Kristin Thompson, Fans on the Margins, Pervy Hobbit Fanciers and Partygoers

(In The Frodo Franchise)

More good stuff from Thompson, this time moving on into the realm of fan sites and fan production. Although she keeps the films central to her analysis, her willingness to include everything from toys to slash fiction is commendable, and vital to any study of franchises. I hope to expand on her historical and rehabilitate the notion of "franchise" as a critical concept - a methodology for looking at certain kinds of texts, products and discourses.

Kristin Thompson, Click To View Trailer

(In The Frodo Franchise)

Here, Thompson outlines how the struggle between studio control of marketing and film information and fandom's insatiable desire for new details and minutiae can create extremely positive results for the studio from a promotional perspective. This struggle, I think, is indicative of the larger struggle between various kinds of users - producers, creators and audiences - which is the site of definition and articulation for a franchise. It is only in that give-and-take that the franchise exists.

It seems that The Lord of the Rings was instrumental in Hollywood's embracing the marketing potential the Internet, not only to attract and encourage fans but also to pitch new audiences on a film via mainstream, third-party news sites and so on. The Internet, even moreso than television, allows different forms of marketing and information to be targetted at various audiences for maximal effect.

One interesting anecdote Thompson relates is that apparently early in the marketing for the trilogy, it was assumed that the target audience was primarily 15-30 year-old males - an assumption which was disproven rapidly once the film was released. It strikes me that although the classic male fanboy audience might have been the most vocal and obvious potential audience, this particular franchise probably had a great many lapsed fans who had read the books as children in the 80s, 70s, 60s - probably even the 40s and earlier - but had not engaged with the franchise significantly prior to the films' release. The films, however, mainstreamed Tolkien in hitherto unprecedented ways, allowing these lapsed fans to reawaken their latent fandom.

Kristin Thompson, Flying Billboards and FAQs

(In The Frodo Franchise)

This chapter is lighter on analysis than other parts of the book, but effectively highlights some of the contemporary offline alternatives to traditional means of promoting a film. "Infotainment" such as Entertainment Tonight and making-of specials in particular are a highly effective means of marketing, with audiences actively seeking them out rather than being targeted. These forms allow the studios to tightly control what information is released and how the film is presented to audiences via electronic press kits and web content intended for journalists, actively constructing the franchise.

Peter Jackson seems very aware of the importance of behind-the-scenes content, and many hundreds of hours of footage were shot, to be gradually presented to the public in various forms and across multiple new DVD (and surely soon Blu-Ray) releases. These specials are often produced by networks, rather than by the studio, minimizing the studio's overhead. Again, because fans will seek out and pay for these supplementary materials, they become extremely powerful marketing tools which cost significantly less than traditional trailers and print campaigns.

Kristin Thompson, Handcrafting a Blockbuster

(In The Frodo Franchise)

Discussing the design aspects and attention to detail in developing the Lord of the Rings films, Thompson notes Bordwell's idea of world-building, which suggests that modern Hollywood films (especially blockbusters, Thompson adds) are engaged in creating elaborately detailed universes in which their stories are contextualized. In many cases, this occurs across media and helps to integrate the franchise, and Thompson cites the Star Wars franchise as exemplary in this respect. I would argue that although this is true, this world-building does not necessarily result in an integrated universe, but rather in many cases creates a wide variety of different versions of the same universe, such as in superhero franchises.

In either case, however, the intense levels of detail seem to translate for fans into greater authenticity (historical, fantastical or otherwise). This serves not only to create an ambient environment for the action and a believable world, but also (as I have discussed in the Terminator franchise) a network of self-reflexive links between different franchise texts. Not only are we given clues in the set-dressing, costuming and design of Terminator 3 that we are dealing with the same characters in the same world, we are also given stylistic and structural cues that we are dealing with the same franchise. Narrative and formal elements dovetail to create a worthy reintroduction.

Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines (2003)

In T3, we see a prime example of a franchise become self-reflexive, constantly referencing its own tropes and conventions, often for the purpose of parody. The Terminator franchise could almost be seen to follow Schatz's model of generic evolution, from primitive to established to parody - an overly simple account, but strangely fitting.

In some ways, the franchise is constructed according to the same principles as the destiny-based narrative of the films: Judgement Day will inevitably happen and John Connor will lead the resistance with Kate Brewster at his side, just as a Terminator film will inevitably feature a character hunted by an advanced killing machine and protected by a friend from the future. The specifics of when, where, who and how vary from film to film, but those basic principles invariably remain.

Terminator 2: Judgement Day (1991)

I forgot how much I actually like this movie. Just a generally very well constructed action movie, even in spite of the sappy relationship between John and the Terminator - but that's not why we're here.

Already, the Terminator/Schwarzenegger character is becoming self-reflexive, with tongue-in-cheek references to the previous film abound. What is interesting however, is how these recontextualized repetitions serve to signify the changed roles: The Terminator takes Reese's line, "Come with me if you want to live," and becomes the protector, while Sarah is the one presented in a video freeze frame of her seemingly insane rants about the future by the dopey Dr. Silberman, now filling the role of crazy person who knows the truth.

The cyclical nature of the franchise is really a defining feature - everything that happens, happens because of actions in the future, which happen because of actions in the past, which happen ... etc. It will be interesting to see how this plays out in the new trilogy - if the theme of the original trilogy (or at least the first two films) is that there is no fate, surely the new trilogy must rely on predestination in order to not render the original trilogy logically nonextant. John Connor of the future must send back Kyle Reese in order to be born; must send back the second Terminator to protect his childhood self; Kate Brewster-Connor must send back the third Terminator to protect both herself and the young adult John Connor, who is to be her husband. If the new trilogy strays from this, it will have to create a pretty complex system of rationalization in order to preseve the continuity of the franchise.

A shot of the T-1000 crushing the Terminator's sunglasses with its foot made me think - what is the relationship between film-maker trademarks (in this case, James Cameron and things being crushed by feet) and franchise conventions? Particularly interesting to consider in franchises such as this, or the Indiana Jones films, where the same directors or screenwriters are involved with multiple entries into the canon. I suppose in many cases, elements of the franchise are simply both, or begin as one but eventually become the other. Curious.

The Terminator (1984)

This is one of those films that upon viewing, I realized I had never actually seen before. Weird.

I was going to start this post by comparing it to First Blood, in that it is fairly distinct in style and structure compared to subsequent films in the franchise, but this is really not the case here. Essentially, what the Terminator franchise does is shuffles the roles of the characters, with slight variations, but maintains a fairly similar structure. Observe:

T1:

Villain: The Terminator
Fugitive/Character unaware of the future: Sarah Connor
Protector of fugitive/Hero/Love interest of fugitive/Crazy person who knows the truth: Kyle Reese

T2:

Villain: T-1000
Fugitive/Character unaware of the future: John Connor
Protectors of fugitive/Heroes/Friends: The Terminator and Sarah Connor
Crazy person who knows the truth: Sarah Connor

T3:

Villain: Terminatrix
Fugitive/Crazy person who knows the truth: John Connor
Protector of fugitive/Hero: The Terminator
Friend/love interest of fugitive/Character unaware of the future: Kate Brewster

Sarah Connor Chronicles:

Villain: Cromartie Terminator, the FBI
Fugitive: John Connor
Protectors of fugitive/Friends/Heroes: Sarah Connor, Cameron Phillips, Derek Reese
Character unaware of the future: James Ellison
Crazy person who knows the truth: Sarah and John Connor?

Although the recently announced fourth Terminator film appears at first to alter the formula, it could still easily operate along the same lines:

Villain: Skynet (and doubtlessly some new form of Terminator)
Hero/Protector of fugitive/Crazy person who knows the truth (now about the past): John Connor and Kate Brewster-Connor
Fugitive/Friend/Character unaware of the past (which is his future): Kyle Reese (who now needs to be protected in order to ensure John Connor's existence)


All by way of saying, the franchise has been adept at creating (often complex) variations on the basic villain-fugitive-protector formula.

Kristin Thompson, Introduction: Sequel-itis

(In The Frodo Franchise)

In what is possibly the only academic book to explicitly concern itself with franchises (certainly the only one to use the word franchise in the title that I've seen), Thompson (of Bordwell, Staiger and Thompson fame) sets out to trace the development of the Lord of the Rings franchise. Although positioned as a work of film history, Thompson is also concerned with using the franchise as an exemplar of changes in contemporary Hollywood and the larger entertainment industry.

Thompson is quick to point out that the film versions of Tolkien's books build upon an already rich and varied franchise, including many different printings of the novels, films, music and all manner of merchandising. This helps to put the recent success of the franchise in context - much as with superhero films, the pre-existing franchise and fandom is an essential aspect of a new text's success.

Additionally, Thompson notes that although Star Wars can be seen as a seminal contemporary franchise, Walt Disney had maintained tight control over merchandising for many years prior, indicating a long history of franchise approaches to film-making. Franchises (like genres), she suggests, make for much more effective branding than studios, stars or directors, which are of secondary importance. Familiar characters, stories and formulas attract audiences first.

The principle concern of this book is the industrial aspect of franchises, and Thompson (at least in her introduction) treats the concept as a network of branded products. For her purposes, this is sufficient, but I hope to expand the term to refer to a larger network including other discourses as well.

One theory Thompson presents for the success of Lord of the Rings is that the franchise is strong enough to last many years in the cultural consciousness and to live on in re-releases, merchandise and liscenced properties, but it is also narratively self-contained enough to avoid jumping the shark and "out-staying its welcome." This makes sense, but I wonder what Thompson would make of the possibility of a new film in the franchise, to take place between Guillermo del Toro's The Hobbit film and the existing trilogy.

Seymour Chatman, Introduction

(In Story and Discourse)

On the off chance that it proves useful, I'm looking into some narratology from the '70s, given that narratology is concerned with patterns and repetition, and that narrative structures are so important to franchises. Chatman's book seems interesting enough. What I appreciate most about it is his insistence that "definitions are made, not discovered," as opposed to the empiricist view that structures are fixed objects which scholars must uncover. Definitions and classifications are powerful tools with which we can create meaning.

Coming from a structuralist perspective, Chatman suggests that categorization is useful not because it helps us to find pure examples of whatever category we're dealing with, but because it helps us to plot texts in relation to one another - sort of an early transgeneric approach. I suppose that I am adding another axis to his abstract network to include the discursive and pragmatic elements of franchises. Story (referring to content) and discourse (referring to expression) need to be expanded to account for reception (referring to interpretation and use) in order to discuss the continuum of meaning which is genre, or franchise, or whatever. This multi-directional process is the only way we can fully understand their complexity.

Peter Coogan, The Superhero Renaissance and The Superhero Genre

(In Superhero: The Secret Origin of a Genre)

In this book, Coogan sets out to pay some much needed attention to the genre of superhero fiction, in film and comic books. Unfortunately, it's riddled with all the wrong kinds of rhetoric (including the claim that it is concerned only with "pure" aesthetics [EDIT: intended to write "poetics"], and not culture, as though that is even possible, let alone desirable*), interspersed by all-too-few genuine insights.

The problem here is that Coogan makes far too many broad, sweeping, arbitrary statements which reek of just-plain fandom rather than a happy unison of fandom and scholarship. For example, the notion that campy superhero texts always fail is ridiculous - obviously the 1960s Batman TV show was wildly successful. This kind of selective argument just doesn't fly so far as I'm concerned.

Worse still, Coogan seems to think that there is some kind of absolute, "true" version of every superhero that all superhero texts aspire towards. Again, typical fanboy rhetoric that just doesn't hold up in this context. Suggesting that Ang Lee's Hulk is not a superhero movie because it is a betrayal of the heroic origins of the character and is evidence of a failed vision rather than a true superhero film is patently absurd. A more accurate statement would be that Coogan's book is a betrayal of contemporary thinking on superheroes and genre, and that is evidence of a failed vision.

One potentially useful idea that Coogan puts forward is the concept of "resonant tropes" that link the many different versions of superheroes together - big things like costumes and powers, but also little things like Bruce Wayne's mother's pearls or Uncle Ben's advice to Peter Parker. These repeated and familiar but also unstable conventions are the linkages which connect franchise texts to one another, and could be an interesting way of articulating my idea of reintroduction.

Although not Coogan's concept, a quotation from Thomas Schatz also got me thinking: genre as privileged story form, that becomes formally recognized by society through repetition. Naturally, the same formulation could easily be applied to franchises on a smaller scale. Recognizable "brand-name" franchises become privileged as reliable and familiar story forms.

At the end of the day, Coogan's occasional good ideas are subjected to the archaic notion of genre as a fixed construct with a predictable, consistent pattern of evolution - precisely the notion that Altman, Neale and other have tried to debunk.

*Adimittedly, I've been known to rely on the same schtick in the past, but it really is useless.

Harold Bloom, Introduction: A Meditation on Misreading

(In A Map of Misreading)

I'm not going to read much more of this book, as it emphasizes poetry as its object, but Bloom's idea that there is no such thing as a text, but only relationships between texts is a delightful paradox that offers much to my own work, so I thought I would check out some of his writing. His idea of "misreading" is an interesting one - I would have used a different word - but it essentially says that creators (and one could easily extrapolate, readers/viewers) use earlier works to establish their own voice or style, but in order to distinguish themselves must invariably impose an alternative "misreading" on that which influences them. When divested of older literary notions of authorship which, though suited to poetry are ineffective when dealing with film, and from the highly structured map which Bloom devises, his ideas can certainly be seen as a theoretical jumping point for my work. If all the various users engaged with a franchise are "misreading" in different ways, then this diverse network will define that franchise and direct franchise in many different directions.

Rick Altman, Conclusion: A semantic/syntactic/pragmatic approach to genre

(In Film/Genre)

So in this final chapter, Altman sums up his argument and distills it into a sort of three-pronged approach, incorporating pragmatics - that is to say use - into his earlier model. Again, he argues that genre is between users and uses, rather than fixed at any one point. Genres (and, as I have noted before, franchises) "serve diverse groups diversely." It is impossible, therefore, for terminology to be neutral when referring to a genre. The terms we use are invariably loaded in a variety of different ways for different audiences.

The process of reintroduction which defines franchise texts, therefore, takes place in many different ways - established as invalid by fans while simultaneously being validated by studio rhetoric, and so on. It is important to incorporate this discursivity into any account of genre, or remakes, or franchises, etc. These (and indeed, all texts and communication systems, Altman argues) are sites of struggle and cooperation among multiple users" and groups of users. This kind of understanding helps us to escape the tyranny of the text, as he puts it.

Rick Altman, What's at stake in the history of literary genre theory? and Where are genres located?

(In Film/Genre)

In this relatively recent book (well, only a decade old, in any case), Altman recasts and expands his earlier, highly influential work on genre as part of a broader theory of communication, much as Steve Neale has done with his 1980s writings. The first chapter provides a very general overview of the history of literary genre criticism, and identifies the assumptions behind most thinking on genre, which have their genesis as far back as Aristotle. Altman, like Verevis, criticizes the pseudo-science of genre taxonomy, and is highly skeptical that any kind of work on genre can be as rigid and apolitical as some critics seem to believe.

Perhaps most damning is the assumption that genres exist in some kind of fixed, tangible, already-defined way, and not as fluid, multifarious cultural constructs. These are the kinds of assumptions I need to avoid when discussing franchises, by directly addressing this ambiguous nature. I must also avoid overemphasizing internal characteristics of franchise texts, for as Altman suggests, this kind of semantic/snytactic approach cannot be pursued alone without context. Too many theorists locate genre in one facet, whether textual, industrial or what have you, rather than examining how these facets intersect in order to establish what we call genre.

Constantine Verevis, Introduction: Remaking Films

(In Film Remakes)

I found this book completely by accident, but it's very good. Verevis sets out to establish remakes as a particular form of intertextual repetition - another form of which is franchises, as I am attempting to argue. Other forms include adaptation, quotation, allusion, the star system and so on. He suggests that remakes (and I would add, franchises) are an institutional structure of repetition, which has industrial, textual and discursive aspects. From a commercial standpoint, this sort of repetition is a way of minimizing risk (although this is an incorrect assumption on the part of the industry); the films are constructed is such a way as to recall elements from other texts; and the reception and criticism of these films is highly informed by the network of texts.

The problems faced by all such studies (especially in genre studies) is oversimplified taxonomy and the issue of measuring the remake against what is perceived as the "essential" elements of the original are also addressed, and Verevis emphasizes the importance of intertextuality and context when dealing with these concepts. Citing a variety of earlier work done on remakes, he criticizes the practice, demonstrating how these categories are almost invariably too ambiguous to be useful. I will certainly try to avoid the impulse - although it's difficult to avoid.

The creative impetus behind remakes is something I had not really considered in context of franchises - directors, actors, writers and other creators (often with some measure of auteur status) set out to pay homage to older films through remakes, however, and this can certainly also apply to sequels. Stallone was a driving force behind the most recent Rocky and Rambo films, and Len Wiseman apparently was a huge fan of Die Hard and very much wanted to direct Live Free or Die Hard for that reason.

The word "remake" throughout this chapter could virtually be replaced by "franchise," and Verevis would be making the kinds of points I want to make with my thesis, and so it will prove extremely useful. Treating texts which are concerned with repetition (or intertexts) as part of an elaborate, endless, non-linear web of meanings and signifiers.

Yvonne Tasker, Introduction and Steve Neale, Action-Adventure As Hollywood Genre

(In Action and Adventure Cinema)

This is a collection of essays on the genre, all of which look fascinating, but most of which unfortunately are minimally useful for my current research... so many articles, so little time. However, Tasker (who is somewhat of an authority on action cinema) raises some interesting points in her introduction.

I like the idea that the Action genre is the key genre of the blockbuster era - a glance at box office statistics confirms its preeminence - and that its emergence/formalization can be directly linked to the New/post-classical/whatever Hollywood. I think that the unique features of contemporary film franchise can similarly be attributed to the cultural and industrial shift towards high concept and beyond.

Tasker also briefly comments on the impulse among those of us who study and appreciate action cinema to be overly apologetic and defensive on behalf of action films. She advocates a "fair trial" for these films - we should not write them off automatically as trash, nor should we be overly diplomatic in valorizing the genre as a whole. I'm inclined to agree, although I'm certainly guilty of being a notoriously generous viewer.

The analogy between action films and musicals is a fairly common one (I wrote a paper once on the commonalities between musicals and martial arts films), but Tasker suggests a new angle on the critical tool. She proposes that the analogy can be useful in valorizing the genre in spite of its overwhelming violence. If we treat action sequences as spectacular performances, and not as violent images (or worse, as actual violence), then the films seem suddenly more harmless. This does not eliminate the many other ideologically problematic aspects of both the musical and action genres, of course, but it is an interesting notion.

Neale's chapter is a brief excerpt from his Genre and Hollywood, locating what I have come to call Action cinema (the version of the genre which emerges in the 1970s and becomes formalized in the 1980s) within the larger context of action-adventure-type movies and fiction throughout history, as far back as medieval romantic literature. The exercises debunks some of our commonly held ideas about action movies, in particular gender - female heroines seem to pass in and out of vogue throughout the development of the genre, but are very much a part of that development. This contextualization is useful and I must keep it in mind, even as I emphasize the contemporary version of the genre.

Eric Lichtenfeld, Excerpts & Conclusion: Sifting Through the Rubble

(In Action Speaks Louder)

I've more or less finished with Lichtenfeld's book (having spent more time than I intended with it, although I regret nothing), and so these are a few brief final notes before I move on to some other books on the Action genre.

Lichtenfeld points out the interesting process by which the 1970s style of disaster-spectacle films which co-existed with the earliest Action films becomes conflated with the Action genre in the 1990s, creating a cycle of transgeneric films which strip Action of much of its Western and film noir elements (not to mention its emphasis on direct conflict between characters, replacing the enemy with a force of nature).

If action films are constructed according to principles of acceleration and passion, as indicated in a previous post, then it's easy to see why John Woo's films and American descendants like The Matrix (and perhaps this week's Wanted?) are so effective at de- and re-constructing the genre; the use of slow motion draws out acceleration without robbing it of its velocity, which in turn intensifies the passion of an action sequence. It simultaneously draws the audience in and pushes them away, creating a sort of detached but highly focuses engagement with the scene.

Ultimately Lichtenfeld characterizes the Action genre - in the face of a wide cultural, structural, formal and narrative variations within the grouping - as films which privilege aestheticized violence, and I think that this, combined with the acceleration/passion concept and the notion of regularly-paced spectacles is a useful definition. Disaster movies and other similar genres and subgenres, in which there is not violence per se (in the sense of humans enacting violence on each other, which is key to the genre) must be treated somewhat differently. (Although, as indicated above, the transgeneric nature of all films creates a great deal of overlap.)

Eric Lichtenfeld, Into the Jungle, Out of the Wasteland: Action in the Wild

(In Action Speaks Louder)

This chapter discusses the wilderness- and post-apocalyptic-set action films of the 1980s, including the latter Rambo films and the Missing in Action and Mad Max franchises. Lichtenfeld points out the importance of capture/rescue in these films, which becomes a core feature of the Rambo franchise after the first film (which, indeed, involves capture if not rescue).

The reversion to a more primal state on the part of the action hero is also common, and can be found in almost all of my primary texts, save perhaps for the Terminator series (although, Sarah Connor could be seen as embodying this). Even Indiana Jones becomes increasingly savage in key fight scenes.

Lichtenfeld expands the dichotomy foundin the Rambo franchise and other action films of superhero/underdog, which I've noted before, to include primitive/modern - Rambo uses both archaic and contemporary weapons and similarly fuses old-fashioned and modernist ideologies and attitudes towards conflict. The futuristic bow with explosive-tipped arrows is a perfect example of this.

Eric Lichtenfeld, Enter the Fists: The Body as the Weapon

(In Action Speaks Louder)

This chapter, hilariously, is almost entirely about Chuck Norris and Steven Segal, and really demonstrates how in spite of subsequent ridicule and extensive satire, they and others, such as Jean-Claude Van Damme, were very much a part of the popular action film landscape in the 1980s. Indeed, many of Norris' films are carbon-copy of what Stallone was doing in the period.

One thing that I think causes this shift in popularity is the emphasis on martial arts, which I suspect eventually was seen as inauthentic compared to "genuine" Asian martial arts films. Indeed, later in his career Chuck Norris essentially abandoned martial arts in favour of guns as his primary method of dispatchment, and the Rambo/Terminator style of action hero became the accepted version. In any case, these films are very different from their Asian counterparts, and fit very closely within the American Action film genre I have discussed previously.

One structural/formal technique that Lichtenfeld describes very effectively is the "victory without agency," in which an action hero is pummeled mercilessly until the very end of a fight scene, when he suddenly finds the hidden strength to instantly destroy his opponent with some kind of single super-move. His pointing it out made me chuckle, because in my youth the various action sequences I wrote, drew and acted out with toys almost invariably ended this way. These moments are especially common in Chuck Norris films, apparently, and was largely superceded by the Die Hard formula, in which the hero sustains and deals significant damage before finally, just barely, gaining the upper hand.

Lichtenfeld suggests that Van Damme, for his part, represents a sort of middle-of-the-road between the hard-bodied Rambo aesthetic and the body-as-a-weapon style of action demonstrated by Segal and early Norris, much in the same way that Norris' later films combine the martial artist body aesthetic with gun-oriented action.

Lethal Weapon is also discussed, which could have been an interesting additional film for my thesis if not for the franchise's fairly regular and consistent pattern of release. The character of Riggs especially, who is recast after the first film as a much more light-hearted (rather than suicidally apathetic) character, and the increased emphasis on buddy comedy in each subsequent film. The franchise can also be seen as part of the transition from more self-serious films such as the Rambo franchise towards self-deprecating heroes like John McClane.

Eric Lichtenfeld, Blowing Up All Those Familiar Places: Terror and the Confined Arena

(In Action Speaks Louder)

A few chapters later, Lichtenfeld addresses Die Hard and, as he puts it, the "Die Hard-On-a-Something" film, which adapts the basic formula to a new setting - Under Siege is Die Hard on a boat, and so on. He usefully analyses the formula which defines Die Hard and Die Hard 2, and notes that due to the "everyman" quality of John McClane (and most heroes of the subgenre) sequels pose an interesting challenge. In my discussion of the franchise, I'll have to consider how it avoids mythologizing McClane - or how it embraces the myth. He also stresses the importance of setting in these films, and how they are presented with awe and majesty, as spectacle unto themselves, in the same way that the hard-body's muscles are filmed.

It also occured to me while reading that perhaps the reason why Die Hard With a Vengeance and Live Free or Die Hard deemphasize the enclosed spaces which so define the first two films is precisely due to the proliferation of Die Hard clones in the 1990s - indeed, Lichtenfeld notes that a proposed Die Hard 3 was initially cancelled due to similarity to Under Siege. Although parts of the latter Die Hard films feature action in confined areas, they are incidental to the larger structure, rather than defining. Especially when dealing with such iconic characters, it pays to examine competing and derivative films, which can have a major effect on the development of a franchise.

One criticism I have of this chapter is that as Lichtenfeld moves into the Bruckheimer/Bay era of action films, he becomes suddenly judgmental - after five chapters of discussing a wide variety of terrible films (particularly those featuring Steven Segal and Chuck Norris), Lichtenfeld spends too much time singling out The Rock and Con Air as "overedited," "oversaturated" and so on - at the expense of more interesting analysis of the somewhat unconventional Nicholas Cage heroes of each film. Certainly, the man is entitled to an opinion, and qualitative commentary has a place in academic work, but it shouldn't become the focus. That part of the chapter feels more like a disgruntled review than anything else.

Eric Lichtenfeld, Automatons: Hard-bodies and World Pacification

(In Action Speaks Louder)

Lichtenfeld moves into the 1980s, and some of my primary texts, particularly the Rambo and Terminator franchises. He discusses at length the dichotomy found in many action hero narratives, where the hero is both an indestructible superhuman killing machine, but also somehow an underdog - incoherent, but it underpins many of these films, especially First Blood.

I hadn't considered this point before, but it seems like the nature of John Rambo's power is changed over the course of the franchise... where in First Blood and Rambo: First Blood Part II he is a machine created by Col. Trautman and the ravages of 'Nam, and his violent abilities are sort of an unwanted gift, in the latter films it becomes an inevitability, as if Trautman had simply uncovered what was already there - an inherent predisposition towards incredible acts of violent power. This extends to the newest Rambo, which treats it as a mythical power which Rambo cannot escape and must embrace in order to find any kind of solace.

The machine-ness of Rambo of course becomes literal with The Terminator, a robot from the future. Lichtenfeld discusses how weapons and hardware come to signify the hero - such as the helicopters piloted by Rambo - but in the Terminator franchise, the hero is hardware.

I noted the highly stylized nature of the most recent Rambo movie, and Lichtenfeld makes similar comments when addressing Cobra, an earlier post-First Blood Part II Stallone film that emphasizes style above all else. This hyperstylization can be seen as part of the myth-making of the genre. Lichtenfeld also suggests the importance of ritual (often through montage) in articulating the mythology of Action films, as evidenced by scenes of preparation and equipping.

Rambo (2008)

This was a strange one.

The fourth Rambo film follows much the same pattern as previous films, taking element from all three. Once again, Rambo is reluctantly brought out of a peaceful (but haunted) retirement, to fight for a political cause, rescuing prisoners of some kind. Suplanting Afhgan rebels for Burmese rebels and Vietnam vets for aid workers, the film is sort of an amalgam of First Blood Part II and Rambo III, only much darker in tone and graphic in depiction of violence.

The basic structure of post-First Blood Rambo movies so far as I can see is as follows:

- Rambo is begrudgingly taken out of retirement for one last mission, which is supposed to be clean and simple. (Take photos of POW camp, rescue Trautman, shuttle aid workers up river.)
- Things become more complicated, and Rambo realizes the larger importance of the fight or recognizes his further utility. (POWs need rescuing, the Afghan people need help, the aid workers are captured.)
- Rambo engages the enemy stealthily during the rescue attempt.
- Rambo engages the enemy (with help from his companions) graphically and completely un-stealthily to the point of all-out warfare.
- Rambo saves his companions, and retires again (sometimes bitterly).
- Over the course of the film, Rambo faces some kind of ideological or beaurocratic opposition, which he overcomes by proving the necessity of his methods in spite of their opposition. (The intelligence officer, his guide, the pacifist aid workers.)
- A political message of solidarity is made. (The USA let down Vietnam veterans, the Russian invasion of Afghanistan is wrong, the persecution of Karen rebels in Myanmar is wrong.)
- The necessity of violence to combat violence is restated and reaffirmed.

This roughly covers all three latter Rambo films, and some elements can be transposed onto First Blood also - certainly, one can see the genesis of these conventions. Rambo reintroduces these elements faithfully, but as noted above, the darker tone and vastly more disturbing visual representation of warfare seems to subvert it somewhat - or perhaps merely intensifies. As with Crystal Skull, repeat viewings will help to calcify these thoughts.

Eric Lichtenfeld, "The Law's Crazy": The Vigilante and Other Myths

(In Action Speaks Louder)

More good stuff from this book. The first chapter heavily emphasizes what Lichtenfeld considers to be the first action film (I wonder if I should start capitalizing Action when referring to the formalized genre, rather than to the broader style of film), Dirty Harry, also from 1971. He makes a convincing argument - compared to Bullitt, Billy Jack, The French Connection, Dirty Harry seems significantly more archetypal. Interesting for my purposes is that it is also the first Action movie franchise.

The rupturous car chases and other action setpieces in proto-Action films are streamlined into intermittent, regularly paced spectacular action sequences, emphasizing an idea Lichtenfeld lifts from another auther: passion and acceleration. Passion refers to the emotional and physical experience which the hero must survive, while acceleration (obviously) refers to the increasing tension as the film careens towards a cathartic conclusion.

Lichtenfeld also discusses the fetishization of weaponry, and the emphasis given to changes and differences in the equipment of violence. This extends to franchises at large, as Action heroes upgrade and adapt their weaponry according to the particular logic of the franchise. Harry's .44 Magnum is a staple of the character (although upgraded to an automatic briefly later in the franchise), as is Indiana Jones' whip - on the other hand, John McClane and the Terminator are not associated with any particular weapon. Rambo has a wide but reliable arsenal, parituclarly his knife, bow and arrow and M60 machine gun. Interestingly, however, in the Rambo franchise his knife changes dimensions and design in each film (as does the barrel length of Harry's .44), which is an interesting way of maintaining continuity but still presenting something ostensibly new and exciting.

The chapter also notes how early Action films remain largely within the modern, urban spaces associated with film noir - it is not until closer to the 1980s that the Action genre gets out of the city and begins to globe-trot - as indicated by the four franchises with which I am concerned.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (2008)

Finally got around to seeing this. It was the first viewing, so I don't have all that much to say (upon further viewings I'll be taking notes rather than sitting enrapt in the theatre) but a few preliminary thoughts follow.

Much as in Die Hard, they really don't avoid Harrison Ford's age in this one - he's in good shape, obviously, and apparently did all his own stunts (which is an important part of the marketing/promotional rhetoric) but the years definitely show - but it's not the years, as the man says, it's the mileage.

Bringing back Marion does a lot to link the film to the franchise, as does the the presence of Mutt Williams, Indy's previously unknown son. There's a sort of passing of the whip that takes place through the film, galvanizing the mythology with a sense of potential longevity (whether or not further films are made). In spite of the shift from Judeo-Christian religious artifact to alien/transdimensional artifact, the adventure plays out in much the same way as previous films, with Communists replacing Nazis, a different old man replacing Henry Jones Sr., and so on. The formula is preserved, as is the madcap, almost slapstick style of action I've alluded to in previous posts. Ants and scorpions serve the mandatory gross-animal function.

I'll have to ponder this more, but it seems that this film is constructed differently from Live Free or Die Hard... I'm not sure quite how, yet. Perhaps there is a greater emphasis on Indiana Jones' adaptability, as opposed to John McClane's stubborn (and ultimately correct) refusal to change. The ending of the film in particular, in which Indy marries Marion at long last, leads me to wonder if it is this is the case.

EDIT: A friend just pointed out to me one significat change - confronted with alien artifacts, Indiana Jones for the first time is not completely familiar with what he's dealing with. He knows all about the Ark, Shankara Stones and the Grail, but the crystal skulls are genuinely baffling to him. Something to consider, anyhow.

Eric Lichtenfeld, Introduction: A Little Violence Never Hurt Anyone and Prelude: 1971

(In Action Speaks Louder)

This is looking to be a very good book - Lichtenfeld seems to share many of my own views on genre and on action cinema, not to mention film scholarship in general. In particular, he espouses an integrated approach to Hollywood cinema, including textual/formal analysis, cultural reception studies and industry/marketing concerns but not limited to any one type of study. I think this kind of approach is incredibly effective, and some of my favourite books and authors employ similar tactics (Justin Wyatt in particular).

Further proving that we're on the same page, Lichtenfeld articulates an argument about the genesis of action movies which is similar to my musings in earlier posts. He suggests that action films (as a genre) do not really emerge until the early 1970s, and represent a convergence of several other genres: the western, the film noir, the police procedural and the gangster film. Additionally, the intensified representation of violence in counterculture films like Bonnie and Clyde is reconfigured as pleasurable spectacle as opposed to jarring political statement.

Lichtenfeld apparently avoids discussing James Bond in too much detail throughout the book, arguing that although the influence of Bond is important, the franchise must be seen as a parallel phenomenon, rather than as part of the generic development of the action film. I'm not sure if I fully agree with that (the James Bond films are about as British as the Jason Bourne films are German), but it occured to me that martial arts movies - which are certainly action films in a broad sense - can be viewed in a similar way, as a parallel genre emerging earlier from different industrial and cultural conditions, but having an undeniable influence on the American action movie genre. Essentially, this formulation avoids problems of taxomomy, by attributing divergences between kung fu movies and American action movies to generic difference as opposed to attempting to articulate a definition of "action film" which includes both forms.

In discussing proto-action vigilante films from the year 1971 - a watershed year for the emerging genre - he notes that although spectacular action sequences begin to appear in films such as Bullitt and The French Connection, it is not until later that these sequences become the focus in films, driving the narrative forward as opposed to interrupting it. The famous car chases in those two films are perfect examples of this narrative divergence.

An important aspect of high concept action movies in the 1980s is the physicality of the hero, and his ability to withstand pain and opposing force in order to save the day - especially in the Rambo and Die Hard franchises, but also in the Indiana Jones and The Terminator Lichtenfeld makes the logical suggestion that this comes from film noir, in which the private dick is often beaten or tortured in the course of his investigation, but doesn't crack or back down. In action films, this threshold for pain becomes a weapon unto itself, an active, agressive way of asserting power, as opposed to a passive resistance as in film noir.

Another interesting idea that crossed my mind, while reading about Shaft in the Prelude, is that the blaxploitation hero's status as a "super spade" who is beyond reproach and virtually invunerable, while often seen as a compensatory way of promoting the black hero to black audiences, can also be situated as an important predecessor to the archetypal action hero, who is similarly unflappable and unstoppable.

The length of this post should indicate how potentially useful and fascinating this book is. It looks like Lichtenfeld has a Blogspot blog of his own, and has posted about some of my primary texts, in addition to writing journalistic articles about them. I'll have to check some of this stuff out later on.

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989)

After the dalliances of Temple of Doom, the third film in the Indiana Jones franchise very deliberately reintroduces elements which were not featured in the second film. In particular, the race for a Judeo-Christian artifact against Nazis, and the globe-trotting narrative (Temple of Doom takes place mostly in the same location). Additionally, important side characters including Marcus and Sallah are reintroduced.

The famous opening sequence, featuring a young Indy, establishes virtually all conventions of the films by writing them into the mythology of the franchise itself. In the span of ten minutes or so, Indiana Jones becomes afraid of snakes, learns to use a whip, and gains his trademark fedora - all while stealing back a precious artifact from a rival.

The opening sequence also further calcifies the Buster Keaton-esque nature of many of the franchises action sequences, even featuring a mailbag stunt right out of The General. This expanding slapstick style of action can be found throughout the franchise.

Another convention which seems inevitable is a scene featuring large numbers of creepy animals - snakes, bugs, and now rats. I'll have to create a structural formula for the Indiana Jones films, as they seem to follow a pretty consistent pattern (not unlike the James Bond films from which they take inspiration).

Crystal Skulls tonight.

Rambo III (1988)

Once again, Rambo is brought out of peaceful retirement to fight for Col. Trautman. Many of the conventions established in First Blood Part II are reintroduced here, including especially the emphasis on Rambo/Stallone's body (particularly the graphic tending of his own wounds, which goes back to First Blood). He once again is aided by an indigenous friend who is familiar with the terrain and conflict of the new setting.

Some differences, though, are the addition of more buddy-movie-like banter during the action, usually relegated to Trautman's battles on the home front. Of course, one could argue that Trautman (who is captured and rescued by Rambo, and fights alongside him) is simply taking that aspect of the franchise with him into the field, but much of the gravity of their relationship seems to be gone in this film. Perhaps it is no coincidence that Die Hard is released the same year, taking the established action hero framework and infusing it with self-deprecating wisecracks? Indeed, Rambo is much less tortured by his past in this film (especially considering the angry, disillusioned ending of First Blood Part II, and is even granted a happy ending of sorts - a significant departure from the formula.

One convention that seems, without fail, to return in every Rambo film is Col. Troutman warning the antagonist incredibly dramatically about Rambo's abilities. To wit:

First Blood

Teasle: Are you telling me that 200 of our men against your boy is a no-win situation for us?
Trautman: You send that many, don't forget one thing.
Teasle: What?
Trautman: A good supply of body bags.

Rambo: First Blood Part II

Murdock: And if I were you... I'd never make the mistake of bringing this subject up again.
Trautman: Oh, you're the one who's making the mistake.
Murdock: Yeah? What mistake?
Trautman: Rambo.

Rambo III

Zaysen: Are you insane? One man against trained commandos... Who do you think this man is? God?
Colonel Trautman: No. God would have mercy. He won't.


I'll miss those hilarious moments in the newest film - Trautman apparently isn't in it.

Matt Hills, Star Wars In Fandom, Film Theory and The Museum: The Cultural Status of the Cult Blockbuster

(In Movie Blockbusters)

Hills argues in this chapter that there is nothing textually definitive about blockbusters, and that blockbuster status is discursively constructed by fans, the industry, and the academy, and that its cultural status is thus constantly in flux as discourse shifts from one point of view to another. This is interesting because I intend to argue that there is something textually distinctive about franchise films, but that this distinctive feature (the logic of reintroduction) can only be observed in context of other films - so perhaps a better way to say it is that franchise films are intertextually distinctive.

Hills also discusses the "time-value" of Star Wars and how it's endurance in cultural discourses is seen as justification for its cultural status and continued existence. This is similar to many discourses surrounding the James Bond franchise, in which its uncanny ability to continually reintroduce itself successfully is seen as valuable in and of itself. I think that the reintroduction of the four action heroes with which I am concerned can be seen as partially motivated by a sense of time value, especially with characters like Indiana Jones and the Terminator which endure in the cultural consciousness. The simple fact that I can title my thesis "He'll Be Back" seventeen years after the release of Terminator 2: Judgement Day and still have people who haven't even seen the film recognize it is a testament to that percieved "time-value."

Hill cites somebody who refers to blockbuster films as "commercial inter-texts." That could be a useful term (although I would axe the "commercial," as it implies that other texts are not fundamentally intertextual).

Douglas Gomery, The Hollywood Blockbuster: Industrial Analysis and Practice

(In Movie Blockbusters)

Well, industry practice, anyway. Gomery doesn't do much analysis in this short chapter, but provides a concise and effective account of how the blockbuster functions and has functioned in the industry since Jaws in 1975. No small part of the article is dedicated to further debunking the great myth of competition between television and Hollywood (which is discussed in more detail in Contemporary Hollywood Cinema), when in fact Hollywood has been taking advantage of television as a marketing and distribution system essentially since its inception.

One interesting point made here is that virtually all of the top grossing films in Hollywood are action-adventure films of one variety or another - with the obvious exception of Titanic, which continues to hold the crown as the most profitable film of all time (having raked in almost two billion dollars to date). That said, family-oriented animated fairy tale/comedies also hold quite a few of the top spots.

Gomery comes right out and, without qualification, refers to the vertical integration of the "Big Six" media conglomerates, and more power to him. Synergy, horizontal integration and so on are really just euphamisms for exactly the same kind of top-to-bottom ownership that characterized the classical studio system.

One thing the chapter made me think about is that I really can't refer to Hollywood or the film industry most of the time - but what term should I use instead? The media industry? The entertainment industry? I'll need to figure that out before I start writing, becuase nothing I deal with is exclusive to film anymore.

Gomery ends on a strange note by defering to Thompson's (and by proxy, Bordwell's) argument that the textual conventions of Classical Hollywood Cinema remain strong, and are without a doubt the backbone of blockbuster success... without really actually making the argument or providing any justification. I don't know precisely where I stand on the whole classical-versus-post-classical debate, but I do know that it seems pretty silly to suggest that nothing at all has changed or will ever change about the narrative and formal construction of Hollywood films. Instead, I would argue that the only thing that never changes about Hollywood cinema is its capacity for change, adaptation and incorporation of new elements.

Rambo: First Blood Part II (1985)

This one feature much more of what we associate with Rambo: fetishized muscles and military equipment, near-constant explosions and gunfire, and shirtless warfare.

Some elements of the first film remain, though, particularly Col. Trautman's function as Rambo's only real friend, fighting the war on the home front against beaurocracy and incompetence. The political message is consistent also, although it becomes more pronounced.

The tension between high tech equipment and Rambo's more visceral physical methods is introduced in this film, culminating in Rambo's cathartic destruction of a room full of computers. The implication seems to be that technology which is controlled by people away from actual combat is weak and useless, while technology in the hands of Rambo is powerful and an extension of his physical prowess (his beloved M-60 machine gun, helicopters, etc.). The beaurocratic villain, interestingly, is made to look extremely non-military in both costume and behaviour, contrasting with Rambo's over-the-top warrior look. This is analogous to the overweight and vulgar police chief in First Blood.

The brief introduction of a love interest (she is killed as soon as professing her love for Rambo) may or may not continue in the franchise, but a much greater emphasis is put on male relationships, particularly between Rambo and Trautman, but also between Rambo and the POWs he is tasked with rescuing.

Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981) & Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984)

I interrupted my Rambo-watching to go through the Indiana Jones films upon finding out that one of my friends had never seen them, and in anticipation of finally seeing the latest one next week.

Raiders obviously establishes the formulas and conventions of the series, and one thing that struck me was the Buster Keaton-esque nature of much of the franchise - the stunts get bigger, the fight scenes are full of strange coincidence and props, and Indiana often seems to be caught in an infernal machine beyond his control. The Marion character is being reintroduced in the newest film, a first in the franchise (which hitherto has followed the same pattern as the James Bond franchise by featuring a new girl in every film).

Temple of Doom is generally thought of as the low point in the franchise, and in some ways it's easy to see why. It occured to me, though, that the film incorporates (or perhaps further elaborates, since it's not completely absent in the first film) screwball romantic comedy conventions into the film pretty extensively. This lead me to consider the transgeneric nature of the overall franchise. Based on what I know of the newest film, it adds B-movie sci-fi to the mix as well. Perhaps an argument could be made that one of the ways in which the Indiana Jones franchise reintroduces itself is by shuffling its generic elements?

The movie also suffers a bit from a sort of second-film syndrome, which I see in many franchises of the period (particularly in Die Hard 2), which leads the film to go to sometimes ridiculous lengths to reincorporate and elements in the first film. For example, Indy's famously brief confrontation with a scimitar-wielding Egyptian in Raiders is directly referenced in Temple of Doom, self-consciously reconfigured. This self-reflexivity, I suppose, is part of a process of calcifying what exactly the conventions of a franchise are - as noted in an earlier post, Rambo II, not First Blood is the film which really establishes the Rambo formula. By deliberately invoking aspects of the first film, a second film can be seen as testing the water. Some elements which return in a second film may not return in subsequent instances, but those which to will become the trademarks of the franchise.

Marc Edward DiPaolo, Wonder Woman as World War II Veteran, Camp Feminist Icon and Male Sex Fantasy

(In The Amazing Transforming Superhero)

Hmm. This is an interesting survey of how the Wonder Woman character has changed over time, but it's predicated on the idea that there is an objective, authentic ideal "original" version of Wonder Woman and her ideology which all versions of the hero either aspire towards or "appropriate" and stray from. In this sense DiPaolo basically treats the multiplicity and complexity of comic book franchises as a problem, rather than a unique opportunity for study.

This is especially silly becaue DiPaolo quite obviously does not espouse the original ideology of Wonder Woman (which is a fairly outdated version of feminism) and enbraces many of the changes that have taken place - only he avoids referring to those changes he percieves as positive as such, instead making it seem as though these are regressions to the original, ideal version. That's just not the case - the Lynda Carter TV series which he values to highly is notably different in many ways from the original comics, and these differences should not be brushed off as mere coincidence when other differences, percieved to be negative, are emphasized as proof of the "appropriation" of the character.

Superheroes exist in many different versions all at once - old versions do not disappear, they remain in our consciousness and in our libraries alongside newer versions. Rather than making evaluative statements about changes to the Wonder Woman character, I think it's much more interesting to look at why and how theose changes take place - after all, superheroes are not static meanings, but fluid elements in an ever-expanding snowflake of meanings.

First Blood (1982)

The first Rambo film is a bit strange, because it's so unlike the canonical image of Rambo in many ways- it's much less of a ridiculous action movie and more of a coming-home thriller about a Vietnam vet on the lam. Interesting that the conventions of the franchise really don't come into play until the later films.

It struck me that the film is almost identical to Billy Jack in structure, only rather than a paragon defending an ideal, the protagonist is broken and fighting as much against his own trauma as the antagonists. Both films end in the same way, only with Rambo alone and haunted and Billy Jack morally rectified and supported by his community. What a difference ten years makes.

Further to my thoughts on the genesis of action films, it strikes me that even in 1982, still has vestiges of an earlier form of action film, as though the high concept action hero movie has yet to fully take hold. I'll keep this in mind as I move on through the series.

Brendan Riley, Warren Ellis is the Future of Superhero Comics: How to Write Superhero Stories That Aren't Superhero Stories

(In The Amazing Transforming Superhero)

I've got to read some of Ellis' comics. Between this article and a presentation I saw by Steven Shaviro about Doktor Sleepless. But I digress.

Riley, as indicated by the title, basically argues that Ellis' work is consistently and effectively engaged with the mythology, form and function of the superhero in the post-revisionist era begun by Frank Miller and Alan Moore which, according to Riley, Ellis helped to end with Transmetropolitan, Planetary and The Authority.

What I find particularly interesting about the argument is that Ellis' reconfigurations exist alongside very traditional, very mainstream superhero narratives - including some written by Ellis himself. Riley discusses the "anxiety of influence" and suggests that creators in franchises and genres (particularly large, long-running ones) cannot but be influenced by the mainstream history of the franchise/genre. Therefore comic book creators, even when not explicitly working within the superhero mode, are inevitably engaged in the discourse of superheroes - a fact which is apparently embraced by Ellis in his work.

He also quoted somebody quoted by somebody else, who said: "There are no texts, but only relationships between texts." Obviously I need to track down that person and read their stuff, because that's a key point for my thesis.

I'm totally going to quote somebody, quoted in somebody, quoted in somebody. Is that allowed?

Lorrie Palmer, "Le Western Noir": The Punisher as Revisionist Superhero Western

(In The Amazing Transforming Superhero)

This chapter convincingly argues that superheroes are the descendants of the male heroes of westerns and films noir, using the 2004 The Punisher film as an example. In this case, we're dealing with revision/reintroduction in a broad sense, in terms of the reintroduction of an archetype. (An archetype which is also manifest in action hero films, naturally.) My work is more concerned with the internal process of reintroduction, but evidently my primary texts are engaged in a larger reintroduction of a certain kind of action hero (along with new additions to the genre, such as Crank and Shoot 'Em Up).

What's interesting is that The Punisher, that most cinematic of superheroes, sort of comes full circle by returning to the screen (after the earlier Dolph Lundgren incarnation). Heavily influenced not only by westerns and films noir but also by the 1970s vigilante action hero, it seems only fitting that he be given a very similar filmic treatment.

One thing that Palmer doesn't discuss in enough depth is how in The Punisher, the civilization/savagery dichotomy is inverted, because the rich, gentrified villains are in fact savage and the rough-edged tenement building dwellers represent civility, not unlike revisionist western films which attempt to elevate native culture and condemn Manifest Destiny.

The article also made me consider that action films as a formal genre don't really emerge until the 1980s - prior to that action-oriented films tend to operate within other genres, such as the police procedural, the gangster film, the western and so on. It is only in the high concept era that there begins to exist a concept of what "an action film" is. Interesting.

Dan O'Rourke & Pravin A. Rodrigues,The "Transcreation" of a Mediated Myth: Spider-Man in India

(In The Amazing Transforming Superhero)

This was a good one. Discussing the 2004 "transcreation" of Spider-Man as an Indian teen in Mumbai from a communications perspective, the authors raise some very useful questions. The concept of "transcreation" is apparently industry rhetoric, but can be effectively used critically to describe a common feature of almost all franchises (and especially superhero franchises), the simultaneous existence of many different versions, adapting over time.

The authors suggest that modern audiences who cross media (from comics to films to video games, etc.) are more accepting of multiple instances of a franchise, but I'm not sure that's true - fans can be extremely rabid if new versions are unsuccesful in reintroducing the conventions and characters of the franchise.

One thing I found fascinating (not so much about the article, but about Spider-Man India), was the degree to which traditional Indian mythology is integrated into the comic in place of the technological elements in the classical Spider-Man mythology. My initial thought was that this was strange - the authors note that India is in a technology-driven economic renaissance, and it seemed to me that a high-tech Indian Spider-Man would tap into that Zeitgeist in the same manner that the original Spider-Man captured cold war ambivalence towards technology.

The authors also indicated, however, that Spider-Man India is intended not only to reintroduce the Spider-Man character to Indian audiences (after a record response to the Spider-Man films), but also to introduce Indian culture to American audiences - in a bid to emulate the popularity of Japanese cultural products such as mang and anime among American youth. Therefore, by presenting a version of traditional Indian mythology mediated through the familiar archetype of Spider-Man, Marvel's Indian counterpart hopes to create new audiences for marketing indigenous Indian cultural products which are not so mediated in the future. (A youth-culture/fantasy version of the American market for all things Bollywood, I suppose.) It's brilliant, really.

Another compelling point made in the article, as little more than a side note, is that comic book audiences are somewhat transient - for many people, faithful comics fandom lasts only for a short amount of time (say, from the age of 8 or so to the age of 17 or so) before it transitions into a more casual sort of fandom. This, the authors argue, greatly enables the revision of comic book characters over time, as each generation presents a relatively new audience. I'm not sure if I agree with that argument, as for many fans comic books are a lifetime obsession (or a childhood obsession which returns to stay later in life), but it's an interesting point nonetheless.

Terrence Wandtke, Frank Miller Strikes Again and Batman Becomes a Postmodern Anti-Hero: The Tragi(Comic) Reformulation of the Dark Knight

(In The Amazing Transforming Superhero)

Ye gods, Wandtke loves his long titles. I think I'm just going to call my thesis "Reintroduction," and be done with it. No overlong subtitles, no contrived academic puns, just one word.

Anyway.

I don't actually have much to say about this chapter. It was an interesting comparison between the original Dark Knight Returns and the more recent Dark Knight Strikes Again from a Žižek-Lacanian psychoanalytic perspective, but didn't really offer much for my purposes unfortunately, and seemed strangely out of line with the theme of the book, especially considering Wandtke is the editor.

There was a handful of dubious statements such as the suggestion that most superheroes other than the Miller's version of Batman never consider life without an alter-ego. Really? I'm having a hard time thinking of any superhero who never considered dropping the tights (figuratively speaking) and leading a normal life. That's practically Spider-Man's defining feature!

The best point made in the article was that DKR is best viewed as a modernist text, while DKSA is post-modern to the core, which is a very accurate assessment that could have used more development.

Jeff McClelland, From Jimmy Durante to Michael Chiklis: The Thing Comes Full Circle

(In The Amazing Transforming Superhero)

What a facile article... especially compared to the Captain America chapter. It starts well, with McClelland acknowledging the problem of "revision" as a term, and the importance of reaffirmation and attempts at consistency in the legitimizing process of reintroduction. However, suggests that The Thing's relative unchangedness is the exception which proves the rule - rather, I would argue that it's an key element in all franchises.

Otherwise, the article is decidedly un-academic and reveals very little analysis, with the author constantly deferring to the opinions of journalists and industry workers - hardly the best sources. Comic book creators say stupid things like "The Thing doesn't need to be reinvented," which evidently is not true. McClelland takes everything at face value.

He also has an annoying habit of talking about The Thing as though he's a real person rather than a character, which is fine in fan discourse (I certainly do it all the time) but very out of place in a collection of essays: "For better or for worse, The Thing is who he is," indeed. Come on.

Jason Dittmer, Retconning America: Captain America in the Wake of WWII and the McCarthy Hearings

(In The Amazing Transforming Superhero)

This was a very interesting article, treating questions of nation - Dittmer examines nation as a serial narrative not unlike weekly comic books. There was a huge retcon (retroactive continuity) of the 1950s commie-smashing Captain America, which turned him into a wannabe version of the hero, and reintroduced that version as a villain for the "real" Captain to contend with in the 1970s. Dittmer argues that this allowed America (as embodied by Captain America) to remain innocent and with the times in the liberal-leaning 60s and 70s, disavowing the McCarthyite 1950s version entirely. Crazy.

Franchises can be seen as "archives of discourse," much as the Bond franchise is viewed by many theorists. This is a good thought: texts do not passively reflect culture, but actively respond to them. They are culture. This is a good way of countering Bordwell's arguments.

Cites Reynolds' different kinds of continuity: serial (causal, issue to issue), hierarchical (internal coherency of powers, character, etc.) and structural (overall universe). Franchises as a whole are held together by all three, according to the logic of reintroduction.

"Elision" means "omission." Why do the words I need to look up always mean the same thing? Last time it was "lacuna." Weird.

Terrence Wandtke, Introduction: Once Upon a Time Once Again

Wandtke's book is one of the few which deals directly with my topic, so I'll be reading pretty extensively from it in the coming week or two. Which isn't to say I agree with his stuff completely, but it's very useful.

His notion of a public which is willing to see superheroes constantly change with the times is an example of the reception aspect of franchises - franchises as a reading strategy which allows for and even expects change, in other words.

Wandtke uses revision, I use reintroduction. Revision (like evolution) is too limited and linear a term for my purposes: reintroduction comprises revision and reiteration.

Wandtke notes that the newest version of a superhero is always privileged. I wouldn't say privileged, but it is always presented as a legitimate instance of the hero... whether or not it is recieved as such is another matter entirely. Additionally, privileged implies that there cannot be multiple legitimate versions co-existing simultaneously, which is certainly not true in comics (although it often is the case in film franchises).

The notion that past versions of superheroes (and thus all past franchise texts) are never completely lost and continue to inform current versions is a good one, and is pretty fundamental to my thesis. Omnia mutantur, nihil interit, Neil Gaiman's Dream might say; everything changes, but nothing is ever truly lost. Franchises are in many ways precisely the sum of their parts, a big, interconnected network of different (and same) meanings.


Luckily, superheros are vastly more complicated to discuss than action heroes.

Son of Rambow

I saw this last week and really enjoyed it. Although I liked Be Kind Rewind, Rambow sort of beats it at its own game. In any case, it inspired me to start my primary-text-watching with the Rambo series. I need to watch 21 films for the thesis this summer... I guess I'll have to double up some weeks.

I'll start next week.

MA Thesis Abstract

HE’LL BE BACK: THE LOGIC OF REINTRODUCTION IN ACTION HERO FRANCHISE FILMS

In my thesis research, I will examine how franchise films can be seen as a distinct form of text, governed by a logic of reintroduction. All such texts are fundamentally informed by a larger franchise, a pre-existing network of texts, products, meanings, conventions and expectations. Each text can therefore be seen as a reintroduction to the franchise, attempting to legitimize both the text and the franchise at large. Specifically, I will analyze four recent films which reintroduce an iconic action hero franchise. In order to understand the process of reintroduction, I will consider these films in context of each franchise as a whole, integrating textual analysis into industrial and socio-cultural approaches to popular media. These case studies will highlight the logic of reintroduction in franchise texts, and serve to illustrate how this logic is a defining feature of all franchises.

In the Beginning

As indicated on the sidebar, I've started this blog as an experiment in keeping myself on top of my research. Independent research, especially reading, can get pretty scattered, and I hope that with this blog I can post short notes on what I'm currently reading, as well as thoughts on my primary texts and other projects.

My main concern this summer is doing as much background research for my MA thesis as possible, which means reading a wide variety of books on the Hollywood film industry, genre studies, and other related subjects, and also re-watching the films of my primary texts - the Rambo, Indiana Jones, Terminator and Die Hard franchises.

My summer research officially starts next week. We'll see what happens.


Full disclosure: I stole this idea from a PhD candidate at Queen's who I met at a conference: check out Dan Trottier's blog here.