Lester and Eliza: The Simpsons' Demented, Derivative Double

In the eighteenth episode of The Simpsons' classic seventh season, "The Day The Violence Died", we are introduced to one of the show's most sinister creations- the doppelgänger siblings Lester and Eliza. Unlike the horror-movie pastiches from the show's "Treehouse of Horror" Halloween specials, Lester and Eliza turn up at the end of an otherwise normal episode of the show. Rendered in reference to the early versions of Bart and Lisa Simpson from The Tracey Ullman Show, Lester and Eliza made a strong impact in spite of minimal screen time, yet it is how they make themselves known that reveals to us the true nature of their distinctly uncomfortable presence.

The Simpson family as they appeared on The Tracey Ullman Show. On the right we have Lisa and Bart, the inspirations for Eliza and Lester.

So, why do Lester and Eliza consistently find themselves at the top of fan's lists of most unsettling Simpsons moments? Why are these two siblings capable of instilling so much fear? On the textual level, these characters tap into a perennial fear of an identical other. Our doubles, who may at any given time, appropriate and remove our senses of identity, remind us of the Lacanian mirror stage; we feel a perpetual disassociation between our true selves and the bodies which we show to the outside world. The conceptual doppelgänger is frightening for this very reason, it highlights not only the disparity between the imaginary and the real but also our anxieties around others not being to perceive our true selves.

The episode's narrative concerns itself with Bart finding the homeless original creator of Itchy, Chester J. Lampwick, from the violently popular Itchy and Scratchy cartoons. Having had his work stolen from him by an untalented artist, yet savvy businessman, Lampwick fell into poverty and would never see any royalties or accreditation for his creation. Inadvertently, Bart's mission to find justice for Lampwick leads to the bankruptcy of the Itchy and Scratchy studios. Bart and Lisa attempt to get their beloved cartoon back on the air, finally coming up with a plan and rushing off towards the studio. The sinister siblings get there first and, by taking Bart and Lisa's narrative role as conflict resolvers, Lester and Eliza already imprint a disconcerting presence. It is worth noting that immediately before the appearance of Lester and Eliza, Marge Simpson reaffirms and recounts all the times Bart and Lisa resolved conflicts such as the one featured in this episode. It is presented as a mother motivating her children to succeed in their task at a moment of weakness, but it also serves the purpose of reacquainting an audience with the format of previous stories. There's really no reason not to think that Bart and Lisa will save the day once again. Yet, as we know, they didn't.

Lester and Eliza, resembling Bart and Lisa, resolve the episode's conflict.

In true Simpsons fashion, Lester and Eliza have solved, alongside the A-Plot of saving Itchy and Scratchy, a B-Plot of Apu's public nudity case/Krusty the Clown's estranged wife. We can imagine an alternate episode that exists within this one, where Lester and Eliza's inciting incident occurs at the cancellation of Itchy and Scratchy, telling its own story to the same resolution. Likewise, we can imagine Lester and Eliza experiencing a similar shock to that which faces Bart and Lisa at the end of this episode, only this shock happening on a far more regular basis, whenever Bart and Lisa's adventures are made public. There may then be an element of personal revenge to Lester and Eliza's appearance. These siblings, who only exist in relation to Bart and Lisa, are faced with the same fear of the double, only their doppelgängers are paraded around town as local celebrities. But what I find more interesting is the notion that Lester and Eliza are not so much characters as they are arbiters, particularly arbiters of punishment.

So, beyond merely the fearsome nature of the characters within their relation to the Simpsons and Springfield, there is a metatextual element that has made Lester and Eliza ring through the audience's mind. It is no coincidence that the designs for these doppelgängers so closely resemble Bart and Lisa's former selves, they tie into the stories themes of authorial ownership and originality. Lester and Eliza arrive to exact punishment on Bart and Lisa- the original versions seeking vengeance on the derivative. With the episode's earlier acknowledgment of Chief Wiggum's derivative status (his voice being an impression of Edward G. Robinson's), the show briefly dips into metacommentary. Bart and Lisa have no right to fight on the side of Lampwick, or originality, as they themselves are insipid repetitions. They are not allowed to succeed, with the conclusion delivering the punishment for their hubris.

The final disconcerting shot of Lester passing by, meeting eyes with Bart, is reinforced by a mind-boggling geography; Bart cannot be looking at Lester, from everything we know about the layout of the Simpson house, yet, look he does. Through the final moments of this episode, Lester and Eliza are repeatedly presented to us as something deeply, profoundly wrong. The distortion of the Simpson house is perhaps the most aesthetically clear realisation of this theme, alongside the Tracey Ullman-esque designs, but the distortion of episode normality, where the audience is prevented from ever actually finding out what Lisa and Bart's resolution to the conflict, is arguably just as significant aspect. Foiling their plan ensures the audience never get the payoff of finding out what their plan to save Itchy and Scratchy actually was, meaning that the episode ends on a dejected whimper, rather than any triumphant victory.

Bart looks out of the rear-house window to see Lester in the view of the front-house window.

Bart ends the episode with a comment on how unsettling it is that he and Lisa weren't the ones to solve the conflict. Here he speaks for an audience who are, for a change, suddenly challenged and made uneasy by The Simpsons. Lester and Eliza's fearsome nature, in their minuscule time on screen, is played up, so as to exist properly as arbiters of punishment. Not satisfied with merely stealing the joy of victory from Bart and Lisa, the arbiters of punishment go so far as to steal their individual identities and the natural order of their world. 

"The Day The Violence Died" is a deeply affecting, profound episode, even if all the elements which make it so only occur within the final minutes of the story. It taps into something primal and existential. Bart and Lisa would, of course, go on to have more adventures, paying this experience no heed, but the visceral, lasting effect this throwaway gag has had is worthy of note.

A World Without Sin: Reconciliatory Fictions In "Serenity"

With each passing day, opposition to our political class and its institutions has started to feel increasingly untenable. Not in that we cannot present viable alternatives, but in that we are so inundated by constant controversy that engaging in any kind of political discussion feels futile. This is by no means a recent phenomenon, but it is certainly best exemplified by our relationship with the "truth" under Trumpism. Both fake news and the spectre of fake news are utilised as tools to confuse narratives and, furthermore, this all takes place within a journalistic sphere that is tired and perhaps even no longer fit for use. News media has now evolved to such a state that a consumer can choose which "truth" to buy into, leaving any search for a true "truth" superfluous. The fictionalising force of journalism, the turning of events and information into a story, has accelerated this evolution, curating fictions designed for informing that stand side-by-side with fictions designed for entertainment. Yet, simultaneously, it provides the means through which these concerns will be resolved. It is in fiction that our own anxieties with fictions can be expressed. Joss Whedon's 2005 sci-fi film, Serenity, the pseudo-finale to his untimely cancelled cowboys-in-space tv series Firefly, then serves as an example of how speculative fiction, particularly genre films, serve as attempted resolutions to unconscious political anxieties.

I want to begin by positing the question, would the space-cowboy's plan work in our own political context? In the film, the protagonists discover the film's "truth": that the dominant, fascist government covered up an experiment which, in their attempts to introduce an airborne sedative to a population, directly lead to the creation of the Reavers, a group of mentally degenerated cannibals and rapists that blight the 'verse. In a multifarious attempt to find justice for the initial victims, to prevent further attempts at this experiment and to expose the dominant government's true nature, the protagonists seek the delivery of a government-exposing tape to a source who will distribute it across the 'verse. The film positions this as the happy ending, clearly implying that once the footage is distributed to its audience, the protagonists intended societal change will occur and the hero's sacrifices will have been justified. This small act of delivery is emblematic of the synoptic, journalistic ideal- of the many holding the few to account. Let's imagine that plan in the context of Trumpism. Would the imagined outrage at the system even manifest? The Trump administration has courted controversy after controversy to the point where only the most politically ardent avoid desensitisation, would Serenity's distributed imagery be capable of shaking and emboldening a populace to action? Could the imagery simply be dismissed as propaganda efforts, as fake news? The film offers a simple premise, that truth yields consequences, yet this has proved, time and again, a myth for real world politics.

The Firefly/Serenity franchise is, in a way, the ideological antithesis of science fiction narratives like Aliens, Starship Troopers, Halo and the like; the myriad of stories which hold the space marine archetype to its core. These, parodic or sincere, cast in its heroes the very fascistic, militaristic qualities that Whedon's libertarian crew deny. The "world without a sin" that Nathan Fillion's Mal distributes to the 'verse is a world without choice and personal liberty and across both the series and, film, the totalitarian government is constantly presented as an impediment against Mal's (and his crew's) self-determination. It is this libertarian perspective that informs not only the film's climax, but also its attempt to reconcile the very illegibility of holding power to account in its political climate.

Serenity then must be read in its post-9/11, Bush-era context, as this shows two things: the first, that Trumpism does not hold a monopoly on post-truth sentiment, and secondly, that the film's narrative works as an effort to placate and ease concerns around truth and authority. This film arrived in the midst of an estrangement with American authority, as 2004, the year preceding the film's release, saw instances like the CIA admission that there was no immediate threat from Iraq and the Killian documents controversy. Serenity absolves its fictional universe of such concerns, presenting a world where the freeing of information will have direct, liberating consequences, rather than sewing further animosity and confusion in a populace. Mal sacrifices information to the fictionalising forces of distribution and relies, totally, on the hope that the fictionalised narrative will elicit change. In our world, the distributed image may not resemble its original at all. But, Serenity, as fiction, and a specifically speculative fiction, is allowed to treat truth as the monolith its audience believes it to be. The Mr. Universe mantra of "You can't stop the signal", proves true and the film's antagonist, the Operative, is pacified and rendered faithless after witnessing the true nature of the government.

Ultimately, this resolution only exists in the film. It did not have any metatextual reaction, it did not reconcile real world concerns with truth and political authority, nor did it impede the rapid degeneration of news media into the even less authoritative state it is in today, but that is more or less the point. It is a fantasy. The resolution works in the film, and can only work in the film, because it presupposes that certain features of our society have clear-cut constants. Particularly, it presupposes that journalism exists as a means to challenge the powerful and that it, both as an industry and as something received by audiences, is devoted to universal, unquestionable truths. The reality, of course, is that journalism has now become as much of a power as that it is meant to challenge, that the pursuit of truth often comes second to a sensational, fictionalising frame and that there is no longer a single, monolithic truth.

Therein lies the necessity of interrogating popular speculative fiction, as, above all, it serves as the way in which people engage with contemporary issues. Not in a meaningful way, as that is the very nature of our predicament, but, for many people, as the only way. Policy is detached so far from our lives that our only hope for reconciliation is to observe, to see it take place through fictional narratives. We can see it in the ever rising prominence of fan activism and the fierce identity wars that rage in fan communities; more and more the political battleground has been shifted away from the intangible phantasms of democracy and bureaucracy and to the more real, more tangible realm of storytelling and fictional world-building. Even engagements that supposedly have more intrinsic meaning, such as the ballot box and the protest, remain similar to popular fiction in a sense, as they are all attempts by people to solve the unsolvable; to gain entry to the political sphere of which they have been denied access.

Popular fiction is far more useful as a lens than it is as a toolbox. Serenity does not provide us with a blueprint or instruction manual to reach the film's idyllic relationship with truth. It does not seek any kind of transformative platform. It exists merely as a struggle to reconcile harsh reality through escapist fiction.

"Fear makes people do stupid things": Containment Culture In Angel's "Are You Now Or Have You Ever Been?"

My reading of this episode owes much to Alan Nadel's book, Containment Culture: American Narratives, Postmodernism and the Atomic Age. 

"Are You Now Or Have You Ever Been" is the title of the second episode of Angel's second season. It is also a direct reference to McCarthyism and the House of Un-American Activities Committee's (HUAC) line of questioning towards suspected communists, "Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?". The story, which is set against the backdrop of Cold War anxieties, goes beyond solely depicting the period's "Red Scare" and instead offers up a broader presentation of the various aspects of containment culture.

Angel, spin-off to Joss Whedon's teen-horror Buffy the Vampire Slayer, focuses on the eponymous vampire-detective, cursed with a soul, as he endeavours to "help the helpless" in early-2000s Los Angeles. This episode features a dual timeline, where most of the action takes place in flashbacks to the vampire's (relatively) younger years. The villain of the peace is a thematically appropriate demon which feeds off of fear and paranoia, with the flashback exploring Angel's first interaction with the creature and the present action showing Angel (and his supporting cast) endeavouring to scourge the hotel of its longstanding occupant. The episode, written by Tim Minear, is one that leans harder into Angel's noir genre inspiration than most, as its oblique themes of fear and paranoia converge with its 50s setting and its disgruntled, pessimistic protagonist. Angel's quiet life in the hotel is disturbed by Judy, a mixed-race woman who passes for white. Judy, fired from her job and abandoned by her husband because of her heritage, has stolen some money and has a Private Investigator on her heels. Race is prominent throughout the episode, with a black family being refused entry to the hotel in the early moments of the story, and ideas of blood purity and sanctity in Judy and Angel's relationship are abound. This culminates in the paranoia-fuelled mob of hotel guests attempting to lynch Angel, as Judy deflects accusations of her deviancy by identifying Angel's monstrous nature to the mob. This betrayal has the protagonist wilfully surrender the people to the fear demon until his later, redemptive return, to slay the demon. Interrogating the questionable depiction of a white man taking the place of a black woman in the imagery of lynching is beyond the scope of this piece, but an interesting discussion can be found here.

What is of interest to me (and writer, Minear) is the episode's sensationalised realisation of containment: the containment that yielded high-profile witch hunts and took a focal lens to Hollywood, particularly. Trials and blacklists of notable figures came to define 50s Hollywood and the containment policy enacted on America as a whole. The focus of McCarthyism on Hollywood was not because the American government believed there was a secret sect of communists operating out of Hollywood, but rather that these particular, high-profile, trials helped disseminate the principles of Containment to a nationwide audience. Americans were encouraged to be suspicious of others and to police themselves well, so as to not demonstrate any deviant behaviour that may incriminate them; deviation from the norm was career-threatening, as the high profile Hollywood cases demonstrated.  The "Hollywood" community is developed in the episode through a cast of hotel guests, who are actors and screenwriters, and iconic Hollywood imagery; the Griffith Observatory, for example, harkening back to Rebel Without A Cause, eliciting the necessary cognitive link between text and context. The historical context is as much a villain here as any other antagonistic force and, in many ways, the suspected murderer, or fear demon, serves the role of subversive Other. The Communist, the Soviet, has infiltrated the ranks of the hotel, the inhabitants of which serve as a microcosm of an American community- particularly the Hollywood community- who must eject the subversive Other not only to protect the status quo (or idealised America), but to protect themselves also. As Angel states, "Everyone here has something to hide.", and each individual's hidden quality is one that would be considered deviant or a threat under containment. Deviancies of the "social, sexual, political, economic, and theological" (Nadel) are under surveillance, from the left-leaning politics of a blacklisted screenwriter, to the hidden homosexuality of a movie star, the passing of a mixed-race woman for white or a vampire passing for human.

The "Lavender Scare" is a term that particularly refers to the treatment of homosexuals- as subversives and inherent, anti-American, communist allies- under containment narratives. These hotel guests, identified as potential subversives, then engage in a race to find the most deviant identity: the person whose repudiation would cement them as innocent or truthful engagers in American life. The second to last subversive is a black woman, passing for normative white; the last, Angel, is then representative of the most profound anti-Americanism. His vampire nature serves him well here, as vampires have been theological, biological and sexual threats in their storied existence. With classic vampires, like Dracula, they have also been presented as geopolitical threats, an external Other. Most important here though is the dual nature of the vampire, the human face that belies the inherent demonic qualities. Looking like a human, the vampire is assumed to hold human values and this assumption is what creates the vampire's victims. In much the same way, Americans were instructed to be suspicious of those who appeared human, but hid anti-American sentiment. Sentiments could only be identified by interrogating minute deviancies.

Angel is secluded in the hotel for that own deviance, policing himself so as to not bring attention to his subversive nature. His monstrous nature as vampire identifies him as a metaphorical Other- someone feared by a paranoid, mainstream society- but his existence is literally Otherised as well. Angel exists as a character who cannot perform the masculine function- he cannot hold work, reproduce, be a functioning subject of capitalism- and, as such, isolates himself. Sequestered away in the hotel with the other gender, sexual, ideological and race deviants, Angel falls into a meta guilt of association. We understand that Angel must be a viable avatar for punishment on account of existing in this community of subversives.

The search for "truth"- or hunt for the duplicitous- characterises the demonically-influenced lynching of Angel, yet it is markedly important that the participants in the hunt for deviancy- particularly the hotel manager and bellhop, who together conspired to cover up a suicide by promoting the idea of a loose murderer- are all guilty, complicit in some way, of subverting idealised American capitalism. The instant turnaround as the mob has a new target for its legitimisation is one thing, but it's also worth noting how the woman from the lobby, previously accused of solicitation, likewise accuses Judy of being a "slut". Like the rest of this mob, her innocence will be proved at the altar of another's. "If the willingness to name names became the informer's credential, the ability to do so became his or her capital." (Nadel) By isolating the most deviant of them, the inhabitants have absolved themselves of their own individual crimes against cultural norms. Only once all these hidden facets are brought to light is the veracity of their accusation of Angel legitimised, echoing the role that evidenced deceitfulness of ex-Communists played in convincing a court that they truly were "ex".

Nadel writes that, under containment, objective "truth" was endowed with a theological aspect. The good, domestic monotheist was positioned against the evil, foreign atheist. As such Angel, as an unholy entity, is realised as the deceiver who must be disavowed and destroyed so as to prove the credibility and innocence of those accusing him. Angel's lynching provides the guests no freedom from paranoia, provides them no veracity to absolve them of their own deviance, it only sustains the culture of containment. In Angel's reckoning with containment culture, we can see the qualities of containment which have manifested and persisted in popular culture when we revisit 1950s America. Surveillance of the Other, policing of the self and the search for an objective "truth" are perhaps the most resonant of the existential questions which containment narratives and McCarthyism left for the American populace.

Nadel, A. (1995). Containment Culture: American Narratives, Postmodernism, and the Atomic Age. London: Duke University Press.

REFLECTIONS: Ant-Man and the Wasp

Spoilers may follow. Not that there are any that matter.

Ant-Man and the Wasp, sequel to 2015's not too bad Ant-Man and the 20th entry in Marvel's not too bad cinematic universe, is not too bad. It's an unfocused romp that never really earns its status as a big-screen entry to the Marvel story-world, often feeling like a spruced up one-shot, but still manages to glide by thanks to some great performances and the undeniable joy of the core gimmick. Shrinking and unshrinking people and miscellaneous objects remains as fun as ever.

Yet, 20 films, and 10 years, into one ongoing story-world demands something more than a harmless, safe, Summer blockbuster. At this point, the Marvel Cinematic Universe, with every new entry, must justify its existence. Ant-Man and the Wasp's greatest offence, then, is its sheer mundanity. There are two different types of boredom to discuss when it comes to this film. The first derives from how the film does nothing new or particularly interesting, allowing only its post-credit scene to contribute to any form of over-arching narrative. The second derives simply from how the film's pacing often screeches to painful halts, never knowing which parts of the film we want to spend more time with and which parts we'd have rather seen skipped over completely. The two moments which best exemplify this are when the opening tells us, bluntly, the film's mission (to return the original Wasp from the Quantum Realm) and, later on in the film, when Ghost, the villain of the place, tells us of her tragic (Eh) origin. I use the word "tell" pointedly. This is all too often a film about telling, not showing, and overdrawn narration on top of flashback sequences haemorrhages any flow and rhythm the film might have had. The second instance at least has a moment of subversion, interrupting the villainous monologuing with a video call between Ant-Man and his daughter, but it only comes after the expository function has been completed. It's a good gag, reliant totally on the perfect chemistry between Paul Rudd and his on-screen daughter (Make Cassie Lang an Avenger, you cowards), but ultimately, it's safe. It never threatens to undermine the character the screenwriter's are so committed to landing. Naturally, they failed.

The first instance had no such subversive moment, leaving an opening completely devoid of entertainment. It is, almost certainly, the worst opening to any MCU movie, and really sets the movie off on poor footing. It's a rocky, uneven road in the movie ahead, anyway. Each of the scenes feel individually conceived, creating a disparate film that seems only motivated to move from one gag to the next. Transitions between scenes are so clear and visible that it's jarring, with cliche name drops that lead directly to the scene concerning that name.

As I said previously, the film's greatest sin is its mundanity. Yet, it clearly didn't have to be this way. Ant-Man is Marvel's most exciting, yet least realised, franchise. It offers a unique opportunity to deal with intimate world-building, exploring clear themes of family and offering up development of the story-worlds past; the CGI technology that de-ages older actors for flashback scenes is pitch-perfect here, yet never used in as pivotal a way as we have seen elsewhere (Tony Stark in Civil War comes to mind). Even in the film itself, you can piece together what seems to be thematic links and an emotional core. Familial relationships are at the forefront, combined and utilised in different ways. You have two generations of Ant-Man and the Wasp, forming an impromptu family unit, facing off Ghost and her father figure in Bill Foster, and, off to the side, you have the extended family of Ant-Man's daughter, her mother and her mother's husband. Yet nothing meaningful or memorable is ever done with these parts. Rather than converging into the film's thematic heart, they are left carelessly at the wayside. It is a film which squanders its potential, limits its scope and makes you wonder why this had to be a feature-film at all.

The other missed opportunity is the Wasp, particularly the Evangeline Lilly/Hope van Dyne version of Wasp, who never earns her title credit. She falls into this new trend of female superhero who, having won the battle to be featured as a non-derivative, desexualised franchise-helming character, is never allowed the functional traits of the archetypal hero. When Hank Pym offers to dive after Hope's mother, in her stead, his robbery of her moment of self-sacrifice reminded me of how Wonder Woman similarly gave its big moment of heroism to Chris Pine's character. If self-sacrifice is a key tenet of developing and characterising the hero, then we can see that women are now allowed to be superheroes, just not the hero. Aside from that though, the realisation of Hope as a superhero in her own right seems to have taken from her a character arc. She had one in the first film, alongside her purely civilian/romantic interest capacity, yet here character development has been replaced by superhero iconography. The relationships of the film likewise take a hit. The very nature of the broader MCU sabotages its own individual components, with this film dealing with ramifications from the third Captain America film and the deterioration of relationships that has happened in the downtime between films. Going from the first Ant-Man to this one would not merely be a jarring experience, it would be untenable. Characters who were on positive terms with each other previously now have to navigate retreads of character tension. Is there a triumphant feeling when Scott and Hope come together, through adversity? No! Because the adversity has popped up out of nowhere, in some kind of sick rerun of the character tension from the first film.

All my criticisms aside though, this film has a great Morrissey gag. No, really. From The Cure in the first film, to the Moz in this one, it would appear that director Peyton Reid has a great taste in music. Perhaps he should give Ant-Man 3 a miss and just make some Spotify playlists. It is the comedy and lightness that makes this film enjoyable, despite its shortcomings. Visual gags abound and almost enough Ant-Man family sweetness really does the heavy-lifting for the film. It has to be understood though, that this cinematic universe rests on the precipice: it is all but guaranteed to survive until the Avengers: Infinity War sequel, but after that will the long-promised superhero fatigue finally kick in? I'd argue that, with more films as safe, trite and unimpressive as this one, it could be right around the corner.

Psylocke is Dead, Long Live Psylocke: On Body Swapping and Orientalism

Here we go again. In Marvel's current Wolverine-focused event, Hunt For Wolverine, writer Jim Zub is promising to put X-Men franchise mainstay Psylocke through another round of her perennial body swapping ordeal. From a leaked variant cover to #4 of the Hunt for Wolverine: Mystery in Madripoor mini-series and Zub's own confirmation, fan communities and comics journalists have discovered this plot point some weeks before the reveal. Before we delve into the torrid discussion surrounding the politics of body swapping (particularly in the case of Psylocke), let's first recap some history.

Psylocke, the telepathic, telekinetic mutant with a proclivity towards focused totalities and leather thongs, has had a series of debuts. Her first appearance, from creators Chris Claremont and Herb Trimpe, was in 1976 in Marvel UK's Captain Britain #8. Long before she was identified as a mutant, Psylocke was Elizabeth Braddock, twin sister of Brian Braddock aka Captain Britain. Her US debut was not until 1986, in New Mutants Annual #2, and her debut as Psylocke was in Uncanny X-Men #213. Already, we can see that the character has a more complex history than most iconic superheroes, whose debut most often occurs in only one comic book. But, it only twists more from there, as we reach the crux.

What is the most common visage of Psylocke? I'd wager it is this figure, from the 90s, the hyper-sexualised Asian body.

Yet, the Psylocke who debuted in Captain Britain, and was later seen in Uncanny X-Men, was not Asian. Not just that the character, as sister to Captain Britain himself, hailed from Britain, but that the character was Caucasian. A mild-mannered, upper-class styling of femininity, that belied a hidden strength, comic book creator Alan Davis once compared her to Thunderbirds' Lady Penelope.

So, what exactly happened? As with all things concerning the continuity of superheroes, it's complicated. Put simply, Psylocke, upon anticipating tragedy would befall the X-Men, entered through a magical MacGuffin that transported her to Japan and rendered her amnesiac. A dastardly villain sees this as a chance to groom a new master assassin for his nefarious purposes. Psylocke is brainwashed and is then, due to an incapability to abide outsiders, subjected to bodily transformation. She comes into conflict with some X-Men, she overcomes her conditioning, defeats the villain and gets the happy ending. Only there's no such happy ending, considering her body is no longer her own, but that of a Japanese ninja. This new iteration of the character is confrontationally sexual, alluringly deadly and suddenly an expert of Eastern martial arts. Psylocke is dead; long live Psylocke.

There was also a later incident of retroactive continuity that posited that there was another character who Psylocke had simply transferred minds with. This is a complete logical mess and beyond the scope of this particular piece. Even if I had the space for it, I wouldn't want to delve into that matter because, quite frankly, it makes my brain hurt. Regardless, this transition from British body to Japanese happened under the pen of the character's creator: Chris Claremont. With fairness to Claremont, the questionable ethics surrounding minds and body are a repeatedly explored topic in his X-Men comics (many of a similarly problematic nature, including turning two other White characters into Native Americans) and he would later return to this character and revise the transformation into an Asian woman, returning her to her British body. After a brief period of disuse (she had been killed, but silly things like that don't tend to stick), Psylocke returned in her original body in Uncanny X-Men #455.

For some time it seemed like the British Psylocke was to be a victim of "hypertime", a term borrowed from Grant Morrison's conceptualisation of a DC meta-universe, where canonicity is determined by a readership's almost-democratic decision and doesn't adhere to what is strictly in texts. Whilst Psylocke had returned to her British identity, comic book artists simply refused to stop drawing her as the hyper-sexual Japanese ninja. After spending some time in flux, (textually white, yet aesthetically Asian) Psylocke would experience yet another body swap (courtesy of Matt Fraction) in Uncanny X-Men #508-511, this time reconciling artist measure and definitively situating Psylocke in the Japanese body. So definitively, in fact, that over the course of this story Psylocke's original body was mutilated and destroyed; a bizarre realisation of the idiom, "you can't go home again".

There are actually few enough differences between the renderings of the two ethnicities that you could get away with saying that Psylocke had always been, in some part, Asian. It would not be the most ridiculous moment of retroactive continuity in X-Men franchise history. Certainly, this is one solution posed by those who see both the problematic nature of the character's Asian body and the value of such a popular Asian character. Yet what is abundantly clear is that the moments of sexuality diverge with the change of ethnicity; the Japanese woman is afforded a fetishisation and sexualisation that the White, British woman simply never is. What's even more interesting here is that Psylocke did not merely go through the body swap and come out on the other side a newly sexualised character; she was always objectified, her modelling career backstory serving as an opportunity for male creatives to curate her for male audience consumption. What we then see are two distinct sexualities and femininities- both curated for male consumption, yet disseminated in separate ways.

I think it's fair to say that the femininity associated with the British Psylocke is privileged in the readership's eye. Her objectification can be considered a higher, more sophisticated cultural process than the comparatively crass and base depictions of Japanese Psylocke. You can see this in the distinct costumes the different realisations wear, but also in how the body is posed by artists. The Japanese body is almost always contorted in some unnatural way so as to always deliver some element of sexuality. The White body, meanwhile, is allowed some dignity in its objectification. Whilst still a conservative realisation of beauty standards, the White body is at least allowed to look human.

It is also worth noting that, alongside the new body, Psylocke gained new traits and abilities that had never been realised in her British form- particularly ninjutsu and an affection for all things Japanese, or, at least, all things Japanese by way of America. This is a woman who had been raised in a privileged, upper-class British household, with no feasible connections to the culture she had now become endowed with. The Japanese Psylocke had, for the swathe of the character's popularity, become the preferred reading. It is this version of Psylocke which is realised in cartoon adaptations and even in Olivia Munn's portrayal of the character in X-Men: Apocalypse. Her dated costume was criticised widely, but, to fans of the comic book, this was merely an apt adaptation of the source material. So the Psylocke of the wider consciousness is this crass, dated character of a Japanese superhero, yet therein lies the inherent danger of further meddling with her identity. She is known to be a significant Asian character and to obliterate her is a serious mark against a brand that focuses itself around sympathy towards identity diversity, if not identity diversity itself.

To question Marvel's fetishisation of the East is vital, considering the context of the recent promotion of Akira Yoshida (the alter-ego of white comic book creative C.B. Cebulski) to Editor-In-Chief; white people using Asian identities to promote themselves isn't just a textual phenomenon but a metatextual one also. What, then, does this return to Britishness and whiteness signify? Is it an attempt to remove the criticisms of authorial orientalism, or, perhaps, audience orientalism? Does Jim Zub seek to absolve Marvel of these issues or to simply allow fan communities to overcome this point of contention? After all, the constant re-switching and renegotiation can be attributed to a synoptic fan community, where the many (an audience devoted to multiple realisations of genre and character) interact with the few (the creatives actually involved with the generation of new stories) and all each proclaim themselves as arbiters of true representation. To me, though, I think there is something more profound and zeitgeistic at hand. Despite the surface-level diversification, wherein which a Caucasian character is replaced by an Asian one, we can read the Japanese Psylocke as actually endemic of the homogenising force of the 90s- the superhero comic book's "Dark Age". Where Psylocke had previously been allowed to exist as her own unique entity, complementing the make-up of the X-Men franchise in her own way, the onset of the 90s came with a clear, decisive mission. Everything has to be cool. Everything has to be dark. Everything has to be big. And everything has to be sexy. This new return to Psylocke's original body feels like a condemnation of the "Dark Age" design ethos, in a context where superhero audiences beyond the straight, adolescent male are finally being considered. By abolishing the Asian body, Jim Zub may also be abolishing the dehumanising sexuality associated with that body. Rather than to reconcile the inhuman, orientalist subject with dignity, the subject is to be replaced by the White: dignity present by default.

Then we are finally faced with the impossible question. To return Psylocke to Whiteness is to obliterate one of the franchise's most significant Asian representations, whereas to persist with the Japanese body is to likewise persist with the American fetishisation of Asian identities. With any new property or adaptation, it's an easy decision to just meld these characters together. Reproduce Psylocke as an Anglo-Asian character, from birth, and you side-step a lot of the concerns at hand. This does not, and can not, hold up in the ongoing, serial format of contemporary comic books. The format would resist it, fans of the format would resist it, and soon enough you would see a return to the status quo, proving any noble work done to progress the character moot. Only time will tell if Mystery in Madripoor can finally quell Psylocke's existential questioning for good, but, whatever the answer to this conundrum is, I think that it is clear that it cannot be found in the constant switching, re-switching and re-re-switching of bodies.

In a way, the answer means little. Such a fraught cultural issue benefits more from the question. The fictional Psylocke is no ubiquitous battleground for debates around orientalism in contemporary popular culture, but, rather, is a microcosm from which we can further scrutinise issues of representation at large.

FFXV's Royal Pack: Facing The Dangers Of "Games As A Service"

Released to coincide with the release of Final Fantasy XV’s PC edition in March of 2018, the Royal Pack downloadable content is the apotheosis of XV’s bizarre, and often disjointed, approach to post-launch content for a single-player game. The fifteenth mainline entry of Square-Enix’s storied Final Fantasy franchise was a divisively modern and unconventional JRPG. Despite launching with the intent to appeal to both new players and long-time fans, XV proved so unpopular with those fans who had numerous preconceptions of what a Final Fantasy game should be that each piece of downloadable content has sought to resolve the criticisms held by the core fan-base. This featured everything from extended narrative sequences to a plethora of combat extensions and, as the content plan has progressed, the changes have become more and more profound. The Royal Pack, and particularly the changes to XV’s Chapter 14, is the culmination of this.

The expansion to XV’s final dungeon does not only add optional content (though it has this in spades, featuring vehicular exploration, side-quests and a new super-boss), but makes fundamental changes to the tone, pacing and even story of XV. These changes expose the poorly conceived post-launch content plan, as each instance works individually but, when combined, fail nonetheless. The new “Rulers of Yore” boss fights are some of the games best, featuring some fantastic music and well conceived quick-time events, and it’s hard to shrug off the other gameplay enhancements (the scale of the City of Insomnia is particularly pleasing). The additional character crescendos work similarly, as each party member gets a “Ruler of Yore” boss to defeat of their own, and these prove necessary to cap off their inclusion in the game as main, playable characters. But, the game wasn’t designed with these instances in mind and it shows. Retroactively adding content to the chapter affects its tone and continuity, as characters transition from sombre to melodramatic seamlessly. The Royal Pack content sticks out blindingly and appears to have been implemented with very little care. Adding a new boss fight between the party’s entry of the citadel and exploration further in leads to the party’s odd exclamation that the room is lit up, long after first entering.

The original XV has, what I feel is, one of modern gaming’s finest endings. It’s sombre, regretful and often feels like a counter to the conventional JRPG ending, which requires incomparable action feats and melodramatic character exclamations. That one of XV’s most powerful scenes is a man struggling to express his emotions to his friends around a campfire highlights the uniqueness of vanilla XV. The Royal Pack content runs antithesis to this, with party members who no longer look, talk and act like the genuine people we had previously enjoyed in the rest of the game. Even when the game provided a fantasy setting, just with cars, the party fulfilled the promise of a “fantasy based on reality”. These melodramatic reimagining’s of the characters which we see in the new Chapter 14 are not only at odds with the rest of the chapter, but with their appearance in the game itself.

It’s not only the characters who are more melodramatic and conventionally ‘JRPG’ either, the relentless boss fights and cinematic moments dilute the special moments that were already there. An addition of Lunafreya and the host of Summons (in-game deities) removes the thrill of seeing both Lunafreya again and the debut of Bahamut, most powerful of the Summons, as he had already showed up in this additional sequence. It shows in actual gameplay, also. With the transformation of a generic encounter into the cinematic Cerberus boss, the already present Ifrit boss, three new “Rulers of Yore” encounters (The Fierce, The Rogue and The Mystic) and Ardyn’s final boss, the Chapter 14 pacing is completely transformed. No longer is there a sombre, regretful walk to your final encounter, its place is taken by bombastic action; there’s no anticipation in the Royal Pack Chapter 14, only the next set piece.

It becomes clear that the Chapter 14 expansion became more about the transmedia Final Fantasy XV Universe than the game itself, working primarily to embed Kingsglaive (the CG prequel film) and Comrades (the multiplayer expansion) into the universe some more. Monsters and themes of Kingsglaive are suitably realised in the expanded dungeon, whilst you can also encounter the player’s custom character and others from Comrades. The failure of Comrades was in its fundamentally misunderstanding of the appeal of XV, creating a dark, bitter world, with no exploration or character, for its multiplayer mode and it is this misunderstanding of their own product that has caused such a tumultuous post-launch content plan to take hold.

So, why, months after release, is it critical to imperil XV’s Royal Pack? Simply, the post-launch meddling sets a concerning precedent for live-service single player games. The original Chapter 14, as it stands, may never gain the benefit of hindsight or any future reconsideration. To question the archivist, which goes in the vault: the Day One Edition, the Royal Edition or both? Those who have paid for the Royal Pack content have a perfectly functional game transformed into something new, whether you feel it as a lesser experience or not. Here, the consumer is paying to have a product renovated according to populist whims, with currently no option to experience the vanilla version (particularly on PC). This brings into question the entire notion of video games as a storytelling medium; are they to tell the stories developers want to tell or stories that fans want to experience?

Final Fantasy XV is arguably the biggest “live-service” single player game we’ve so far seen, which is why the post-launch content has often felt so strange. It’s really the first of its kind. The story is now developed according to the whims of service payers, leading new additions to be implemented in an incongruous and unfocused way. This is important to note in the context of live service multiplayer games damaging interest in single player games (or, at least, the belief of developers that this is the case). Already we have seen a transition towards open, sandbox single player game design, foregoing linearity in exchange for potential Twitch popularity. XV is the next step in this development. It may have been a hybrid live/conventional dlc model (XV had no lootboxes or microtransactions, operating its service on sales of a Season Pass), but the Royal Pack content exposes the future of single player games that attempt to emulate it. For future development of “live” single player games, the lessons on this subject are all to be found in the fraught (and on-going) history of Final Fantasy XV.

The Cyclical Cyclops: Re-Examining Uncanny X-Men #201

An in-depth re-examination of "Duel." Uncanny X-Men #201. Chris Claremont (W) and Rick Leonardi (A). 1986.





One of the 80s X-Men's most pivotal issues, "Duel" is one of several watershed moments in the transition from Claremont's first iteration of X-Men into the hardline, rebellious group that would populate the "Outback Era". The eponymous "Duel" refers to a match between a de-powered Storm and new father Cyclops (aka Scott Summers), competing for the leadership of the X-Men. Storm's victory would set the X-Men on a new, era-defining path, which lends the issue itself to be read as a Storm-centric, 'feat' issue. I want to offer up an alternative reading, as this issue isn't actually about Storm at all. Rather it comments, primarily, on two things: Cyclops' character and the unescapable, cyclical nature of superhero genre comic-books.

Despite being a cover star, Storm, in this story, is not her own champion. She isn't really overcoming the masculine incumbent to finally probe herself worthy, as she already has the support of the team (Logan, particularly) and faces no significant obstacle to overcome. Her journey towards leadership, her exam, was the preceding issues. "Duel" is more so her graduation, where she is formally recognised for her previous success, and her ascendance to leadership has a real essence of inevitability. The story then becomes not a story of "Who will lead them?" but how can Cyclops cope with the realisation that he has become obsolete. Storm, instead of operating as her own champion, is the champion for Madelyne Pryor- Cyclops' scorned wife and mother of his child- and, further, a representation of the X-Men's (both team and franchise) ability to survive without Cyclops. Storm is the Claremont-driven future, confronting Cyclops, one of the final handovers from the Lee/Kirby original conception. Cyclops has proven inattentive to his wife and newborn son and Madelyne, as civilian, cannot challenge Cyclops' absence in the way that superheroic Storm can. Storm steps up as a defender of the innocent, because she has gone through her own journey to do so, but this is not a significant action for her character.





Tension comes from all sides, as Storm has been making herself a viable presence, despite her loss of powers, in the preceding issues, and Cyclops' peaceful retirement has been interrupted by repeated super-heroics. Not only does the return of Cyclops create tension for his civilian wife, but with the stories own writer as well. Chris Claremont's plotting here reeks of frustration; editorial mandate ensured that he could not effectively retire Cyclops from the X-Men, as per his original intent and, with the launch of Cyclops-starring X-Factor, logical development for Cyclops' character was jettisoned in favour for a return to the status quo. The problem posed for Cyclops in "Duel" is that he has never learned how to relate to the X-Men outside of a micro-managing, obsessive leadership role, his single eye representing his singular vision for how the X-Men can reach their goals. When this issue challenges that, it should have been a moment of reflection and change, one which the character could grow from. Yet what we saw instead was the instantaneous return of the character to a leadership role; one that would remain mostly unchallenged for twenty-five years. The tone is never sympathetic to Storm, her victory is sombre and focused entirely on her opponent, and I'd argue that this is because Claremont never meant it to read as a cheer-able moment. Storm's silence allows Scott's mind-space and we are given a final opportunity to read Cyclops as the issue's tragic main character.





The Cyclops we see in "Duel" may be a sad figure, but he's not an unsympathetic one. If there is a main character here, it is him. Rather than documenting Storm's thunderous triumph, Claremont walks us through Cyclops' total defeat. And it is a defeat. Retroactive continuity, attempting to make the character a more clear-cut superhero again, transformed his loss in "Duel" to be a product of psychic interference on behalf of Madelyne (who was also retroactively transformed into an unknowing clone of Jean Grey), but even the original shows that he loses because of her. Only, in the original, his defeat comes from distraction, confusion and self-loathing. Cyclops defeat of himself is more prevalent than Madelyne's psychic interference or Storm's competence ever could be. That isn't to detract from Storm's ascension to leadership but, as mentioned previously, she earned that well before this issue took place. This particular story documents not an even match, but a loss.

So, I do think that we are supposed to sympathise with Cyclops in this issue, only we cannot do so from rigid moral perspectives. His conflict is reprehensible, he is prioritising his own identity anxieties over the welfare of his infant son, yet he remains still relatable. He acts selfishly, not inhumanly, and, whilst on the surface level the character can come across as a deadbeat dad, that is not wherein the tragedy lies. Rather the tragedy comes from Claremont's criticism of the cyclical, repetitive superhero comic book, the book which always returns to the status quo.

Storm's victory is telegraphed early on in the issue- she wins by removing his visor, leaving him incapable of controlling his powers, and earlier on we see Cyclops requires focus to manage his visor; a focus he did not have because of his conflicting feelings about Madelyne, his baby and the X-Men. The use of the superhero icon of the costume reiterates thematic qualities in the story, such as Cyclops' inability to comprehend a life outside the X-Men; not once does he remove it in this story. Even when arguing with Madelyne, all he can do is pull back his hood. Even in domestic affairs, Scott Summers can never truly detach himself from his X-Men identity.





And it is here that the tragic reality of Cyclops is exposed. The Cyclops we see here is somewhat of a nowhere man- he has graduated into civilian life, yet, because of the nature of the medium, he finds himself incapable of leaving the X-Men. He can dream of a normal life, but he must also destroy it, lest he truly find happiness and remove himself from the superhero genre altogether.

We see a theme of parenthood and legacy prevalent in this issue, interrogated not only through Cyclops, but Xavier also (Rachel Summers feeds into this theme, also). Cyclops is derided for his lack of commitment to his family, his son particularly, yet his father figure has also recently abandoned him. Claremont makes a point of reminding the audience this, so we can read the Cyclops of "Duel" as a product of Xavier's questionable parenting. Cyclops has never been able to define himself outside of the team, becoming institutionalised, and Maddie herself calls Cyclops out for having no skills to support a family. In his Astonishing X-Men run, Joss Whedon also touches on one of the recurring traits of Cyclops as a character- outside of leading the X-Men, Cyclops has nothing else. As an orphan, groomed and educated for a single purpose by Charles Xavier, Cyclops is totally lost when the structures and rules of his world start to fall apart. Feelings of trepidation in the face of giant monsters or battles in space pale in comparison to his feelings of abandonment.

He had dedicated his life to the X-Men, who now no longer need him the way they once did, and absent father Xavier has no advice to give to Cyclops at this moment. I read this as a demonstration that the key conflict of "Duel" is, not between two superheroes, but between two families- namely Scott's X-Men family and his family with Madelyne.





Claremont has Cyclops act as unwitting commentary on the failings of attempting to tell exciting, emergent stories in a medium and genre that relies on tedious, nostalgic revisiting. Cyclops' refusal to grow up and learn to define himself outside of the X-Men, his core emotional conflict of the issue, reads as commentary on a format that itself refuses to grow up and define itself outside of the trite framework it has found itself embroiled in. Claremont takes an artefact of the medium which he has no control over, the inevitable return of Cyclops to the X-Men, and crafts it in such a way that is has emotional relevance, narrative meaning and contributes to a greater understanding of the character. Before #201, you could see that Cyclops had less of a life outside of the X-Men than his counter-parts, but this is the issue that solidified a Cyclops who didn't know how to exist outside of leading a team. It would define characterisations of Cyclops for decades to come.





I do not feel that "Duel" can be read as a Storm-centric issue, because it just isn't one. It does the story itself so little justice to be relegated to a footnote on a 'Who Could Beat Storm In A Fight?' piece. The issue also shouldn't be used as evidence for some imagined Claremont hatred for Cyclops, for it truly shows Cyclops at his most complex and, in a meta sense, profound. Cyclops is used as a narrative tool to examine the genre and franchise- signifying the forthcoming era change, whilst also reflecting back on the mind-set that insists on constantly bringing him back.

"Duel" is about a Cyclops loss. In fact, it is about many Cyclops losses. This is arguably the character's lowest point, but Claremont's final deconstruction of the character is one of his most meaningful and significant issues for Cyclops characterisation. More than just being about Cyclops though, the issue is apt criticism of the failings of the format itself. It is telling that Claremont's first tenure on the book ended with Cyclops restored to his leadership role, with marriage to Madelyne dissolved and no baby son to look after. The status quo, and sanctity of the genre, will persist, no matter which character stands in the way.





It is worth noting that Claremont utilises Storm specifically to remove Cyclops from the franchise's flagship book, despite having, at one point, intended to push these characters into a relationship together. Such a couple is now unimaginable and, arguably, our incapacity to imagine such a relationship derives from misreading this very issue. The perception that it is Cyclops who stands as a barrier to Storm's leadership and independence has formulated an undeniable antagonism between the two, one which has persisted in how these two have been characterised through Cyclops' (most recent) death. This may also go some way to explain the frothing, vitriolic hatred that dedicated Storm fans and dedicated Cyclops fans seem to have for each other.