​-gilliam. 45. David Warren in Stubbs, The Zero Theorem, 9. 46. Otto Demus, Byzantine Mosaic Decoration: Aspects of Monumental Art in Byzantium (Boston: Boston Book & Art Shop, 1955), 13–14. 47. Ibid., 13.

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48. Rico Franses, “When All that Is Gold Does Not Glitter: On the Strange History of Viewing Byzantine Art,” in: Icon and Word: The Power of Images in Byzantium, eds. Antony Eastmond and Liz James (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003), 19–21. 49. Vachel Lindsay, The Art of the Moving Picture (New York: Macmillan, 1916), 242. 50. Marie-José Mondzain, Image, Icon, Economy: The Byzantine Origins of the Contemporary Imaginary, trans. Rico Franses (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005), 21. 51. Ibid., 78. 52. Ibid., 23. 53. Ibid. 54. Ibid., 22.

REFERENCES Bergson, Henri. Creative Evolution. New York: Random House, 1944. Chapouthier, Georges. The Mosaic Theory of Natural Complexity: A Scientific and Philosophical Approach. La Plaine-Saint-Denis: Éditions des maisons des sciences de l’homme associées, 2018. books.openedition.org/emsha/200. Demus, Otto. Byzantine Mosaic Decoration: Aspects of Monumental Art in Byzantium. Boston: Boston Book & Art Shop, 1955. El Naschie, Mohamed S. “A Resolution of the Black Hole Information Paradox via Transfinite Set Theory.” World Journal of Condensed Matter Physics 5 (2015): 249–60. Ernst, Wolfgang. “Den A/D-Umbruch aktiv denken—medienarchäologisch, kulturtechnisch.” In Analog/Digital—Opposition oder Kontinuum?, edited by Alexander Böhnke and Jens Schröter, 49–65. Bielefeld: Transcript, 2004. Franses, Rico. “When All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter: On the Strange History of Viewing Byzantine Art.” In Icon and Word: The Power of Images in Byzantium, edited by Antony Eastmond and Liz James, 13–24. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003. Gilliam, Terry. “Terry Gilliam on The Zero Theorem (70th Venice International Film Festival 2013).” YouTube (channel of ETV Film Inc.), Sept. 6, 2013. www​.youtube​ .com​/watch​?v​=ItZvaqonw50. ———. “Terry Gilliam: Zero Theorem Interview.” YouTube, March 23, 2014. https:​ //​www​.youtube​.com​/watch​?v​=b5Sir1aYzZY. ———. “Uncovering the Zero Theorem with Terry Gilliam.” YouTube (channel of IGN Entertainment), Sept. 20, 2014. www​.youtube​.com​/watch​?v​=jCL8K7OA9HQ. Gilliam, Terry, Salman Rushdie. “An Interview with Terry Gilliam.” The Believer 1 (March 1, 2003). https:​//​believermag​.com​/an​-interview​-with​-terry​-gilliam​/. Goodman, Nelson. Languages of Art. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1968. Haugeland, John. “Analog and Analog.” Philosophical Topics 12, no. 1 (Spring 1981): 213–25. Head, Tom, Susannah Gal. “Aqueous Computing: Writing into Fluid Memory.” In Current Trends in Theoretical Computer Science: The Challenge of the New

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Century Vol. 1, edited by Gheorghe Păun, Grzegorz Rozenberg and Arto Salomaa, 493–503. Singapore: World Scientific Publishing, 2004. Krupa, Daniel. “IGN UK Podcast #222: BAFTAstic with Terry Gilliam.” March 14, 2014, 7:38 pm. www​.ign​.com​/articles​/2014​/03​/14​/ign​-uk​-podcast​-222​-baftastic​ -with​-terry​-gilliam. Lavagnino, John. “Digital and Analog Texts.” In A Companion to Digital Literary Studies, edited by Ray Siemens and Susan Schreibman, 402–14. Chichester: Blackwell, 2013. Lindsay, Vachel. The Art of the Moving Picture. New York: Macmillan, 1916. Mondzain, Marie-José. Image, Icon, Economy: The Byzantine Origins of the Contemporary Imaginary, translated by Rico Franses. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005. Pflüger, Jörg. “Wo die Quantität in Qualität umschlägt: Notizen zum Verhältnis von Analogem und Digitalem.” In HyperKult II. Zur Ortsbestimmung analoger und digitaler Medien, edited by Martin Warnke, Wolfgang Coy and Georg Christoph Tholen, 27–94. Bielefeld: Transcript, 2005. Pias, Claus, ed. Cybernetics: The Macy Conferences 1946–1953, Transactions. Zurich, Berlin: Diaphanes, 2016. Schommers, Wolfram. Cosmic Secrets: Basic Features of Reality. Singapore: World Scientific Publishing, 2012. Stasiowski, Maciej. “Built as Rain: Film Analysis of Unbuildable Architectural Speculations—A Case Study of Instant City (dir. Peter Cook and Ron Herron, 1968) and The Zero Theorem (dir. Terry Gilliam, 2013).” Kwartalnik Filmowy 109 (2020): 159–76. Stubbs, Phil. The Zero Theorem: Production Notes. London: Voltage Pictures, 2013. vdocument.in/zero-theorem-production-notes.html.

Afterword Gilliam’s Legacy Karen Randell

Do we need another book on Terry Gilliam? Yes, of course, we do, because, for one, he has directed two new films since the last collection ten years ago, but, more importantly, because his work moves with the times; the world does not get less terrifying, less chaotic, less concerned with the acquisition of things. It is more concerned than ever with image, more concerned with style over substance; and these are exactly the themes that permeate Gilliam’s work. Gilliam’s last dystopian film, The Zero Theorem (2013), was made before President Donald Trump’s administration, before the presidentially supported storming of the Capitol Building, the global COVID-19 pandemic, and the Russo-Ukrainian War in Europe. And yet the narrative of The Zero Theorem would seem to be concerned with anxieties that pertain to our recent times. Choose any Gilliam film to watch in 2022, and it will feel like a contemporary critical commentary. Who wouldn’t be able to recognize some of the challenges of the global pandemic whilst watching 12 Monkeys (1995), with a Permanent Emergency Code standing in for the various COVID-19 Acts created across the world to curb the movement of people? How will we now view 2025, the dystopian future space of the film, when we arrive at it in the not-too-distant future? Each film may be unique but the prescient themes; the mistrust of authority, the clash of beauty/innocence with brutality and corruption and the to-and-fro of the narrative with moments of comedy, satire, or absurdness; these themes run through Gilliam’s oeuvre, ensuring that his work is unmistakably his. But more importantly they replay well. The special effects may date the film, as Ivy Roberts details in chapter 11 of this volume, “Wonderland and the Wasteland: The Colorfully Dirty Mise en Scene of The Imaginarium of 241

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Dr Parnassus,” but the thematic overview can be reread multiple times with contemporaneous viewing. A new book on his work should further illuminate the salient themes of his films and give academics and Gilliam aficionados access to new theoretical models to understand them. A Critical Companion to Terry Gilliam provides just this, new insights to films that are already so familiar and yet continue to engage with the big issues around us. In the Introduction to this volume, the editors draw attention to the “distinct, unique and eccentric style” of Gilliam’s films which are “united in their various forms of strangeness.” There is no doubt that Gilliam likes to play with the absurd and strange. His time with the Pythons in the 1960s and 1970s allowed him to draw on his artistic background to produce animated inserts that were in turn comedic, satirical and irreverent. Gilliam has always wanted his audience to think, to be entertained, to laugh, to cry, to feel, but ultimately to ponder and deliberate about what they see around them in the cultural and political world. His work points out repeatedly that much as we might want to be agents of our own destinies, we can only act as far as the system allows us to. So, he urges us to shout louder to break the system and to laugh harder at the world’s absurdity, for our own sanity. We must work for that understanding though: Gilliam constructs his films with labyrinthian precision, letting the chaos of the narrative jerk his audience from one emotion to another, sometimes from one time frame to another, sometimes from one character perspective to another, so that we have to make sense of the underlying social and critical commentary which is driving the characters and Gilliam’s motivation. As the director says himself, his films are “messages in bottles for America.”1 Although a nationalized Brit since 2006 and living in the UK since the 1960s, Gilliam still cannot help being drawn back to make movies about the America that made him want to leave in the first place, a society, as he sees it, that is obsessed with image and status; unrepentantly capitalistic, noisy, chaotic, and media-driven. Near the end of Gillam’s body of work, The Zero Theorem feels like a bleak, quirky, and angry summary of all that has gone before. Critics’ dismissal of the film aside, which Michael Charlton appraises well in chapter 12, “Black Hole, The Zero Theorem, and the Pointless Quest,” the film narrates and explores significant Orwellian concerns which have permeated Gilliam’s work since Brazil (1985) and which are continued in 12 Monkeys. Critics who think that The Zero Theorem is simply copying themes have somewhat missed the point, although, as Charlton points out, the film “inarguably shares certain dystopian tropes and certain retro-future features of production design, costume design and character with Brazil.” The themes of Brazil are still as relevant today as they were in 1985, and I would argue that Brazil

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and 12 Monkeys were ahead of their time then too. At his very best Gilliam is prophetic. When I worked with co-editors Jeff Birkenstein and Anna Froula on the Cinema of Terry Gillam: It’s a Mad World in 2012, we had just finished editing a volume on the way that popular culture had engaged with 9/11.2 During the editing of that book we kicked back one evening, watched Brazil and drank beer and ate pizza. One of our contributors had proposed to write about Brazil and 9/11 and we could not understand the collapse of the timeframe. Once watching our jaws dropped as we realized that what we were seeing on screen was a fantasy screenplay of what was happening in our airports and in the restrictions on the free speech of Americans, with the implementation of the USA Patriot Act (October 26, 2001). It was not hard to imagine that black leather suited secret police, working with the Ministry of Information, could be catapulting into our rented retreat right there and then as we discussed the ways in which 9/11 had changed traveling the world, America and American life forever. This is echoed in Gerry Canavan’s analysis of 12 Monkeys where he argues that, of all the many sites of surveillance and control in the film, perhaps the most salient is airport security, a pivotal location that has only further expanded in cultural importance since 9/11. It is no longer sufficient to simply run our luggage through a metal detector. Airport security now encompasses a massive and often absurd calculus of acceptable and unacceptable items—nearly all of which are in actuality perfectly safe—while at the same time forcing us to remove our hats, coats, belts and shoes and subject ourselves to ever-more-humiliating searches, x-rays and pat-downs.3

In May 2012, I asked Gilliam about his foresight and how he felt about visiting airports now. He replied with wry humour: “I was considering suing George W. Bush and Dick Cheney for the illegal and unauthorized remake of Brazil . . . Brazil was to me, commenting on the times we were in. It was very much a documentary, I think” he goes on to say, that “Homeland Security is the Ministry of Information.”4 Gilliam tapped into the Orwellian 1984 to produce Brazil in 1985 and both author/auteur were prophets in their own way. The Zero Theorem continues that narrative arch, of concern about surveillance, authority, but this time with acute knowing; the knowledge of what has gone before. The film’s production occurs within the context of a post-9/11 consciousness, the rise of politics driven by a post-capitalist dismissal of social responsibility, the increased wealth of the one percent, the growth of social media that both democratized and monetarized the personal sphere, the central importance of the digital age and the escalation of celebrity culture which appears to both flatten the social structure and highlight the gap

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between those that have and those that have not. As Charlton points out, “readings which have focused almost exclusively on the connections between this film and the two other dystopias have underappreciated other aspects of the film, particularly the implications of the ending.” Its dystopian fantasy narrative is less absurd and perhaps even more tragic than Brazil as Qohen Leth’s (Christopher Waltz) quest to understand the truth of everything leads him to exclaim, “everything adds up to nothing” as the digital world reduces all that is real and palpable to an echo-chamber of social media and life lived at a surface level. Qohen does not escape into madness but into the matrix itself, becoming a post-modern version of himself, a simulacrum, himself becoming nothing. Ulrich Meurer points out in chapter 13 “The Zero and One Theorem: A Meta/Physics of the Digital” that “eventually, the aesthetic, technological, mental and social digitality of this world will absorb the hero completely. Outfitted with a ‘prototype soul-searching device,’ a sensor suit that picks up his innermost energetic data and relays them to the supercomputer, Qohen becomes one with Mancom’s neural net: The Zerø Theorem ends with the protagonist waking up in a bravely, newly, entirely digitized reality.” It is the ultimate tragedy for a human life. Gilliam has long been frustrated and fascinated by the digital age. In the same interview mentioned above, he asked if I had read Don DeLillo’s book White Noise “because it’s about the tsunami of information that just fills the head all the time and how it just dominates everything.5 And it is stopping people from really standing back and looking, and I suppose I always want to encourage people to do that or to allow themselves to be surprised and shaken out of their world view.”6 It is important to Gilliam that his audience engages: he does not create films to be passively received. In the interview, he goes on to say that the films “encourage other people’s imaginations to take flight and so the films become their films and not mine.”7 This in some way helps to explain why some of Gilliam’s films make for difficult or unpopular viewing. A film like Tideland (2005), for instance, requires the audience to buy into the fantasy that the child, Jeliza-Rose (Jodelle Ferland) creates to live through her trauma. As co-creators of that narrative it makes for uncomfortable viewing as Jonathan Fruoco unpicks in chapter 10, “Tideland and the Ossification of the Imaginary Faculties.” Gilliam is not afraid of challenging storylines nor of challenging his audience to make sense of them. Tideland is, according to Kathryn A. Laity a film that “attacks nanny culture at its most tender spot: the seemingly ever-present anxiety over the sexual exploitation of children.”8 Gilliam strives to create active viewers, who will be stirred to feel negative emotions as well as pleasurable ones. At times he creates a cinema of displeasure and although this may displease the critics and some of his audience, it is a necessary part of Gilliam’s process. He states that his work is “political in the broader sense and more about getting people to think and to look at

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the world around them and to try to understand it and not just be trapped by buzzwords and knee-jerk reactions to things.”9 At times Gilliam demonstrates daring distaste of his audience and the frenzy of immediate communication; he says, “you can’t experience the moment ’cause you’ve got to tweet about the moment.”10 Ivy Roberts in this volume states that “The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus is ultimately about an old man trying to resuscitate imagination back into the world.” And Gilliam recognizes that this Dr Parnassus is “a little bit about me. . . . It’s really about getting older and thinking that the things I want to say nobody wants to listen to . . . it’s about how the world seems to pay little attention to wonder, the wonders that are around them.” This theme of wonder is prevalent in his films, whether they are fun and joyful films like The Time Bandits (1981) or bittersweet films like The Fisher King (1991) or dystopian films like the three discussed above; they are all about wondrous moments. Wondrous aesthetic moments like the giant balloons floating through the streets in Brazil, or the wonderous steampunk aesthetic of Twelve Monkeys, or the language of Jabberwocky (1977) or the wondrously joyful singing of “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” at the end of The Life of Brian (1975); and like Parry’s story in The Fisher King the moral is to avoid what Jacqueline Furby coins as “the folly of not recognizing the value of what is being offered, and instead searching for material wealth at the expense of spiritual or psychological worlds.”11 In her reading of The Imaginarium of Dr Parnassus,” Ivy Roberts states that “The world inside the imaginarium is not supposed to be beautiful; it mirrors the ugliness in us all, in our desires; and in our ridiculous fantasies.” This summarizes something of Gilliam’s worldview, that we need to look at it warts and all, that we need to stand up and do something about it if we can recognize what is wrong and that we celebrate the wonder that is around us. Gilliam leads us to question our own reality by creating fantastical landscapes and absurd worlds. So, what is Terry Gilliam’s legacy? For me he is a seer, a magician, a truthteller who spins lies to find the truth. He is a quixotic Director who is as large as his films and louder than his protagonists in his desire to shake up his audiences. His body of work narrates the anxieties and social and political landscapes of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. This companion to his films will enable more discussion, more writing, and more thinking to be done and this is just what Gilliam would have us do. The films, he says, “do exactly what I want them to do, they encourage other people’s imagination to take flight and so the films become their films and not mine” and that is Gilliam’s legacy, to make us think.12

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NOTES 1. Ian Christie and Terry Gilliam, Gilliam on Gilliam (London: Faber, 2000), 246. 2. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell, Reframing 9/11: Film, Popular Culture and the “War on Terror” (London: Palgrave MacMillan, 2011). 3. Gerry Canavan, “‘You can’t change anything’: Freedom and Control in Twelve Monkeys,” in Reframing 9/11, eds. Birkenstein, Froula and Randell, 92–103, 95. 4. Karen Randell, “Terry Gilliam Interview,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World, eds. Jeff Birkenstein, Anna Froula and Karen Randell, 9–15 (London: Wallflower Press, 2013), 12. 5. Don DeLillo, White Noise (London: Picador, 1985). 6. Randell, “Terry Gilliam Interview,” 10. 7. Ibid., 11. 8. Kathryn A. Laity, “‘Won’t somebody please think of the children?’ The Case for Terry Gilliam’s Tideland,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam, eds. Birkenstein, Froula, and Randell, 118–29, 119. 9. Randell, “Terry Gilliam Interview,” 11. 10. Ibid., 10. 11. Jacqueline Furby, “The Fissure King: Terry Gilliam’s Psychotic Fantasy Worlds,” in The Cinema of Terry Gilliam, eds. Birkenstein, Froula, and Randell, 79–91, 83. 12. Randell, “Terry Gilliam Interview,” 11.

REFERENCES Birkenstein, Jeff, Anna Froula, and Karen Randell (eds.). The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World. New York: Wallflower Press, 2013. ———. Reframing 9/11: Film, Popular Culture and the “War on Terror.” London: Palgrave MacMillan, 2011. Christie, Ian, and Terry Gilliam. Gilliam on Gilliam. London: Faber, 2000. DeLillo, Don. White Noise. London: Picador, 1985.

Index

12 Monkeys, v, 4, 7–8, 12, 17–19, 27n63, 27n69, 28, 81, 117–24, 126– 31, 132n10, 133, 136, 195, 201, 210– 12, 217–18, 218n9, 221, 241–43. See also Twelve Monkeys 9/11, 243, 246, 246n2–3 absurd, 6, 69, 82, 102, 107–8, 118, 202, 210, 212, 216, 241–5 absurdism. See absurd absurdity. See absurd absurdness. See absurd absurdly. See absurd accent, 49, 51, 56, 57, 61n35. See also accents accents 49, 52, 54, 56, 59, 61n31, 62n40, 64 See also accent adulthood, 81, 176–79, 184–86 Adventures of Baron Munchausen, The, 5–9, 14, 16–17, 19, 25n5, 28, 31, 118, 178, 197, 202, 204, 205n16, 206–7, 209, 217, 218n2, 221 See also Munchausen, Baron aesthetic, 6–7, 17, 52, 58, 82, 139, 176, 180, 186, 193, 196–8, 203–4, 225, 231–2, 244–5. See also aesthetics

aesthetics, 4, 27n56, 29, 45n1, 47, 53, 58, 61n27, 63, 122, 137, 151n18, 155, 187n10, 203, 205n14, 206, 236n26. See also aesthetic Agamben, Giorgio, 108, 114n37, 115 Agamemnon, 6, 70, 72, 75, 79, 83, 89, 90–1 allegorical, 118, 139, 149, 150 allegory, 137, 146–7, 153n59, 154, 171n21, 172 America, 122, 144, 186, 242–3 American, 4, 36, 45n2, 47, 60n15, 62, 62n40, 81–2, 135, 140–2, 144, 149, 170, 172–3, 189, 200, 220, 243 American Dream, 8, 140–2, 149, 152n38, 155 Americans, 243 American studio system, 17 analog, 9–10, 22, 195–6, 203, 223–31, 233, 235n1, 235n3, 236n19, 236n23, 237n27, 237n29, 237n33, 237n34, 237n35, 238–9 analogous. See analog analogue. See analog analogical. See analog analogization. See analog analogize. See analog analogy, 10

247

248

Index

animation, 118, 196, 200, 227 animations. See animation anxiety, 15, 23–4, 165, 244 apocalypse, 7, 117–9, 122–5, 128, 131 apocalypses. See apocalypse art. See artistic artist. See artistic artistic, 1–2, 7–8, 10, 17, 21, 28–9, 65–7, 78, 135–8, 140, 145–50, 151n2, 151n9, 151n19, 152n39, 154– 5, 159, 161, 164, 167, 169, 170n8, 172, 176, 180, 189, 194, 199–200, 225, 233, 237n33, 238, 238n48, 238n49, 242, artistically. See artistic Augustine, 81, 84, 92, 95, 98n13, 99 auteur, 7, 14, 17, 20, 26n39, 26n41, 29, 120, 131, 135, 137, 243 auteurism. See auteur auteurist. See auteur Bakhtin, Mikhail, 4, 11, 11n10, 49–52, 54, 57, 59, 60n4–11, 60n13, 60n17, 61n18, 61n20, 62–3 bakhtinian. See Bakhtin, Mikhail Bazin, André, 123, 132n5, 133 Bergson, Henri, 5, 39–40, 42, 46n15, 47, 126, 132n8, 134, 230, 237n37, 238 Bergsonian. See Bergson, Henri Berlant, Lauren, 5, 42, 44, 46n22, 47 Birkenstein, Jeff, 3, 11, 11n8, 16, 26n29, 26n53, 27n56–9, 27n65–7, 28–30, 45n1, 47, 61n27, 63, 71, 77n31–2, 78, 86, 95–6, 98n18, 98n25–6, 136, 144, 151n8, 152n42, 153n50, 154–5, 187n10, 187n18, 188–9, 205n4, 205n14, 206–7, 243, 246, 246n2–4, 246n8, 246n11 black hole, 9, 209, 214–6, 223–4, 229, 233, 235n2, 235n4, 238, 242 border, 42, 109, 111, 158–60, 163 borders. See border Brazil, 2–3, 6–9, 14, 17–20, 23, 26n33– 4, 26n46, 27n58, 27n62, 28–31, 33,

45n2, 47, 69, 79, 81, 83, 101–5, 107–8, 110–12, 112n1, 115, 118–9, 124, 129, 176, 189, 202, 210–3, 217, 218n9, 219n19, 221–2, 226, 237n39, 242–5 Bridges, Jeff, 6–8, 102, 150, 175 Brothers Grimm, The, 8, 19, 28, 136, 157, 159, 161–2, 168, 172, 175, 181, 186n3, 196, 209, 217, 218n3, 221 brothers Grimm. See Grimm brothers Byzantine, 232–4, 237n46, 238, 238n48, 238n50, 239 Byzantium, 232, 237n46, 238, 238n48 carnival, 4–5, 11, 11n10, 49, 51–4, 58–9, 60n17, 61n17, 205n21, 206 carnivalesque. See carnival Carroll, Lewis, 3, 5, 33–8, 40, 44–5, 46n7, 46n10, 183, 185, 187n32, 188, 203 Carrollian. See Carroll Cervantes, Miguel de, 3, 10, 21, 23, 135–6, 145–6, 150, 151n4, 151n7, 153n58, 153n64, 154, 155 computer-graphic imagery, 193, 195–7, 203, 224–6, 232 CG. See computer graphic imagery CGI. See computer graphic imagery Chaplin, Charles, 40–2 child, 2, 6, 8–9, 17, 27n59, 30, 33, 46, 46n5, 69–71, 75, 76, 79–80, 83, 90, 95–7, 98n26, 113n25, 114n25, 124–5, 151n17, 155, 158, 161–2, 164, 166, 169, 171n19, 173, 176–80, 182–6, 187n8, 187n18, 187n30, 188–9, 193–4, 230, 244, 246n8 children. See child childhood, 8, 75, 81, 96, 119, 123, 175– 6, 179, 181, 184–6, 187n27, 188 cinephilia, 4, 10, 11n15–6, 12–5, 18–22, 24, 25n1–2, 25n6–7, 25n9, 25n11–3, 25n15, 25n21, 26n52, 28, 28n85, 29–31 claustrophobia, 181, 183

Index

Cleese, John, 1–2, 71–2, 77n35, 78–9, 82 Cockney, 54–7, 62n37–8 code, 105–6, 108, 111–2, 179, 184, 224–5, 228–30, 232–3, 235, 241 coded. See code codes. See code coding, 226, 229, 231–2, 236n23 color, 9, 22, 102, 105, 111, 135, 181, 184, 191, 193, 195, 198–203, 211, 231, 233, 241 colored. See color colors. See color colorful. See color colorfully. See color comedy, 1, 3–6, 11n10, 33, 37–45, 46n18, 47, 82–3, 98n7, 99, 136, 182, 212, 241 computer, 9, 74, 85, 195–7, 203, 216, 223–7, 229, 232, 235n8, 238 computers. See computer computing, 224–5, 232, 235n8, 235n10, 238 coping, 178, 187n8, 188 coping mechanism, 176–7, 181 coping skills, 178 coping strategy, 177, 179, 185 COVID-19, 14, 241 culinary triangle, 104, 112n5–6, 113n8, 115–6 Damon, Matt, 8, 19, 157, 215 daydream. See dream denial, 8, 161, 168, 177 Depp, Johnny, 7, 9, 138, 193, 199 desert, 4, 7–8, 10, 11n6, 12, 39, 43, 135–50, 151n2, 151n12, 151n17, 152n26, 152n29, 153n51, 153n54–6, 153n61, 153n67, 154–5, 201, 247 deserts. See desert dialectology, 49, 53 digital, 9, 10,14, 22, 74, 84–5, 193, 195–7, 205n12, 206–7, 214, 220, 223–33, 235n1, 235n3–4, 236n10,

249

236n14, 236n22–3, 237n33, 237n35, 238–9, 243–4 digitality. See digital Doctorow, E. L., 139, 144, 150, 152n30–1, 152n33, 153–5 Dodgson, Charles Lutwidge. See Carroll, Lewis. Don Quixote, 1, 3–4, 8, 10, 13–6, 20–4, 26n40, 27n79–80, 28–30, 117, 119– 20, 125, 135–9, 145–50, 151n3–4, 151n6–7, 153n53, 153n58, 153n60, 154, 176, 188, 196, 202, 209–11, 217, 218n8, 219n25, 221, 222, 226 Dostoevsky, Fyodor Mikhailovich, 49–50, 60n4, 60n6, 60n8, 60n11, 62 dream, 6, 9, 13, 15, 17, 21, 24, 29, 34, 40, 91, 93, 96, 117–8, 136, 140–2, 148–9, 152n38, 155, 179, 181–2, 186, 193–6, 199–204, 205n7, 206, 206n23, 207, 209–10, 223, 226. See also American Dream dreamer. See dream dreamers. See dream dreamlike. See dream dreams. See dream dreamscape. See dream Driver, Adam, 10, 15, 21, 145 drug, 7–8, 42, 44–5, 136, 140, 142–4, 149, 177, 185 drugs. See drug dystopia, 1, 6–7, 9, 13, 17, 101, 141, 210–3, 216–7, 219n23, 222, 241–2, 244–5 dystopias. See dystopia dystopian. See dystopia Ecclesiastes, 212, 218, 219n28–9, 220n30, 220n35, 221, 222 Eco, Umberto, 67, 77n15, 78 encoded. See code Europe, 4, 26n35, 30, 45, 79, 104, 241 European. See Europe evil, 6, 68, 70, 73–6, 79–81, 83–97, 97n1, 97n3, 98n15, 98n24, 99, 119,

250

Index

130–1, 158, 161, 163, 166, 194– 5, 204, 250 exaggeration, 51, 55–6, 59 Expressionism, 33 fairy tale, 8–9, 19, 39–40, 67, 95–6, 102, 136, 157–8, 161–2, 165–6, 168–9, 171n20, 172, 175–6, 179, 181, 209, 221n38 fairy tales. See fairy tale fairy-tale. See fairy tale fantasy, 2–3, 6–9, 13, 16, 19, 21–2, 43, 67, 75, 77n17, 78, 91, 96, 117–8, 128–9, 136, 175–6, 178, 182, 185, 188, 193, 195, 197–204, 209, 217, 221n38, 243–4, 246n11 Farrell, Colin, 193, 199 Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, 3–4, 7–8, 10, 11, 11n14, 17, 29, 33, 42–5, 47, 135–41, 144, 149–50, 151n8, 152n38, 152n40, 153n47, 153, 153n63, 154–5, 202, 209–10, 212, 217, 218n6, 220n36, 221 fear and loathing, 142 filmmaking, 3, 15, 17–9, 21–2, 24, 26n39, 26n41, 29, 36, 180 Fisher King, The, 3, 6–7, 17, 29, 81, 101–2, 105–12, 118, 202, 209–10, 217, 218n1, 221, 245 food, 4, 102–8, 111–2, 112n2, 112n5, 112n6, 113n9–10, 113n13, 113n15, 113n17–8, 113n20, 114n26, 114n32, 114n44, 114n53, 115–6, 123, 211 food culture, 7, 105–10, 112 food consumption, 195 food system, 105–6, 108, 112 forest, 8, 34, 39, 136, 157–69, 192, 202 forests. See forest French New Wave, 119, 124 Froula, Anna, 3, 11, 11n8, 26n29, 26n53, 26n55, 27n56–9, 27n66–7, 28–30, 33, 45n1, 47, 53–4, 58, 61n27, 61n30, 62n45, 62n48, 63, 77n31–2, 78, 98n18, 98n26, 99, 136, 144, 151n8, 152n42, 153n50, 154–5,

178, 187n10, 187n13, 187n18, 188– 9, 205n4, 205n14, 206–7, 243, 246, 246n2–4, 246n8, 246n11 Germany, 8, 157, 159, 166, 169 God, 6, 16, 68, 72–3, 79–89, 92–7, 97n1–2, 98n13, 98n15, 98n24, 99, 118–9, 129–31, 138, 191, 205n5, 207, 215, 230, 234 god. See God goddesses, 22 gods. See God gonzo journalism, 151 Grimm, 8, 19, 74–5, 157–66, 168, 170n3, 171n19, 171n29, 172–3, 209 Grimm brothers. See Grimm Grimm, Jakob. See Grimm brothers Grimm, Wilhelm. See Grimm brothers grotesque, 4, 7–8, 11, 11n10, 11n13, 12, 37, 51–2, 54, 58–9, 61n23, 61n25, 61n29, 62n47, 62n49, 63, 73–4, 117, 139, 152n35, 155, 167 grotesquely. See grotesque Heidegger, Martin, 129–30, 133, 133n12, 133n14 Heteroglossia, 50 heterosexual. See sex Hitchcock, Alfred, 19, 24, 30, 33, 43, 128, 132 Holy Grail, 4–7, 11, 11n10, 102, 149, 209, 218 homage, 19–20, 37 horror, 3, 42–4, 74, 136, 143, 165, 170n9, 174, 177–9, 181, 184, 186, 189, 209, 221n38 horrors. See horror hybridity, 4, 53–4, 61n23, 170n7, 171n17, 171n25, 172–3 icon, 231–3, 238, 238n48, 238n50, 239 icons. See icon iconic, 62n40 iconographic, 9 iconography, 184, 215, 231–2, 237n39

Index

illusion, 19, 22–4, 66, 90, 95, 135, 143, 226, 233 illusions. See illusion illusionistic, 233 Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus, The, 9, 29, 136, 186n2, 188, 191–204, 204n1, 205n4, 205n6, 205n21, 206, 206n23, 206n27, 207, 209, 218n7, 221, 241, 245 Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, The. See The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus imaginarium, 9, 193–204, 245 imaginary faculties, 175–8, 180–6, 186n4, 188, 244 imaging, 5, 49, 52–3, 57–9, 62n42, 231–3 innocence, 8–9, 117, 176, 178–9, 183–6, 241 invention, 68, 169 inventions. See invention Jabberwocky, 1, 3, 5, 16, 18, 27n56, 29–30, 33–42, 45, 45n1–2, 46n6, 46n14, 46n17, 47, 49, 51–5, 57–9, 61n25, 61n27, 62n46, 63, 195, 205n14, 206, 209, 217, 218n4, 221, 245 Jackson, Rosemary, 67, 77n17, 78 Jones, Bill, 77n28, 78 Kermode, Frank, 120, 127, 132n1, 133, 133n11 Kierkegaard, Søren, 131, 133, 133n15–6, 134 King, Stephen, 176, 186n5, 189 La Jetée, 19, 27n63, 28, 119, 122– 7, 131, 133 landscape, 135–6, 138–9, 145, 150, 152n29, 154, 170n6, 181, 197, 200– 1, 203, 225, 227, 236n25, 245 landscapes. See landscape Las Vegas, 17, 42–3, 136, 138, 140–4, 150.

251

See also Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas Ledger, Heath, 8–9, 19, 157, 192–4, 205n4, 207, 209 Leggatt, Kim, 77n28, 78 Lévi–Strauss, Claude, 104, 112n5–6, 115 Life of Brian, The. See Monty Python’s The Life of Brian Lukács, György, 38, 46n13, 47 Liminality, 123, 137, 158–61, 165–7, 169, 170n4, 170n6–9, 171n17, 171n25, 172–4 Lost in La Mancha, 10, 21, 24, 27n80, 28, 30, 146, 148, 150, 151n3, 153n60, 154 Macbeth, 120, 125, 128 magic, 1–2, 8–9, 66, 96, 158–69, 179, 182, 193, 195–6, 226, 245 magical. See magic magically. See magic magician. See magic Mancom, 9, 225–7, 232, 234, 244 Man Who Killed Don Quixote, The, 1, 3, 4, 8, 10, 13–6, 20–4, 27n80, 28, 30, 135–8, 145, 148, 151n3, 151n6, 153n53, 153n60, 154–5, 176, 196, 202, 209, 218n8, 221, 226 Marker, Chris, 19, 119, 122–4, 133 Marx, Karl, 37–9, 46n12, 47, 67, 69 mathematics, 225, 229 meaning, search for, 212, 216 medieval theatre, 83, 97, 98n11, 99 metacinema, 14, 18–21, 26n30, 26n48, 27n61, 27n70, 28 metacinematic. See metacinema metaphor, 8, 21, 23, 110, 136–41, 144, 146–9, 167, 169, 170n11, 171n15, 173, 182, 225–6, 233, 236n10 metaphoric. See metaphor metaphorical. See metaphor metaphorically. See metaphor Ministry of Information, 243 mise-en-abyme, 16, 19–20, 24

252

Index

mise-en-scene, 9, 17, 19, 135, 191, 192–4, 198, 200, 203, 241 montage, 121–2, 126, 132n3– 4, 133, 182 Monty Python, 2–5, 11, 11n10, 17, 45, 51–3, 59, 68, 82, 98n6, 99, 117, 136, 186n4, 211, 220n37 Monty Python and the Holy Grail, 1, 5, 11, 11n10, 18, 30, 37, 49, 52–3, 63, 118, 136, 209, 218n1, 220n37, 222. See also Holy Grail Monty Python’s Flying Circus, 1–2, 37, 61n24, 63 Monty Python’s The Life of Brian, 5, 79–80, 82–3, 96, 128, 218, 220n37, 221n39, 222, 245 Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life, 118, 220, 222, 231 mosaic, 109, 224, 230–3, 235n5, 237n46, 238 mosaics. See mosaic multicolored. See color Munchausen, Baron, 6, 16, 119, 128 See also The Adventures of Baron Munchausen myth, 4, 6, 25n21, 28n83, 30, 53, 69, 75, 78–81, 89, 96, 98n8, 99, 114n25, 119, 128, 160, 162, 171n29, 172, 201, 204, 213, 220n31, 220n33 Mythen. See myth mythic. See myth mythical. See myth mythically. See myth mythology, 6, 16, 19, 27n63, 28, 67, 130, 209 mythological, 6, 139 Mythologie, 171n29, 173 mythologies. See mythology myths. See myth naturalism, 197 nature, 3–4, 6–7, 18, 23, 36, 39, 42, 45, 58–9, 67–8, 73–6, 80–1, 86, 89, 96 104, 112n6, 118, 124, 128, 136–40,

149–50, 161–2, 165–6, 186, 198, 224, 226, 233 neglect, 18, 97, 178, 182, 185 neglected. See neglect Nietzsche, Friedrich, 119, 129–31, 133, 133n12, 133n14, 134, 145 North, Michael, 40–1, 46n18, 47 Odd Nerdrum, 201, 203 Oldenburg, Ray, 109, 114n40, 115 Ossification, 175–7, 180, 186, 186n4, 188, 244 Palin, Michael, 1–2, 5, 34, 55, 61n35, 68–71, 73, 75, 77n26, 78, 79–80, 82–3, 98n21, 98n23, 99, 186n4, 209 parody, 5, 39, 49, 51–2, 56, 58–9, 60n13–4, 61n19, 63, 65–6, 71–2, 108, 123, 127–8, 210 phonetic, 56, 61n33 phonetically. See phonetic pixel, 233 Plummer, Christopher, 191, 210 postmodernism, 65, 67, 70, 76n11, 77n14, 78, 160 post-modern, 220, 244 post-modernity, 80 protest, 8, 140–1, 149 protests. See protest Protestantism, 81, 87 Pryce, Jonathan, 6, 8, 10, 21, 24, 138, 159, 210 public space, 7, 103, 108, 109, 111 quixotic, 7, 117–20, 151n3, 153n60, 154, 245 quixoticism, 117–9 Rabkin, Eric, 75, 78, 78n43 Randell, Karen, 3, 10, 11, 11n8, 26n29, 26n53, 27n56–9, 27n66–7, 28, 29–30, 45n1, 47, 61n27, 63, 70, 77n31–2, 78, 98n18, 98n26, 99, 136, 144, 151n8, 152n42, 153n50, 154–5, 187n10, 187n18, 188–9, 205n4,

Index

205n14, 206–7, 241, 246, 246n2–4, 246n6, 246n8–9, 246n11–2 Realism, 38, 52, 58–9, 61n25, 61n29, 62n47, 62n49, 63, 117, 121, 145, 197, 206, 225, 233 reality, 5–6, 8, 10, 19, 21–4, 26n29, 27n62, 28, 28n84, 31, 34, 36, 39–40, 44, 69, 74, 75, 77n32, 78, 83–4, 92, 96–7, 98n18, 98n25–6, 125–6, 129, 142, 148–51, 153n70, 155, 164–5, 167, 168, 176–7, 181–3, 185–6, 194, 196, 201–4, 205n8, 205n12, 207, 214, 216, 225–6, 228–34, 237n38, 239, 244–5 Received Pronunciation, 54–5 reflexivity, 14, 16, 18, 20, 52, 58, 138 reinvention, 137 religion, 80, 82–3, 87, 151n2, 153n51, 154, 155, 185 Renaissance, 37, 233 resilience, 176, 179, 184 restaurant, 7, 101–3, 105–12, 114n35, 116 Sancho Panza, 10, 22, 136, 145–8, 150 satire, 26n46, 29, 33, 51–2, 65–6, 69, 73, 82, 98n7, 99, 211–2, 216–7, 241 satires. See satire self-deception, 177–8, 181, 184 setting, 1, 3, 6–7, 17, 42, 44, 53, 105–6, 109, 135, 137, 140, 144, 147, 159, 168, 198, 201, 211–2, 230 settings. See setting sex, 16, 49, 52, 59, 85, 124, 131, 177, 184–5, 228, 244 sexual. See sex sexuality. See sex simulacrum, 244 social media, 211, 220, 232, 236n14, 243–4 space, 7–8, 15, 22, 34, 41, 43, 66–8, 72, 76, 87, 103, 105, 108–12, 113n10, 113n14, 114n31, 114n35–6, 114n39, 115–6, 118, 121–2, 126–30, 132n3, 137–9, 145, 148–50, 151n15, 155,

253

158–69, 170n6, 170n8, 171n22, 172, 172n33, 173, 192, 198–9, 209, 220n36, 223–8, 230, 232–3, 236n25, 237n27, 241 spaces. See space spaceship, 91 special effect. See special effects special effects, 9, 123, 193, 195, 197, 224, 241 spectacle, 136, 191, 203 spectacles. See spectacle storytelling, 21, 120–2, 151n3, 153n60, 154, 175–6, 193, 198, 201, 204 stylistic, 49–50, 53, 57–9, 138 stylistically. See stylistic stylistics. See stylistic subversion, 6, 27, 30, 65–73, 76 subversions. See subversion Supreme Being, 6, 16, 68, 71–6, 79–81, 83–87, 91–7, 209; See also God symbol, 10, 52, 87, 106, 110, 113n25, 114n35, 116, 122, 137–9, 141, 144– 6, 150, 152n28, 153n59, 154, 169, 170n11, 171n21, 171n29, 172–3, 183, 204, 210, 223, 230, 232 symbolic. See symbol symbolically. See symbol symbols. See symbol technology, 21–2, 40, 74–5, 80–1, 83–5, 90–1, 95, 120, 123, 125, 167, 211–6, 220n31, 220n33, 222, 224–6 theodicy, 6, 79, 81, 93–5, 97, 97n1, 99 theology, 80–2, 84, 87, 94–6, 97n3, 99, 127, 233–4 third place, 108–9 third places. See third place third space, 109, 161 Tideland, 1, 3, 8, 11n2, 12, 18–9, 27n5928–9, 30–1, 136, 162, 171n23, 173, 175–8, 180–1, 183–6, 186n1, 186n3–4, 187n18, 187n25, 187n28– 9, 187n31, 188, 188n34, 189, 209, 217, 218n6, 222, 244, 246n8

254

Time Bandits, 6, 16, 19, 26n29, 28, 31, 65, 68–9, 73, 75–6, 76n3, 77n22, 77n32, 78, 79–83, 87, 88, 90, 94–7, 98n18, 98n21, 98n23, 99, 118–9, 130, 178, 195, 209–10, 217, 218n5, 222, 245 time travel, 7, 79, 119–22, 123, 125–7, 202 time-travelers. See time travel time-traveling/time-travelling. See time travel transcendence, 217, 231–2, 234 trauma, 2, 33, 118, 125, 144, 177, 179, 182, 184–5, 205n4, 207, 209, 217, 244 traumatic. See trauma traumatized. See trauma Turner, Victor, 158–61, 168, 170n4–5, 170n11, 171n15, 172n32, 173–4 Twelve Monkeys, 83, 245, 246n3; See also 12 Monkeys uncoded. See code Vietnam War, 44, 141

Index

virus, 7, 118–20, 125–6, 130, 210 viruses. See virus Vogel, Amos, 65–6, 76n4, 76n7, 78 Waits, Tom, 193 Waltz, Christoph, 212, 218n11, 222, 244 Warner, David, 73, 79–80, 84, 97, 130 Watson, Peter, 67, 76n12, 77n30, 78 wide lenses, 179–80 Wiener, Norbert, 229, 236n10, 237n30 Williams, Robin, 6–7, 102, 118, 209 wood, 22, 35–6, 103, 168–9; See also forest wooden. See wood woods. See wood Wood, Grant, 199–201, 203 world formula, 235n2 Zero Theorem, The, 4, 9, 11n12, 12, 209–13, 216–8, 218n10–1, 219n13– 6, 219n18–23, 219n25–6, 220n33, 221–2, 235n7, 235n9, 236n14, 236n17, 236n24–5, 237n26, 237n43, 237n45, 238–9, 241–3

About the Editors‌‌‌‌

Ian Bekker, Prof. Dr., spends most of his time conducting research in linguistics, with a focus on the South African English accent and Afrikaans. Working in the English Department of the Potchefstroom Campus of the North-West University, South Africa has, however, meant increasing contact with and interest in literary matters. He has a particular fascination with the linguistic and literary theories of Mikhail Bakhtin, as well as a number of South African English authors, especially Herman Charles Bosman. Sabine Planka, Dr. phil., is a literary scholar working in the field of literature/ media for children and young adults from the nineteenth to the twenty-first centuries, and she is also a subject librarian. Her research interests include the reflection of food, food system, and food culture in children’s literature and cookbooks, but she is also interested in film studies. She works as a subject librarian for the humanities at the University Library of FernUniversität Hagen (Germany) and as a visiting lecturer in the field of children’s literature at various universities such as Bielefeld University (Germany) and Humboldt-Universität Berlin (Germany). Philip van der Merwe, PhD, is a senior lecturer in the School of Languages at the North-West University in South Africa. His research interests include twentieth- and twenty-first-century fiction, literary theory, and comparative literature. He has published on the fiction of E.L. Doctorow and Hans-Ulrich Treichel. Recent publications include the article “(Dis)continuities in Bond: A Bakhtinian Analysis of the 007 films” in the Journal of Literary Studies (together with Ian Bekker), and the chapter “The Dialectic of Life and Death in the ‘Garden Verses’ of the Karoo Desert National Botanical Garden” in the book Death and Garden Narratives in Literature, Art and Film: Song of Death in Paradise (2020), co-edited by Sabine Planka. He teaches literature as well as German as a foreign language. 255

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About the Contributors

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS Chris Broodryk, Dr, is chair of Drama, School of the Arts, University of Pretoria, where he is a senior lecturer in Drama and Film Studies, and he also teaches screenwriting and nonfiction filmmaking. His research publications and papers are focused on Afrikaans and South African cinema and social media studies. He appears regularly on community radio and television to discuss film, television, and popular culture. He is the editor of Public Intellectuals in South Africa: Critical Voices from the Past (2021, Wits University Press). Michael Charlton is a professor and chair of the Communication Department at Missouri Western State University, where he teaches technical communication, writing, literature, and popular culture. His previously published work on popular culture includes chapters on topics like the comic Tintin, the television shows Game of Thrones and Doctor Who, and a range of films, such as Hollywood studio musicals, contemporary horror films, Disney’s Dumbo, and the works of Steven Spielberg and Robert Zemeckis. Jonathan Fruoco, Dr., FRHistS, is a research associate at the Université Grenoble Alpes. His research focuses on the linguistic and cultural evolution of medieval England, with a particular interest in the polyphony of Geoffrey Chaucer’s work and its connection with French and Italian courtly poetry. Andrew Grossman is an independent scholar and the editor of the anthology Queer Asian Cinema: Shadows in the Shade, a contributor to The New Dictionary of the History of Ideas, a contributor to and editor of Bright Lights Film Journal, and a columnist for Popmatters. He has written chapters for numerous anthologies, for example Trumping Truth: Essays on the Destructive Power of ‘Alternative Facts’ (McFarland, 2019), Hong Kong Horror Cinema (University of Edinburgh Press, 2018), Clint Eastwood’s Cinema of Trauma (McFarland, 2017), and Moving Image (MIT Press, 2015). He also directed and produced a feature documentary, Not That Kind of Christian!! (2007), featured at the Montreal World Film Festival. Ulrich Meurer is visiting professor at the Visual Studies Platform and the Program of Culture, Politics, and Society at Central European University, Vienna. After receiving his doctorate in American and Film Studies at the University of Konstanz, he has been an assistant professor of comparative literature at Leipzig, an associate professor of film theory and history at the University of Vienna, as well as a research fellow at the Hellenic Institute for Byzantine Studies, Venice, Princeton University, and MIT. He is the author



About the Contributors

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of Topographies: Concepts of Space in Postmodern Literature and Film (in German), has edited several books on cinema cultures, and has published widely on media philosophy, visual theory, and film/media archaeology. Garreth O’Brien is a PhD candidate in the English Department at the University of California–Berkeley, working on a dissertation on comedy and economics in twentieth-century American literature and popular culture. His writing has appeared in Nabokov Studies and Studies in the Novel. Karen Randell is an Honorary Research Fellow of the Research Institute of Media and Performance at the University of Bedfordshire UK where she is a professor of film and culture. She is co-editor of six books, including Reframing 9/11: Film, Popular Culture and ‘the War on Terror’; The Cinema of Terry Gilliam: It’s a Mad World; and Screening the Dark Side of Love: From Euro-Horror to American Cinema. She is also published in Screen and Cinema Journal. She is currently working on a co-authored British Academy project entitled: ‘Horror and Romance in the Technologizing of the Body.’ Ivy Roberts is a professor of film and media studies. Dr. Roberts is affiliated with the University of Maryland, where she teaches courses in digital design and studies library science. Her writing includes publications on the history of speculative-era television, science fiction, and film interpretation and criticism. Dr. Roberts holds a PhD in Media, Art, and Text from Virginia Commonwealth University. Her background includes instructional design and technology, film production, and cultural studies. She specializes in media archaeology and media history. David Robinson is an associate professor in the Department of Education and Curriculum Studies, in the Faculty of Education at the University of Johannesburg. Professor Robinson spent the early part of his career as a teacher of English in South African high schools. He has a special interest in the teaching of literature and regards film study as a subsection of literature. Prof. Robinson has presented papers at local and international academic conferences, and he has published in local and international academic journals. He has been a member of the Council and Executive Committee of the English Academy of Southern Africa, and he is a member of the Literature Association of South Africa. Kevin J. Wetmore, Jr., Prof., Ph.D., is a professor at Loyola Marymount University, and an actor, director, and stand-up comedian in Los Angeles. He is the author of a dozen books on theatre and cinema and the editor of another dozen, including the Bram Stoker Award–nominated volumes Uncovering

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About the Contributors

Stranger Things and The Streaming of Hill House. He is also the author of over a hundred book chapters and articles on cinema, theatre, pop culture, and theology, including essays on pop apocalypses, exorcism films, the representation of evil through monsters, Norman Bates as a juvenile delinquent, and the presence of Godzilla on the stage.