Theorizing Stupid Media

De-Naturalizing Story
Structures in the Cinematic,
Televisual, and Videogames
Aaron Kerner · Julian Hoxter
Theorizing Stupid Media
 Aaron Kerner • Julian Hoxter

Theorizing Stupid
Media
De-Naturalizing Story Structures in the Cinematic,
Televisual, and Videogames
Aaron Kerner Julian Hoxter
School of Cinema School of Cinema
San Francisco State University San Francisco State University
San Francisco, CA, USA San Francisco, CA, USA

ISBN 978-3-030-28175-5    ISBN 978-3-030-28176-2 (eBook)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-28176-2

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 Preface

The current volume steeped for many years—Kerner thinks it has been
about 10  years, Hoxter remembers it being something a little less than
that. Whatever the case is we have been discussing this project, bouncing
ideas back and forth, for many years. To begin with, we thought we were
focusing on spectacle-driven films, and how that generally harkened back
to the cinema of attractions. However, over many beers and conversations
(often at our local bar the Little Shamrock in San Francisco), we began to
think in broader terms. In earlier iterations, the book was divided into
larger sections: Extreme, Explicit, and Everyday. And under these head-
ings, we imagined individual case studies. That too went by the wayside.
Nevertheless, all these nascent ideas are present in the sinews of the pres-
ent volume.
The stupid, as an idea, though, was probably with the conception of
this book from the very start. It took us years to figure out, though, what
we actually meant by the stupid. (And we are not sure if all those beers
helped, or hindered our progression towards the objective of determining
what the stupid in media actually is. Maybe that’s why it took us so damn
long to bring this book to final fruition?) Frankly, we probably could not
give you a definitive answer all those years ago. But this has been a labor
of love, we embarked on this project simply because we wanted to. We
honestly wanted to come to grips with narratives that did not neatly con-
form to existing regimes of assessment—specifically, paradigms of analysis
that are premised on the evaluation of narrative. We are unapologetically
writing from a position of privilege as tenured faculty. This freed us from
(real or imagined) professional concerns—could someone get tenure

v
vi  PREFACE

­ riting about the stupid, or perhaps our gravest sin of all writing about
w
Transformers? And, to be clear, Transformers was a part of this project
pretty much from day one. Actually, we think so, but we also expect that
any emerging scholar looking to secure tenure would be advised to do
something else, to do something “serious.” Even when couched as a self-­
indulgent project, from the very beginning we took this topic seriously.
And we hope that we can contribute to the expanding tool kit that media
studies have at its disposal. Because the tool kit matters. If one only has a
hammer, then, one is only going to work with nails. The tools matter,
precisely because they also determine what enters the conversation, and
what approach is taken to the object of study.
Additionally, and this only emerged in the last stages of writing, we
realized that the stupid often surfaces at evolutionary moments. The stu-
pid materializes in response to a failure in categorization—violations of
established categories, the emergence of a referent without a “proper”
category, a hybrid that falls between categories. And thus, and again this
came to us relatively late in the process, we felt compelled to focus on
contemporary media. The stupid lays latent in all narratives, but it is most
evident in innovations. What is that? Wait, what? What the ∗∗∗∗?
The case studies that we offer are not merely illustrative of this or that
aspect of the stupid, but also are some of our personal favorites and exam-
ples that have emerged from our personal as well as professional lives: a
girlfriend who spends too much time playing Pokémon GO; students who
pushed the discussion of the evolutionary stupid in SVOD serial drama.
Media that did not quite fit in other projects, but kept bugging us to write
about them (specifically, Adventure Time, and Gone Home). We had fun
writing this book, and we hope you have some fun reading it.
We are grateful to Sandra Ly for her sage advice and criticism, especially
on the sections concerning videogames. Any errors are, of course, our own.
Finally, we want to thank Lina Aboujieb, the Executive Editor for Film,
Television and Visual Culture at Palgrave Macmillan. Quite understand-
ably she might have looked at me crossed-eye once—when Kerner first
pitched the idea of a stupid book, Aboujieb was probably thinking, “You
want to write a book on the whaaattt?” Despite any reservations she
might’ve had, Aboujieb has been supportive. Aboujieb somehow man-
aged to wrangle three readers. And in our experience, these have been
some of the most thoughtful and helpful reader reports that we have ever
received. Each of the reports contributed to our thinking about this
  PREFACE  vii

­ roject, and we hope that we have made the most productive use of their
p
ideas, thoughts, suggestions, and critiques.

San Francisco, CA Aaron Kerner

San Francisco, CA  Julian Hoxter
 Contents

1 The Stupider the Better  1

2 The Stupid in the Contemporary Hollywood Vernacular:

Spectacularly Stupid Transformers 31

3 The Stupid in Genre Fails 71

4 The Stupid as Narrative Dissonance109

5 The Stupid as Ludonarrative Dissonance139

6 Conclusion: Well That Was Stupid179

Bibliography197

Index221

ix
 List of Figures

Fig. 2.1 Illustrated chart produced by Lucy V. Hay in an effort to explain

Transformers (Hay, Lucy V. “How to Write a Screenplay Bomb:
Transformers: The Last Knight.” Bang 2 Write (blog). June 26,
2017. Accessed February 19, 2018. http://www.bang2write.
com/2017/06/how-to-write-a-screenplay-bomb-transformers-
the-last-knight.html)45
Fig. 2.2 A Mazda 3 swerves to miss the oncoming McLaren in
Transformers: The Last Knight (Michael Bay, 2017) 56
Fig. 2.3 A Mazda 3 passes the oncoming McLaren in Transformers: The
Last Knight (Michael Bay, 2017) 57
Fig. 2.4 A silver sedan slams into a Lexus in Transformers: The Last Knight
(Michael Bay, 2017) 57
Fig. 2.5 The back end of the Lexus shoots upward with explosive power
in Transformers: The Last Knight (Michael Bay, 2017) 58
Fig. 2.6 The great raining down of newspaper and debris—the explosive
mini-climax within the chase scene in Transformers: The Last
Knight (Michael Bay, 2017) 58
Fig. 2.7 Racing down country roads in Jean Epstein’s La glace à trois faces
(The Three-Sided Mirror) (Jean Epstein, 1927) 60
Fig. 3.1 The vivid and wild conclusion of Sion Sono’s Antiporno (Sion
Sono, 2016) 87
Fig. 3.2 On the left Antiporno (Sion Sono, 2016), on the right Pistol
Opera (Seijun Suzuki, 2001) 88
Fig. 6.1 Babydoll invites the male gaze in Sucker Punch (Zack Snyder,
2011)181

xi
 CHAPTER 1

The Stupider the Better

Introduction: No Really, the Stupider the Better

During the course of a conversation with my colleague and co-writer try-
ing to recall a title I said, “You know, that movie with the women in anime
cosplay outfits and zeppelins.” Immediately, he knew exactly what I was
talking about, “Oh, right, Sucker Punch.” Not a shred of narrative infor-
mation to speak of really, rather the identifying markers that I offered fell
squarely in the realm of spectacle—the fetishistic exhibition of the female
form and fantastical airships. Zack Snyder’s 2011 film Sucker Punch makes
little effort to adhere to conventional narrative devices, this is not to say
that narrative is absent, but rather the film is driven by its continual prom-
ise to deliver a compendium of audio/visual marvels. Sucker Punch is a
pastiche of spectacle tropes: it draws heavily on exploitation cinema, spe-
cifically women in prison films from the 1970s, chambara and martial art
films, the fetishistic rendering of the female body drawn explicitly from the
pornographic genre, spectacular dystopic landscapes with no shortage of
apocalyptic carnage, strongly influenced both by fantasy films and video-
games, and elements of torture and humiliation indicative of the post-­
9/11 horror genre that David Edelstein dubbed “torture porn.” It is safe
to say that, in commonsense terms at least, Sucker Punch is stupid. But how
is it stupid? Let us concede first that the plot is eye-rollingly inane—an
institutionalized young woman finds her inner strength in vivid (male-)
fantasy worlds. But there are also novel formal elements in Sucker Punch
that prompt us to read it as stupid.

© The Author(s) 2019 1
A. Kerner, J. Hoxter, Theorizing Stupid Media,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-28176-2_1
2  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

This is precisely what we are concerned with here: charting the terrain
of stupid media at a particular, convergent moment in the history of those
media. Let us be abundantly clear, our use of the term “stupid” is not
necessarily intended to disparage, in fact in many instances we use it in
quite the opposite sense. We appropriate the term “stupid” from a passage
in Julia Kristeva’s essay, “Fantasy and Cinema.” Kristeva observes that
counter to our preconceived notions otherwise, films that emphasize form
over content—even films that we might consider in poor taste—might
offer a well-spring of affect, and this harbors cathartic potential. And so
while this might seem counterintuitive, Kristeva insists that “the stupider
it is, the better, for the filmic image does not need to be intelligent: what
counts is that the specular presents the drive—aggression—through its
directed signified (the object or situation represented) and encodes it
through its plastic rhythm (the network of lektonic elements: sounds,
tone, colors, space, figures), which can come back to us from the other
without response and which consequently has remained uncaptured,
unsymbolized, unconsumed.”1 In other words, what is at stake here are
those things that exceed, or ooze out of the narrative, but are not neces-
sarily a component of narrative. A lekton—a signifier without a signified—
an audio source that straddles the boundaries between diegetic and
non-diegetic registers, an extreme close-up that effectively obliterates
what it purports to represent, compositions overwhelmed by scale (sub-
lime), color, and so on. These things do not necessarily serve the narrative
(i.e., they do not directly advance the plot), but rather exalt in the spec-
tacle of excess, which for all intents and purposes has “no meaning.”
The stupid, for instance, might be found in narratives that experiment
with and/or throw off the yoke of storytelling conventions, eliciting from
the spectator a sense of “disappointment” in the face of an unexpected, or
unresolved narrative. Facing stupidity in this way invites us to rethink cat-
egories altogether, to break free of long-established regimes of storytell-
ing, and reimagine storytelling modes (e.g., videogames). The media
under consideration here might also be deeply embellished, intended to
elicit an affective response in the spectator. While it may present as vapid,
or lacking any discernible “meaning” as such, what we hope to address are
the ways in which the cinematic might speak to our “sensorial intelli-
gence.” Moreover, the embellishments in their excessiveness have the
potential, on the one hand, to leave the spectator in a stupefied awe, and
perhaps even simultaneously call attention to the very fabric that consti-
tutes the cinematic. Sion Sono’s 2016 film Antiporno, for instance,
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  3

­ iscussed at length in Chap. 3, self-consciously undercuts its own narrative

d
progression and places a premium on spectacle. Sono’s usurpation of nar-
rative progression and incorporation of overwrought flourishes challenge
even the liberal bounds of the softcore erotic genre, of which it is ostensi-
bly situated. Antiporno places a strain upon the narrative and genre con-
ventions, and in so doing invites the spectator to reflect upon the limits of
a genre and the general qualities of what narrative cinema is.
Rather than take the term “narrative” for granted, let us offer our gen-
eral understanding of what narrative is. Narrative is in short, a set of sto-
rytelling conventions. Whether we are addressing documentary films, the
latest Hollywood blockbuster, or even a videogame, a narrative typically
involves a character, or set of characters, that confronts some sort of con-
flict that is typically resolved by the conclusion of the plot. The primary
character in the process of resolving that conflict usually undertakes some
sort of transformation—for example, they “grow up,” or acknowledge a
wrong that they have committed and rectify it. Regardless, the internal
story-arc typically arrives at a denouement and a modified form of catharsis.
Even the champion of classical narrative conventions, David Bordwell,
recognizes the changes in recent cinematic storytelling in what he terms
“intensified continuity.” And this idea shares some affinities with the stu-
pid. Bordwell suggests that “Intensified continuity is traditional continuity
amped up, raised to a higher pitch of emphasis. It is the dominant style of
American mass-audience films today.”2 Similarly, Steven Shaviro referred
to this disregard for conventional editing regimes as “post-continuity,”
which is preoccupied “with immediate effects” rather than attending to
“broader continuity—whether on the immediate shot-by-shot level, or on
that of the overall narrative.”3 Shaviro pushes Bordwell’s conception,
vocalizing what Bordwell apparently cannot bring “himself to say explic-
itly … that, when intensified continuity is pushed to this absurd, hyper-
bolic point, it does indeed result in a radical aesthetic ‘regime change.’”4
What Shaviro refers to as the “stylistics of post-continuity,” we call stupid.
Storytelling, as others have observed, is not static. Rather it adapts and
evolves to meet emerging and converging media platforms, changing
along with technology, and to satisfy evolving tastes. “The triumph of
intensified continuity reminds us that as styles change, so do viewing
skills.”5 Indeed, without making allowances for storytelling innovations,
and ill-equipped to “read” “intensified” storytelling elements a viewer
understandably might profess, “that’s stupid!” Bordwell focuses on cine-
matic storytelling, and he illustrates that contemporary films have much
4  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

shorter average shot lengths (ASL). No surprise there. Digital editing soft-
ware, Bordwell observes, contributes to shorter ASLs. “By cutting on
computer, filmmakers can easily shave shots frame by frame, a process
known as ‘frame-fucking.’ Frame-fucking is one reason some action
sequences don’t read well on the big screen. After cutting the car chase
from The Rock on computer, Michael Bay saw it projected, decided that it
went by too fast, and had to ‘de-cut’ it.”6 But it is not simply the duration
of shots (read: speed) that is at stake here, but the integrity of spatial rela-
tions and the legibility of the cinematic text that establishes clear cause and
effect relationships. Bordwell proclaims that intensified continuity does
not change storytelling conventions writ-large. “Contrary to claims that
Hollywood style has become post-classical, we are still dealing with a vari-
ant of classical filmmaking.”7 And perhaps this is where intensified conti-
nuity and the stupid part ways because the latter (at least in certain
instances) very well might depart from established storytelling conventions.
Bordwell, and others in decidedly more staunch terms, still cling to nar-
rative. Lisa Purse observes that the frenetic possibilities of cinema need not
explicitly present events, rather that the “[p]opular cinema is free to think
bodies-at-speed in ways other than the literal show-and-tell, and is increas-
ingly doing so.”8 A fight sequence in Gladiator (Ridley Scott, 2000) dis-
penses with longer shots and longer takes in favor of a more kinetic camera
style and lightning quick cuts—the “reality” of a gladiatorial battle is given
over to the sensation of it.9 The sensate experience (body) is privileged
over the intelligibility (mind) of the onscreen events—stupid. Matthias
Stork vociferously bemoans current trends. Referencing Bordwell’s inten-
sified continuity, Stork laments, “In many post-millennial releases, we’re
not just seeing an intensification of classical technique, but a perversion.
Contemporary blockbusters, particularly action movies, trade visual intel-
ligibility for sensory overload, and the result is a film style marked by
excess, exaggeration and overindulgence: chaos cinema.”10 What Stork
dismisses as chaos cinema—which is a “perversion,” lacks “intelligibility,”
is excessive—we embrace as the stupid.
While the general understanding of narrative is rooted in ancient tradi-
tions the cinema, particularly in its nascence, did not necessarily adopt this
mode of address. And this calls to mind the very prejudice that Tom
Gunning exposes in his seminal essay, “The Cinema of Attractions.”
Gunning’s argument is an historical one, tracing the evolution of narrativ-
ized cinema. Gunning observes that between 1907 and 1913 the cine-
matic form assimilates recognizable narrative form—directed largely
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  5

toward an internal diegetic story-world and the characters that inhabit it.11
Prior to this though the cinematic form tended to be directed outwards
toward “an acknowledged spectator” anticipating the elicitation of plea-
sure (or some other sensation)—thus placing the cinema of attractions
closer to the amusement park ride, or attraction. The cinema of attractions
offered visual spectacles (relatively) unencumbered by the obligations of
narrative, as Gunning states, “emphasizing the direct stimulation of shock
or surprise at the expense of unfolding a story or creating a diegetic uni-
verse. The cinema of attractions expends little energy creating characters
with psychological motivations or individual personality.”12 Narrative sub-
sumed the cinema of attractions, but Gunning argues that vestiges of the
cinematic attraction can be found in experimental cinema (at least those
unconcerned with narrative), and nested within mainstream narratives.
New Hollywood blockbusters such as Star Wars and Indiana Jones wit-
nessed the rise of “spectacle cinema [which] has reaffirmed its roots in
stimulus and carnival rides, in what might be called the Spielberg-Lucas-­
Coppola cinema of effects.”13 Exploding Death Stars, spectacular action
sequences, are like the song-and-dance numbers in the musical, they are
“tamed attractions” nested within the “proper” narrative.
Gunning elsewhere adds that the cinematic attraction can be differenti-
ated from narrative conventions through temporality. “Narrative invokes
the spectator’s interest (and even desire, in a psychoanalytic model) by
posing an enigma.”14 This enigma is worked out in the diegesis of the
cinematic text, and at the very least feigns ignorance of the audience’s
presence—establishing the voyeuristic enterprise of classical narrative cin-
ema. “Attractions pose a very different relation to the spectator. The
attraction does not hide behind the pretense of an unacknowledged spec-
tator.” Gunning adds that “the attraction invokes an exhibitionist rather
than a voyeuristic regime. The attraction directly addresses the spectator,
acknowledging the viewer’s presence and seeking to quickly satisfy a curi-
osity. This encounter can even take an aggressive aspect, as the attraction
confronts audiences and even tries to shock them (the onrushing locomo-
tive which seems to threaten the audience is early cinema’s most enduring
example).”15 The attraction often featured sexual, violent, or taboo sub-
ject matter—all the things that might be associated with the fairground,
the carnivalesque, the freak show. “Attractions’ fundamental hold on spec-
tators depends on arousing and satisfying visual curiosity through a direct
and acknowledged act of display, rather than following a narrative enigma
within a diegetic site into which the spectator peers invisibly.”16 The
6  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

a­ ttraction satisfies the spectator on a different order than narrative resolu-

tion. The cinematic attraction “arouses a curiosity that is satisfied by sur-
prise rather than narrative suspense. This different temporal configuration
determines its unique spectatorial address as much as its acknowledgement
of the spectator’s gaze, and it is the explosive, surprising, and even disori-
enting temporality of attractions” to which Gunning calls our attention.
Part of this curiosity, in Gunning’s assessment of the cinema of attrac-
tions, pertained to the novelty of the cinematic apparatus itself. New tech-
nologies, and new and emerging media, likewise afford opportunities to
rekindle this curiosity. Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor’s 2009 film
Gamer, incorporates videogaming elements into its diegetic plot, as well as
utilizing compositional strategies from other media (e.g., videogaming,
surveillance cameras, and computing platforms) achieved through the use
of new digital technology. Steven Shaviro is critical of Gamer and its direc-
tors that appear to emphasize these novel tools and perspectives, without
regard for their narrative motivation: “They force us to pay attention to
how it works, instead of what it means.”17 The emphasis placed on the tech-
nology (and the perspectives that it affords), harkens to the cinema of
attractions. Gamer is not concerned with meaning per se, but, as Shaviro
puts it, “working with new equipment that is still in beta.”18 Shaviro con-
tinues to bemoan that Gamer is nothing but “flourishes,” in other words,
it is only concerned with spectacles. The filmmakers “are not weighted
down, as higher-budget movies tend to be, by demands for plot rational-
ization and secondary elaboration. They cannot cover over their procedur-
alism with a veneer of plausibility and good sense. In consequence, they
make a film that appears wildly mannerist. They follow procedural and
executive logic as far as they can—however crazy and aberrant the results
may be.”19 Gamer is, in a word, stupid!
Whereas narratives primarily unfold in a linear fashion, where one event
follows unrelentingly after another, the attraction does not necessarily
conform to these temporal conventions, rather the attraction has “one
basic temporality, that of the alternation of presence/absence which is
embodied in the act of display. In this intense form of present tense the
attraction is displayed with the immediacy of a ‘Here it is! Look at it.’”20
The cinematic attraction is, in other words, episodic in structure. Where
narrative expects the development of a story that “links the past with the
present in such a way as to define a specific anticipation of the future (as
an unfolding narrative does), the attraction seems limited to a sudden
burst of presence. Restriction to the presentation of a view or a central
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  7

action, the cinema of attractions tends naturally toward brevity rather than
extension.”21 The temporality of narrative invites anticipation of how an
event will unfold, compared to the attraction that solicits the spectator’s
enthrallment “with when an event will occur.”22 The attraction irrupts
within a temporal sequence, rather than an unfolding of an event in a
sequential narrative. The attraction “consists more of framing a momen-
tary appearance than an actual development and transformation in time.”23
The cinematic attraction has the potential to “effectively halt the narrative
flow through an excess of spectacle, shifting spectator interest from what
will happen next to an enjoyment of the spectacle presented to them.”24
The excess of attraction overshadows the narrative. “Rather than a devel-
oping configuration of narrative, the attraction offers a jolt of pure pres-
ence, soliciting surprise, astonishment, or pure curiosity instead of
following the enigmas of which narrative depends.”25 One iteration of the
stupid, then, is the untamed attraction, in effect the attraction on steroids,
where the thrill eclipses the narrative, where the attraction is the point of
the thing, or where the narrative is a vehicle for the spectacle. The untamed
attraction infects the tissues of the narrative. What concerns us then is this:
How do we address spectacle-saturated media, especially in contemporary
media practices? The moments where those “tamed attractions” are
unleashed and allowed (at least for a little bit) to run wild. Our ambition
here is to make an intervention in critical assessments of the cinematic—a
paradigmatic shift in the very means of approaching some cinematic and
emerging media texts.
Others have appeared to take notice of this need to recalibrate the
means of assessment in cinematic and media studies. Like the present vol-
ume, Martine Beugnet in the introduction to the edited volume Indefinite
Visions: Cinema and the Attractions of Uncertainty eloquently calls for a
paradigmatic shift to account for those things in excess of the (visual)
story. One of the things that the volume highlights is the tension in post-­
millennial digital technologies, which on the one hand offer unparalleled
opportunities for clear and distinct images, and on the other hand the art
of cinematic and media productions that (for many different reasons)
obscures the visual image. Indefinite Visions considers “moving images
and sounds in their more indefinite, ungraspable manifestations, where
film hovers on the threshold of representation and legibility and chal-
lenges the way we look and listen.”26 There are distinct affinities between
the indefinite and the stupid.
8  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Assuredly the evolving media conventions have not meant the demise
of narrative. It would be premature to begin writing an obituary for nar-
rative, and, indeed, frankly dumb to do so. We should acknowledge that
we are by no means the first to discuss the waning of coherent linear nar-
rative conventions: Jon Lewis’s edited volume The End of Cinema as We
Know It published nearly two decades earlier, for instance, makes similar
proclamations. What we emphasize here is not the end of narrative—let’s
repeat that, we are not suggesting that we have reached the end of narra-
tive—rather, the stupid often manifests at the forefront of narrative evolu-
tions. What we are suggesting is that certain experiments in narrative
form, certain corporate/creative wagers on the future evolution of a genre
or medium, certain innovations in technology that afford new modes of
storytelling, or enable new modes of consumption which then potentially
misalign with established paradigms of narrative comprehension and/or
assessment, can be ruled stupid under our grid.
We are writing at a moment of evolutionary acceleration in the media,
and some of the concordant stupid experiments in spectacle and narrative
have already fallen by the wayside of media history, or have been/are
being superseded as media recalibrate around and away from them. For
example, the competing vernaculars of the tentpole movie played out over
the last two decades were predicated at least in part on very different cor-
porate readings of the state and the future of cinema exhibition in the digi-
tal age. The spectacular excesses of the Transformers franchise, pushing
almost beyond the boundaries of conventional cinema offered one power-
fully distinct vision of that present and future, whereas the “relentless self-­
cannibalization” of Marvel’s ever expanding and never truly resolving
MCU mega-franchise emerged from a very different reading of both cul-
ture and industry.27 We consider this contested cinematic vernacular in
some detail in Chap. 2. As we will argue, other instances of the stupid
emerge less from spectacle per se as from equally arresting semantic colli-
sions as genres and forms seek and fail wholly to conform to new interfaces
between technology and narrative. Notable here are instances of ludonar-
rative dissonance in videogames and the hesitant accommodations of serial
narratives in expanded television to emerging creative and regulatory
regimes and consumption paradigms.
All this is to say that we do not intend to apologize for stupid media,
neither to suggest that it is somehow secretly superior to narrative nor do
we intend to dismiss the architectural scaffolding of narrative. Rather what
we are concerned with is expanding our critical paradigm to accommodate
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  9

media texts that do not necessarily conform to established narrative con-

ventions. What we strive to do here is to open up a space within the critical
scholarship of film and media studies that might accommodate those
media texts that are not governed by traditional narrative conventions,
including those of genre, but instead are structurally or conceptually dis-
sonant, or spectacle-driven, or sharply interrupted by overwhelming spec-
tacles, that have less to do with meaning and thus, by extension, narrative.
For our purposes, these are stupid.

What Is Stupid Media?

Stupid media is not necessarily inane, or mindless entertainment, though,
it most certainly could be those things. Rather what we are categorizing as
stupid media pertains to form more than it does to content. Stupid media
is stupid precisely because it fails to meet the criteria of an established cat-
egory—be that genre conventions, narrative structure, formal cinematic
syntax, or an uneasy tension in emerging media and storytelling. There is
then a tendency for these media texts to be episodic, as opposed to coher-
ent linear narratives. There might well be a failure in meaning as well,
where there is no “meaning” as such, and rather an accumulation of
audio/visual signifiers divorced from any apparent signified—BOOM! for
the sake of things going BOOM! “Ohhhh,” for the sake of “Ohhhh!”
Cinema that is affecting for the sake of eliciting sensations in the spectator.
As Carl Plantinga argues, spectators go to the cinema not simply “on the
basis of genre, stars, critical reviews,” but rather “on the basis of the kind
of affective experience they believe such films will afford.”28 Stupid media
typically appeals to the body, rather than to emotion.29 Emotional invest-
ment typically relies on narrative contextualization, and purchase in a
character’s situation. Affect, on the other hand, tends to be more immedi-
ate, visceral, and can function free of any narrative motivation.
The stupid should not be confused with the “bad object” though,
which is the darling of those coming from the disciplinary corner of
Cultural Studies (Kerner counts himself among them). Bad objects very
well might be conventional in their storytelling, in their mode of address,
and thus perfectly “intelligible.” The bad object might come in a number
of different forms: camp, the disreputable object, and low culture/genres.
Camp is not necessarily stupid, though what is camp could be stupid.
What is clear though is that they share certain affinities. Camp invariably
pertains to a sensibility and aesthetic, whereas the stupid manifests in
10  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

­ arrative form. Susan Sontag famously outlined the characteristics of camp

n
in her, “Notes on ‘Camp.’” Camp is challenging to pin down precisely
because: “A sensibility (as distinct from an idea) is one of the hardest
things to talk about.”30 Sontag continues, “It is not a natural mode of
sensibility, if there be any such. Indeed, the essence of Camp is its love of
the unnatural: of artifice and exaggeration. And Camp is esoteric—some-
thing of a private code, a badge of identity even, among small urban
cliques.”31 Because camp is a sensibility—slippery, ineffable, and distin-
guished on the grounds of taste (not reason)—Sontag resorts to a series of
theses, rather than a “proper essay,” which stakes a “claim to a linear,
consecutive argument,” and thus, for Sontag, a series of theses “seemed
more appropriate for getting down something of this particular fugitive
sensibility.”32 Sontag begins with broad brushstrokes, noting that “Camp
is a certain mode of aestheticism. It is one way of seeing the world as an
aesthetic phenomenon. That way, the way of Camp, is not in terms of
beauty, but in terms of the degree of artifice, of stylization.”33 And this
emphasis on stylization, exaggerated stylization, might be where the affin-
ities between camp and the stupid are most evident. In fact, Sontag goes
further to add that, “To emphasize style is to slight content, or to intro-
duce an attitude which is neutral with respect to content. It goes without
saying that the Camp sensibility is disengaged, depoliticized—or at least
apolitical.”34
While there are clear affinities between camp and the stupid—in their
championing of style over content, or a mismatch between them—what
sets them apart is their relationship to narrative. While camp is an aesthetic
sensibility related to cultural artifacts, the stupid manifests in narrative
form. “For Camp art is often decorative art, emphasizing texture, sensu-
ous surface, and style at the expense of content. Concert music, though,
because it is contentless, is rarely Camp.”35 The stupid very well might be
in the “contentless”—in effect, the “meaninglessness” of narratives,
the lektons.
Sontag, of course, includes the cinema in her discussion on camp (how
could she avoid not talking about movies?). Camp materializes in film
criticism, Sontag suggests, for example, in end-of-the-year lists, “The 10
Best Bad Movies I Have Seen.” Camp carves out a space for “so bad it’s
good,” or for “guilty pleasures,” and these lists are “probably the greatest
popularizer of Camp taste today, because most people still go to the mov-
ies in a high-spirited and unpretentious way.”36 The stupid, however, is
not necessarily “bad,” or a “guilty pleasure.” In fact, the stupid, as it
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  11

relates to disruptions of narrative conventions, potentially marks sophisti-

cated innovations in storytelling, or negotiates novel or evolving storytell-
ing modes (e.g., videogames).
Very briefly, because we go to fair length about this later in the book,
Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani’s 2009 film Amer, which very well
might be characterized as a “bad movie” by some critics, is not camp.
Stephen Holden, for example, in his New York Times review of Amer con-
cludes by asking, “What does it all mean? Less than meets the eye. Amer
is a voluptuous wallow in recycled psychosexual kitsch.”37 In short, Amer
is meaningless, vapid (less than meets the eye)—stupid. We too view Amer
as stupid, but not in derisive terms—but rather to speak to its resistance to
established regimes (i.e., narrative and genre). It is, however, difficult to
view Amer as camp. Examples of “pure camp,” Sontag insists, “are unin-
tentional; they are dead serious.”38 Cattet and Forzani are too self-aware
to be considered camp in these terms, it is however (perhaps understand-
ably, but mistakenly so) possible to view Amer as camp in its “spirit of
extravagance.”39 Extravagance has the potential to slip into “pseudo-­
camp” when it is “inconsistent,” or “unpassionate”—when it “is merely
decorative, safe, in a word, chic.”40 Amer is lavish in its stylization, but it
is not “safe,” or “decorative,” it might be “cool” though if that is what
Sontag means by “chic.”
Camp, at the end of the day, is about pleasure. While we identify plenty
of instances of joyous stupidity, at the same time, the stupid can be frus-
trating, repulsive, or elicit unease, because it fails to meet expectations, or
it invites an affective or ludic experience that we might generally character-
ize as “contradictory” or “negative.” “Camp taste is, above all, a mode of
enjoyment, of appreciation—not judgment. Camp is generous. It wants to
enjoy.” Sontag adds, “Camp taste doesn’t propose that it is in bad taste to
be serious; it doesn’t sneer at someone who succeeds in being seriously
dramatic. What it does is to find the success in certain passionate fail-
ures.”41 Again, taking Amer as an example, the Cattet and Forzani film is
not a “passionate failure,” rather it “fails” to conform to existing catego-
ries and paradigms of assessment—it stupefies because we have to “read it”
differently. Camp does not level the same demands, it does not require a
paradigmatic shift in our means of assessment.42 Camp merely requires a
love of established narrative forms, while celebrating certain exuberances.
Sontag addresses bad movies, and the potential for camp enjoyment:
“There is Camp in such bad movies as The Prodigal and Samson and
Delilah, the series of Italian color spectacles featuring the super-hero
12  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Maciste, numerous Japanese science fiction films (Rodan, The Mysterians,

The H-Man) because, in their relative unpretentiousness and vulgarity,
they are more extreme and irresponsible in their fantasy—and therefore
touching and quite enjoyable.”43 Mike Fahey celebrates the stupidity of
the videogame Earth Defense Force 5 (EDF5), in the same way, that Sontag
celebrates the campy character of Japanese diakaiju eiga (giant monster
movies). The EDF series comes out of D3 Publisher, a Japanese video-
game producer, and Fahey describes it as a “long-running B-movie bug-
fest: Earth Defense Force is the best kind of stupid. What began in 2003 as
an entry in D3 Publisher’s ‘Simple’ series of budget Japanese games has
grown into a cult favorite, thanks to hordes of monstrous insects, aggres-
sively bad voice acting and a general disregard for quality control.”44
Although there is something painfully and nonetheless endearingly stupid
about EDF, Fahey reports that he invested a significant amount of time
into the game so that he could level-up and finally “play with up to three
random strangers.” He concludes, “For all its faults—and I mean that
lovingly—Earth Defense Force 5 is such a wonderful place to be stupid
together.”45 In this instance, perhaps, we do see the convergence of bad
movies, bad videogames, the camp sensibility and the stupid.
The bad, or disreputable object is not necessarily stupid in the way that
we are conceiving it. John Waters’s 1972 film Pink Flamingos is self-­
consciously “trashy”—from its content to its amateur production. The
film, which is now a cult classic, is nonetheless firmly entrenched in the
category of exploitation cinema.46 The exploitation tradition trades in the
carnivalesque, and in fact, its heritage is clearly rooted in the carnival, the
sideshow, the exhibition of freaks. Pink Flamingos is less a narrative film,
and more a compendium of queers, freaks, and spectacles (the utterly
absurd, crude, sexually lude, disgusting). As the trailer for the film pro-
claims, Pink Flamingos is an “Exercise in bad taste.” And while this places
Pink Flamingos (and films of this sort) in relation to the cinema of attrac-
tions—being just a stone’s throw from the carnival freak show, and thus
sharing affinities with the stupid, exploitation’s self-consciousness—its
willful turn away from established narrative and genre regimes inoculates
itself against stupidity. If we understand exploitation to be excessive, it
paradoxically and summarily undoes itself; excess exists only because
boundaries are established, limits are erected. But if exploitation makes
affordances for all sorts of excess, even demands transgression, then, each
“violation”—each gaff in continuity, each poor cut, each instance of cop-
rophilia—is recouped by exploitation’s built-in allowances.
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  13

Similarly, media texts that are associated with low culture are not inher-
ently stupid—WWE has its place. Crass genres, the American convention
of body-humor films being exemplary, are not stupid. Self-consciously
juvenile in nature, and focused on the lower-stratums, body-humor films
are often quite conventional. From Paul and Chris Weitz’s 1999 film
American Pie (and its subsequent sequels) to Greg Tiernan and Conrad
Vernon’s 2016 raunchy animated film Sausage Party, these films are situ-
ated within a well-established convention of gross-out body humor films.
These films are typically geared toward a young male demographic and
harken back to films such as Bob Clark’s Porky’s from 1981.47 While stupid
in a colloquial sense, American Pie, and other “low brow” films like it, are
remarkably conventional in their cinematic syntax and narrative form, and
thus not in the least bit stupid in the ways that we presently conceive it.
We have given considerable real estate to outlining the stupid by what
it is not, let us now consider what it is. And perhaps it’s best to imagine the
stupid more as a state, than a static object, a definable thing as such. The
stupid pertains to the (in)stability, the integrity, the understood bounds of
categories (e.g., narrative conventions, genre). The stupid emerges when,
for instance, technological innovations necessitate modifications to estab-
lished storytelling regimes. In this context, the stupid can sometimes man-
ifest in terms of a time bound or temporary perceptual definition, until
critical and popular cultural orthodoxies can form around previously
evolving, liminal, or misunderstood creative affordances thus (re)incorpo-
rating once-stupid texts and sub-genres into mainstream discourse.
Videogames, for example, generally rely on spatialized storytelling, rather
than conventional linear, cause and effect, narrative progression. The stu-
pid is located at the intersection of media practices, audience encounters,
and scholarly/critical engagement and where these “fail” to align. While
some might argue that stories are universal (and in that sense, ultimately
unchanging), and this is not something that we subscribe to, what remains
uncontestable is that storytelling modes are inextricably linked to technol-
ogy. The modes of storytelling have evolved, and they will continue to do
so—from traveling curated Lumière programs screened at a fairground to
your algorithmically curated Netflix feed, from the silent era to the talkies,
from Pong to PS4 VR. Each technological innovation affords new story-
telling possibilities. In addition to technological innovations, media pro-
ducers innovate in style and narrative. Audiences and critics/scholars,
when encountering these innovations, might not be equipped to negotiate
these innovations—they might be stupefied. In some cases, this
14  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

e­ ncounter—because it does not align with preconceived notions of what a

narrative is, or should be—might elicit ire, frustration, or disappointment,
but in other instants stir more “positive” receptions including awe, sur-
prise, curiosity, tickled bewilderment, exhilaration. The latter “positive”
receptions are nothing short of what Gunning termed the cinema of
attractions. And yet technological developments also bring with them the
potential for the kind of stupidly dissonant and unforeseen collisions that
define moments in the history of particular mediums. The technological
innovations that facilitate fuller integration of storytelling into video-
games, for instance, have led directly to the phenomenon of ludonarrative
dissonance discussed in a later chapter.
The stupid, then, is what is in excess of established narrative conven-
tions—be that mode, genre, or some other media storytelling conveyance.
Although somewhat suspicious of it, Eugenie Brinkema, speaks to the
concept of “excess,” which certainly shares some affinities for what we are
calling the “stupid”: “The concept of excess spoke to the ways in which a
text’s contradictions, ruptures, and non-coherences could be more impor-
tant to a reading than its apparent seamlessness. Although film theory, not
unlike Barthes, moved between structuralist and poststructuralist phases,
this insistence on the too-much dimension of films, the always-beyond
quality that cannot be reduced to coded narrative structures, is a central
poststructuralist problematic. In the history of film theory, one shorthand
for this switch to poststructuralism would be the shift from codes-in-texts
to texts-in-process.”48 The stupid, in this sense might be in process. As the
boundaries of narrative are pushed, and formerly “excessive” practices are
assimilated, what is excessive (or in our case, stupid) also changes.
The stupid potentially has more affinities with music than with cine-
matic narrative conventions. Music and lyrics need not make sense, rather
we are typically invited to enjoy music on the order of rhythm and har-
mony. The stupid, we postulate, has been an integral part of the cinematic
arts from its inception. The French Impressionist filmmakers, for instance,
were not exclusively interested in narratives, but rather in eliciting sensa-
tion and emotion through cinematic devices—superimpositions, visual
distortions, rhythm (sometimes quite frenetic) editing, and so on.
Filmmaker and theorist Jean Epstein, as Martine Beugnet observes, advo-
cated for “film as the medium of flux.” Epstein traded in the stupefaction
of the cinematic, not only in the integrity of the image but also in the
“spatio-temporal anchors that are cut adrift.” The cinematic is movement
for Epstein “and as such, it contradicted all knowledge systems based on
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  15

the establishment of stable rules.”49 The innovations of the French

Impressionists clearly influenced the surrealist filmmakers that would fol-
low, and even American melodramas. The overwrought moments in
melodrama were frequently accompanied by cinematic devices such as dis-
solves, an image thrown out of focus, a flashback, and/or the swelling of
a non-diegetic score, in contrast, the stupid in contemporary media marks
the resurgence of the untamed attraction.
The stupid in many instances is exhilarating, and it very well might elicit
physiological symptoms in the viewing body. Sweaty palms elicited by a
stupendously choreographed chase scene. Accelerated heartrate as a
response to gameplay. An exasperated, “What the …!” at an unexpected
turn in narrative structure. Arousal occasioned by the highly fetishistic
treatment of bodies, perhaps accompanied by mouth thrown agape, and/
or some non-verbal utterance. The much-maligned Michael Bay, or any
other tentpole spectacle-driven filmmaker, very well might be the object of
scholarly ridicule. And even to some scholars, heaping ridicule is lending
Bay too much credit, but this willful disregard (because it is “below us”),
fails to acknowledge that Bay is masterful in creating cinematic sequences
that are thrilling. What is it that makes these films viscerally affecting?
Perhaps, even despite their narrative stupidity, these films have the poten-
tial to still be enthralling—and dare we say it, innovative enough to stake
a claim for the stylistic vernacular of contemporary Hollywood.
Like music, where even to the completely untrained ear, we somehow
innately anticipate the flow of particular rhythms, harmonies, and pattern
of notes—correspondingly, dissonance, then, only exists because of our
conditioned response to music. Stupidity emerges on the occasion where
narrative expectations are shattered—creating what we call “narrative dis-
sonance.” Different from a surprising plot twist, narrative dissonance per-
tains more to narrative syntax than it does to narrative content. In effect,
it has more to do with form than content. The composer Arnold Schoenberg
actively incorporated dissonance into his musical scores. As Adorno recog-
nized, Schoenberg deliberately played with commonly held musical con-
ventions that subsequently sounded dissonant precisely because they
countervailed standard principles. Far from immutable, dissonance reveals
not simply the negative possibilities of consonance, but the imaginative
potential beyond reified norms.50 Narrative dissonance, similarly, wields
the potential to spurn critical ire and exasperated wonderment all at the
same time. In the medium of videogames, the particular context of narra-
tive dissonance, known as “ludonarrative dissonance,” occurs when there
16  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

is a disjunction between the espoused principles of a game’s narrative and

the structures of its gameplay (notable in the Uncharted series, Bioshock
and Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare, and South Park: Phone Destroyer
among others). Confronted with narrative dissonance, or ludonarrative
dissonance spectators, or gamers, are likely to be stupefied. At least
for a time.
Just as music wants to be dissonant (as Adorno insists), the cinema (and
other media) wants to be stupid. History, storytelling imperatives and pro-
hibitions, convention, habituation beat narratives into submission—drub-
bing the stupid right out of narrative. This is not to suggest that the stupid
is eclipsed altogether, rather it is simply tamed, groomed, made to con-
form. And this is what makes innovations—be that technological, or evo-
lutions in storytelling modes (e.g., long format television)—so susceptible
to the stupid: they have yet to experience in a sustained manner the sting-
ing pain of critical censure, or perhaps even worse the shameful loneliness
of utter indifference. There are, however, instances where the naked dis-
play of the stupid finds its audience.
Just as a tamed dog has lurking within it an untamed wolf, and if pro-
voked could maul; likewise, the narrative (whatever its form, or mode) has
within its very fibers the stupid.51 “The temptation,” of course, as Avital
Ronell notes, “is to wage a war on stupidity as if it were a vanquishable
object—as if we still knew how to wage war or circumscribe an object in a
manner that would be productive of meaning or give rise to futurity.”52
The stupid is always already present, and always already threatening its
punk rock insurgency, as it seems as though it is the unspoken duty of all
critics and scholars to stand guard and prepare to do battle with it. But the
stupid “exceeds and undercuts materiality, runs loose, wins a few rounds,
recedes, gets carried home in the clutches of denial—and returns.
Essentially linked to the inexhaustible, stupidity is also that which fatigues
knowledge and wears down history.”53 Stupidity is not the opposite of
knowledge, or “meaning” as such, but rather is an unaccountable, unas-
similable excess. Or perhaps more accurately, the stupid is that yet-to-be-­
assimilated excess, because innovations or creative outbursts at the fringes
that might seem “incoherent,” “wild,” “untamed,” or stupid can be for-
malized into a motif and incorporated into the standard storytell-
ing regime.
As with narrative dissonance, media texts might be implicitly, or on
some occasions quite explicitly labeled as stupid because they run afoul of
genre. Critics unable to contextualize untamed media, might express
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  17

f­rustration, and perhaps without explicitly saying as much dismiss it as

stupid. The videogame Gone Home, is exemplary of this. The game “fails”
to conform to preconceived notions of gameplay, and thus earned the
scorn of gamers as a “walking simulator.” A number of critics, however,
also praised the game on precisely the same grounds—for expanding the
potential of gameplay, and how that might intersect with innovations in
storytelling.
Given our understanding of stupid media, employing the standard cri-
terion of narrative assessment—for example, character development/
motivation, narrative arc—is perhaps not always the most effective mea-
sure. In fact, such novelistic-based paradigms of assessment are ill-­
equipped, or simply cannot account for the excesses of stupid media. The
assumption that cinematic narratives are (or should be) coherent linear
events set in a cause and effect regime is specious because this reified para-
digm precludes from consideration cinematic texts that are more episodic.
If the cinematic text does not conform to this presupposed criterion, then,
it is ruled stupid. Aristotle’s critique of the episodic notwithstanding, in
many instances, we find that stupid films are episodic: a series of vignettes
strung together to varying degrees of cohesion. Genre films are rarely
considered “good” precisely because of their tendency to rely on formu-
laic structures in which set pieces are effectively plugged into, or seen from
a slightly different perspective they lack “organic” narratives motivated by
specific cause and effect relations. Musicals, horror, action films, and por-
nography are genres that are generally more episodic—a series of discrete
numbers with morsels of narrative located within the interstitial spaces
between them. But even established genres might be given a “pass” if they
“color within the lines” so to speak. However, if a genre film introduces
an aberrant element this might invite scholars, critics, and the general
viewing public to heap scorn upon the offending material—to call it stupid.
Storytelling that does not conform to conventions of linear cause and
effect relations might be characterized as stupid: films that sit between
genre categories, narratives that are episodic and/or structured according
to spatial relations. Videogame narratives, for instance, are less about lin-
ear cause and effect relations—which is the product of temporal events.
Videogames, more often than not, are predicated on exploring spatial
fields, and it is through this exploration that a videogame narrative might
unfold. Consequently, the narrative unfolds according to movement, and
often in individuated units—and hence episodic—that are assembled
according to gameplay as opposed to a prescribed narrative arc. “Spatial
18  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

stories,” Henry Jenkins observes, “are often dismissed as episodic—that is,

each episode (or set piece) can become compelling on its own terms with-
out contributing significantly to the plot development, and often the epi-
sodes could be recorded without significantly impacting our experience as
a whole.”54 Particularly since the millennium ludologists have, among
other things, wrestled with the intersection of narrative and gameplay. The
convergence of media compels us to consider research in areas that have
attempted to negotiate the specularization of narrative. While disciplinary
ego invites us to think about the ways that videogaming has appropriated
cinematics, however, we should also consider the ways in which the cin-
ema has appropriated videogame aesthetics, formal elements, and story-
telling strategies.
Genre films such as melodrama, horror, and pornography—the trifecta
that constitutes the body genres as determined by Linda Williams—are
frequently cast as the “poor cousins” to more “serious” or more “authen-
tic” dramatic narratives. While the latter follow venerable narrative con-
ventions, and are principally concerned with character motivation that
appeals to the spectator’s emotions, the former on the other hand tend to
be organized as episodic units that punctuate linear narrative progression,
and that appeal more directly to the body and the sensate experience (cry-
ing, jumping, cumming). The musical too interrupts narrative progression
with song-and-dance numbers. Videogaming, and the assimilation of vid-
eogame aesthetics/narrative form into cinematic storytelling shares cer-
tain affinities with the body genres. As with the established network of
body genres, videogaming invites the spectator/player to imitate the sen-
sate experiences onscreen—oral utterances upon failure or the completion
of a major feet, the physical dodging of objects. These haptic experiences
are generally prized over and above narrative coherence and resolution.
Scholars and popular critics alike tend to fetishize narrative. The inflated
value of narrative structure squeezes out other possible critical paradigms
that might be mobilized to assess different modes of storytelling. It’s not
that these “alternative” modes of storytelling are somehow better than a
more “conventional” linear narratives, rather what we call for is a willing-
ness to be open to other modes of assessment—to broaden our array of
tools to apprehend storytelling that is not necessarily suited to traditional
modes of narrative analysis.
Although our focus is on contemporary media practices, the stupid is
by no means a new phenomenon. Take for instance a film like Easy Rider
(Dennis Hopper, 1969): the narrative of the film is repeatedly ­“interrupted”
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  19

with driving sequences set to 1960s rock anthems like Jimi Hendrix’s “If
Six Was Nine.” These driving sequences depict the scenic trip that the two
counterculture characters are on; traveling from the American southwest
enroute to New Orleans. These driving sequences capture some of the
most breathtaking picturesque landscapes of the American southwest, and
some of the most iconic (and sometimes melancholic) images of southern
poverty—perhaps bordering on poverty porn. These driving sequences are
highly stylized with kinetic cinematography and rhythmic editing—they
are in effect music videos before such a thing properly existed. Insofar as
the narrative is concerned the driving sequences are “meaningless,” and
instead revels in audio/visual stimulus treated in a highly embellished
fashion. It should be noted, though, that the emergence of stupidity in a
media text means that they are rendered “unintelligible.” The editor for
Easy Rider, Donn Cambern, recounts that following a screening for
Columbia studio executives there was a long pause, Leo Jaffe, chairman of
the board, finally stood up and pronounced, “I don’t know what the fuck
this picture means, but I know we are going to make a fuck of a lot of
money.”55 A compendium of numbers, no meaning per se, but gripping all
the same. We might dismiss Jaffe as just a stuffy square executive, but what
this anecdote illustrates is how innovations in storytelling conventions
may stupefy. This is all to say that the stupid in media is not necessarily
new, this however is our focus precisely because the stupid tends to mani-
fest in technological, stylistic, and narrative innovations that fails to con-
form to established narrative regimes.

The Contours of Stupidity

What we have attempted to do in this opening chapter is to set the stage
for a discussion on the stupid—how we conceive it. We have organized the
remainder of the book thematically, focusing on different manifestations
of the stupid: “The Stupid in the Contemporary Hollywood Vernacular,”
“The Stupid in Genre Fails,” “The Stupid as Narrative Dissonance,” and
“The Stupid as Ludonarrative Dissonance.” Within each thematically
framed chapter, we include a series of case studies, media that we take to
be exemplary of the respective manifestation of the stupid. This is not to
suggest that these are the examples of the stupid, but rather are illustrative
of a particular kind of stupidity.
In Chap. 2, “The Stupid in the Contemporary Hollywood Vernacular,”
we take as our primary example the much-maligned Transformers ­franchise.
20  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

In these films, and so many like them, action sequences (typically battles,
or chases) are rhythmically insinuated into the narrative—narrative-­
spectacle-­narrative—in the same way that musical numbers punctuate the
musical genre. But in these films action is also directed to infect its narra-
tive buffers, pushing the whole syntactic enterprise to or beyond the edges
of coherence and comprehension. The conventional wisdom suggests that
the number frustrates the advancement of the narrative. There are instances
though, of course, where a number (a song-and-dance, sex scene, chase
sequence) does not halt narrative progression, but advances it. Bollywood
films, for example, as Rajinder Dudrah describes, insists that song and
dance numbers in Bollywood films are “narrative accelerators,” where the
numbers are critical in advancing plot elements—miss the number and
miss a significant feature of the narrative.56 Or, if taking a less apologetic
position, then, illustrating that the spectacle is the narrative, it is not a
design flaw, it is not a narrative mistake, but rather the spectacle is the
whole point of the thing. Likewise, this iteration of the contemporary
Hollywood vernacular incorporates, in its full-throttle embrace of action,
the energy of the frenetic action into its editing and cinematography. A
premium then is placed on the sensation of the action, rather than fidelity
to intelligibility and spatial integrity. This new attempt at a vernacular, by
conventional standards, then, comes at the expense of continuity editing
and camera placement/movement. Furthermore, because the spectacle is
the point of the thing, narrative conventions (e.g., character arc) are
deemphasized, or colonized by yet more action, to lend more storytelling
real estate to spectacles.
One facet of the stupid pertains to categories, whether something con-
forms to existing notions of a particular category. In our Chap. 3, “The
Stupid in Genre Fails,” we chart the problems that emerge when genres
evolve in some fashion—either through the introduction of technological
innovations (e.g., streaming services that invite innovations in long-­format
television, and interactive narratives), creative interventions in storytell-
ing, or the hybridization of genres. In some cases, these evolutions have
the potential to blossom into something vigorous and exciting, while on
the other hand, they might encounter a negative response from critics or
the general viewing public—in both cases though such developments
(especially when first encountered) might stupefy and be considered a
genre fail. With time, however, even the most contemptuously treated
media might well be recouped. If the stupid is repeated enough, then, it
becomes a motif, a trope, and ceases being stupid, and is assimilated as one
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  21

of many narrative devices storytellers can deploy. In time Richard Hell

leads to Green Day.
While Chap. 3 contends with types of narratives, Chap. 4, “The Stupid
as Narrative Dissonance” tackles the internal logic of narratives. While
conventional storytelling anticipates consonant narratives—coherent lin-
ear narratives that end with a satisfactory resolution—narrative dissonance
potentially unsettles the “smooth flow” of a narrative. We take Cartoon
Network’s Adventure Time as a particularly good example of narrative dis-
sonance. In addition to being simply bizarre, narrative rules are frequently
broken in Adventure Time, resolutions, for instance, might end on an
apparent negative (and in utterly unexpected fashion), or narratives might
well feel truncated, ending prior to what would be considered the estab-
lished expectation. Adventure Time is a particular case because it appears
to draw directly from Mikhail Bakhtin’s literary notion of the chronotope:
literally meaning “time space.”57 Bakhtin called this specific play with
space and time, often found in the Greek romance tradition, “adventure
time.” All manner of mayhem could befall the protagonist, but this makes
little difference to the overall narrative—all the little internal quests, all the
events in the adventure time have little or no bearing on the story. And
with the adventure time, the overall narrative appears to go nowhere.
Rather than following the conventional linear narrative arc, Adventure
Time, at times follows a videogame logic where narratives rely on spatial-
ized storytelling, rather than standard cause and effect progression.
Chapter 5, “The Stupid as Ludonarrative Dissonance,” negotiates the
relatively new possibilities for storytelling in the videogame form. While
the tension between gameplay and storytelling marked the emerging field
of ludology, what has emerged since, setting aside the debate of whether
games could (or should) ever tell stories, is ludonarrative dissonance. This
term describes an internal logic within a (video)game that puts the struc-
ture of gameplay (what actions should be taken to win) in conflict with
narrative impulses (a “negative” outcome for a character should you elect
to “play along” with the game structure). Bioshock is the first videogame
that has been cited as doing this in a sustained and notable way and is a
subject of discussion in Chap. 5. Fans are increasingly accommodating to,
and even anticipating ludonarrative dissonance. Rather than being a prod-
uct of poor design, game designers are now consciously building in
ludonarrative dissonance to intensify the narrative experience of video-
games. We also consider videogames that emphasize the story element,
which some conservative gamers would say, comes at the expense of
22  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

“good” gameplay. Gone Home is our example here. Lauded by progressive

game critics, and target of ridicule from facets of the gamer community,
Gone Home invites us to reconsider what a (video)game is, or can be.
So-called “casual games” too, typically simple phone-based games, begin
to interrogate the bounds of “serious” games.
While these specific examples are intended to illustrate particular mani-
festations of the stupid, they are not intended to be viewed as the represen-
tative of each manifestation. We could, for instance, in our “The Stupid in
the Contemporary Hollywood Vernacular” chapter have pointed to any
number of tentpole films—swap out the Transformers franchise for Pacific
Rim and its sequel, or The Fast and the Furious films. What we have dis-
covered along the way, is that the stupid is usually found at the forefront
of innovations in storytelling. Whether that is innovations in technology
or creative experiments that expand what is conceivable in storytelling
(narrative structure, genres, and modes of storytelling). Indeed, the stupid
is not a singular thing, but rather is symptomatic of a particular state. It
points to the never-ending evolutionary process of storytelling. When a
critic, a scholar, or the general public vociferously proclaims, “that’s stu-
pid!” while it might indeed be “bad,” at the same time it might also sug-
gest that the referent does not correspond to an existing category, that it
is a mis-fit.

Notes
1. Julia Kristeva, Intimate Revolt: The Powers and Limits of Psychoanalysis,
trans. Jeanine Herman (New York: Columbia University, 2002), 77. In an
email exchange with Lechte, Kristeva’s former student, he notes that he
would translate, “plus c’est bête, c’est mieux,” as “‘the sillier the better.’
However, a case could be made for the fact that ‘stupider’ is a more direct
opposite of ‘intelligent,’ which is the basis of the contrast Kristeva is trying
to make.” Burdick’s translation also gives this phrase as “the sillier the bet-
ter.” Julia Kristeva, “Ellipsis on Dread and the Specular Seduction,” trans.
Dolores Burdick, Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology: A Film Theory Reader,
Philip Rosen ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), 239.
2. David Bordwell, “Intensified Continuity: Visual Style in Contemporary
American Film,” Film Quarterly vol. 55, no. 3 (Spring 2002), 16.
3. Steven Shaviro, Post-Cinematic Affect (London: British Film Institute,
2011), 123.
4. Ibid.
5. Bordwell, 25.
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  23

6. Ibid., 23.
7. Ibid., 24.
8. Lisa Purse, “Affective Trajectories: Locating Diegetic Velocity in the
Cinema Experience,” Cinema Journal vol. 55, no. 2 (Winter, 2016), 156.
9. See the documentary on editing: The Cutting Edge: the magic of movie edit-
ing, Wendy Apple, 2004.
10. Matthias Stork, “CHAOS CINEMA: The decline and fall of action film-
making,” IndieWire, August 22, 2011, accessed November 10, 2018,
http://www.indiewire.com/2011/08/video-essay-chaos-cinema-the-
decline-and-fall-of-action-filmmaking-132832/. Bold text in original.
11. Tom Gunning, “The Cinema of Attraction[s]: Early Film, Its Spectator
and the Avant-Garde,” in The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded, ed. Wanda
Strauven (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006), 385.
12. Ibid., 384.
13. Ibid., 387. Elsewhere Gunning writes, “There are many ways of telling a
story in film, and some of them (particularly in cinema before the twenties
or, obviously, in avant-garde work) are clearly non-classical. In some genres
(musicals, crazy comedies) the attractions actually threaten to mutiny. By
describing narrative as a dominant in the classical film I wish to indicate a
potentially dynamic relation to non-narrative material. Attractions are not
abolished by the classical paradigm, they simply find their place within it.”
Tom Gunning, “‘Now You See It, Now You Don’t’: The Temporality of
the Cinema of Attractions,” The Velvet Light Trap 32 (Fall, 1993): 4.
14. Gunning, “‘Now You See It, Now You Don’t,’” 5.
15. Ibid.
16. Ibid., 6.
17. Shaviro, Post-Cinematic Affect, 127.
18. Ibid.
19. Ibid., 128.
20. Gunning, “‘Now You See It, Now You Don’t,’” 6.
21. Ibid.
22. Ibid., 7.
23. Ibid., 9.
24. Ibid., 10.
25. Ibid.
26. Martine Beugnet, “Introduction,” to Indefinite Visions: Cinema and the
Attractions of Uncertainty, Martine Beugnet, Allan Cameron, and Arild
Fetveit eds. (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2017), 6–7. In her
excellent book Cinema of Sensations Beugnet likewise invites us, in the face
of post-millennial trends, to recalibrate our “critical and theoretical
approaches and, possibly, [adopt] different viewing habits.” Martine
24  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Beugnet, Cinema of Sensation: French Film and the Art of Transgression

(Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2007), 32.
27. Gerry Canavan, “Why the Marvel Cinematic Universe Can Show Us a
Story, But Can’t Tell Us a Plot,” Frieze (blog), May 3, 2018, accessed
March 12, 2019. https://frieze.com/article/why-marvel-cinematic-
universe-can-show-us-story-cant-tell-us-plot.
28. Carl Plantinga, Moving Viewers: American Film and the Spectator’s
Experience (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), 14.
29. Aaron Kerner and Jonathan Knapp, Extreme Cinema: Affective Strategies
in Transnational Media (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2016),
12–14.
30. Susan Sontag, “Notes on ‘Camp,’” in Against Interpretation and Other
Essays (New York: Anchor Books and Doubleday, 1990), 275.
31. Ibid.
32. Ibid., 276–277.
33. Ibid., 277.
34. Ibid.
35. Ibid., 278.
36. Ibid.
37. Stephen Holden, “Ogled and Threatened on a Journey to Womanhood,”
New York Times, October 28, 2010, accessed November 10, 2018,
https://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/29/movies/29amer.html. Robert
Musil locates affinities between kitsch and the stupid: “Since throwaway
goods, junk, enter into the word kitsch principally through their associated
meaning of unfit, useless wares, but incapability and uselessness also form
the basis for our use of the term stupid, it is hardly an exaggeration to
maintain that we tend to address everything we don’t agree with—espe-
cially when, apart from that, we pretend to respect it as intellectual or
aesthetic!—as ‘somehow stupid.’ And in determining what this ‘somehow’
means, it is significant that the use of expressions for stupidity is shot
through and through with a second usage, which embraces the equally
imperfect expressions for what is vulgar and morally repellent and leads
one’s attention back to something it had already once noticed, the fateful
conjoining of the notions ‘stupid’ and ‘indecent.’ For not only ‘kitsch,’
which is the aesthetic expression of intellectual origin, but also the moral
words ‘filth!’ ‘repulsive!’ ‘horrid!’ ‘sick!’ and ‘insolent!’ are undeveloped
kernels of art criticism and judgments about life.” Robert Musil, “On
Stupidity,” in Precision and Soul: Essays and Addresses, eds. and trans.
Burton Pike and David S. Luft (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press,
1990), 277–278.
38. Sontag, 282.
39. Ibid., 283.
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  25

40. Ibid., 284.

41. Ibid., 291.
42. Greg Taylor also positions camp in relation to “reading” or “interpreta-
tion,” and consequently to the re-contextualization of a cultural produc-
tion: “The critic thus liberated the movie behind the movie; it was not the
movie everyone else saw, the one Hollywood technicians thought they had
made. That film was terrible; it was worth watching only because it might
be remade into something much more interesting, aesthetic even.” While
our mobilization of the stupid invites the spectator to “reconsider” stupid
media, we are not necessarily making value judgments. Stupid media very
well might be idiotic, or crass. Furthermore, Taylor’s positioning of the
camp critic (Taylor is specifically addressing the poet and film critic Parker
Tyler here), is still fundamentally adjacent to the “stupid critic.” Identifying
the stupid is not an exercise in demonstrating “superior powers of discern-
ment and connoisseurship,” as Taylor says elsewhere, but rather point to
the sometimes-uneasy integration of innovative storytelling devices. Greg
Taylor, Artists in the Audience: Cults, Camp, and American Film Criticism
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999), 53; 64.
43. Sontag, 284–285.
44. Mike Fahey, “Stupidity Escalates Exquisitely In Earth Defense Force 5,”
Kotaku, December 11, 2018, accessed April 20, 2019. https://kotaku.
com/stupidity-escalates-exquisitely-in-earth-defense-force-1831004222.
45. Ibid.
46. Speaking to the tradition of cult cinema, Mark Jancovich notes, “These
films showings began in New York and brought together an eclectic series
of movies from excessively gorey art movies such as El Topo, horror classics
such as Romero’s Night of the Living Dead and the 3D version of Jack
Arnold’s Creature from the Black Lagoon, to movies such as The Rocky
Horror Picture Show or John Waters’ Pink Flamingos, both of which were
self consciously designed as cult movies.” Mark Jancovich, “Cult Fictions:
Cult Movies, Subcultural Capital and the Production of Cultural
Distinctions,” in The Cult Film Reader, eds. Ernest Mathijs and Xavier
Mendik (New York: McGraw Hill and Open University Press, 2008), 159.
47. For a fuller discussion of gross-out comedy see, inter alia, Geoff King, Film
Comedy (New York: Wallflower Press, 2002).
48. Brinkema, 42.
49. Beugnet, “Introduction,” 10.
50. Another potential way to think about the stupid is awkwardness. Adam
Kotsko specifically positions awkwardness in relation to the violation of
norms. See Adam Kotsko, Awkwardness (Washington, Zero Books, 2010),
17.
26  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

51. Ronell similarly compares “stupidity” to the foreigner, “… stupidity as a

foreign body that can be neither fully repelled nor successfully assimilated.”
Avital Ronell, Stupidity (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2002), 12.
52. Ibid., 3.
53. Ibid.
54. Henry Jenkins, “Game Design as Narrative Architecture,” in Noah
Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan (eds.), First Person: New Media as Story,
Performance, and Game (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2004), 124.
55. Donn Cambern in the documentary, The Cutting Edge: The Magic of Movie
Editing (Wendy Apple, 2004). Emphasis added. Along similar lines,
Stanley Kubrick’s film 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) was not immediately
embraced by critics. On March 16th, at the 2019 annual Society for
Cinema and Media Studies Conference, Janet Staiger presented a paper
entitled, “2001 as the Ultimate Trip: Exposing Altered Spectatorship.” In
this presentation Staiger surveyed the initial lukewarm response to
Kubrick’s film. Repeatedly, film critics characterized the film as a “trip,”
“psychedelic,” or “surreal.” Staiger observes that the “non-typical aes-
thetic features of 2001 facilitated the linkages between the movie and a
drug trip. Amongst these are the minimal dialogue, an oddly mixed
soundtrack, the ‘slow’ pace, and visual novelties.” Staiger drawing from
Harry Benshoff, notes that he suggests that “a film good for watching
while stoned or tripping is one which ‘regularly eschews or modifies classi-
cal Hollywood narrative form’ and has a ‘focus on spectacular aural and
visual effects’; it is ‘often episodic or nonnarrative’ or is a ‘anthology con-
cert film’ (Benshoff). David Church concurs, the ‘psychedelic film proper
devotes extended sequences to dazzling effects which audiovisually recall
hallucinogenic experiences, often through avant-­garde (or avant-garde-
inspired) techniques’” (Church). Staiger adds that 2001 was treated “as a
new kind of cinema,” from which debates emerged “whether or not films
should have ‘meanings,’ whether the ending of the film is ‘worth the
deadly boredom of the rest of [the] film,’ (Spinrad) whether this is a step
forward in science fiction, and whether the reason youth like this film so
much is because they have grown up in the visual environment of televi-
sion.” From the psychedelic and surreal, to the emphasis on “visual novel-
ties,” to the eschewing of “classical Hollywood narrative form,” to the
“episodic or nonnarrative,” to the “meaningless” all these things point to
what we are calling the stupid. See Harry M. Benshoff, “The Short-Lived
Life of the Hollywood LSD Film,” Velvet Light Trap 47 (2001), 31; Mark
Gallagher, “Tripped Out: The Psychedelic Film and Masculinity,”
Quarterly Review of Film and Video vol. 21, no. 3 (2003–04), 163; David
Church, “The Doors of Reception: Notes Toward a Psychedelic Film
Investigation,” Senses of Cinema 37 (June 2018), http://sensesofcinema.
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  27

com/2018/feature-articles/the-doors-of-reception-notes-toward-a-psy-
chedelic-film-investigation/; and Norman Spinrad, “2001: A Space
Odyssey,” Cinema vol. 4, no. 2 (Summer, 1968), 58.
56. Rajinder Dudrah interviewed by Scott Simon, “World’s Most Popular Film
Industry Turns 100,” Weekend Edition Saturday, NPR (December 21,
2013): http://www.npr.org/2013/12/21/256003573/worlds-most-
popular-film-industry-turns-100.
57. Mikhail Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, Michael Holquist
ed., and trans. by Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist (Austin: University
of Texas Press, 1981), 84.

References
Bakhtin, Mikhail. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, ed. Michael Holquist and
translated by Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. Austin: University of Texas
Press, 1981.
Beugnet, Martine. “Introduction.” In Indefinite Visions: Cinema and the
Attractions of Uncertainty, eds. Martine Beugnet, Allan Cameron, and Arild
Fetveit, 1–13. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2017.
Bordwell, David. “Intensified Continuity: Visual Style in Contemporary American
Film.” Film Quarterly vol. 55, no. 3 (Spring, 2002): 16–28.
Brinkema, Eugenie. The Forms of the Affects. Durham: Duke University Press, 2014.
Canavan, Gerry. “Why the Marvel Cinematic Universe Can Show Us a Story, But
Can’t Tell Us a Plot.” Frieze (blog). May 3, 2018. Accessed March 12, 2019.
https://frieze.com/article/why-mar vel-cinematic-universe-can-show-
us-story-cant-tell-us-plot.
Church, David. “The Doors of Reception: Notes Toward a Psychedelic Film
Investigation.” Senses of Cinema 37 (June 2018): http://sensesofcinema.
com/2018/feature-ar ticles/the-doors-of-reception-notes-toward-a-
psychedelic-film-investigation/.
Dudrah, Rajinder. Interviewed by Scott Simon, “World’s Most Popular Film
Industry Turns 100.” Weekend Edition Saturday, NPR, December 21, 2013.
Accessed November 10, 2018. http://www.npr.org/2013/12/21/256003573/
worlds-most-popular-film-industry-turns-100.
Edelstein, David. “Now Playing at Your Local Multiplex: Torture Porn.” New
York Magazine, February 6, 2006. Accessed November 10, 2018. http://
nymag.com/movies/features/15622/.
Fahey, Mike. “Stupidity Escalates Exquisitely In Earth Defense Force 5.” Kotaku,
December 11, 2018. Accessed April 20, 2019. https://kotaku.com/
stupidity-escalates-exquisitely-in-earth-defense-force-1831004222.
28  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Gunning, Tom. “‘Now You See It, Now You Don’t’: The Temporality of the
Cinema of Attractions.” The Velvet Light Trap 32 (Fall, 1993): 3–12.
Gunning, Tom. “The Cinema of Attraction[s]: Early Film, Its Spectator and the
Avant-Garde.” In The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded, ed. Wanda Strauven,
381–388. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006.
Holden, Stephen. “Ogled and Threatened on a Journey to Womanhood.” New
York Times, October 28, 2010. Accessed November 10, 2018. https://www.
nytimes.com/2010/10/29/movies/29amer.html.
Jancovich, Mark. “Cult Fictions: Cult Movies, Subcultural Capital and the
Production of Cultural Distinctions.” In The Cult Film Reader, eds. Ernest
Mathijs and Xavier Mendik, 149–162. New  York: McGraw Hill and Open
University Press, 2008.
Jenkins, Henry. “Game Design as Narrative Architecture.” In First Person: New
Media as Story, Performance, and Game, eds. Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat
Harrigan, 118–130. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2004.
Kerner, Aaron and Knapp, Jonathan. Extreme Cinema: Affective Strategies in
Transnational Media. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2016.
Kotsko, Adam. Awkwardness. Washington, Zero Books, 2010.
Kristeva, Julia. “Ellipse sur la frayer et la seduction spéculaire.” Communications
23 (1975): 73–78.
Kristeva, Julia. “Ellipsis on Dread and the Specular Seduction.” Translated by
Dolores Burdick. Wide Angle vol. 3, no. 3 (1979): 42–47.
Kristeva, Julia. “Ellipsis on Dread and the Specular Seduction.” Translated by
Dolores Burdick. In Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology: A Film Theory Reader, ed.
Philip Rosen, 236–243. New York: Columbia University Press, 1986.
Kristeva, Julia. Intimate Revolt: The Powers and Limits of Psychoanalysis. Translated
by Jeanine Herman. New York: Columbia University, 2002.
Musil, Robert. “On Stupidity.” In Precision and Soul: Essays and Addresses, ed. and
translated by Burton Pike and David S. Luft, 268–286. Chicago: The University
of Chicago Press, 1990.
Plantinga, Carl. Moving Viewers: American Film and the Spectator’s Experience.
Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009.
Purse, Lisa. “Affective Trajectories: Locating Diegetic Velocity in the Cinema
Experience.” Cinema Journal vol. 55, no. 2 (Winter, 2016): 151–157.
Ronell, Avital. Stupidity. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2002.
Shaviro, Steven. Post-Cinematic Affect. London: British Film Institute, 2011.
Sontag, Susan. Against Interpretation and Other Essays. New York: Anchor Books
and Doubleday, 1990.
Staiger, Janet. “2001 as the Ultimate Trip: Exposing Altered Spectatorship.”
Annual Society for Cinema and Media Studies Conference, Seattle,
March 16, 2019.
 1  THE STUPIDER THE BETTER  29

Stork, Matthias. “CHAOS CINEMA: The Decline and Fall of Action Filmmaking.”
IndieWire, August 22, 2011. Accessed November 10, 2018. http://www.
indiewire.com/2011/08/video-essay-chaos-cinema-the-decline-and-
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Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999.
 CHAPTER 2

The Stupid in the Contemporary Hollywood

Vernacular: Spectacularly Stupid Transformers

Introduction: “How Do You Smell Loud

and Confusing?”

We are in hell. In a scene from a recent episode of the NBC comedy show
The Good Place, one demon sprays another with a diabolical new scent:
“It’s called Transformers,” the demon tells his colleague, “it smells like
Transformers movies make you feel.” Later in the episode, the joke pays
off when another character encounters the sprayed demon and asks: “how
do you smell loud and confusing?”1 If the joke lands with us it is because
we recognize the truth within it. In 2009, Roger Ebert ascribed another
whiff of the demonic to the franchise in his review of Transformers:
Revenge of the Fallen: “If you want to save yourself the ticket price, go into
the kitchen, cue up a male choir singing the music of hell, and get a kid to
start banging pots and pans together. Then close your eyes and use your
imagination.”2
Of course, Transformers movies are loud and confusing; they are, in
important ways, designed to be so. Their untamed visual style and scat-
tershot storytelling engage us in ways that other movies do not and, if we
are either not inclined or not able to experience them with the untamed
joy of a 12-year-old (no matter our actual age) it is likely we will think they
are stupid. Indeed, the Transformers franchise has long been convenient
low-hanging fruit for jokes about bad moviemaking—in truth, we have
made them ourselves on occasion. And yet it is precisely because of the
franchise’s invidious reputation, because it sits squarely at the intersection

© The Author(s) 2019 31
A. Kerner, J. Hoxter, Theorizing Stupid Media,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-28176-2_2
32  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

of scholarly and popular-critical discussions of stupidity, because its own

iteration of stupidity is inscribed onto the history of Hollywood filmmak-
ing at a very particular moment and, finally, because it tests the implicit
assumptions of this book that stupid media is/can/should be creatively
complex, challenging, and even potentially transgressive, that discourses
around the Transformers movies are of particular interest to us.
For media journalists and movie buffs alike, this series of high-budget
science fiction films, based on a line of toys manufactured by Hasbro, has
become the sine qua non in the discussion of all that is commonly per-
ceived to be wrong, bad, lost, or otherwise deficient with contemporary
American commercial moviemaking. After all, Transformers movies typi-
cally present in ways that seem explicitly designed to antagonize film jour-
nalists. They just do not behave how proper movies—even proper
blockbuster movies—are supposed to behave. The long list of craft and, in
particular, special effects credits that follow every Transformers movie
argues that they are, indeed, creatively complex in their way. However, it
is harder to swim against the tide of popular critical opinion to argue that
they are also challenging, let alone transgressive (dysfunctionally or other-
wise). In the end (we feel we should feel) whatever else they might be,
Transformers movies are “not for us.”
Their reported sins are legion, chief among them: breaking storytelling
rules, devaluing character development, and fetishizing the (untamed)
attraction of hyperbolic kinesis on the screen. We will go on to argue that
Adventure Time, an animated show on the Cartoon Network, indulges in
similar creative digressions from storytelling norms. However, the popular
critical argument would go: Adventure Time is (maybe) for adults and
Transformers is a (stupid) tentpole movie franchise aimed primarily at a
(stupid) demographic with all the inevitable critical baggage that both the
(stupid) medium and (stupid) audience bring. Unlike Adventure Time,
which deploys its narrative dissonance in ways that imply, at the very least,
more than a degree of challenging and even transgressive sophistication, it
is easy to argue that a Transformers film glories in its own brand of knock-­
off dissonance by blasting its lektonic syntax at the viewer in an explosion
of empty affect. And yet, like its simian analog, this cinematic poop-­
flinging chimp of the tentpole era has proved, for many, to be compul-
sive viewing.
The Transformers franchise first untamed its spectacular attractions in
2007, deploying the stupid in order to stake a claim for the future ver-
nacular of the tentpole movie. In using the term we follow, for a certain
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  33

distance, the exegesis of the cinematic vernacular developed by Mikel

J.  Koven in his analysis of the Italian giallo horror/thriller genre in La
Dolce Morte: Vernacular Cinema and the Italian Giallo Film.3 Building on
the research of Christopher Wagstaff, Koven argues that the structural
form and spectacular tropes of the giallo served an industrial distribution
pattern in which these films were primarily to be watched by a particular
cultural audience (working class Italians) in a particular exhibition context
(terza visione cinemas).4 In short, and like other Italian popular filoni,
gialli were obliged to fight against the marginal attention of an audience
who went to the cinema as a social event, and for whom the content of the
film they had paid to see was of lesser importance than the interactions
going on in front of the movie screen. Koven argues that the electrocar-
diogram structure of the spectacular giallo—driven and punctuated peri-
odically by sequences of hyperbolic action, violence, and sexual
activity—was intended regularly to draw the audience’s attention back to
the screen. Thus, the form of the giallo was informed, inspired, and cer-
tainly delimited, at least in part, by its exhibition context. The genre devel-
oped a stylistic and structural vernacular to interface effectively with the
norms of a particular movie-going culture. Koven’s argument for an
Italian vernacular cinema is more nuanced than this, but it is enough, for
our purposes, to establish the relationship between genre, style, and
exhibition.
Consistently, the creatives behind the Transformers franchise have
pushed the narrative structure and film grammar of their movies in the
direction of the post-cinematic. In effect, they read the tea leaves of a con-
verging and accelerating global media landscape—and the emerging eco-
nomic lessons of 3D exhibition—to pre-position their cinematic vernacular
at the boundary of its medium in preparation for an anticipated battle for
relevance and market share. As we shall see, they framed and targeted this
competition less at competing tentpole movies than at other forms of con-
vergent and even transmedial entertainment (notably videogames and
theme park rides). The resulting cinematic formulation is simultaneously
structurally bloated and stylistically accelerated, as Lutz Koepnick notes,
comparing the director, Michael Bay’s work to a form of modernist exper-
imentation: “Bay’s world cinema is a world on steroids, a world in which
everything conspires to outpace the burdens of time, history, and mem-
ory; a world that futurist speed aficionados of the early twentieth century
would have loved to embrace.”5 Indeed, the intention that the Transformers
franchise would be defined in part by its hyper pacing was clearly built in
34  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

from early development, as Tom DeSanto (one of the first movie’s pro-
ducers) suggested back in 2003: “we believe we can create an incredibly
fast-paced, exciting movie that will be appealing to anyone who loves
action films.”6 For Koepnick, the fetishization of speed (of character
movement, of action, of shooting and editing regimes) in these films also
flushes out “whatever might prevent the individual from relishing the
pleasures of movement for movement’s sake.” Furthermore, this stylistic
vernacular “typically leaves audiences hapless, either mindlessly titillated
or thoroughly anaesthetized.” In sum then, for Koepnick the modernist/
post-cinematic vernacular of Bay’s movies is, indeed, designed to be loud
and confusing, rather in the way that an encounter with the sublime
assaults the senses: “Bay’s fast-cut images, his pounding soundtracks, his
hurried, albeit largely insubstantial narratives—all roll over the viewer’s
sensory systems and cognitive capacities like a steam engine.”7
We will return to the curious notion that there is something of the post-­
cinematic experiment about the Transformers franchise below. However,
the anticipated competition for audiences between the Hollywood tent-
pole, and other forms of convergent, transmedial, and post-cinematic
entertainment has not played out in quite the way Bay and the franchise’s
screenwriters anticipated. Indeed, we argue that the battle to define the
vernacular of the tentpole for domestic audiences (although arguably not
as clearly for international audiences) is currently being won over at
Disney, with the comparatively buttoned-down film grammar of the
Marvel Comics Universe (MCU).8 In effect, the writers and filmmakers at
Marvel Studios made their own bet on the needs of convergent audiences
by integrating their attractions more classically, through character and
story as much as through spectacle, drawing their tonal lessons as much
from 1990s indie and Indiewood cinema as they did from Space Mountain.
Nevertheless, although Transformers may be currently losing the box
office war to define the global popular cinematic vernacular, its movies still
speak to the untamed potential of the tentpole in a loud, confusing, and
yet still influential dialect (not least, of course, in emerging global fran-
chises like Pacific Rim). The franchise is, in this sense, a clear example of
the evolutionary stupid in convergent media; its vernacular now bypassed
by the mainstream tentpole and yet still strangely innovative in its way.
Transformers repeatedly broke and then remade movie syntax to redefine
what a movie might need to be in a vision of the end of cinema that has
not (yet) occurred. Indeed, Lutz Koepnick suggests that it is in the mar-
rying of film style to the global and transmedial production and ­distribution
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  35

contexts for Bay’s films, and especially for the Transformers franchise to
date, that “there are many good reasons to think of this cinema as perhaps
the most forceful expression of world cinema today, perhaps the truest
exemplar of what it means to design moving images for and in the world
under the conditions of twenty-first century capitalism.”9 The designed-in
spectacular stupidity of this untamed Transformers vernacular has certainly
proven to be a successful (if recently diminished) economic formula
although, perhaps inevitably, that very success has helped to stoke the fires
of critical approbation—for many, the Transformers franchise does not
deserve its own success.10
It is not hard to find examples of negative critical reaction to a
Transformers movie. A recent Google search of “Transformers stupid”
elicited approximately 6,300,000 results. At the top of the first page was
an excoriating review of the most recent entry in the franchise, Transformers:
The Last Knight (2017), from the respectably liberal British newspaper
The Observer, under the hyperbolic title: “Transformers: The Last Knight is
Sloppy, Stupid and Quite Possibly Evil.”11 The reviewer, Oliver Jones,
takes exception to a number of specific storytelling issues in the film, not
least among them the rewriting of Adolf Hitler’s suicide to provide a
throwaway plot device. He also makes a broader case that the franchise has
declined in quality over time, from merely enjoyable to actively meretri-
cious. “The series has become increasingly bereft of imagination,” Jones
intones, “something this installment attempts to make up for with a seem-
ingly bottomless budget and a battalion of screenwriters. All they are able
to dredge up is a visually and thematically muddled story and a flood of
graceless words that signify less than nothing.”12
Alongside his vitriolic tone, one of the most revealing aspects of Jones’s
response to the movie is a repeated attempt alternatively to pre-empt anti-
pathetic fan responses to his criticism, while championing what he per-
ceives to be the attenuation of fan interest in, or tolerance of the franchise
as a whole. Jones clearly feels the need to persuade himself and his implied
readership that Transformers may be on the wane, that we may be free of
it soon. He begins by positioning himself and the franchise’s implied fan-
dom in the familiar hierarchical oppositions of the elite and the popular, or
the critic and the audience. “[The movie] is loud and dumb,” there is a
pattern emerging here, “and it expects its fans to be the same in its
defense—to decry anyone who might take issue with it as elitist members
of this summer’s no fun squad.”13 Jones concludes, however, with a per-
sonal, anecdotal report of fan responses to the movie during a screening
36  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

he attended in Los Angeles. Here he tries to assume more of a common

cause with his fellow filmgoers. It is worth quoting his piece at some
length because his critique suggests avenues for further discussion that we
will follow in this chapter:

A note to those who would argue that a movie like this—or The Mummy or
Baywatch, for that matter—is for audiences and not for critics. When I saw
Transformers: The Last Knight at Universal CityWalk in Los Angeles a few
days before its national release, the full theater fell mute to the film’s sup-
posed jokes and thrills. The silly fun that was apparent 10 years ago in the
first movie in the series … has been pounded out by the corporate necessity
of every new installment. And the audience can feel it. They are reflecting
back upon the Transformers movies the same cynicism that oozes from every
cog of this empty, money-making enterprise. That’s probably not enough to
keep the film from grossing a billion, or to keep the next one, teased inevi-
tably and nonsensically at the end of The Last Knight, from coming to frui-
tion. But it does give us hope.14

For Jones, therefore, Transformers’s stupidity is a function of two linked

issues. Firstly, the content of Transformers: The Last Knight is “loud and
dumb,” with a script whose words somehow “signify less than nothing.”
This simultaneously aligns the movie against conventional critical dis-
course and places it in the oppositional, dismissible or, at least, liminal
category of “fun.” But this kind of fun is somehow distinct from the “silly
fun” of the first Transformers movie. What has changed? In Jones’s terms,
as the Transformers franchise has run its course the silly has been trans-
formed into the stupid. He locates the operating mechanism for this trans-
formation squarely within the conglomerate Hollywood institution, for
which the movies are made. The second part of his argument implies that
the seriality of the franchise has been debased by a strategy of out-bidding
born of “corporate necessity.” Each entry tries to out-do the last in terms
of the deployment, at the expense of conventional storytelling, of the kind
of kinetic attractions and set-piece sequences that are its calling cards to
fans. As Frank Kelleter and Andreas Jahn-Sudmann note in their discus-
sion of American television, there is a tendency of recent series to indulge
in out-bidding and one-upmanship by intensifying successfully established
strategies of distinction.15 The same often applies in Hollywood tentpole
franchise series and the Transformers movies have certainly embraced
inter- and intra-series out-bidding as a feature, not a bug. Koepnick makes
this very point in his study of Bay’s career: “The films themselves, h
­ owever,
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  37

have turned increasingly bigger, louder, and complex in their production,

design, marketing, commercial tie-in appeal, and global box office com-
mand.”16 As Ehren Kruger, a screenwriter on three entries in the franchise,
notes of his experience working with the director, Bay, “no matter [what]
idea I will pitch him, it will come out bigger.”17
Of course, Jones is far from alone among movie journalists in ascribing
stupidity to the Transformers franchise. Manohla Dargis’s 2007 New York
Times review of the first entry in the rebooted franchise spoke for many in
calling it (all together now, you know the words), “a movie of epically
assaultive noise and nonsense.”18 Bilge Ebiri, in The Village Voice, even
included a photograph of a page of his screening notes in his review
Transformers: The Last Knight. The words “WHAT IS HAPPENING” are
scrawled across it.19 His review is interspersed with several long “quota-
tions” of intentional semi-nonsense, utterances illustrating just how dis-
sonant the movie appears to his critical eye, just how far outside of
non-stupid critical discourse he deems it to have veered. The statement-­
fragments and question-fragments embedded in this nonsense include “so
much random stuff so much,” “it’s like you thought the earlier movies
were confusing,” and “actually how are adults supposed to understand any
of this,” thus he writes (to be clear, this is a direct quote):

fiiigjhkwetwnwwwjsahafajhwfohofoehaoowofoeoicioeciaqidjFaerlaeaffjgjlje
XGRSXSsfdsmfjjjsomuchrandomstuffsomuchegjwogpjwd bldklhjitslikey-
outhoughttheearliermovieswereeconfusinghahahah mfjff7ga98fhfhfplwxczc
howarekidssupposedtounderstandanyofthisVSSH gmnskglactuallyhowarea
dultssupposedtounderstandanyofthisjskjjlvr lmnkrjsljrjsaywhatyouwillbuton
ceuponatimejsogrjdvpvarivpaeimp grfggjsfsfpoemichaelbaycouldbringbeau-
tytoanactionsceneeeevgrhcgg oiwxgamanicpoetryfilledwithkineticgraceandher-
oismgjvbbp mnfwdwdwkpad3dkkalikewhateverhappenedtoTHATguydzxwqs
szmtheguywhomadetherockandbadboys2andeventhefirsttransformerswzns
hmnffrqerqrqpainandgaintoothatwasprettygoodhahqqxjpq3Oirgaraaem
hjsxsmvermavrbutnowhesbecomeaselfparodykljekwjkjjjejhar grmfagafafmmf-
hkjasxxandthecrazythingisheknowsitjcejjdagmfflrlrl 3jq3aefrabutdoesntseem
toknowhowtoescapeitzklWSCMC.20

Even when a critic was generally well disposed toward Transformers

they often felt the need to excuse, explain, or compartmentalize their
praise in some way. Roger Ebert, for example, enjoyed the first rebooted
Transformers entry, in 2007, with the caveat that the spectacular set pieces
38  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

are wearying: “the mechanical battle goes on and on and on and on … and
enough is enough.”21 For his part, the passionate contrarian Armond
White offered a wry corrective in dismissing conventional criticism of Bay,
and his films while simultaneously acknowledging their stupidity: “Why
waste spleen on Michael Bay? He’s a real visionary—perhaps mindless in
some way (he’s never bothered filming a good script), but Transformers 2:
Revenge of the Fallen is more proof he has a great eye for scale and a gift
for visceral amazement.”22 Read either with or against the grain, the popu-
lar discourse from critics around the source and symptoms of Transformers’s
stupidity offers openings for investigation, and for textual and contextual
analysis of the franchise, but it also proffers clear binary choices around if
and how we are expected to exercise even the most straightforwardly eval-
uative critical judgment.
Most film critics are hampered in this regard, not least because they are
neither trained in nor open to the stupid, but at least one journalistic critic
has acknowledged the challenge implicit in making just such a choice. Josh
Tyler of cinemablend.com, writing revealingly from the perspective of a
fan-critic, opens his review thus: “Transformers is astoundingly goofy, but
it knows it’s goofy and simply doesn’t care, which is why Bay’s film is so
much giant freakin robot fun. There’s no attempt to be serious.”23 He
goes on to position himself in opposition to Oliver Jones’s imagined “no
fun squad” in suggesting that there are two ways to review Transformers:

The right way is to look at it objectively, examining how the film is put
together and picking apart the script by pointing out the gaping logical gaps
present in it. I’ll be reviewing the film the wrong way, as a man who was
once a little boy crying because Optimus Prime was dead. Now whatever is
left of that kid inside me has had a wakeup call. The movie he’s been waiting
twenty years to see is finally here; Optimus Prime is back from the grave and
he needs my help.24

For Tyler, therefore, Transformers elides criticism because its stupidity

grants it a kind of immunity. Indeed, the franchise’s box office success has
occurred despite the almost universal disapprobation of the critics. Not
unlike Butters, in the South Park episode in which he thinks he has become
a vampire, the franchise has become other, and thus “ungroundable.” At
the same time, Tyler also senses that his emotional, fannish response is
somehow “wrong.” It makes him guilty of inappropriate critical behavior
and it does not mesh with his role as a responsible online popular cultural
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  39

taste arbiter. In his own defense, he testifies to his childhood Transformers

fandom. For all its “gaping logical gaps,” the movie still spoke to him
powerfully, in his gut. It is an eloquent fan rejoinder and Tyler’s “two
ways” offers us an opening for our own discussion of Transformers in this
chapter. Of course, in one sense we are guilty of considering the franchise
in the right way—Tyler’s right way, which is, by implication, also the
wrong way—and yet our analysis tries to occupy a both/and position. It is
prompted and informed by a desire objectively to account for and contex-
tualize exactly that intentional goofiness—the very stupidity that appeals
to audiences, and makes these movies ungroundable by critics.

Stupid Screenwriting
Stupid media, whether so defined under a scholarly or a journalistic grid,
does not just happen. Professionals from the creative media crafts strive for
the opportunity to write and produce it and they pay their mortgages with
the payment they receive for their labor. Indeed, the exercise of the profes-
sional craft of screenwriting in the Transformers franchise comes in for
particular criticism in the press and online, with the prevailing judgment
being that the series’s stupidity begins with its screenplays. We already
have Jones disparaging the “battalion of screenwriters” who contributed
to Transformers: The Last Knight, Tyler acknowledging the “gaping logi-
cal gaps” in a Transformers screenplay, and White claiming that Bay “never
bothered filming a good script.” However, professional screenwriting,
stupid or otherwise, does not happen in a vacuum either. Stupid media is
developed within and emerges from particular institutional contexts and
its particular variant of stupidity serves equally particular corporate goals.
In the media industries, there has always been a tension between what
Patricia F.  Phalen terms the “creative logic” of writers and the “market
logic” of executives.25 These terms are not mutually exclusive, rather they
are in tension because they represent the discursive poles of quality and
profitability and both exert their magnetic forces on the creative develop-
ment process. The easy assumption is that the further the balance between
these poles is shifted toward market logic in a media institution, the stu-
pider the products produced by that institution are likely to be. We should
consider the industrial and institutional contexts of Transformers’s writing
and development, therefore, to ask whether the franchise is—or was—
functionally distinct from cognate tentpole franchises. To what extent,
40  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

then, does it take a stupid Hollywood institution, and stupid Hollywood

crafts to produce a stupid franchise?
One important signal of the move toward stupid screenwriting in
Hollywood is that the globalized and conglomerated studios are no longer
in the business of buying many original scripts. Instead, in the so-called
tentpole paradigm, they now chase huge audiences by focusing on devel-
oping adaptations of already successful intellectual properties and other
franchises in-house. Smaller profits from smaller movies no longer register
within their conglomerate institutions, and this affects the kind of movies
they now make. The market for spec scripts—screenplays written not on
assignment but in the hope of a sale—is a fraction of the size it was in the
1990s. The Hollywood screenplay sales tracking blog, The Scoggins Report,
reflected on the parlous state of the spec market in March 2016 (and
things have not improved materially since that date): “By our count, there
were 93 spec script sales last year. That’s slightly up from 2014’s 90, not
far off the 7-year average, but way down from the mid-triple digit num-
bers we saw in 2011 through 2013. That said, those three years now feel
like outliers—in 4 of the last 7 years, fewer than 100 spec scripts sold.”26
The state of spec screenplay sales can be illustrated, albeit imperfectly, by
comparing those numbers to the roughly 50,000 screenplays registered
with the Writers Guild of America (WGA) every year.27
Another marker of the move toward stupid screenwriting is the increas-
ing economic importance of the global box office for the bottom lines of
Hollywood studios. In a recent piece for the Los Angeles Times titled
“R.I.P. for the spec script, long a source of some of Hollywood’s most
beloved films,” Chris Erskine checks the adaptation box as the primary
cause of the spec’s demise, adding that “economic forces, from globaliza-
tion to the downfall of the rental DVD market, were also cited as factors
in the death of the spec; talented writers’ increasing preference to work in
television is considered another factor.”28 In globalized Hollywood,
Erskine argues (quoting a former Sony executive), where foreign markets
have now eclipsed domestic in terms of revenue, the original spec often
reads as “too American … If you’re going to hit a global home run, then
you’re not going to be able to do that with an original screenplay.”29
Screenwriter Ehren Kruger explains the tentpole paradigm from the per-
spective of the market logic of an imaginary studio president:

The big studios are in a big money business. They’re all segments of major
corporate behemoths, and they need to be making movies that put people
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  41

in seats. And so that’s why you’ll have a studio president who looks at the
slate for the year and says, “We need to make five tentpole, four-quadrant
movies; we’re going to make a couple of romantic comedies, a couple of
horror pictures, a few teenage comedies, and one or two serious, award-­
caliber, fine filmmaker/movie star films. So that’s what we’re looking
to fill.”30

In short, the Transformers franchise emerges from a Hollywood indus-

try in which the major studios are now making very few, mostly very big
movies each year, with their eye on international markets, where many in
the audience do not speak English, and subtle dialog and complex charac-
terizations—long the staples both of “smart” writing and of the spec
screenplay—are no longer kings. On the other hand, explosions and giant
robots are inscribed prominently into the Rosetta stone of international
movie distribution. Transformers’s stupid vernacular is designed directly
to appeal to this conception of the international marketplace. Globalization
and conglomeration do incentivize the spectacular iteration of the stupid
in tentpole screenwriting. That was underscored in 2017 when Pacific
Rim, another “giant robot” movie driven by its own post-Transformers
tweak on the vernacular of untamed attractions, had a sequel greenlit
purely on the basis of international box office—the movie having fared
relatively poorly in the US.
As Kruger’s knowing incarnation of a studio president suggests, there-
fore, Hollywood is no longer in the business of making what we might
loosely refer to as conventional dramas. These dramas have moved to
smaller screens, meanwhile, in the battle of genre, the “stupid” B genres
defeated the “smart” A genres to dominate the feature film marketplace.31
This battle was won and lost some time ago, but it has taken a while for
the defeated genres to drag themselves to the edge of the field.
To a certain extent, stupid screenwriting has always been encouraged
and even coerced in Hollywood institutions by the polymorphous pres-
sures of market logic. Of course, commercial pressures are exerted on all
projects, whether deriving from spec or assignment screenplays. However,
that has never been more evident than in the last two decades during
which, as the Writers Guild of America claims, changes to the manage-
ment and contracting of screenwriting labor has significantly compro-
mised the originality of screenplays written on assignment. Professional
screenwriters complain that recent trends in employment practices, such as
one step deals and sweepstakes pitching, make vulnerable writers
42  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

­ isinclined to innovate or risk-take. The one step deal, for example, breaks
d
tradition by guaranteeing a writer only a single draft of a script. (Past prac-
tice was to contract the writer for at least two drafts, giving them the
opportunity to work with the studio, and its producers to revise and
improve a first draft.) With the one step, the pressure is on the writer to
second-guess studio intentions and to write to stay on the project, rather
than to explore its creative potential more freely. From the studios’ per-
spective, on the other hand, the one step deal saves time and money by
dropping projects quickly when they have no future. It also allows them to
hire relatively inexperienced (cheaper) writers for first drafts, to fire them
and replace them with A-list writers for subsequent development. This
also saves money because a rewrite fee is substantially less than a first draft
fee.32 In short, one step deals can also incentivize at least one definition of
stupid screenwriting and storytelling in Hollywood movie development.
Moreover, the major studios operating the tentpole paradigm valorize
conglomerate synergy over originality. Thus, their development practices
privilege franchises that can be cross-marketed between departments and
silos within the studio’s conglomerate master. Again, this is not, in itself,
especially new. Many of the lessons taught by Star Wars were learned in
Hollywood long before Bay was hired to make his first movie about toy
robots from space to sell toy robots from space. Nevertheless, the develop-
ment of spectacular Hollywood media is now more attendant than ever on
the particular iteration of market logic generated by conglomerate market-
ing departments as it is on other iterations of that logic once generated by
creative executives in the more independent, pre-conglomerate
movie studios.
There is another interested screenwriting constituency from which we
have not yet heard, however. The screenwriting paraindustry—made up of
the writers, professors, coaches, and others who trade both in the myth
and the reality of breaking into Hollywood screenwriting—has also been
vocal in decrying Transformers’s stupidity, according to their own profes-
sional lights. Of course, the paraindustry is principally invested in enunci-
ating, sustaining, and marketing normative storytelling paradigms, so it is
hardly surprising that divergence from established models has exercised
screenwriting “gurus.” The June 2017 posting, “How to Write a
Screenplay Bomb: Transformers: The Last Knight,” from Lucy V.  Hay’s
paraindustrial blog bang2write.com, offers an entertaining and pertinent
critique that encompasses the position of many others in her field. Her
website is intended not to review movies but to draw practical ­screenwriting
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  43

lessons from Hollywood storytelling for the benefit of her—presumably

aspirant screenwriter—followers.
Hay, a script editor, crime novelist, and an established author of “how-
­to” screenwriting books, is also sympathetic to the tentpole, to action, and
even to some of Bay’s other films, so her critique is perhaps more revealing
than that of a stuffier guardian of screenwriting’s normative best practice.
As she writes in her introduction: “As long as there’s some explosions,
some robots kicking the shit out of one another, some running, some
comedy, a bloke with his shirt off and a budget Angelina Jolie slinking
about the joint, then it’s usually a thumbs-up from me.”33
Hay takes a moment to praise instances of the film’s spectacle before
launching into an analysis of what she finds lacking in its (stupid) screen-
writing. The salient points of her critique of Transformers: The Last Knight
can be broken down as follows:

1. The movie is much too long, deploying multiple false endings that
become frustrating.
2. The story has a confusing and unmotivated inciting incident (or
moment of initial story impetus).
3. Frequently the writing pulls us out of the story with too many
instances of empty homage to other blockbuster films.
4. There are too many characters, some of which have little purpose in
driving the story.
5. The movie is unsure whether it is a thriller, a comedy, an action
movie or a mystery.
6. The movie suffers from an incoherent structure and plotting. It
begins in some vestige of control but then, as Hay notes, “After
Mad Anthony Hopkins turns up … all bets are off. This is when
Michael Bay and his team must have had a good toke of the crack
pipe and said: ‘Fuck it! Why not just put ALL our 3AM decisions in
here?!’”34

For Hay, therefore, the storytelling of Transformers: The Last Knight is

stupid because it is unbound by the conventional markers of genre,
because it over-indulges in meta-textual and intertextual reference, because
it breaks utilitarian rules of narrative economy, and because it frees itself
from the shackles of conventional causality in multiple ways. We have seen
all of these tropes of the stupid before, in other contexts. On her website,
Hay illustrates the stupidity of The Last Knight’s storytelling through a
44  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

complex diagram (below) that positions them explicitly as dysfunctional.

This diagram shows what stupid screenwriting looks like when it is repre-
sented graphically. In order to interpret the diagram, one must be aware
of the long-established conventions of para industrial storytelling models.
“Normal” feature film structure is located in the simple horizontal line,
broken by acts and by the midpoint and underscored by typical craft short-
hand for key plot points (set up, conflict, resolution). This three-act struc-
ture is, with minor variation, how the Hollywood screenwriting
paraindustry expects a movie story to develop and resolve. Its graphical
representation, at the heart of Hay’s diagram, clearly emphasizes the sleek
economy of the professional craft model. The rest of the diagram consists
of notes and prompts to the (stupid) storytelling accretions in Transformers:
The Last Knight that Hay identifies as being problematic in one way or
another. These accretions sit complexly adjacent to the central line of con-
ventional storytelling and literally muddle things up, making the whole
diagram much harder to read and to understand. Our eyes are drawn to
the series of stars below the “resolution,” for example, where Hay is sug-
gesting that the movie is guilty of too many false endings. Similarly, we
note the lines of cramped text at the top of the diagram that articulate plot
and story beats as homages and isolated moments. In sum, and just like
the movie whose structure and storytelling it attempts to represent, this
diagram is also loud and confusing (Fig. 2.1).
Importantly, Hay concludes by comparing the (stupid) story structure of
Transformers: The Last Knight to “every insane spec screenplay I have ever
read.” In so doing, she suggests that, in the craft terms of Hollywood fea-
ture screenwriting, those spec screenplays are stupid because their writers
either do not understand their profession at all or are still learning the basics.
Specifically, the scripts present as stupid because they do not internalize and
communicate clear answers to important para industrial questions like:

1. “WHO they’re FOR.” (Who their audience is.) She argues that the
movie would bore and confuse the children who are its core
demographic.
2. “WHAT they are.” She argues that the movie lacks genre consistency.
3. “WHERE they’re going.” Hay argues that the story switches track
and becomes distracted by the accretion of unnecessary material.
4. “WHEN they’re going to end.” Unlike Transformers: The Last

Knight, Hay argues, good genre movies do not outstay their wel-
come, and power toward dynamic conclusions.
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  45

Fig. 2.1  Illustrated chart produced by Lucy V.  Hay in an effort to explain
Transformers (Hay, Lucy V. “How to Write a Screenplay Bomb: Transformers: The
Last Knight.” Bang 2 Write (blog). June 26, 2017. Accessed February 19, 2018.
http://www.bang2write.com/2017/06/how-to-write-a-screenplay-bomb-
transformers-the-last-knight.html)

5. “WHY this story.” Hay, the sometime fan of that most commercial
of directors, Michael Bay, acknowledges that transparent commer-
cialism completely overwhelms story.

In making this connection between Transformers: The Last Knight and

the kind of naïve spec screenplay that would never make it past Hollywood’s
gatekeepers, Hay directly evokes a sense of amateurishness that runs coun-
ter to another kind of evidence, namely the professional, creative, and
corporate investments that have generated and sustained the billion-dollar
Transformers franchise. She concludes: “Characters simply CANNOT
carry the story on their own in screenwriting, however good they are.
Seriously, you need to watch it to understand WHY structure and plotting
is so key. I’m sicking [sic] of writers telling me structure is a ‘formula’—
46  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

IT’S NOT A FORMULA.  It’s a bloody framework. The likes of

Transformers: The Last Knight illustrates perfectly how writers need to
keep things simple and focus on their plot.”35
Finally, to gain a professional craft perspective from within the devel-
opment process of the franchise, we smash cut (although hopefully not
too loudly and confusingly) to a close up on Transformers’s stupid screen-
writing from the writer of three of the movies. Ehren Kruger, a former
recipient of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences’ prestigious
Nicholl Fellowship for new screenwriters, has spoken candidly and per-
ceptively in interviews about his experience of working with Bay. His
remark about how collaborating with the director inevitably makes ideas
“bigger” is entirely consistent with the authorial and commercial priori-
ties, on the part of the director and the producing entity of the franchise,
to expose, expand, and transcend the borders of conventional cinema.
Indeed, continual intra-franchise over-bidding has had the effect of narra-
tive distillation, of reducing story ever further toward the set piece. In our
terms, Bay and his collaborators have been deploying the stupid in an
attempt to move Transformers beyond conventional cinema. Kruger
explains how this priority was explicit in the collaborative story develop-
ment for Transformers: Age of Extinction. “I have pitched the kind of core
story … Then I start sitting down with Michael [Bay], just the two of us
in a room, and we start discussing visual ideas and how the story could
lend itself to spectacular sequences.”36 In another interview he doubles
down on how Bay’s style leads the story development process: “he’s a
very sensory director, and sometimes an ‘overload’ director. He’s some-
one who is always looking to top himself, certainly from an action per-
spective and a stylistic perspective. So very early on we’re throwing ideas
back and forth. We talk about sequences and visuals and moments.”37
Thus, the over-bidding of (stupid) spectacle is conceived and engineered
up front in the script development process, with other modes of storytell-
ing available to backfill later as necessary. Moreover, Kruger is open about
the (stupid) attitude to narrative logic that increasingly characterizes the
storytelling in the franchise: “When you’re talking about aliens, robotic
machines which disguise themselves as vehicles and animals, you start to
make your peace with the idea that logical sense doesn’t have to be the
be-all, end-all.”38
The freedom that Bay and his collaborators take to reinvent the defini-
tions and expectations of commercial cinema with the Transformers fran-
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  47

chise is both indicative of broader trends in contemporary cinema history

and of a specific and limited, hard-nosed economic judgment regarding
the status of cinematic tentpole entertainment vis a vis other media. On the
one hand, Transformers’s stupid reinvention of cinematic narrative is redo-
lent of Francesco Casetti’s formulation of cinema’s contemporary condi-
tion as both “attenuated”—allowing it to “insinuate itself in the crevices of
our social world”—and “redefined”—constantly asking us to “accept the
transformations it has undergone, and even to project them back in time
into its history.” He concludes: “Lightness and reinvention: If cinema is to
remain among us, these are the conditions that allow it to do so.”39 On the
other hand, in Kruger’s read, Bay positions Transformers in competition
not with other tentpole movies but with the haptic attractions of “Six
Flags.” As a consequence, the experience of writing a Transformers movie
sometimes felt to the writer like a “quasi-­experimental” practice more akin
to writing a Cirque du Soleil show than a Hollywood movie. In the end,
Kruger explains that Bay “is a populist entertainer, and he’s delivering
spectacle the way that P.T. Barnum promised … He always wants to push
thrills, spectacle, humor, and fun. Somewhere way down the list is “all the
‘i’s must be dotted” for old-fashioned narrative practices.”40
Again, and again, therefore, the screenwriting of Transformers has been
critiqued on the basis of incoherence, on the basis that it abandons the
norms of proper Hollywood storytelling in the quest for a different kind
of movie going experience. What becomes palpably self-evident is the way
in which Bay wholeheartedly embraces the cinema of attractions and its
attendant relation to—and indeed active competition with—fairground
fun. In the commonsense critical vernacular, therefore, Transformers is
stupid because its writing is divergent. On the contrary, we have argued
that the scripting of the Transformers franchise is in important ways both
symptomatic of wider shifts in Hollywood development practices and pri-
orities as well as with creative tendencies in contemporary tentpole screen-
writing more broadly. However, it is also undeniable that Transformers
movies are not merely stupidly constituent with other tentpoles, they are
indeed also stupidly distinct. Ehren Kruger’s account of story develop-
ment with Bay reminds us of the degree of creative intention that lies
behind the untaming of their attractions and now we need to follow the
franchise into production to account for the relationship between stupid
screenwriting and stupid style.
48  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Stupid Style
We argue that, as of this writing, the Transformers franchise has been a
leading exemplar of contemporary studio production in that the films have
been sites for a targeted, convergent, and experimentally post-cinematic—
or perhaps even post-narrative—drive for corporate synergy in which the
perceived failings of its movie storytelling—the “commonsense” of
Transformers’s structural and stylistic stupidity—are variously recapitu-
lated and reified by the creative team behind the movies as features, rather
than bugs. In other words, we argue that, while in conventional terms
Transformers movies are stupid, the intentionality behind their stupidity,
the specific nature of their deviations from normative storytelling para-
digms, elevates them into a more interesting category, one that is more
than adjacent to the terms of our investigation.
Transformers movies are one iteration of the contemporary stupid stylis-
tic—deploying their untamed attractions to lure audiences with the promise
of going on an exhilarating ride. And this is precisely what many critics and
scholars fear. The New Yorker’s film critic David Denby joins Oliver Jones in
arguing that the stupidity of the Transformers franchise is symptomatic of a
broader shift in the style of Hollywood storytelling. He codifies the result of
this shift as “conglomerate aesthetics”; in our terms, he might as well have
called it stupid aesthetics. “The language big movies are made in,” he writes,
“the elements of shooting, editing, storytelling, and characterization—is
disintegrating very rapidly and in ways that prevent the audience from feel-
ing much of anything about what it sees.”41 In short, Denby’s critique calls
out conglomerate aesthetics as relying on recycling and cliché. He empha-
sizes the replacement of drama, which elicits emotion, with mere move-
ment, which he suggests provokes an empty haptic response in the audience.
He reads back this absence of emotion as stupidity—as “a zero degree of
meaning.” Under this grid, then, contemporary cinema repeatedly thwarts
psychological investment in characters (this is what “normal,” or “good”
films do), and instead trades heavily in “sensory excitement.” Cinema has in
a sense become utterly meaningless, disposable, and plays simply to the
body, and its sensations.42 And in this sense, the Transformers cinematic
franchise might share affinities with the pornographic genre.
The style of Transformers, at least the refraction of that style through
the lens of Bay’s popular critical reputation, has proved easy to lampoon.
“Michael Bay Presents: Explosions!” an animated sketch in the form of a
parody movie trailer from Robot Chicken, pokes fun at the director’s style
by turning its humor around the idea that he is producing an increasingly
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  49

stupid—an increasingly lektonic form of cinema, exactly equating to

Denby’s complaint of a zero degree of meaning in conglomerate aesthet-
ics. The sketch first reduces Bay’s approach to cinematic storytelling to the
explosion and then moves to remove the last vestiges of conventional sig-
nification by taking progressively larger bites out of the language of the
titles that are intercut with explosion gags onscreen. First, “MICHAEL
BAYSPLOSIONS,” then, “MI-BA-BLA-BA SPLOSIONS!!!!” followed
by, “MICHAEL BLA-BLA SPLOOM!!!” and finally, “MA BA
SPLOOM.”43 Although this sketch digs a little deeper than most, other
parodies of Bay’s style posted to YouTube also equate it to a combination
of explosions, bright lights, and hyperactive editing. Often these parodies
recut existing movie trailers under titles such as: “What if Michael Bay
directed Up?” or “If Michael Bay directed Toy Story 3.” In each case the
joke is, once again, to transform the original film into the stupid by the
addition of elements of a kinetic, aspirationally lektonic movie syntax.44
Transformers movies deploy their untamed attractions in a manner that
exhibits many of the characteristics of other stupid media—episodic, dis-
sonant, and visceral. What Bay does best is spectacle, and it is Bay that is
emblematic of a post-millennial cinematic vernacular. Take, for instance,
the chase scene through the streets of London in the 2017 installment of
the franchise, Transformers: The Last Knight. The geography of London is
nearly impossible to discern—in fact, from shot to shot the “real” geogra-
phy of London is disregarded. Unsurprisingly, the spatial integrity of the
locations is sacrificed in favor of action. But the license that filmmakers
take with “real” locations is nothing new, think of Kuleshov, for instance,
so this in itself—save their knee-jerk response—should not spurn the
indignation of critics. Exotic high-performance sports cars race through
the streets. The duration of shots in some instances are reduced to a blink
of an eye. The mobile objective camera, like the sports cars that it depicts,
appears to be mere inches off the London pavement. And like the cars
themselves, the camera also swerves, and pivots, echoing the fishtailing of
the vehicles.
The exotic cars (and not to mention robots) are highly fetishized. The
color of the cars is clearly intended to stand out from the police, the inter-
national agency (driving black Lexuses) pursuing the protagonists, and
civilian vehicles minding their own business. Bay’s signature low angled
circular camera movement typically reserved for characters in dialog (recall
Bad Boys II, “This shit just got real”), is also lavished upon the vehicles.
The curves and the design of the cars are embellished with low angled
50  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

shots analogous to the treatment of Bay’s heroic male protagonists. While

normative young male (boyhood) libidinal energy is directed toward the
wonders of the mechanical world, from adolescence to adulthood typically
that libidinal investment is redirected to the female body. In-between
these points of cathexis though is the strange fetishistic economy that
combines these—pin-up girls leaned up against muscle cars, suggestively
straddling a motorcycle, or some other mechanical marvel. The infamous
Carl’s Jr. commercial featuring Paris Hilton, for instance, exemplifies this
strange convergence.
The car fetish is particularly potent in American culture. The car is inex-
tricably bound to the American ethos of autonomy, mobility, and self-­
determination.45 David Laderman observes that the opening of Bonnie
and Clyde “foreshadows the film’s association of freedom with the road
and stolen cars.” Clyde cases Bonnie’s mother’s car, and as he does Bonnie
voyeuristically gazes out at Clyde from her mundane home, “most nota-
bly” as viewed through the “bars of her bed as the visual equivalent of a
prison. She is bored, restless, and confined.” Laderman continues to note
that Bonnie’s attraction to Clyde, at least in part, is “because of his asso-
ciation with the car, and the liberation the two together signify for her.
The car and its potential mobility are thus set up as the casual vortex of
their meeting, and the start of the story.”46 The Transformers films perhaps
queers this fetishistic economy—where the male protagonists, in particu-
lar, are deeply invested in their Transformer/cars, which invariably are
coded male.
The first of the Bay Transformers films capitalizes on the convergent
fetishistic economy—where fetishistic treatment of the female body is cou-
pled with the fetishistic treatment of cars. With the first Transformers film,
Sam Witwicky, a bookish and insecure adolescent boy, purchases his first
car: a vintage 1977 Chevrolet Camaro. Little does Sam know it, but the
Camaro is inhabited by the Transformer, Bumblebee (Bee). Not only is
Sam’s car a ticket to autonomy and mobility, it is also an avenue leading to
masculinity and sexual maturity. Bee in effect serves as Sam’s much-needed
wingman, coaching and coaxing him into situations where he might actu-
alize his sexual awakening. Bee brings Sam and Mikaela Banes (Megan
Fox) to a secluded area, feigning car trouble, all the while playing Marvin
Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” on the car radio (this is summarily followed with
James Brown’s “I Feel Good”).
Mikaela puts up her hair and tells Sam to open the hood as Sam hope-
lessly stammers ineptly trying to explain away the sexually charged situa-
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  51

tion. Mikaela opens the hood to reveal a spotless chrome-gilded

engine—the sound track echoes the awe-inspiring sight with a strong
metallic twang. The non-diegetic audio parrots the drawn-out boyish
expression of, “damn!” which might be uttered in exasperation when
encountering the female form that corresponds to the subject’s fetishistic
fantasy. However, in this particular case the fetishistic object is not a female
body, but an eight-cylinder engine that rests neatly in an unusually pristine
engine compartment. Mikaela announces that “Wow, nice headers. You’ve
got a high-rise double pump carburetor, that’s—pretty impressive Sam.”
The sexually suggestive character of the dialog is impossible to miss, espe-
cially when it is coupled with the highly fetishistic cinematography that
emphasizes Fox’s body. Although the vaguely circular camera movement
is evident here, there is a reverse close up shot of Mikaela’s face that inter-
rupts the circular movement. In fact, the camera doubles back and repeats
the circular movement (though highly truncated now), and with tighter
framing. Sam, however, does not return Mikaela’s gaze in the standard
shot/reverse shot formation; rather Sam is transfixed by something else:
Mikaela’s exposed midriff. The low riding mini skirt coupled with the
snug-fitting top, that emphasizes Fox’s buxom figure, exposes her taut
slim waist. Fox’s golden complexion glistens in the sunlight—the treat-
ment of her exposed midriff is deeply embellished (clearly greased up to
gleam in the sun). Assuming Sam’s point of view the camera pans up from
Mikaela’s exposed midriff to her torso and long dark hair as her body
gyrates—supposedly, jiggling on the loose distributor cap. Close ups of
Fox’s face emphasize her shocking blue eyes set in contrast with her tan
complexion, dark eyebrows, and hair. While the fetishistic economy of the
pin-up girl and car are self-evident here, the spectacle of Camaro-engine-­
Fox do not halt the narrative altogether, rather the spectacle drives the
narrative. The spectacle speaks to Sam’s desires, and to the awe-inspiring
power of the Transformers. Bee is everything that Sam is not, but
wants to be.
Whether it’s the eroticization of bodies (and to be sure male bodies are
also fetishized—Mark Wahlberg is clearly framed for erotic contemplation
in the series), or the eroticization of mechanical bodies (from exotic cars
to robots) what Bay is really known for is action sequences. To return to
the car chase in Transformers: The Last Knight this sequence is exemplary
of what Matthias Stork dismissively terms “chaos cinema.” Importantly,
the editing, cinematography, and the choreography of exotic vehicles and
robots, to Stork’s mind, moves far beyond what David Bordwell refers to
52  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

as “intensified continuity.”47 Bordwell suggests that while shot durations

have got increasingly shorter, the basic principles of narrative storytelling
remain intact. Stork, on the other hand, suggests that contemporary pop-
ular cinema perverts long-established storytelling conventions tearing
“the old classical filmmaking style to bits. Directors who work in this
mode aren’t interested in spatial clarity. It doesn’t matter where you are,
and it barely matters if you know what’s happening onscreen. The new
action films are fast, florid, volatile audiovisual war zones.”48
Moreover, in Transformers movies the post-narrative impetus of the
franchise’s big bet on its tentpole vernacular requires that nothing is ever
truly still. The promised outbidding of the latest cinematic Six Flags ride
can never end; we are merely offered moments of relative deceleration as
our car climbs the slope before the next, inevitable vertiginous plummet.
To be truly distinct, in Bay’s and Kruger’s terms, and truly stupid in our
own, Transformers’s vernacular must always be being actively spoken; it
can never remain passive and silent. Indeed, the same hyper-kinetic aes-
thetic that powers cinematic action in a Transformers movie also infects
the (already minimal) sequences of exposition and character development
that would, in other franchises, in more conventional vernaculars, offer
moments of respite and reflection. (In this way, one of the consequences
of intra-series outbidding is that the Transformers franchise increasingly
diverges from the analogy to pornography we developed above.) Once
untamed, the vernacular attraction spreads into almost every scene and
sequence of Transformers: The Last Knight, eliding spectacle with charac-
ter and paring the human down to little more than a quintessence of
thrust. A short scene in which a Decepticon brings bad news to Megatron,
for example, is punctuated by repeated dramatic blasts of fire from the
giant robot’s weapon—fire equals anger and frustration, in case the
point was lost.
And yet when action does not interfere directly in these sequences,
distracting from the human and literally animating the static, then charac-
ters or context conspire to curtail them. Another short scene in which
scientists brief politicians is interrupted almost before it has begun by one
bored participant picking up a model Space Shuttle and making an off-
hand comment about its flying characteristics before professing he can’t be
bothered to listen to the technical explanation of an incoming threat.
Thus, the ensuing briefing scene is reduced to a single line of warning,
played on a push in to close up. In so doing, the bored politician directly
incarnates the movie’s “meta,” its stupid vernacular exposed for a stark
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  53

moment at the very surface of the cinema text. The character simultane-
ously adopts the position of the vernacular’s implied audience; surely, we
have been taught to be bored and a touch resentful when the giant robots
and their equally giant actions—that we have paid good money to watch—
are away from center screen. Similarly, in the scene in which the fugitive
Cade Yeager (Mark Wahlberg) makes a satellite call to his daughter, Cade
is told he has a scant 20 seconds before the call will be traced. Cade sits in
moody silence as his (unseen) daughter speaks on the other end of the
line. She also knows about the 20 second drill, even repeating the call’s
time budget in case we missed it the first time. Even so, she overspeaks and
her words are cut off abruptly as the call goes dead and the visual storytell-
ing rushes us forward once again.
The longer scene in which Cade and the young runaway mechanic,
Izabella (Isabela Moner) compare backstories is particularly instructive in
this regard. The encounter begins in movement, as the two shout at each
other while hurrying through the maze of Cade’s junkyard, observed by
giant robots. When they reach Cade’s trailer he sits, the action bringing
with it the sudden danger of rapid kinetic deceleration. Immediately, how-
ever, two small dinosaur robots come to the vernacular’s rescue. In a
moment of comic relief, one of these baby Transformers belches fire and
sets the curtains ablaze. Cade and Izabella talk loudly at, if not to, one
another while she goes to work with a handy fire extinguisher, but Cade
gives more attention to the continuing antics of the baby fire-breathing
robot, who is evidently just learning to control its adult powers. Through
a fast cutaway on a look to a handy photograph on the refrigerator, the
human conversation is then given license to bypass small talk and get
straight to the expositional heart of the encounter. Even so, Izabella’s
angle is framed with another baby Transformer prominent in the fore-
ground of the shot, offering us additional distraction from the (boringly
transgressive) human interaction taking place behind it. The exchange
itself is cross cut in an editing regime so fast that it clearly omits the time
it would take for real human beings to hear, absorb, and prepare to respond
to one another’s utterances. This is narrative economy at the bleeding
edge; character development on afterburners; the stupid vernacular com-
pensating for the terror of the conventional. Incidentally, the scene’s
­editing regime also sells out the dramatic delivery of the two actors who
are left high and dry, as if committing the great craft crime of not playing
the moment, of not listening to one’s acting partner. It is not the actors’
fault—clearly, the performances are there, glimpsed fleetingly between the
54  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

edits—Transformers’s vernacular simply does not need to give them the

space and time to seem credibly human. The scene ends with Cade testing
Izabella’s knowledge of Autobot mechanics to see if she is worth keeping
around. Even this pop quiz is accelerated out of coherent language as
Izabella simultaneously shows she knows her stuff while shorthanding the
explanation—she does not know the right terms. Apparently, you “rechan-
nel the central flow into the whatchamacallit, the doohickey…” It is
enough for Cade, the pseudo-science, just like the movie’s aesthetic,
doesn’t need to be coherent to be operational. Izabella has passed the test
and once again we are spared a long, technical explanation. The writers
know that we know how these things go in genre cinema, so why waste
action time watching it happen?
A second, equally instructive example of the stupid vernacular’s need
continuously and assertively to speak its name occurs later in the movie,
when the hero group meets Sir Edmund Burton (Anthony Hopkins) in
Castle Folgan to hear the true history of Transformers on Earth. The
sequence plays out through several locations, but principally the library
and chapel of the castle. The dry—and in a different sense stupid—exege-
sis of the “true” backstory of the entire franchise is livened up (relatively
conventionally) by illustrative diegetic and extradiegetic cutaways, but also
frequently punctuated by increasingly irrational and, in one sense, point-
less interruptions by Cogman, the insane robot butler (voice acted, for an
intertextual joke, by the actor Jim Carter who was well known at the time
of the movie’s production for playing the butler in the popular TV series
Downton Abbey). In the first scene in the library Cogman suddenly physi-
cally attacks Cade, supposedly to defend the honor of Vivian Wembley
(Laura Haddock), in the process running across the table he has just laid
with tea. Burton chastises him for overreacting, and he is barely restrained
from further violence. Later, in the chapel, Burton’s explanation of the
ancient pact between the Transformers and King Arthur is underscored by
a dramatic organ score until it is revealed that the soundtrack is, in fact,
diegetic as Cogman is playing the chapel’s pipe organ too loudly and dra-
matically. As Burton remarks: “you’ve ruined the moment again.”
Cogman’s reply is defiantly “on the nose,” as screenwriters say, reminding
the audience—as if such a reminder was necessary—of the pressing needs
of the franchise’s vernacular: “I was making the moment more epic.”
Shortly afterwards, the gag is repeated in minor variation when the (now
operatic) score is revealed once again to originate from Cogman, this time
singing and dancing his way across the raised organ gallery. At once puer-
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  55

ile and annoying, when viewed through a conventional narrative grid, and
yet both incommensurable to such a grid and thus utterly necessary to the
sustenance of Transformers’s “Six Flags” vernacular, it is these ruptures,
these repeatedly “ruined” moments that the narrative actively recapitu-
lates through commentary and dialog. This repeated recapitulation serves
not to confirm the narrative ruptures as random—or even sustained—
instances of “bad” filmmaking, but to remind us of the intentionality
behind this relentlessly intrusive action. In this curiously awkward way,
they most perfectly articulate the relentlessly kinetic intent of the stupid
vernacular of the Transformers franchise.
Of course, it is during action sequences that Transformers movies speak
their stupid vernacular most fluently. Lambasting another Bay film, Bad
Boys II, Stork acknowledges that the action sequences, namely the car
chases, are “cool to look at, but it’s hard to discern in detail, and there’s
no elegance to it. The shots are often wobbly. Sometimes this is due to the
use of deliberately shaky handheld cameras. Other times, the filmmakers
have made relatively stable shots seem much wilder and blurrier in post-­
production through the use of AfterEffects software. (This is not film
grammar, it is film dyslexia.)”49 The chase sequence in Transformers: The
Last Knight is presented in precisely the manner in which Stork describes.
What prevents the sequence (or other chaotic sequences like it) from
being utterly unintelligible is the audio design. Stork argues that while the
visual field is chaotic, it’s the diegetic audioscape that “insist[s] that we
hear what is happening onscreen. Ironically, as the visuals in action films
have become sloppier, shallower and blurrier, the sound design has become
more creative, dense and exact. This is what happens when you lose your
eyesight: your other senses try to compensate.”50 Stork is absolutely cor-
rect, though not precisely in the ways that he thinks he is.
The car chase in Transformers: The Last Knight is ridiculous when
bound to “naturalistic” assumptions, or strict narrative cause and effect
relationships. Watching the car chase frame-by-frame, in fact, reveals some
surprising details. In this series of shots, we see that an oncoming car, what
appears to be a silver Mazda 3 series hatchback, swerves to the left of the
frame to avoid hitting the red McLaren. The McLaren presumably zig
zags to miss the silver hatchback, and darts back again allowing an
­oncoming silver sedan (either a BMW or Volvo) which is immediately
behind the hatchback to slam into one of the pursuing Lexuses. The silver
sedan slamming into the Lexus head-on performs tremendous aerial acro-
batics, embellished with a spray of golden sparks. In an overlap edit, the
56  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Fig. 2.2  A Mazda 3 swerves to miss the oncoming McLaren in Transformers:

The Last Knight (Michael Bay, 2017)

violent dance of the two colliding vehicles is seen again, however, the front
ends of the vehicles never touch and the silver sedan flies inexplicably
through the air, while the back end of the Lexus shoots upward with
explosive power (Fig. 2.5). This is subsequently followed with the great
raining down of newspaper and debris—the explosive mini-climax within
the chase scene is characteristically Bay. Perhaps the strangest of all ele-
ments in is found in Fig. 2.3 where the passing silver hatchback does not
pass the McLaren, but is momentarily superimposed on it. This is only
noticeable when going frame-by-frame, but this is a clear artifact of CGI
animation (Figs. 2.2, 2.4, and 2.6).
While nowhere as frenetic as this (or some other contemporary tent-
pole movie), the climax of Jean Epstein’s 1927 film, La glace à trois faces
(The Three-Sided Mirror), shares some affinities with this chase scene in
Transformers: The Last Knight. At the conclusion of Epstein’s film, the
male protagonist speeds down countryside roads in an exotic sports car.
Spatial integrity is difficult to discern, the lapse of time between cuts is
impossible to know. Similar to Transformers: The Last Knight, Epstein
gives us shots from a low angle to embellish the speed of the protagonist’s
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  57

Fig. 2.3  A Mazda 3 passes the oncoming McLaren in Transformers: The Last
Knight (Michael Bay, 2017)

Fig. 2.4  A silver sedan slams into a Lexus in Transformers: The Last Knight
(Michael Bay, 2017)
58  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Fig. 2.5  The back end of the Lexus shoots upward with explosive power in
Transformers: The Last Knight (Michael Bay, 2017)

Fig. 2.6  The great raining down of newspaper and debris—the explosive
­mini-climax within the chase scene in Transformers: The Last Knight (Michael Bay,
2017)

vehicle, kicking up a storm of leaves. Likewise, we also get mobile shots

mere inches off the ground, again, quite similar to shots found in
Transformers: The Last Knight. Shots of blurred countryside give us little
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  59

in the way of spatial or narrative information, rather they signify speed. As

French Impressionist filmmakers were prone to do, Epstein also gives a
number of shots of superimposition, distorting the clarity of the image,
but suggesting something with respect to the emotional state of our char-
acter. Erika Balsom observes that “Such strategies—frequently remarked
upon as characteristic of French Impressionist filmmaking—are inevitably
deployed in combination with shots that feature ‘straight’ recording, but
this contrast arguably serves to draw out their status as artistic interven-
tions even more.”51 The art of the cinematic craft is not in its verisimili-
tude, but in its manipulation and the cinematic image—the instinct of the
cinematic arts is not toward a transparent intelligibility, but a stupefaction
of the “real” world (Fig. 2.7).
Let’s also take further stock of the instant where the Mazda 3 is momen-
tarily superimposed over the McLaren (Fig. 2.3). This is precisely where
the Transformer films intersect with experimental practices. Despite the
fact that new digital technologies offer greater fidelity to the world—high
definition images continue to promise to give us the illusion of a transpar-
ent look at the world. This car chase sequence, however, reveals that far
from a transparent window onto the world we are given instead a highly
manipulated image filled with post-production effects—where the legibil-
ity of the image is given to shakiness, and blurring (see for instance the
pavement). The momentary superimposition also blurs the temporal—
where two simultaneous moments are rendered one on top of the other.
Where one would anticipate the Mazda 3 passing behind the McLaren
(and thus out of view), instead the moment exists in the same pictorial
frame. The contemporary vernacular—despite the promise of transpar-
ency with the high definition image—works against clarity, as Jacques
Aumont observes: “the intervention, between control and chance, of the
cinematographer (in the case of flares), or the stupid and uncontrollable
intervention of the material (in the case of hazes or blurs). It results
undoubtedly in a style, but not the kind of style that naturally matches my
natural perception. This style, as with any film style, is an experiment in
perception.”52 The blur and the momentary superimposition of the Mazda
3 bears little fidelity to the “real” world, and instead comes much closer to
early twentieth century futurist painting where the frenetic qualities of the
world were rendered in a blurred repetition of the image (see for instance
Luigi Russolo’s 1912 painting Dinamismo di un treno, or Marcel
Duchamp’s futurist inspired 1912 painting Nude Descending the Staircase
60  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Fig. 2.7  Racing down country roads in Jean Epstein’s La glace à trois faces (The
Three-Sided Mirror) (Jean Epstein, 1927)

II). (Recall that, above, Lutz Koepnick cited the affinities between Bay’s
depiction of frenetic action to that of the futurists as well.) “When new
technologies are once again promising unprecedented heights of iconic
fidelity,” Balsom also notes, “filmmakers are once again turning against
the automatic production of exact likeness, in search of blurrier, smudgier
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  61

ways of seeing.”53 Joss Whedon may have pioneered the use of a blurry
special effects aesthetic combined with the repeated snap zoom in the sci-
ence fiction TV show Firefly (Fox 2002–2003), but the latest high-budget
iteration of this smudgier ways of seeing, in effect a stupefaction of the
image, is situated squarely inside Bay’s vision of the new contemporary
vernacular.54

Conclusion: Narrative Overload

Steven Shaviro rehearses the typical film criticism diatribe: Bay’s editing is
incoherent, and all that matters is the affect of forward movement, with
no regard for continuity. Shaviro adds though, that Bay’s editing offers a
novel narrative paradigm. “Using the tools of digital editing and compos-
iting, together with CGI, Bay makes films that are utterly disjointed, and
yet unfold in such a ‘smooth space’ that these disjunctions scarcely matter
to mass audiences,” Shaviro observes. “Even in mainstream popular cin-
ema, we now have films that, in Deleuze’s terms, evidence ‘a new status of
narration,’ in which ‘narration ceases to be truthful, that is, to claim to be
true, and becomes fundamentally falsifying.’” Shaviro, as we have already
discussed in relation to the Transformers films, locates affinities between
Bay and other cinematic traditions that resist the continuity imperative.
“Bay’s films, no less than the art films of the Deleuzian time-image, reject
organic unity, and are littered instead with gaps and false accords.”55
Similarly, if in more vociferous terms, Stork bemoans the emergence of
this new Hollywood vernacular, with Bay being a chief offender. Of course,
Stork is absolutely correct that the indefinite vision (to borrow a phrase)
evident in many contemporary tentpole films really makes no sense. It
often presents as a hyper kinetic jumble of shots and yet, despite the lack
of fidelity to spatial-visual reality and the basic principles of physics, and
contrary to Stork’s position, it does make stupidly sensorial sense. Stork
claims that post-millennial blockbusters and action movies “trade visual
intelligibility for sensory overload.”56 We contend however that it is only
“overload” when scholars, critics, or casual viewers forcibly attempt to
read the narratives of stupid cinema through a narrow and, to be c­ haritable,
venerable paradigm where “naturalistic” is read as established Hollywood
continuity editing. The car chase in Transformers: The Last Knight is stu-
pefying to us as well. And, in fact, we generally agree with Stork’s overall
description of Bay’s treatment of action sequences. However, where
Stork—and, for that matter, Denby and many others—see nothing but
62  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

chaos and mournfully eulogize the demise of narrative cinematic conven-

tions, we instead see the stupid, and the emergence of a new cinematic
vernacular predicated on a particular assessment of the industry and its
audiences in a specific historical moment. In fairness, however, we do get
that Michael Bay really does like explosions.
We hope that our analysis of the Transformers franchise puts a stake in
the heart of any notion that the stupid is somehow precious. As we stated
in the introductory chapter, and it is worth repeating, we do not contend
that the stupid is secretly superior, or that we have divined the supposed
“true artistic merit” of this otherwise popular but much maligned fran-
chise. Rather we have made an effort here to illustrate how analytic para-
digms premised on conventional narrative regimes can only ever perceive
the kinetic choreography and disregard for continuity as inherently bad,
wrong, or a violation of cinematic rules. (As if these rules are somehow
static and unchanging.) Transformers’s new, and aspirationally post-­
cinematic, vernacular signifies a realignment that anticipates and responds
to the eddies of industrial and creative convergence. Recent textual and
technological innovations in convergent media provide their own chal-
lenges for critical comprehension, often reducing questions of judgment
down to the evaluative—is such an innovation important, or are we being
humbugged? Is it, to all intents and purposes, stupid?57 The Transformers
films, and other “chaotic” cinematic experiences like them, are not “mis-
takes.” It is not an accident, for example, that Pacific Rim works as some-
thing like “one 131-minute action sequence.”58 From its poster to its shot
regime, Pacific Rim is a movie that deploys its narrative for the primary
(stupid) purposes of selling sheer scale in a monster movie and unasham-
edly saturating it with associated adolescent joys, as the director Guillermo
del Toro remarked to his special effects team: “I’m channeling my inner
fourteen year old, I’m trying to make the movie that would have blown
my mind when I was [that age].”59
The Transformers movies were developed within a specific corporate
industrial context that wagering on this new vernacular being simultane-
ously the cure for convergence, when it comes to the future of theatrical
exhibition, and also its exemplar in the quest for cross media synergy in a
globalized market. Transformers’s hyper-kinetic cinematic style slides eas-
ily across mediums into Universal Studios’ Transformers™: The Ride 3D,
for example, because the Transformers cinematic vernacular has become a
monetizable commodity in itself. It drives the affective logic of the ride it
both anticipated and, inevitably, became. Equally as inevitably there are
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  63

some critics who were clearly sprayed with too heavy a dose of The Good
Place’s hellish scent during their experience of the ride, not least the
Orlando Sentinel’s reviewers in 2017: “The twisting, rolling metal battle
is so fast and in your face, trying to keep up with the action may cause a
nosebleed … Transformers’ bewildering, overblown 3D action becomes a
sensory blur that leaves me with a headache.”60 Job done, as the creative
team behind the ride would no doubt reflect.
Nevertheless, categories—or, in the realm of film and media criticism,
things such as genre, medium, or narrative conventions—have always
guided the critic. Adherence to old definitions of these conventions has,
indeed, served to provide convenient sticks with which critics have beaten
the Transformers franchise. Indeed, categories instruct us, as Foucault
notes, “in the ways of knowledge and solemnly alert us to the possibility
of error, while in a whisper they guarantee our intelligence and form the a
priori of excluded stupidity.”61 To abandon existing categories is to aban-
don truth, and as Foucault suggests, “to think ‘acategorically’ is to con-
front a black stupidity.”62 Whether implicit or explicit, genres are a guiding
principle in the assessment of media. Genres, however, are not static,
unchanging categories, rather they evolve—and sometimes they fail. That
is the subject of Chap. 3.

Notes
1. The Good Place, season two episode ten, “Rhonda, Diana, Jake, and Trent,”
NBC Television, aired January 18, 2018.
2. Roger Ebert, “Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen,” rogerebert.com, June
23, 2009, accessed April 4, 2018, https://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/
transformers-revenge-of-the-fallen-2009.
3. Mikel J. Koven, La Dolce Morte: Vernacular Cinema and the Italian Giallo
Film (Oxford: Scarecrow Press, 2006).
4. Christopher Wagstaff, “A Forkful of Westerns: Industry, Audiences and the
Italian Western,” in Popular European Cinema, edited by Richard Dyer
and Ginette Vincendeau (London: Routledge, 1992), 245–261.
5. Lutz Koepnick, Michael Bay (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2017),
50.
6. Chris Gardner, “‘Transformers’ rolling out in live-action pic,” Hollywood
Reporter, June 11, 2003, A1.
7. Koepnick, 51.
8. Even though several Transformers movies made more individually at the
box office than many MCU movies, a snapshot comparison highlights the
64  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

power of the development strategy at Marvel/Disney that has dominated

the tentpole market with 19 releases since 2008 against Transformers’s 5
releases since 2007 (excluding the previous iteration of the franchise in
Transformers: The Movie from 1986). However, Transformers: The Last
Knight (2017) performed relatively poorly domestically ($130  million
against $475 million international, figures from boxofficemojo.com, accessed
June 6, 2018.) which may influence the direction of future Transformers
iterations, starting with Bumblebee (2018) which was marketed very differ-
ently and represented a move back toward conventional narrative—the
film is a “girl and her pony” movie only with a giant robot. To date
Bumblebee has grossed $459,512,841 internationally, its $127  million
domestic playing somewhat more strongly than its most recent comparator
in the franchise given the movie’s much lower budget point (officially
$135 M against $217 M). Figures from boxofficemojo.com, accessed March
18, 2019.
9. Koepnick, 18.
10. Per boxofficemojo.com, the Transformers franchise is approaching $1.5 bil-
lion gross domestic and over $4.3 billion worldwide, as of January 2018,
accessed January 11, 2018, http://www.boxofficemojo.com/franchises/
chart/?id=transformers.htm.
11. Oliver Jones, “‘Transformers: The Last Knight’ is Sloppy, Stupid and Quite
Possibly Evil,” observer.com, June 21, 2017, accessed January 10, 2018,
http://observer.com/2017/06/transformers-the-last-knight-is-sloppy-
stupid-and-quite-possibly-evil/.
12. Ibid.
13. Ibid.
14. Ibid.
15. Andreas Jahn-Sudmann and Frank Kelleter, “Die Dynamik Serieller
Überbietung: Zeitgenössische Amerikanische Fernsehserien und das
Konzept des Quality TV,” In Kelleter, F. (ed.) Populäre Serialität:
Narration – Evolution – Distinktion. Zum seriellen Erzählen seit dem 19.
Jahrhundert (Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag, 2012), 205–224.
16. Koepnick, 50.
17. William Bibbiani, “Transformers: Age of Extinction: Ehren Kruger
Interview,” craveonline.com, posted June 27, 2014, accessed January 15,
2018, http://www.craveonline.com/site/715045-transformers-age-of-
extinction-ehren-kruger-interview#/slide/1. Kruger’s writing credits
include Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (2009), Transformers: Dark of
the Moon (2011), and Transformers: Age of Extinction (2014).
18. Manohla Dargis, “Car Wars With Shape-Shifters ‘R’ Us,” nytimes.com, July
2, 2007, accessed January 13, 2018, http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/
02/movies/02tran.html.
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  65

19. Bilge Ebiri, “Here’s What the New Transformers Movie is Like,” village-
voice.com, June 20, 2017, accessed March 23, 2018, https://www.village-
voice.com/2017/06/20/heres-what-the-new-transformers-
movie-is-like/.
20. Ibid.
21. Roger Ebert, “Transformers,” rogerebert.com, July 5, 2007, accessed
January 13, 2018, https://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/transformers-
2007.
22. Armond White, “Bay Watch: Armond White’s Transformers 2 review for
CityArts,” nyfcc.com, May 5, 2013, accessed January 13, 2018, http://
www.nyfcc.com/2013/05/bay-watch-armond-whites-transformers-
2-review-for-cityarts/.
23. Josh Tyler, “Transformers movie review,” cinemablend.com, no post-­date,
accessed January 13, 2018, https://www.cinemablend.com/reviews/
Transformers-2362.html.
24. Ibid.
25. Phalen adapts her terms closely from P. H. Thornton’s model of “editorial
logic” and “market logic” (outlined in P. H. Thornton, “The Rise of the
Corporation in a Craft Industry: Conflict and Conformity in Institutional
Logics,” Academy of Management Journal, vol. 45, no. 1 (February 2002):
81–101). Patricia F. Phalen, Writing Hollywood: The Work and Professional
Culture of Television Writers (New York: Routledge, 2018), 74.
26. Jason Scoggins, “2015 Year-End Spec Market Scorecard,” The Scoggins
Report, March 29, 2016, accessed January 28, 2018, https://medium.
com/scoggins-r epor t/2015-year-end-spec-market-scor ecar d-
bb572a2055fb. This compared to the high three figures in spec sales in the
early 1990s.
27. By no means all of those 50,000 registered screenplays are either intended
or ready for sale, and many never will be, but the illustration is still
powerful.
28. Chris Erskine, “R.I.P. for the spec script, long a source of some of
Hollywood’s most beloved films,” latimes.com, January 19, 2018, accessed
January 19, 2018, http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/la-et-st-spec-
scripts-20171219-htmlstory.html.
29. Ibid.
30. John Robert Marlow, “lonely keyboard interview, Ehren Kruger,”
johnrobertmarlow.com, no post-date, accessed January 28, 2018, http://
johnrobertmarlow.com/lonelykeyboard/sa_ehrenkruger.html.
31. Fantasy genres, broadly defined and often creatively iterated (Stranger
Things, Legion), are also popular in expanded television, of course. Our
point is that the rise of the tentpole, the adaptation, and the franchise have
66  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

transformed the movie business in a way that the development of fantasy

genres on smaller screens have not.
32. The one step deal and other employment trends such as “bakeoffs” are
discussed in detail in Daniel Bernardi and Julian Hoxter, Off the Page:
Screenwriting in the Era of Media Convergence (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 2017).
33. Lucy V. Hay, “How to Write a Screenplay Bomb: Transformers: The Last
Knight,” bang2write.com, June 26, 2107, accessed February 19, 2018,
http://www.bang2write.com/2017/06/how-to-write-a-screenplay-
bomb-transformers-the-last-knight.html.
34. Ibid.
35. Ibid.
36. Bibbiani.
37. Russ Fischer, “‘Transformers: Age of Extinction’ Writer Ehren Kruger:
Logical Sense Doesn’t Have to Be the Be-All, End-All,” slashfilm.com,
June 27, 2014, accessed January 15, 2018, http://www.slashfilm.com/
transformers-logical-sense/.
38. Ibid.
39. Francesco Casetti, The Lumière Galaxy: Seven Key Words for the Cinema to
Come (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015), 213–214.
40. Ibid.
41. David Denby, Do the Movies Have a Future? (New York: Simon & Schuster,
2012), 29.
42. Ibid., 32.
43. “Michael Bay Presents: Explosions!” Robot Chicken, posted to YouTube by
Adult Swim December 20, 2011, accessed February 14, 2018, https://
www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7ssUivM-eM.
44. “What if Michael Bay directed Up?” posted to YouTube by MrStratman7
August 15, 2014, accessed February 14, 2018, https://www.youtube.
com/watch?v=u5KQQWlIgGc; “If Michael Bay directed Toy Story 3,”
posted to YouTube by Un Gordo Gamer on January 4, 2015, accessed
February 14, 2018, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrzEYO1vtso.
45. James Todd Uhlman and John Heitmann, “Stealing Freedom: Auto Theft
and Autonomous Individualism in American Film,” The Journal of Popular
Culture vol. 48, no. 1 (2015): 87.
46. David Laderman, Driving Visions: Exploring the Road Movie (Austin: The
University of Texas Press, 2002), 51.
47. David Bordwell, “Intensified Continuity: Visual Style in Contemporary
American Film,” Film Quarterly vol. 55, no. 3 (Spring 2002), 16.
48. Matthias Stork, “CHAOS CINEMA: The decline and fall of action film-
making,” IndieWire, August 22, 2011, Accessed November 10, 2018,
 2  THE STUPID IN THE CONTEMPORARY HOLLYWOOD VERNACULAR…  67

http://www.indiewire.com/2011/08/video-essay-chaos-cinema-the-
decline-and-fall-of-action-filmmaking-132832/.
49. Bordwell, 16.
50. Ibid.
51. Erika Balsom, “One Hundred Years of Low Definition,” in Indefinite
Visions: Cinema and the Attractions of Uncertainty, Martine Beugnet,
Allan Cameron, and Arild Fetveit eds. (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University
Press, 2017), 80. Ricciotto Canudo, “The Birth of a Sixth Art,” in French
Film Theory and Criticism, A History/Anthology, 1907–1939: Volume One,
1907–1929, ed. Richard Abel (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
[1911] 1988), 61.
52. Jacques Aumont, “The Veiled Image: The Luminous Formless,” in
Indefinite Visions: Cinema and the Attractions of Uncertainty, Martine
Beugnet, Allan Cameron, and Arild Fetveit eds. (Edinburgh: Edinburgh
University Press, 2017), 35–36. Italics in original.
53. Balsom, 87.
54. Matt Patches, “Firefly, Snap Zooms, and Joss Whedon’s influence on Man
of Steel,” New York Magazine, June 19, 2013, accessed March 26, 2019,
https://www.vulture.com/2013/06/how-joss-whedon-influenced-man-
of-steel.html.
55. Steven Shaviro, Post-Cinematic Affect (Washington: Zero Books, 2010),
174 n. 55. Gilles Deleuze, Cinema 2: The Time-Image, trans. Hugh
Tomlinson and Robert Galeta (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
Press, 1989), 131.
56. Bordwell, 16.
57. Neil Harris, Humbug: The Art of P.T.  Barnum (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1973), 78.
58. Cory Perkins, “Watch: The Secret Sauce That Makes Pacific Rim’s Fight
Scenes So Thrilling,” wired.com, posted July 19, 2013, accessed June 23,
2019, https://www.wired.com/2013/07/visual-effects-as-design-
solutions-in-pacific-rim/.
59. Ibid.
60. Vincent Crampton and The Universal Soldier, “Universal Orlando simula-
tor ride review: Transformers: The Ride 3-D,” orlandosentinel.com, posted
July 10, 2017, accessed June 23, 2019, https://www.orlandosentinel.
com/travel/attractions/universal-orlando/os-universal-orlando-simula-
tor-ride-review-transformers-the-ride-3d-20170710-story.html.
61. Michel Foucault, “Theatrum Philosophicum,” Language, Counter-­
Memory, Practice, ed. Donald F. Bouchard, trans. Donald F. Bouchard and
Sherry Simon (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977), 188.
62. Ibid., 189.
68  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

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 CHAPTER 3

The Stupid in Genre Fails

Introduction: Genres Behaving Badly …

“Hi friend …” the email starts. The influential screenwriting guru John
Truby is being chummy in my online direction, so he must have some-
thing to sell. “It used to be you just had to master one genre” his email
continues. “And that’s hard enough. Now, one of the biggest strategies
for writing a blockbuster best seller [sic] is combining 2, 3, even 4 genres.”
Genre hybridity, Truby suggests in his email, pitching me his master class
on Avatar and contemporary genre writing, is the new—perhaps the not
so new—normal in Hollywood. The next line of the email is in bold:
“This is how the game is played in every medium.”1 Truby proceeds to
offer an anecdote about the revelatory experience he had while watching
George Lucas’s 1977 film Star Wars: A New Hope for the first time. He
found its plotting genuinely surprising, a rare phenomenon and one that
he ascribes at least in part to its revolutionary hybridity, combining tropes
or beats from science fiction, the western, the samurai movie, and weekly
serials to name but four genres. “I realized,” Truby continues, switching
again to bold for emphasis, “that what was making this an exciting story
was that the writer was using all these beats from different genres at the
same time. So the plot was totally dense with story beats. And instead of
getting the beats of just one story, like detective, we were getting beats of
four stories in rapid-fire succession.”2
The plot structure of Star Wars: A New Hope is considered by most
contemporary screenwriters not only to fit within a conventional

© The Author(s) 2019 71
A. Kerner, J. Hoxter, Theorizing Stupid Media,
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72  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Hollywood story type but is often presented as the primary exemplar of

the hero’s journey form, inherited by Lucas from Joseph Campbell and
later codified for the movies in the screenwriting paraindustry by
Christopher Vogler.3 At the time of its release, however, the movie’s radi-
cal genre hybridity was something new and, for Truby and many others in
Hollywood, revelatory: “That’s when I realized I was watching a revolu-
tion for writers unfold before my eyes. Popular story from then on was
going to be all about mixing genres. That’s the moment when the movie
industry realized the same thing. And it’s been that way ever since, not
just in movies, but in novels and television, all over the world.”4 Truby
goes on to argue that the finest example of genre hybridity since Star Wars
is Avatar and, thus, segues into his true purpose in sending me a friendly
email one Saturday morning in mid-November.
His sales pitch notwithstanding, therefore, Truby’s anecdote reminds
us that genres are always in play, that the conventional grid (western,
thriller, romantic comedy, etc.) on which semantic theorists have long
established a taxonomy of texts, claiming them for categories and posi-
tioning them both within and between conventional genres is always shift-
ing and that, in recent decades, common critical wisdom has certainly
repositioned hybridity from the margins—the exceptions—of genre inclu-
sion toward the normalized center. The questions this chapter proposes
follow on from this identified shift. In the seemingly amaranthine flower-
ing of media convergence, if hybridity (in the sense implied by Star Wars:
A New Hope) is now the new normal for genre movies, what now trans-
gresses that hybrid norm? More importantly, how do we understand and
position those transgressions that cannot easily be contained in this
moment of convergence; how do we read the phenomenon of convergent
genres, or even media that “fail”?
Excess by its very definition cannot exist without a defined border—a
contingent relationship premised on an unassimilable other. Nevertheless,
excess invariably is intimately bound to what it transgresses. Genre failures
follow a similar logic. Inherent to any coded system, there lies an abject
presence that threatens its coherence—for instance, as discussed in Chap.
4, the way that dissonance shadows consonance (or, as Adorno posits, dis-
sonance is the truth of consonance). Stupidity does not cancel out a sys-
tem, it does not stand as an alternative, rather it is integral to it. Understood
as a coded system, genre too has its own stupidity, its own unassimilable
excess, that threatens to tear it asunder. Rick Altman recognized this years
ago. Falsely conceived as a natural, self-evident mode of categorization,
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  73

Altman was critical of the assumptions made in media studies, as if genres

sprung “full-blown from the head of Zeus.” And these assumptions about
genre invited critics and scholars to look past industry practices (e.g., mar-
keting, and the subsequent response from consumers), and cling to the
idea that genre “is fundamentally ahistorical in nature.”5 On the contrary,
rather than being unchanging “Platonic categories,” genres are evolution-
ary by nature. Altman observes that within the discipline there was a his-
tory of divergent approaches to genre, which he places in two different
camps: the semantic theorist (who establishes a taxonomy), and the syn-
tactic theorist (who identifies general themes and motifs). While the for-
mer offers a veritable check-list, which significantly narrows the oeuvre of
a genre, the latter is far more inclusive, making allowances for films that by
outward appearances might not immediately look to meet the criteria of a
genre, but on further inspection reveal to have the necessary characteris-
tics (e.g., reading Star Wars as a western).6 As Steve Neale notes genres are
“always in play rather than being simply re-played.”7 Regardless, genres
evolve along both semantic and syntactic analytic paradigms. We have no
intention in resurrecting genre theory debates, rather we want to recog-
nize that genre fails, at least implicitly, have dogged our discipline for
decades—if not since the inception of cinema itself (from actualities to
appropriations from stage theater).
All this is to say that a genre is a collection of generally agreed upon
tropes. While operating under something of an acknowledged fiction (i.e.,
that a genre is a relatively static category), at the same time, a genre is
historically and culturally contingent. And even more than this, individual
spectators might espouse their idiosyncratic variations on these already
contingent terms. By this logic—when we cannot even agree where the
exact bounds of a genre might be drawn—it makes it impossible for us to
estimate when a “failure” has taken place. But this is the very nature of
stupidity, is it not? We have to embrace the contradiction—genre failures,
then, exist only because of established categories, and at the same time
demonstrate their fragility or even the impossibility of existing as a stable
category at all. The term “genre” refers to “kind; sort; style,”8 originating
from the French for “gender” still referring to “kind, sort,” but also the
qualities of “being male or female.”9 In either case, genre insists upon a
boundary, and failure then is in excess of that boundary or falls outside the
established regime of a particular category. A genre failure, as a manifesta-
tion of the stupid, is at once premised upon the conception of a (static or
established) category, but in the very same instance, poses a challenge to
74  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

that very category. Thus, we take a broad, if somewhat slippery under-

standing of genre. We assume a genre to be an implicit contract between
the media complex (from screenwriters to marketers and distributors and
everything in-between), critics/scholars, and the general consuming audi-
ence. The implicit contract, though always subject to ongoing negotia-
tions, establishes basic storytelling elements, themes, and motifs. A breach
of contract—where expectations are not met—potentially courts catastro-
phe, but at the same time, opens the way for invigorating innovations in a
genre. Genre failures, then, mark a juncture in an evolutionary branch,
which can lead to a dead-end, a limp wilting limb, or a vigorous new branch.
Narratives evolve, and so do genres. The evolutionary process can be
spurred by creative innovations, cultural/market attitudes, and techno-
logical advances that allow for different storytelling modes—from green-­
screen to CGI to online streaming services. The genre of the western for
instance lost its cultural saliency; depicting the conventional antagonist as
a Native American for instance became culturally untenable in a slightly
more enlightened era (apparently, it’s still culturally acceptable to use
Native people as sports names and mascots though). The western, to bor-
row a phrase, moved into new territory: “Space, the final frontier,” as the
famous tagline from Star Trek proclaims. Gene Roddenberry famously
described Star Trek as a wagon-train in space and, a generation later, the
science fiction-retro-western TV show Firefly adopted multiple tropes
from the western genre openly and unashamedly. Of course, Firefly was
canceled during its first season, in part because Fox Television (the pro-
ducing network) did not have confidence in its iteration of hybridity,
assumed it to be a genre fail, and threw it away.10 However, a genre can
evolve to such a degree that it hardly resembles its hereditary ancestor.
Hybrid genres, in the mixing of categories or in borrowing and adapting
categories from other mediums, might come off as monstrous disasters
(e.g., Bloodrayne, Wing Commander, and many other movie adaptations
of videogames). In some instances, the innovations “work,” and in other
instances they might be met with outright hostility, or perhaps something
even worse, complete indifference. Ridley Scott’s 1979 film, Alien, for
instance, successfully blended science fiction and horror, and found a wel-
coming audience.
There are, however, instances in which spectators are confronted with
a film or text in another medium that frustrates viewer expectations in
what we call genre fails. And at the same time, while genre fails might
spawn ire from some factions, at the same time they possess the capacity to
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  75

elicit unknown, or unexpected pleasures. As we will argue, genre fails

might also mark the evolutionary growing-pains of a transitional species,
or be the transitional symptoms of an entire medium that is in flux. Our
examples encompass the three principle contexts for a discussion of genre
fails, developing from a reading of two stupid horror movie texts (mother!
and Amer), through a case study of stupid movie genres produced at a
single studio (Nikkatsu), to a consideration of the impact of the stupid on
genres caused in part by the fundamental realignment of an entire medium
(expanded television).

Stupid Horror(?): The Wrong Kind of Stupid,

and Just the Right Kind of Stupid

In his review of Darren Aronofsky’s 2017 film mother! Rex Reed con-
cludes: “I hesitate to label it the ‘Worst movie of the year’ when ‘Worst
movie of the century’ fits it even better.”11 By comparison the Stephen
King adaptation, It (Andy Muschietti, 2017), which opened at the same
time, trounced mother! at the box office.12 While It, a recognizable horror
film (attached to the King brand-named no less), captured audience atten-
tion, nothing appeared capable of making mother! less than an unmiti-
gated failure. Hollywood’s artistic darling, Aronofsky, could not save the
film, nor its considerable star power (Jennifer Lawrence, Javier Bardem,
Ed Harris, and Michelle Pfeiffer). One of the things that perhaps gets in
the way of the film is its pretentious insistence on meaning—a “deeper”
allegorical meaning.
Although the marketing campaign was obtuse, it was effectively ped-
dled as a horror film. The trailer for the film uses an audio design replete
with shrieking violins, and sharp auditory eruptions timed to cuts to sug-
gest the presence of jump scares (which are not actually in the film). Blood
oozing from floors, walls, and lighting fixtures; flashes of invading hordes;
muted lighting and color scheme one would be forgiven to imagine that
mother! is a horror film—and it is kind of. “If the only thing we wanted,
or expected, a horror film to do was to get a rise out of you—to make your
eyes widen and your jaw drop, to leave you in breathless chortling spasms
of WTF disbelief—then Darren Aronofsky’s mother! would have to be
reckoned some sort of masterpiece.”13 But as much the film is a riddle, it
is also a puzzle as to its genre. Owen Gleiberman’s review in Variety,
throws his hands up, “By all means, go to mother! and enjoy its
76  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

r­oller-­coaster-­of-weird exhibitionism. But be afraid, very afraid, only if

you’re hoping to see a movie that’s as honestly disquieting as it is showy.”14
Gleiberman makes some of the obvious connections—The Shining,
Rosemary’s Baby—trying to reign mother! in, tether it to familiar psycho-
logical horror films, but at the same time, finds affinities with B-movie
horror, and even videogames. Although we do not think this ever came to
pass, Gleiberman suggests that fanboys, and navel-gazing graduate stu-
dents will save mother! “Instead of just sitting back and watching, you
enter a video-game universe where nothing is what it seems and you learn
how to master the game by deciphering what everything signifies. And in
this case, it’s fanboy meets film snob. More than anything, mother! seems
like a movie designed to please and flatter your inner grad student. If you
can delineate the allegory, then you’re in the club. The club of people who
get it! As opposed to a dumb-ass like me.”15 We have our own allegories,
but we just assume to be in camp “dumb-ass.”
On their own, the cinematography, mise-en-scene, and audio design
plays with the stupid, however, Aronofsky continually directs us to over-
ripe signifiers that are pregnant with meaning (though slippery, and open
for multiple interpretations). So utterly beholden to meanings—Biblical,
the artist and their muse, ecological destruction—that mother! can never
quite be that unadulterated roller-coaster horror film. And in this case,
perhaps mother! just is not stupid enough, or perhaps it is not stupid in the
“right way”? The stupid is at its most potent when it manifests as lektons.
Nonetheless, as suggested in the reviews there are allusions to the cine-
matic attraction—the “breathless spasms,” and the roller-coaster, and even
the WTF-experience that encourages (perhaps despite its allegorical insis-
tence, or working at counter-purposes to it) the spectator to “go along for
the ride,” and take the film as a sensate experience. Whatever the case
might be, what is revealed in the film reviews is the Sisyphean task of try-
ing to situate mother! within a proper genre. Anthony D’Alessandro, for
example, notes that “while mother! looks and smells like a horror film, it’s
essentially something crazier, Lynchian, and completely Aronofsky-­
esque.”16 D’Alessandro recalibrates to dodge the genre question and turns
to genre’s cousin—the auteur.17 Michael Sragow makes a similar turn in
his Film Comment review, “With its isolated rural location and atmosphere
of domestic fret, mother! comes on like an Ingmar Bergman chamber
piece, or the early parts of Straw Dogs. But the first half plays like a parody
of psychological drama.”18 Time and time again, reviewers grapple with
how to situate mother!, more often than not to some variant of horror, but
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  77

always coming up short, and failing to name this mutant beast—

wrongly? stupid.
Similar to mother! Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani’s 2009 film Amer,
is an evolutionary digression from the genus of horror. Both films are
quite similar in their emphasis on embellished spectacles, however, Amer
is largely content to leave its spectacular audio-visual referents unburden
with the imperative to carry “meanings.” It is often difficult to place Cattet
and Forzani films—sitting somewhere between experimental cinema and
horror, giallo, and erotic thrillers. Cattet and Forzani’s Amer (French for
“bitter”), appropriates the giallo vernacular to explore the sexual life of its
central character, Ana. The film emphasizes the cinematic experience—
stripping away much of the dialogue and accentuating a compendium of
audio-visual spectacles. In an interview, Forzani insisted that their films
are, “Definitely not homage. It’s more that we reinterpret and re-use the
giallo language to tell our story.” In the same interview, Cattet adds to
this, noting that they use the giallo language “as a tool, especially because
there are strong iconographic elements whose meaning we can subvert.”19
In addition, to the appropriation of the giallo language, there are also ele-
ments of Japanese cinema—especially pink eiga (softcore erotic films), and
even hentai (which directly translates as “pervert,” but also refers to the
pornographic genre of anime). The pair cite Eiichi Yamamoto’s 1973 Art
Nouveau-styled erotic animated feature Belladonna of Sadness as a signifi-
cant influence. One might immediately sense the affinities with Yamamoto’s
animated film, Cattet and Forzani films are often adorned with Art
Nouveau mise-en-scene—architectural features, furniture, jewelery, lanky
female characters with long hair and erotically charged parsed lips.
Likewise, Cattet and Forzani films call to mind the lavish Art Nouveau
features found in the classic giallo film Suspiria (Dario Argento, 1977).
Amer is told in three parts—Ana as a girl, late adolescent, and a woman
(in her late 20s, or early 30s)—the film makes extensive use of extreme
close-ups (especially of eyes), giallo scores, colors, and highly choreo-
graphed cinematography to amplify fetishistic fascination. From the very
instant that Amer begins the spectator very well may sense that something
is off. We begin with the opening credits with the extreme close-up of an
eye, Ana’s eye to be specific, but also more telling the first few notes of the
nondiegetic score there is a shift in pitch (and distorted manipulation of
the tape—perhaps to replicate the worn character of vintage grindhouse
films). The score, Bruno Nicolai’s “La Coda Dello Scorpione,” is drawn
from Sergio Martino’s 1971 giallo film The Case of the Scorpion’s Tail. The
78  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

shift in pitch (and willful distortion) is added—a conscious contrivance on

the part of the filmmakers.
There is an emphasis on audio drones and an embellished diegetic
audio. Although it might not be evident (at least initially), but the diegetic
audio elements are not necessarily objective. In fact, the diegetic audio is
embellished precisely because we hear things through Ana’s ears. She is
hypersensitive to audio stimulation, and thus there is an emphasis in the
diegetic design. What is perhaps unusual here, is that the audio design
functions more like the POV in the visual field. While internal subjective
diegetic audio designs are not altogether novel, what makes Amer differ-
ent is the way that the audio design stays within Ana’s head—the entirety
of the film, very well might be filtered through Ana’s audio perception?
Regardless the inability to locate the precise source of the audio (is it an
objective audio element, or is it filtered through Ana’s subjective perspec-
tive?), wields the potential to elicit dread in the spectator, because of its
liminal character. Even when the audio source is immediately visible, its
intensity suggests that it’s located elsewhere—in Ana’s body. In addition,
this is not a brain separated from a body, but rather “the film’s sound was
mixed so as for the viewer to be inside the brain of the character, with the
brain conceived of here as flesh, a vibrating and receiving tissue, rather
than a mind disconnected from the body—inviting us to let go of our
traditional apprehension of cinema through the intellect, and to instead
investigate it through our five senses.”20 In fact, the filmmaking duo work
in the Italian tradition of recording sound in post-production. Cattet
explains that from the very start of their filmmaking career they never
recorded sound on set. They begin with a mute visual track, and then
begin the painstaking process of intensive foley work in an effort to make
a fully fleshed out audio design, as Forzani describes it, “sensorial.”21 Cattet
and Forzani want their films to have “a physical impact … we try to feel it
in the guts and in the belly … we try to add that physical experience, this
sensorial experience that you can have only in the theatre.”22 And perhaps
more so than the visual information, that is the neural processing of
reflected light, sound is more physical—sound actually touches the body.
Sound waves are physical pulsations that bump up against the viewing body.
When we listen to music we do not necessarily insist that it convey a
coherent narrative. Rather with music we are swept up in rhythms, har-
mony, catchy phrasing. Amer can be imagined as a series of songs—and
this is not just in terms of its appropriation of giallo scores, but rather in
its structure, its rhythm of shots, its fantastically choreographed fetishistic
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  79

renderings of the body. The filmmakers tell us as much: “The music

inspires the way a sequence develops,” Cattet explains. “It gives us a
rhythm, and ideas too. We listen to music as we write, and all of a sudden
there’s one track that strikes us, so we play it again and again, and it
inspires the rhythm.”23 Forzani adds that the music also inspires the images.
Take for instance when Ana discovers her parents having sex, the primal
scene is presented in a highly stylized manner—alternating colored filters,
alteration of speed, and multiple overlap edits that repeat the frenzy of the
visible (a la Linda Williams). Ana, naturally, is surprised by what she sees,
gripped with fascination and fear—we see her reaction in tight close-ups
and extreme close-ups, filtered lenses, and the fracturing of the image.
Ana’s view of the world, quite literally, breaks apart. Ana returns to her
room, and when she awakes she discovers that she has wet the bed.
However, the source of the wetness is not exactly clear. In relation to the
primal scene, there is a suggestion that it is related to sexual arousal—or a
sexual awakening. The oneiric nature of the sequence slips into an audio-­
visual montage of a dripping bodily fluid (perhaps drawn from Greenaway’s
Prospero’s Books and the dripping of water), sounds of fluids, bodies in
extreme close-ups (in some cases too close to discern the geography—per-
haps even the interior of bodies?), spasmodic legs coupled with the audio
of fluttering of bird’s wings, bodies out of control. The scene is assembled
in a fashion that closely resembles another Cattet/Forzani project: O Is for
Orgasm, a 2012 short included in the omnibus film The ABCs of Death. O
Is for Orgasm appears to be an effort to visualize the experience of female
orgasm. And as much as O Is for Orgasm applies the audio-visual rhetoric
of the giallo film, it shares just as much in common with Carolee
Schneemann’s landmark 1967 experimental film Fuses. Schneemann
assembles in a generally discontinuous fashion short instances of sex, but
these encounters are largely obscured by the manipulation of the celluloid
strip—scratched, hand-colored, over or underexposed, physical artifacts
placed on the filmstrip (e.g., stars). Schneemann also includes humorous
cut-aways that reference human anatomy: bushes, farm silos (which could
reference either the penis or breasts), a cat, Christmas tree ornaments.
Between the cut-aways, the intermittent sexual encounters, the alternating
flashes of color Schneemann attempts to visualize the pulsating sexual
experience, of female orgasm, as she notes: “I wanted to allow film to give
me the sense that I was getting closer to tactility, to sensations in the body
that are streaming and unconscious and fluid—the orgasmic dissolve
unseen, vivid if unseeable.”24 This is precisely what we find in the work of
80  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Cattet and Forzani—though approached from multiple sensorial poles,

exploring the sadomasochistic experience of pleasure and pain. “We see
the films we make as an experience,” Forzani explains. “We try to give our
viewers a filmic orgasm. There is definitely that aspect, to give pleasure to
people.” Cattet explains further, “It allows us to approach the story in a
sensual, physical way, to play with very strong feelings of attraction and
repulsion.”25
One could very well approach Amer, or other Cattet/Forzani projects,
through the psychoanalytic lens. As much as the palatial seaside home calls
to mind the ballet school in Suspiria, at the same time it mirrors Norman
Bates’s Victorian home. And in the same way that the different stories in
the Bates’s house signify the Freudian tri-tiered models of subjectivity
(Conscious/Preconscious/Unconscious; Ego/Id/Superego). On the
upper floors of the villa in Amer Ana encounters Eros (and the figure of
the witch, perhaps the Kristevan figure of maternal authority). In the base-
ment (or the room under the stairs—the geography of the home is a little
vague) Ana confronts Thanatos—an elderly man who we assume to be
Ana’s grandfather lays in state, his embalmed corpse sharing clear affinities
with Norman’s mother secreted away into the fruit cellar. The affinities are
not simply coincidental, nor are the cinematic parallels intended to merely
bemuse astute cinephiles, rather the engagement is genuine. The portrait
of Freud, mounted in the stairway, suggests as much. Bruno notes that,
“We work with the subconscious, when we are writing, because you want
to touch the senses through the subconscious, like in dreams, so that even
if you don’t understand, you are touched by something sensorial.”26 The
emphasis on the sensorial, though, goes beyond what most psychoanalytic
models can apprehend. Psychoanalysis is largely concerned with “mean-
ings,” with the economy of objects. This is what makes phobics nearly
impossible for psychoanalysis to negotiate because the phobic’s fear stems
from a non-object. Likewise, the melancholic laments the loss of an impos-
sible object, a non-object. Phobics and melancholics are, in a sense, hope-
less cases. The depressive, on the other hand, locates sadness in an object,
and once that object is ascertained, then, the healing process might begin,
a substitute can be found. The phobic and the melancholic, on the other
hand, must entertain rituals that merely hold anxiety at bay. The sensorial
experience tends to fall with the non-objectal economy—uncoded sensa-
tions, what Kristeva refers to as the semiotic, or the abject. When one
approaches sensations, or the non-objectal economy, one is not ­negotiating
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  81

“meanings” as such, but rather feelings, the visceral experience detached

from meaning.
With the appropriation of giallo syntax and iconography the filmmak-
ing team askew any effort to ascertain “meaning.” The filmmakers place a
premium on the cinematic experience and utilize narrative/story elements
as a mere trellis on which to hang striking audio-visual spectacles. “The
result is highly abstract, with an emphasis on sensory assault rather than
dramatic logic,” Kat Ellinger observes, “which also acts as a catalogue
packed full of visual and musical nods to Italian directors such as Dario
Argento, Umberto Lenzi and Giulio Berruti.”27 While the film anticipates
a certain cinematic intelligence (recognizing the cinematic quotations), at
the same time, it invites (perhaps even demands) a stupid spectator—a
spectator that can let go of “meaning,” and allow the audio-visual experi-
ence to stand on its own. Anecdotally, at least, when I (Kerner) screen this
film in my undergraduate classes I tell the students beforehand to abandon
any effort to look for a story, “It’s not there, you’re not going to find it.”
This, of course, is hyperbole, there most certainly is a story, but this is not
the point of Amer, and students are surprisingly open to the possibility of
a spectacle-for-the-sake-of-spectacle-film if they understand the implicit
contract that they are signing up for when watching Amer.
Cattet and Forzani films are pornographic. And this most certainly is
not intended in the pejorative sense, rather their films are first and fore-
most intended to be sensorial experiences, and only secondarily stories.
Cattet explains that sensorial experience comes first, the story comes to
the spectator later—perhaps in retrospect. “The story is told by what is
experienced through the sounds and images. We try and convey the ambi-
guity of a character through stylistic effects.”28 Forzani adds further that
their films are constructed in two ways: “The first is the sensorial way,
which corresponds to the first viewing of the film: you experience the film
physically, then it sinks in.” A story, or meaning, is there to be found, and
it might take multiple viewings to “make sense” of the film.29
Similar to Martine Beugnet’s insistence that post-millennial French
films—now associated with what has been dubbed New French
Extremity—invite us (maybe even demand us) to approach the cinema
differently. These films that privilege the affective experience necessitate a
paradigmatic shift in our “critical and theoretical approaches and, possibly,
different viewing habits.”30 In reference to their 2017 film, Let the Corpses
Tan, Alexandra Heller-Nicholas makes a similar observation, that, Cattet
and Forzani “demand [that] we look differently, think differently, and
82  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

experience cinema differently.”31 The same is true of Amer, which (as we

have already established) privileges the affective experience before a
“meaningful” story. As a result, the paradigms of assessment—premised
on narrative assumptions whether that’s genre analysis, close readings, an
assessment of narrative structure, character analysis, or even socio-cultural
approaches (intent on locating “deeper” narrative “meanings”) are not
altogether suited to assess the affective experience of Amer. Reading Amer
through the common narrative modes of cinematic assessment ensures
that it will be read as a “failure.” To the detractors of the film—likely
grasping at splinters of narrative contextualization—decry that Amer is
style over substance. Cattet and Forzani fire back at such claims, “But the
form is the content!”32 When we take a ride on a roller coaster, we do not
necessarily assess its “meaning,” or even expect that it has a story to tell—
we enjoy it for the thrill of it, and little more. A Cattet/Forzani film must
be approached in a similar fashion—it is difficult then to precisely locate
the critical paradigm to assess a film like Amer, it is in a sense acategorical
insofar as conventional genre or narrative assessments are concerned. The
emergence of theories of affect hold promise, but such endeavors neces-
sitate that we loosen our grip on the imperative to locate narrative mean-
ing and make allowances for the stupidity of the body.

Nikkatsu: Japan’s Stupid Studio

The Japanese studio Nikkatsu was a major purveyor of films with adult
content intended for theatrical distribution in adult only theaters—pink
film (effectively an overarching genre for Japanese softcore erotic films),33
or specific to Nikkatsu studio, Roman Pornos. On November 20, 1971
Nikkatsu initiated a line of films under the heading Roman Pornos; pro-
duction of this line continued until 1988 (all told between 1971 and 1988
Nikkatsu produced 850 titles under this line of films).34 By the 1980s the
wide circulation of VHS significantly disrupted the market for theatrically
released adult films.35 Nevertheless, Roman Pornos typically had much
higher production values, shot in color, wide-screen aspect ratio, and pro-
duced for “about two and a half times the budget of Pink film.”36
Additionally, they enjoyed some critical support from countercultural fac-
ets, often featuring storylines that were anti-authoritarian, and featured
strong female characters (relatively speaking, at least, compared to pink
films).37 Typically, Roman Porno films were expected to be approximately
70 to 80 minutes in length and had a requisite sex scene (or some other
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  83

erotically charged spectacle) every 10 minutes. Only a stone’s throw from

the conventions of pop music in its canned formulaic structure (and thus
potentially not stupid), Roman Pornos relied on a regular supply of erotic
spectacles.
Marking 45 years since its inception, in 2016 Nikkatsu resurrected the
Roman Porno brand. The rebooted series inaugurated with five films
released in 2016: Akihiko Shiota’s Wet Woman in the Wind, Isao Yukisada’s
Aroused by Gymnopedies, Kazuya Shiraishi’s Dawn of the Felines (actually
released in January of 2017), the director of Ringu Hideo Nakata’s White
Lily, and finally Antiporno directed by Sion Sono (which we will discuss at
further length shortly). Historically, Sono owes a huge debt to one of the
godfathers of stupid cinema in Japan, Seijun Suzuki, who was famously
fired by Nikkatsu studio following the release of his 1967 film Branded to
Kill. Critics and studio executives alike found the film “incomprehensi-
ble.” Although others have characterized Suzuki as “cynical,” or “nihilis-
tic” this does not appear quite right—he seemed to love life too much for
that—rather “irreverent” seems more fitting.38 In his life, and his work
there appears to be a complete irreverence for figures of authority. And
that authority could manifest in any number of ways: American Occupation
or cultural imperialism, the Japanese studio system,39 or the conventions
of a genre. He was punk rock, before punk rock existed.40 A lot of his
attitudes were probably shaped by his wartime experience. Marooned
twice—he was aboard ships sunk by American forces on two separate occa-
sions. He witnessed the poor treatment of the dead, and injured—Japanese
soldiers terribly wounded battered against the haul of a ship as they were
being hoisted aboard. Rather than retreating into melancholy in the face
of his wartime experience he stated a number of times that such scene
spawned laughter. After being stranded at sea twice and witnessing the
brutality of war, what could one do, but laugh? While based in Taiwan he
squandered any money that he had on prostitutes and alcohol. And thus,
it seems cynicism or nihilism is not quite it—irreverent is more fitting. His
work, and Branded to Kill is certainly indicative of his irreverent spirit,
casts off the yoke of genre conventions.
We should treat a lot of Suzuki’s work, and this is true of Branded to
Kill, more like a piece of music—pop music. We cannot measure Suzuki’s
films according to narrative or genre conventions—it requires a certain
paradigmatic shift in our assessment. Analogous to Amer, rather than
attending to Branded to Kill through the narrative lens, it is perhaps best
to approach it as we might a song, locating pleasure in its harmonics, or
84  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

rhythm, or catchy phrasing. This is how one might approach a film like
Branded to Kill—seizing on the playful motif, creative shots, animated
ruptures, and editing. Suzuki was never pretentious and always strove to
make entertaining films. Tony Rayns compares Suzuki’s work to poetry,
“Within the Japanese poetic tradition (waka) lurks a counter-tradition of
comic verse known as kyoka (literally, ‘crazed waka’). Kyoka are often
direct parodies of solemn waka, designed to subvert pompousness and
pretension; they are invariably comic (at least in intention), provocative
and superbly self-assured. That’s Suzuki. The kyoka factor in Japanese
movies.”41 While we generally concur with Rayns’s overall assessment, we
think that the poetic comparison runs the risk of “elevating” Suzuki’s
work, to lend it cultural cache, or perhaps even to “make up for” its lower
cultural status, and it is for this reason that I believe the pop (or punk)
music comparison is more fitting. The narrative alone endlessly meanders,
and more than this Branded to Kill is a menagerie of genres: heist movie,
yakuza/gangster movie,42 spy movie (think James Bond), action film,
erotic thriller, and—although not a genre properly speaking because it
speaks to an approach to filmmaking, rather than themes, motifs and plot
elements—the art film. As for the latter, Branded to Kill gestures toward
the Japanese New Wave, and incorporates experimental practices, includ-
ing instances where animated elements disrupt the more or less “natural-
istic” diegetic narrative.
Suzuki, as a salaried director, worked at Nikkatsu studio from 1956
until he was summarily fired in 1968. Branded to Kill was no different
from any other production Suzuki directed, but he was likely scapegoated
for Nikkatsu’s slacking business.43 Irritated by the incomprehensibility of
Branded to Kill, the president of Nikkatsu, Kyusaku Hori, pulled all of
Suzuki’s films from circulation and forbid him from screening in “cinemas
specializing in retrospective screenings.”44 Suzuki’s dismissal spawned
protests; filmmakers including figures like Oshima, cinematographers,
screenwriters, film buffs and film clubs rallied behind the embattled film-
maker. Suzuki successfully sued Nikkatsu for breach of contract, the court
finally siding with Suzuki in 1971, but he would not make another film for
nearly 10 years after his release from Nikkatsu. He survived making televi-
sion commercials and acting. Facing deepening financial pressure and, “In
August 1971, Nikkatsu stopped producing films, and then three months
after that it turned to the production of pornographic films.”45
Although Hori had pulled Suzuki’s films from circulation, his work did
eventually see the light of day again. And he was effectively recuperated by
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  85

foreign filmmakers and scholars. Many of his films were featured in film
festival retrospectives and enjoyed a new life when distributors such as
Criterion Collection began circulating his films.46 And in locating Suzuki’s
work within the regime of “cult film,” films like Branded to Kill cease
being stupid. Comparisons have been made to other international film-
makers. Quentin Tarantino is often suggested to have drawn from Suzuki,
however, the American filmmaker (to our knowledge) has never expressly
acknowledged this.47 Jim Jarmusch, on the other hand, brought back
VHS tapes from Japan (without subtitling), including the work of Suzuki.
What Jarmusch took, then, was Suzuki’s stylization over narrative content.
Jarmusch makes explicit cinematic quotes of Branded to Kill in his own
1999 film Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai. Wong Kar-Wai and John
Woo are commonly compared or said to have been influenced by Suzuki.48
And at least by outward appearances, domestic filmmakers such as Takashi
Miike, and Sion Sono share affinities with Suzuki.
Following in Suzuki’s footsteps, Sono’s Antiporno hits the requisite
quotient of sex and erotic spectacles in the Roman Porno tradition, but his
film is nearly impenetrable insofar as the narrative is concerned. I (Kerner)
cannot, for the life of me, convey what Antiporno is “really about.” And
even when watching the film, and you think you have a grasp of the story-­
world, that gets yank out from under you. Approximately 29 minutes into
the film we hear, “Cut!” followed by a reverse shot revealing a film crew.
Something very similar happens in his 2005 film Strange Circus, where the
diegetic narrative approximately 35  minutes into the film is suddenly
revealed to be the musings of a novelist. The interruption in narrative
progression presents the spectator not only with a momentary WTF
moment (a narrative surprise) but it also marks the uneasy juncture of
where genres collide. Unlike Star Wars, where Truby proclaims Lucas’s
film neatly assimilates multiple genres at once, Sono sets genres on a colli-
sion course. Truby applauds Lucas’s apt mobilization of story “beats from
different genres at the same time.” In Sono’s Strange Circus and Antiporno
he explodes genres, and the narrative beats all feel off—stupid. Wait,
what?! Antiporno, for instance, although bizarre from the start, is a dra-
matic narrative, until it is not. Then it’s a meta-film/experimental film?
And even then, even if we accept it as a somewhat navel-gazing meta-film,
it again slips into surrealistic territory inviting us to view the film as a
dream(?), fantasy(?), mental breakdown(?) of its central female charac-
ter, Kyoko.
86  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

“Cut!” effectively turns everything that we have seen up to that point

on its head. In sum Antiporno is a series of vignettes that features the
fetishistic and sadistic treatment of women. Sono meets the requisite
demand for Roman Porno films with a sex scene every 10  minutes, or
some other sexually charged display of the female body, and a running-­
time of 76 minutes. Sono, though, is a wild genre alchemist, creating a
volatile mix of elements that threatens to explode. While he sticks to the
letter of the genre-law, his irreverence (perhaps even more daring than
Suzuki), is on display in vivid colors. The filmmaker might actually have
something to “say,” and he gives Kyoko some of the most caustic and
politically charged monologues rarely exhibited in (contemporary)
Japanese cinema (Sono also wrote the screenplay).
In the concluding moments of the film Kyoko in a stark space (once the
set of her live-work studio) angrily rants against patriarchal culture: “1:
This nation’s men are shit! 2: the freedom they created is shit! 3: the world
they dream of is shit! And me, acting in a shitty porno, is …” Kyoko is
interrupted by her sister (a ghost?) who, entering from off-screen brings a
cake, and wishes her a happy birthday. Kyoko, however, continues her
tirade, but not before repeatedly smashing her own face in the cake: “The
shitty reason this shithead calls herself a whore is superior to a day’s worth
of all the shit in Japan! Far superior! To exquisite shit! To extravagant shit!
She has more reasons than all that shit! More! More!” Without warning,
and without any (narrative) motivation bright pink paint splashes down
from above (off-screen), and Kyoko flops on the floor, followed by more
and more paint—a veritable Jackson Pollock, meets Yves Klein
(“Anthropometries of the Blue Period,” 1960), meets Flashdance
(Fig. 3.1). The paint is brilliantly colored and the exhibition is erotically
charged, Kyoko writhes on the floor in her school-girl uniform, midriff
exposed, and lathered in the viscous paint. Soon thereafter, her parents
appear in the scene—fucking, of course, to fulfill the demands of the genre.
The whole scene is impenetrable. Are we supposed to take Kyoko’s
diatribe seriously? Is the political vitriol a “genre wink,” where the Roman
Porno differentiated itself from the larger generic pink film genre by
including (relatively) progressive and anti-authoritarian stories, featuring
an empowered female character? Or does Sono hollow out the political
potential of the Roman Porno genre in its absurdist staging? Does the
erotic tension in the exhibition of bodies (mixed with vibrant colors),
undercut, or re-enforce the potent scream against the patriarchal system?
It is utterly stupefying, and at the same time strangely captivating (perhaps
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  87

Fig. 3.1  The vivid and wild conclusion of Sion Sono’s Antiporno (Sion Sono,
2016)

simply because of its titillating exhibition of bodies, and sex). The film
ends with Kyoko repeatedly pleading “Where is the exit?” a practical effort
to extricate herself, and at the same time serving as a dummy to the
screenwriter-­ventriloquist, Sono, who wonders out loud how he will pos-
sibly resolve the narrative (such as it is). He doesn’t.
The affinities between Sono and Suzuki are manifestly evident—in their
punk rock sensibility, their absurd and/or theatrical staging, and their
general disregard for narrative conventions (including genres). In the
comparison between the filmmakers let us consider Suzuki’s Pistol Opera
(2001), a loosely based sequel to Branded to Kill, which is self-consciously
theatrical—sparse sets, an emphasis on tableau, the incorporation of dance,
theatrical posturing, and deliberately labored dialogue. With some of the
sparse sets, it is suffused with a brilliant yellow—a flat backdrop of pure
color. In Antiporno, Kyoko’s live-work studio is remarkably similar in this
regard—a palette of primary colors. Kyoko’s bed is draped in dark blue
satin bedding, her bathroom (which is open to the live-work space) is a
bold cherry red, and the live-work space itself is a brilliant yellow (includ-
ing the floor and ceiling). The sparse yellow set bearing strong affinities
with some of the sets in Pistol Opera (Fig.  3.2). Aside from four large
portraits leaned against a wall (portraits of characters in Kyoko’s latest
novel) the space is remarkably flat, three industrial fans (above the
88  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Fig. 3.2  On the left Antiporno (Sion Sono, 2016), on the right Pistol Opera
(Seijun Suzuki, 2001)

­ ortraits) allow for some interesting lighting effects during the film. Four
p
vertical windows—adjacent to the wall with portraits—motivate the wash
of light filling the room. The open stage-like set (at one point there is a
cutaway to a scene played out on an actual stage), Antiporno allows much
of the film to unfold on effectively a blank slate, a blank canvas on which
diatribes share the stage with fetishistic and sadistic treatments of female
bodies. Given license with the rebooted Roman Porno line, Sono at once
strictly “colors within the lines,” but by the same stroke, does so with such
veracity that it challenges the integrity of the entire (genre) system.

Stupid Television: From Binging to Bloat

As of this writing, some of the most significant evolutionary growing-­
pains that mark and are marked by genre fails in convergent media occur
on a grander scale than that of the individual text or even of a single genre.
Rather they emerge from transitional processes, marking a particular his-
torical moment across entire mediums, or represent the side effects of
larger convergent trends and processes. For example, a simple yet still
revealing way of thinking about the emergence of ludonarrative disso-
nance in videogames, which we will discuss in detail in Chap. 5, is to start
by tracking the narrativization of games as a function of increases in com-
puter and software memory. (The history of narrative in videogames is
more complex than this simple model, of course, and yet it is also indisput-
able that without more memory capacity there could have been no com-
mensurate increase in narrative capacity.) In other words, a particular
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  89

technological development enables more fluid and involved storytelling in

videogames, which leads to sometimes uncomfortable (stupid) experience
and yet potentially fecund (stupid) collisions of the narrative principle with
the ludic, experienced in terms of a player’s moral allowances. The cur-
rent, transitional status of expanded television in the United States offers
a particularly salient example of how the stupid resides not only in experi-
mental, challenging—or even, in a popular critical sense, unwise or unsuc-
cessful—instances of hybridity between and within established genres but
also emerges from sometimes fundamental changes in the ways those
genres are conceived of, as the forms of monetization, delivery, and per-
haps most importantly consumption shift radically when enabled by new
technologies and platforms. In this case the stupid resides in a range of
creative attempts to reconceive long form serial drama—across genres—
and to adapt and conform it to the changing conditions of the emerging
streaming economy.
For a number of years now, the networks, post-network production and
distribution entities, and showrunners who are currently producing serial
dramas for what we commonly call expanded television (to include the
legacy networks, basic and pay cable channels, and a wide variety of online
and downloadable, or streamable services including Subscription Video
on Demand, or SVOD platforms like Netflix and Hulu) have been experi-
menting with the form and content of their shows, working to reposition
them in line with the logic of the new mediascape. In so doing they have
begun to rework our default expectations of what a series, a season, and an
episode can and should be. Typically, this process of reworking and repo-
sitioning manifests as a kind of stupid cinematization, variously free and
bold, or bloated and flaccid, in which the series is claimed by its creators
(at least) as a form of extended movie experience.
By way of broad context, the institutional and technological frame-
works within which serial drama is now produced and distributed have
changed significantly in the era of what FX Network’s Chairman John
Landgraf calls “Peak TV” for six key reasons.49 Firstly, the reliance on
advertising revenue to monetize television shows has decreased with the
launch of subscription services, freeing creative teams from the need to
write to please—or appease—the sponsor. Secondly, and commensurably,
the development of streaming and download technologies has expanded
the television platform onto new screens, with more flexible attendant
regulatory frameworks. Thirdly, streaming has enabled new articulations
90  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

of the series form, in which shows are no longer required to run 20 plus
episodes per season in order to eventually reach profitability.50 Distributors
have begun to allow their producing teams to develop shows with varying
season lengths. This flexibility has also facilitated active attempts to cine-
matize television drama, but nor has it stood in the way of creative defaults
toward such cinematization as television drama fills and exceeds the old
cultural spaces vacated by the shift away from movie drama and toward the
tentpole outlined in Chap. 2. The most common length in SVOD distri-
bution is now settling at around 10 to 12 episodes, but mini-series and
shorter “event” series are also becoming more common (and, in this sense
at least, closer to the old British and European model). Fourthly, stream-
ing services have also moved beyond the standard episode-a-week release
model still practised by terrestrial and much of cable TV, experimenting
with different release patterns, sometimes releasing an entire season on the
same day and date—Netflix famously did this with House of Cards. This
new “box-set” release model for streaming series has further encouraged
emerging consumption patterns, notably binge-viewing, that were already
gaining popularity with the DVD season box-set. The fifth key change
acknowledges the power of the marketing algorithm in placing content in
front of likely viewers. Data-driven streaming services, such as Netflix,
customize the user experience to the individual subscriber, thus one view-
er’s perception of the streamer’s content can be very different from anoth-
er’s.51 Their use of algorithms also seeks to ensure that future greenlight
decisions for movies and series are informed by established data sets that
track audience demand. “For streamers like Netflix, mining viewing data
is an essential part of the approach, and analytics play a pivotal role in not
just the selection of content to produce, but how to recommend content
to current and prospective customers.”52 The sixth key change inserts
online fan culture and its (often benign and occasionally malign) influence
in placing fan service into the equation of expanded television. The imme-
diate and sustained reciprocity of online fan interactions is both a sought-­
after boon to and driver of a series’ popularity and longevity and yet it can
also lead to formal and narrational dissonance when discomposed produc-
ers feel obliged to defer to fan opinion at the expense of narrative coher-
ence, series style, or tone. For example, critics and fans have commented
on the drop in major character deaths in recent seasons of Game of Thrones
since the scripts have moved into a freer narrative space beyond the pub-
lished source novels. The resurrection of Jon Snow is often cited by fans
and critics as a prime example of Game of Thrones overindulging its fan
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  91

community.53 A similar discussion has taken place about recent seasons of

The Walking Dead. Another way of expressing all of this is that we have
moved past the age of television and into a new age that is still defining
itself. As Nicolas Winding Refn told The Guardian provocatively in 2018,
“Television is dead. And television will not be reborn. It will not come
back,” he said. “What has surfaced instead is the digital platform of
entertainment.”54
That claim notwithstanding, however, many of these experiments in
the form, content, and monetization of serial drama began long before
streaming technologies were available, as pay cable (HBO, Showtime)
proved the concept of subscription services and basic cable channels, such
as FX and AMC, increasingly outpaced the censorious reach of their own
risk-averse Standards and Practices departments.55 Some of these explora-
tions focused on testing the boundaries of a show’s content in terms of
public attitudes to a wide range of issues of taste (FX’s The Shield,
Showtime’s Dexter, and NBC’s Hannibal, to name but three). Others
have been less groundbreaking or controversial in terms of their onscreen
content, but their simple popularity on DVD proved the concept of the
box-set, for the short term, and served as a salient lesson about the poten-
tial of binge viewing for the executives of the SVOD services of the future.
In the era of streaming, however, producers found that developing series
to be binge watched brought concomitant technical challenges alongside
new creative potentialities. Some of these challenges were mundane, and
yet they illustrate at a granular level how changes in the way shows are
consumed affect the creative and craft labor required to produce them.
When Katie O’Connell Marsh ran Gaumont International Television,
for example, the company produced the horror drama show Hemlock
Grove for Netflix. As Nellie Andreeva reported for deadline.com, after
Gaumont delivered the show’s second season, O’Connell Marsh binge-­
watched the new episodes with the Netflix executives in their offices and
was surprised at the creative and technical issues that were exposed by this
significant, yet still emerging form of television viewership. One straight-
forward lesson she learned from binge-watching her own show was that
Hemlock Grove’s “music cues were becoming repetitive.” What might not
be noticed—what might pass as normal—when a show is consumed at a
rate of one episode a week became intrusive and grating, in an obvious
sense stupidly so, when episodes were watched in a batch. She admitted
that binge watching “really changed what we thought fundamentally …
We made a lot of changes in production and storytelling.”56
92  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Andreeva’s report continues with a broader example that goes to the

form that the serial drama—in any genre—in expanded television is either
adopting or transitioning through. She relates an anecdote from Stacey
Rukeyser, former showrunner for UnReal, in which she was counseled by
Netflix executives on how to address the pilot for a binge watched show.
“You don’t have to cram everything into the pilot episode as you used to,”
she told Andreeva: “Their viewers look at the first three [episodes] to
sample a series, you can take a more relaxed approach to setting up the
whole concept for the series.”57 This emerging norm of television con-
sumption, potentially freeing the serial drama from conventional con-
straints of pacing and exposition, also allows producers to rethink how
they approach what Jason Mittell calls “managing the mechanics of mem-
ory” within the arc(s) of a season, if not between seasons. “The typical
model of television consumption, divided into weekly episodes and annual
seasons, constrains producers interested in telling stories that transcend
individual installments, as any viewer’s memory of previous episodes is
quite variable, with a significant number of viewers having missed numer-
ous episodes altogether.”58 Conversely, Mittell argues that the binge
model additionally, places new constraints on storytelling, of which
Hemlock Grove’s music cues are but one minor example, as producers seek
to “avoid redundancies and repetitions that become annoying and exces-
sively obvious when viewed without long serial gaps between episodes.”59
The challenge of accommodating to the liberations and constraints of
the binge-watching era has helped to pull many new streamed television
drama series away from the old norms of seriality. Binge-programming has
encouraged producers to conceive of their series less as conventional epi-
sodic narratives, and rather treat streamed content as long form “novelis-
tic,” or “cinematic” stories divided naturally into chapters or parts. Take
for example the Showtime seven-part limited series Escape at Dannemora
(2018), directed by Ben Stiller. Terry Gross interviewed Stiller on the
January 8, 2019 broadcast of NPR’s Fresh Air. In the latter part of the
interview Gross presents Stiller with a telling question: “So, I know award
season is mostly movies, and the Emmys are in the fall. But is Escape At
Dannemora—does that qualify as a movie for award season?”60 Implicit in
the question is her uncertain reaction to the displacement of evolutionary
expanded television toward the stupid—what is this thing now, this evolv-
ing television medium? Is it still what it once was? Is it already what it
might become? By what category are we to assess Escape At Dannemora
and shows like it—cinema, or television? It does not quite conform and
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  93

yet it is not completely different either. Gross’s question gets right to the
heart of the issue, how exactly do we categorize long-form television now
that, besides its length and distribution, it has a distinctly cinematic feel?
The question has certainly vexed television critics, a number of whom have
responded with a common-sense critique of these emerging serial forms.
At the core of their complaint is that many Peak TV shows are deemed to
have (stupidly) eschewed or elided the episodic, the heart of the televisual,
in favor of a hybrid cinematic style—a medium fail that carries with it, by
implication, an entire suite of structural genre fails at the level of the indi-
vidual show. The question we ask is whether their critique of an emergent
form fails adequately to engage with the potential of a nascent stupid tele-
vision norm, or rather does it simply mark this transitional or evolutionary
period in which the serial narrative is temporarily—and stupidly—unset-
tled, carrying with it the expectation that it will evolve again, past its cur-
rent clumsy “adolescent” phase that is too often marked by formal
dysfunction?
The cinematization of serial drama has a cultural-political as well as an
aesthetic dimension. When an executive producer like Jonathan Nolan
claims (as he did at Paleyfest) that his show, Westworld, is “a ten hour
movie,” or when the showrunners for Game of Thrones, David Benioff and
D. B. Weiss, argue (as they did at South by Southwest) that their series is
“a 73 hour movie” they are not only making statements about the form
and style of contemporary television.61 Rather they are deploying an old
promotional tactic, a marker of distinction that is a less comfortable fit for
the convergent era. As Michael Z. Newman and Elana Levine remind us,
previous attempts to cinematize television have sought to claim higher
cultural status for some shows—originally “quality television” in the era of
Hill Street Blues and St. Elsewhere—at the expense of others (daytime
soaps, game shows, and reality television, inter alia).62 In our present cul-
tural moment, Peak TV showrunners seeking to align their shows with the
cinematic is an ironic—even a dissonant—double move that simultane-
ously defers to the cultural weight of movies as a form while promoting
the widely held idea that TV drama is “better” than film right now. The
tension in this statement goes a long way to explain the evolutionary
“problem” of serial drama as its producers attempt to rationalize a colli-
sion between media, between narrative forms that may either be stupidly
dissonant or stupidly harmonious.
These claims are read by television critics in ways that resonate with our
case study of the critical reception of Transformers and the spectacular
94  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

tentpole. Typically, the line taken is that new shows on Netflix and other
streaming services too often undervalue the episode as a basic creative unit
of TV storytelling. Alan Sepinwall summed up the complaint after “grow-
ing frustrated with too many shows (particularly ones made for streaming
services) that have no interest in differentiating one episode from the next,
and just offered up 13 amorphous hours of … stuff.”63 Kathryn
VanArendonk notes, “how frustrating it is that, for some reason, TV can’t
stand on its own as a ‘prestige’ narrative. For TV, prestige means getting
reframed as something else and basking in the reflected glow of another
art form’s cultural currency.”64 Her argument develops along the lines that
novelistic or cinematic forms of storytelling are taken to be long and com-
plex, requiring critical attention, and reservation of judgment from the
viewer. In effect, she argues, prestige serial dramas too often operate as
narrative ponzi schemes, ever deferring the promise of fulfillment and
masking incoherence with “visual darkness, humorlessness, and incompre-
hensibility.” “They are not interested in your current pleasure,” she con-
tinues, “because good, worthwhile narratives are about delayed
gratification. That’s why it doesn’t matter that Westworld’s first season was
deliberately, gleefully impossible to parse until you saw the final episode.”
The tendency of some Peak TV shows literally to disguise their storytelling
in almost impenetrable darkness is especially telling. The world of Mr.
Robot is shrouded in darkness; many viewers reported missing key plot
information in The Walking Dead because the scenes were too dark; some
interior sequences in the opening episode of Hannah are almost impossi-
ble to glean. Similarly, Todd VanDerWerff notes that Legion’s and True
Detective’s first seasons both follow a structure where you have to sit
through “cinematic showcase with only minor bearing on the plot” and
“breather” episodes before you get to “the one where everything’s
explained.”65 In the end, as VanArendonk suggests, the argument comes
down to whether the episode is viewed by TV creatives as a block to the
smooth flow of storytelling or whether “it can be greeted as an opportu-
nity, a regular and reliably renewing chance to tell a story, to sketch a
theme, or to experiment with form and structure on a self-contained
canvas.”66
The implicit analogy operating in this chapter has been that critics and
scholars function as police, patrolling genre boundaries, but in this case
perhaps their function is more like that of the track-suit-wearing dietitian
warning against the hazards of “Netflix bloat.” Of course, the history of
the future of serial drama on expanded television cannot yet be written,
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  95

but it is both intriguing and instructive to see how this new, evolutionary,
and convergent iteration of the return of “quality” to television is now
being met with a kind of popular critical resistance that reifies the televi-
sual rather than deferring to the cinematic. Inevitably, dissonant storytell-
ing emerges from the uncomfortable fit of colliding media. In the end, the
kind of slow (stupid), meandering (stupid), and—sometimes—incompre-
hensible (stupid) storytelling about which VanArendonk and her col-
leagues complain is truly redolent neither of the best traditions of television
nor of cinema. Rather it is reads most often like an imposed meta that
attempts to evoke one medium in another, licensed by new freedoms of
form but too often crippled by its (stupid) assumption that the “higher”
form can unproblematically elide the “lower”—or, indeed, that such
assumed hierarchies still apply in the lexicon of evaluative media criticism
in the era of Peak TV. We will consider other dissonant collisions between
medium and storytelling in Chaps. 4 and 5.

Conclusion: “Thank You, Sir, May I Have Another?”

Genres are a powerful means of assessment, allowing critics and scholars
to police the media. Scholarship and even journalistic criticism can put the
discipline (read: punishment) back into the discipline of film and media
studies; lashing out when films (or other media) behave badly, venturing
too far astray from established conventions. mother!, for instance, got its
fair share of good old fashioned spankings. Likewise, the near hysteria that
Suzuki spawned with his Branded to Kill, which critics and studio execu-
tives found “incomprehensible,” ended with Suzuki being blacklisted (put
into a veritable corner—nearly a decade-long time out). Our discussion of
serial drama should make clear that we do not necessarily mean to suggest
that the critics have it all wrong (and we know better), but rather that
these vitriolic responses have the potential to be read symptomatically of a
genre fail. And in some cases, the fail is “genuinely” bad (and well deserv-
ing of a spanking), as when Peak TV creatives assume that the surface
cinematization of their medium short circuits its evolution, allowing us to
fast forward to the art form in its mature state, and other instances we
might be encountering as an evolutionary or creative shift that requires a
corresponding paradigmatic shift in viewing/assessment.
As we found in Chap. 2, the contemporary Hollywood vernacular
exemplified in the Transformers franchise views its competition not merely
with other media, but the theme park attraction. And this too demands a
96  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

paradigmatic shift in our assessment of that contemporary Hollywood ver-

nacular. And in this sense, Amer, because it privileges the sensate experi-
ence, might have more in common with Transformers than with a
conventional horror film. As cited in the introductory chapter Stephen
Holden concludes, “Amer is a voluptuous wallow in recycled psychosex-
ual kitsch.”67 And Holden is not completely wrong, Cattet and Forzani
trade heavily in the economy of giallo imagery, which is shamelessly “psy-
chosexual kitsch.” However, let us make a musical analogy: The musician
Alan Wilder was instrumental in designing the sound for Depeche Mode
during its most creative period (1982–1995). He was largely responsible
for the use of samplers, to create highly complex, but eminently catchy
pop tunes—he could transform the chaos of “clangs” and “clops” (the
banging of pots and pans) into pop music. Cattet and Forzani do some-
thing similar—effectively “sampling” the “psychosexual kitsch” of the
giallo film, and transforming it into, “Everything Counts,” or “People Are
People.” And this could be taken almost in a literal sense: Cattet and
Forzani do not create narratives per se, they create incredible music. Amer
anticipates a stupid viewing body—a body that is open to sensations, and
willing to relinquish the imperative to locate meaning in the same way that
we consume (pop) music.
Emerging media—from streaming platforms to VR—are also address-
ing the body. Perhaps they don’t do so in quite the same way that Amer
does, but these emerging storytelling media invite us to physically move—
in the case of VR—and with streaming to point, tap, swipe. Additionally,
the streaming of games and television has allowed for new storytelling
modes (at least new for the televisual media)—recent experiments in inter-
active storytelling sit somewhere between literature (recall reading choose-­
your-­own-adventure novels) and videogames. Doki Doki Literature Club,
for instance, is a “visual novel” that requires our involvement to advance
the narrative, and is available on Steam, a videogame distribution plat-
form. There is no “gameplay” as such though, positioning it in a liminal
state. Similarly, there is no conventional (video)gameplay in Hatoful
Boyfriend, another visual novel available on Steam, that combines a dating
simulator—in which the human protagonist dates intelligent pigeons—
with a dystopian science fiction narrative about the end of humanity. Both
are also deploying dissonance as an attraction in linear storytelling as well
as at the meta-generic level, in subverting the typically benign form of the
dating sim. In expanded television, David Slade’s 2018 interactive story,
Bandersnatch, which is part of the Black Mirror series on Netflix, is in its
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  97

own way something of a meta-examination of an emerging media story-

telling mode. And perhaps this “meta”-examination is premature, coming
before the interactive storytelling has developed a corpus of works to ref-
erence. The prefix “meta” almost invariably is a subject that comes after, it
rises above an existing field.68 In addition, the interactive storytelling
mode, at least in its current state, lends to meandering (stupid) narratives,
because “[t]he more malleable the story, the less cogent the experience.”69
There is concern, though, with this emerging storytelling form precisely
because of the way it demands us to touch and interact.
Writing for Wired, Peter Rubin sounds the alarm in his article, “With
Interactive TV, Every Viewer Is a Showrunner Now,” noting how we are
constantly being monitored: “VR headsets that track our gaze and see our
pupils dilate; virtual assistants that read our mood; sneakers that can tell
we’re getting tired because our running stride falters. These are reactions,
not choices.” And Rubin adds that these emerging technologies do not
“have an opt-out feature.” In an era where we (as consumers) are becom-
ing increasingly suspicious of data-collection practices, Rubin admonishes
that interactive media is just yet one more site of data-collection. It is not
merely choosing what route a character should take, but another data set
that can be monetized—what types of narratives do I like, and thus show
up in my curated feed, or paving a path toward a “paint-by-numbers” nar-
rative factory. “Netflix already famously pores over every byte of viewer
behavior data. Now the buttons we choose, the prompts we pick, the
tastes they suggest could become part of that great graph that defines how
the company sees us. Television in the age of psychographics.”70
Bandersnatch is set in the early 1980s, Stefan Butler is a young video-
game designer. He attempts to design a videogame based on a choose-­
your-­own-adventure book. As pressure mounts, a deadline is missed,
Stefan becomes increasingly paranoid that someone is controlling him.
And he is not wrong, because in fact we are manipulating him, we are
prompted to make decisions for Stefan—from the mundane (which cereal
to eat) to the most consequential (kill your dad?). (But what does it mean,
when a paranoia is confirmed? Netflix is not watching Stefan, Netflix is
watching us watch Stefan.) In a fit of programming, trying to complete
the game, a mysterious agent appears: Netflix. When speaking to his thera-
pist, he explains that he is being controlled by Netflix, “It’s some sort of
future entertainment thing.” His therapist trying to understand asks,
“Like a computer game?” In this instance, yes, it is like a computer game.
Bandersnatch is not that far removed from interactive fiction games like
98  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Depression Quest, What Remains of Edith Finch, and Gone Home. The
Netflix program only muddies the water further, blurring the boundaries
between narratives and (video)games.
Videogames, especially now that graphics have approached cinematic
quality, are a novel space for storytelling. The medium itself, however,
already poses challenges to the conventional linear narrative arc.
Videogames are more likely to rely on spatialized storytelling (discussed in
Chaps. 4 and 5). Gamers and ludologist have also questioned if storytell-
ing even has a place in the realm of videogames, like the pornographic
genre, story frustrates the ostensible point of videogames—gameplay.
Nonetheless, stories are being told through the videogame medium, and
it tests the bounds of genres. And this, in part, is what we will address in
the following chapters.

Notes
1. John Truby, “The story that changed an industry,” November 10, 2018.
Email sent to Julian Hoxter.
2. Ibid.
3. See, for example, Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces (The
Collected Works of Joseph Campbell), Third Edition (Novato, CA: New
World Library, 2008); and Christopher Vogler, The Writer’s Journey:
Mythic Structure for Writers, Third Edition (Studio City, CA: Michael
Wiese Productions, 2007).
4. Truby.
5. Rick Altman, “A Semantic/Syntactic Approach to Film Genre,” Cinema
Journal vol. 23, no. 3 (Spring 1984): 8.
6. Note that Altman actually is critical of placing Stars Wars within the west-
ern genre: “By maintaining simultaneous descriptions according to both
parameters [i.e., semantic/syntactic approach], we are not likely to fall into
the trap of equating Star Wars with the western (as numerous recent critics
have done), even though it shares certain syntactic patterns with that
genre” Rick Altman, “A Semantic/Syntactic Approach to Film Genre,”
Cinema Journal vol. 23, no. 3 (Spring 1984): 13.
7. Steve Neale, Genre and Hollywood (New York: Routledge, 2000), 206.
8. Oxford English Dictionary, sv “genre.”
9. Oxford English Dictionary, sv “gender.”
10. See Looper Staff, “The Real Reason Why Firefly Got Canceled,” looper.
com, no date, accessed January 9, 2019, https://www.looper.com/10800/
real-reason-firefly-got-canceled/.
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  99

11. Rex Reed, “mother! Is the Worst Movie of the Year, Maybe the Century,”
Observer, September 15, 2017, accessed November 10, 2018, https://
o b s e r v e r. c o m / 2 0 1 7 / 0 9 / d a r r e n - a r o n o f s k y - m o t h e r - w o r s t -
movie-of-the-year/.
12. Seth Kelly, “Box Office Mother! Crumbles with $7.5 Million, It Repeats
No. 1,” Variety, September 17, 2017, accessed November 10, 2018,
https://variety.com/2017/film/news/box-office-mother-it-american-
assassin-1202561464/.
13. Owen Gleiberman, “Film Review: mother!” Variety, September 5, 2017,
accessed November 10, 2018, https://variety.com/2017/film/reviews/
mother-review-jennifer-lawrence-venice-film-festival-1202545924/.
14. Ibid.
15. Ibid.
16. Anthony D’Alessandro, “The Method To The Madness Of Mother!’s Box
Office Marketing,” Deadline Hollywood, September 14, 2017, accessed
November 10, 2018, https://deadline.com/2017/09/
mother-marketing-jennifer-lawrence-tif f-video-dar ren-aronof-
sky-1202168737/.
17. On a related note, Judd Apatow might be an interesting study, because as
Adam Kotsko explains, “a certain slippage has occurred so that the name
‘Apatow’ has come to designate not so much a man as a genre, such that
movies that he is not directly involved in can somehow feel like an ‘Apatow
film.’” Adam Kotsko, Awkwardness (Washington: Zero Books, 2010), 48.
18. Michael Sragow, “Deep Focus: mother!” Film Comment (September 14,
2017): https://www.filmcomment.com/blog/deep-focus-mother/.
19. Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani interviewed by Virginie Sélavy,
“Interview with Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani,” Electric Sheep: a devi-
ant view of cinema, April 10, 2014, accessed November 10, 2018, http://
w w w. e l e c t r i c s h e e p m a g a z i n e . c o . u k / f e a t u r e s / 2 0 1 4 / 0 4 / 1 0 /
interview-with-helene-cattet-and-bruno-forzani/.
20. Jeremi Szaniawski, “The Strange Shape of Their Cinema’s Body,” Senses of
Cinema 87 (2018): http://sensesofcinema.com/2018/split-screen-cattet-
forzani/cinema-body-helene-cattet-bruno-forzani/.
21. Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani interviewed by Anton Bitel, “Fragments
of Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani,” Senses of Cinema 87 (2018): http://
sensesofcinema.com/2018/split-screen-cattet-forzani/helene-cattet-and-
bruno-forzani-interview/. In an interview with the producer of Amer, Ève
Commenge, she reflects on the post-production process, and the audio-
design of the film: “A genre film, or at least Hélène and Bruno’s films, is
produced with a longer post-production than usual. There is a whole sec-
ond shoot in terms of sound, and the sound editing is quite huge. They
told me, ‘ten weeks is okay’, they asked for so many days of foley, and so
100  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

forth. I built that into the budget, based on what we had discussed.
Sometimes it goes over budget by one, two days, but hardly more than
that. On Amer we realised that the sound edit required more time, so it
was difficult for (sound editor) Daniel Bruylandt. And we had started the
sound edit, then did foley in the middle, then did another sound edit. That
didn’t work, we didn’t have enough direct sound to work with before foley
was added. So now we do foley/sound design first. Right after the image
cut. We gather a lot of material, and then Daniel does the sound edit.” Éve
Commenge interview and translation by Jeremi Szaniawski, Senses of
Cinema 87 (2018): http://sensesofcinema.com/2018/split-screen-
cattet-forzani/interview-with-eve-commenge/.
22. Cattet and Forzani interviewed by Bitel.
23. Cattet and Forzani interviewed by Sélavy.
24. Carolee Schneemann interviewed by Kate Haug, “An Interview with
Carolee Schneemann,” Wide Angle vol. 20, no. 1 (1998): 25.
25. Cattet and Forzani interviewed by Sélavy.
26. Ibid.
27. Kat Ellinger, “Vice and Vision: Magnifying Sergio Martino for The Strange
Colour of Your Body’s Tears,” Senses of Cinema 87 (2018): http://sensesof-
cinema.com/2018/split-screen-cattet-forzani/the-strange-colour-of-your-
bodys-tears/.
28. Cattet Forzani interviewed by Sélavy.
29. Ibid.
30. Martine Beugnet, Cinema of Sensation: French Film and the Art of
Transgression (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2007), 32.
31. Alexandra Heller-Nicholas, “Facial Landscapes: Elina Löwensohn and Let
the Corpses Tan (2017),” Senses of Cinema 87 (2018): http://sensesofcin-
ema.com/2018/split-screen-cattet-forzani/let-the-corpses-tan-2017/.
32. Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani cited in Christopher Huber, “A
Language of Their Own: An Introduction to Hélène Cattet and Bruno
Forzani,” Senses of Cinema 87 (2018): http://sensesofcinema.com/2018/
split-screen-cattet-forzani/introduction-to-helene-cattet-
and-bruno-forzani/.
33. Pink films, perhaps in retrospect, is attributed to films known as, among
other things, “erodakushon eiga or eroduction (a contraction of the words
‘erotic’ and ‘production’), oiroke eiga (‘sexy films’) and sanbyakuman eiga
(‘three million-yen films’) due to their shoestring budgets.” Loosely speak-
ing, even euroguro (erotic-grotesque) films—which shares affinities with
the American grindhouse, or exploitation film—might be characterized as
pink films. Jasper Sharp, Behind the Pink Curtain: The Complete History of
Japanese Sex Cinema (Surrey, UK: FAB Press Ltd., 2008), 11–12.
34. Ibid., 123.
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  101

35. Jasper Sharp adds that Nikkatsu attempt to enter the video market too
“with the Roman X video series,” but this was not enough to postpone the
inevitable demise of the studio declaring bankruptcy in 1993. The com-
pany has since been resurrected, with its extensive back catalog, but as a
shadow of its former self. Sharp, 129–130.
36. Zahlten Alexander, The End of Japanese Cinema: Industrial Genres,
National Times, and Media Ecologies (Durham: Duke University Press,
2017), 86.
37. Ibid., 88. Also see Sharp, 129. Sharp also notes that “by all accounts its
seems that Nikkatsu were quite keen to attract couples and female viewers
to its cinemas, something never possible with the rowdy men-only pink
theaters.” Sharp, 129.
38. Tom Mes and Jasper Sharp characterize Suzuki in a similar manner, “Wacky,
irreverent, occasionally incoherent, but always dazzlingly original and
imbued with a playful charm that has become the maverick director’s
trademark, his work continues to thrill and amuse an entire new genera-
tion.” Tom Mes and Jasper Sharp, The Midnight Eye Guide to New Japanese
Film (Berkeley: Stone Bridge Press, 2005), 12.
39. From 1948 to 1955 Suzuki worked at Shochiku as an assistant director
prior to working at Nikkatsu (1956–1968). While at Shochiku Suzuki
recounts looking for the best place to take a nap while on the job.
40. Filmmaker Shinji Aoyama takes a similar view: “What Suzuki represents to
me is anarchy. He’s a complete anarchist, and he’s the only person in
Japanese cinema who could get away with a film like Story of Sorrow and
Sadness. I was born in 1964 and so I was in my early teens when I experi-
enced punk, and on me Jean-Luc Godard and Seijun Suzuki had the same
sort of impact.” Shinji Aoyama cited in Mes and Sharp, 3.
41. Tony Rayns, “The Kyoka Factor: The Delights of Suzuki Seijun,” in
Branded to Thrill: The Delirious Cinema of Suzuki Seijun, eds. Simon Field
and Tony Rayns (London: Institute of Contemporary Art; Japan
Foundation, 1994), 9.
42. Temenuga Trifonova views the “sequel” to Branded to Kill (and sequel
needs to be viewed in the loosest, or most liberal terms), Suzuki’s Pistol
Opera (2001) as a meta-yakuza film, a film about the representation of
violence in yakuza films. See Temenuga Trifonova, “From Genre Flick to
Art Film: Seijun Suzuki’s Branded to Kill (1967) and Pistol Opera (2001),”
in Genre in Asian Film and Television, eds., Chan F., Karpovich A., Zhang
X. (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 149–162. Note: due to a lack of
accessibility to the published volume, we worked from a Word document
of Trifonova’s chapter. We would like to thank Trifonova for generously
sharing her work with us.
102  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

43. As a cog in the studio machine, Suzuki was assigned scripts, assigned
actors, and regularly commissioned to make conventional genre films
(gangster, detective films, romantic melodramas, war films). Suzuki was
expected to churn out B-movies, intended for double-bills, and he built a
reputation as a capable filmmaker completing his assignments “on low
budgets (typically between one-third and two-thirds the cost of ‘A’ films)
and within tight schedules (e.g., producing two to six films per year for
more than a decade).” Daisuke Miyao, “Dark Visions of Japanese Film
Noir: Suzuki Seijun’s Branded to Kill (1967),” in Alastair Phillips and
Julian Stringer eds., Japanese Cinema: Texts and Context (New York:
Routledge, 2007), 195.
44. Kyusaku Hori quoted in Miyao, 194.
45. Miyao, 202.
46. Criterion released seven Suzuki titles: Branded to Kill (1967), Tokyo Drifter
(1966), Fighting Elegy (1966), Gate of Flesh (1964), Story of a Prostitute
(1965), Youth of the Beast (1963), and Take Aim at the Police Van (1960).
47. For example, the New York Times obituary for Suzuki notes the connection
between Tarantino and Suzuki. Dennis Lim, “Seijun Suzuki, Director
Who Inspired Tarantino and Jarmusch, Dies at 93,” New York Times,
February 22, 2017, accessed November 10, 2018, https://www.nytimes.
com/2017/02/22/movies/seijun-suzuki-director-who-inspired-taran-
tino-and-jarmusch-dies-at-93.html.
48. “Hong Kong director Wong Kar Wai … used the theme music for In the
Mood for Love (2000),” drawing from Suzuki’s Yumeji (1991). Mes and
Sharp, 11.
49. Ken Basin, “How Broadcast, Cable and Indies Can Survive the Peak TV
Era,” Variety, July 31, 2018, accessed April 20, 2019, https://variety.
com/2018/tv/news/peak-tv-broadcast-cable-indies-streaming-
1202890389/.
50. Historically, most network TV shows run at a loss in the short term and
make significant profit only after they transition to syndication.
51. Netflix curates its content based on who it thinks you are. In a Marketplace
report, Nitasha Tiku notes that depending on your (presumed) race Netflix
will even select images that presumably corresponds with your demo-
graphic. Listen to the report: Kai Ryssdal and Phoebe Unterman, “Is
Netflix Personalization Making You Feel ∗Seen∗ … Or Profiled?” NPR’s
Marketplace, October 26, 2018, November 10, 2018, https://www.mar-
ketplace.org/2018/10/26/world/netflix-personalization-making-
you-feel-seen-or-profiled.
52. The disruptive nature of streaming and SVOD services to the established
media industry is explored astutely from a business perspective in Arne
Alsin, “The Future Of Media: Disruptions, Revolutions And The Quest
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  103

For Distribution,” Forbes, July 18, 2018, accessed November 10, 2018,
https://www.forbes.com/sites/aalsin/2018/07/19/the-future-of-
media-disr uptions-revolutions-and-the-quest-for-distribution/
#4194bae060b9.
53. For online fan discussion see, for example, the subreddit: “Has the show
become more fan service/fiction and less realistic over the last 2 sea-
sons.” https://www.reddit.com/r/asoiaf/comments/6zah9n/spoilers_
main_has_the_show_become_more_fan/.
54. Peter Bradshaw, “Nicolas Winding Refn: ‘Cinema is Dead. And now it is
resurrected,’” The Guardian, July 9, 2018, accessed April 12, 2019,
https://www.theguardian.com/film/2018/jul/09/nicolas-winding-
refn-cinema-is-dead-bynwrcom.
55. Daniel Bernardi and Julian Hoxter, “Running the Room: Showrunning in
Expanded Television,” in Off The Page: Screenwriting in the Era of Media
Convergence (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2017), 111–113.
56. Nellie Andreeva, “TV Producers on Changing Storytelling Techniques For
The Binging Era & Unusual Places Series Can Come From—INTV,”
deadline.com, March 12, 2019, accessed March 12, 2019, https://dead-
line.com/2019/03/tv-producers-changing-storytelling-techniques-bing-
ing-era-unusual-places-series-can-come-from-intv-hannibal-hemlock-
grove-good-witch-1202574197/maz/.
57. Ibid.
58. Jason Mittell, Complex TV: The Poetics of Contemporary Television
Storytelling (New York: New York University Press, 2015), 180.
59. Ibid., 181.
60. Ben Stiller interviewed by Terry Gross, “Ben Stiller Unlocks An ‘Old-­
Fashioned’ Prison Break In Escape At Dannemora,” Fresh Air, NPR,
January 8, 2019, accessed January 8, 2019, https://www.npr.org/tem-
plates/transcript/transcript.php?storyId=683192524.
61. Nolan’s claim is cited in a Tweet from Paley Center, “@WestworldHBO
#PaleyFest,” March 25, 2017, 8:33  PM. https://twitter.com/paleycen-
ter/status/845841101193830400, Benioff and Weiss are cited in a range
of media including Julia Alexander, “Game of Thrones showrunners ignite
debate over whether it’s a TV show or a movie,” polygon.com, April 13,
2017, accessed April 9, 2019, https://www.polygon.com/tv/2017/3/
13/14911318/game-of-thrones-tv-movie.
62. Michael Z.  Newman and Elana Levine, Legitimating Television: Media
Convergence and Cultural Status (New York: Routledge, 2012).
63. Alan Sepinwall, “Your TV Show Doesn’t Have To Be A Movie: In Defense
Of The Episode (Again),” uproxx.com, March 14, 2017, accessed April 9,
2019, https://uproxx.com/sepinwall/in-defense-of-the-episode-again/.
Italics in original.
104  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

64. Kathryn Van Arendonk, “Why Are We So Sure ‘Prestige’ TV Looks Like a
10-Hour Movie,” vulture.com, March 28, 2017, accessed April 1, 2019,
https://www.vulture.com/2017/03/prestige-tv-why-are-we-sure-it-
looks-like-a-10-hour-movie.html.
65. Todd Van Der Werff, critic at large for Vox, offers his structural breakdown
of both shows in a tweet @tvoti, March 23, 2017, 10.37  AM, https://
twitter.com/tvoti/status/844966371670736896.
66. Van Arendonk.
67. See note 37 on page 34.
68. The second entry for the prefix “meta,” is: “With sense ‘beyond, above, at
a higher level.’” Oxford English Dictionary, sv “meta.”
69. Peter Rubin, “With Interactive TV, Every Viewer Is a Showrunner Now,”
Wired, January 21, 2019, accessed April 1, 2019, https://www.wired.
com/story/netflix-interactive-tv-every-viewer-is-a-showrunner/.
70. Ibid.

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tv/news/peak-tv-broadcast-cable-indies-streaming-1202890389/.
Bataille, Georges. The Accursed Share, vol. 1. Translated by Robert Hurley.
New York: Zone Books, 1991.
Bernardi, Daniel and Hoxter, Julian. Off the Page: Screenwriting in the Era of
Media Convergence. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2017.
Beugnet, Martine. Cinema of Sensation: French Film and the Art of Transgression.
Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2007.
 3  THE STUPID IN GENRE FAILS  105

Bradshaw, Peter. “Nicolas Winding Refn: ‘Cinema Is Dead. And Now It Is

Resurrected.’” The Guardian, July 9, 2018. Accessed December 4, 2019.
https://www.theguardian.com/film/2018/jul/09/nicolas-winding-
refn-cinema-is-dead-bynwrcom.
Campbell, Joseph. The Hero with a Thousand Faces (The Collected Works of
Joseph Campbell), 3rd ed. Novato CA: New World Library, 2008.
Cattet, Hélène and Forzani, Bruno. Interviewed by Anton Bitel. “Fragments of
Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani.” Senses of Cinema 87 (2018): http://sens-
esofcinema.com/2018/split-screen-cattet-forzani/helene-
cattet-and-bruno-forzani-interview/.
Cattet, Hélène and Forzani, Bruno. Interviewed by Virginie Sélavy. “Interview
with Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani.” Electric Sheep: A Deviant View of
Cinema, April 10, 2014. Access November 10, 2018. http://www.electric-
sheepmagazine.co.uk/features/2014/04/10/inter view-with-
helene-cattet-and-bruno-forzani/.
D’Alessandro, Anthony. “The Method To The Madness Of Mother!’s Box Office
Marketing.” Deadline Hollywood, September 14, 2017. Accessed November
10, 2018. https://deadline.com/2017/09/mother-marketing-jennifer-
lawrence-tiff-video-darren-aronofsky-1202168737/.
Ellinger, Kat. “Vice and Vision: Magnifying Sergio Martino for The Strange Colour
of Your Body’s Tears.” Senses of Cinema 87 (2018): http://sensesofcinema.
c o m / 2 0 1 8 / s p l i t - s c r e e n - c a t t e t - f o r z a n i / t h e - s t r a n g e - c o l o u r- o f -
your-bodys-tears/.
Truby, John. “The Story That Changed an Industry.” Email. November 10, 2018.
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November 10, 2018. https://variety.com/2017/film/reviews/mother-
review-jennifer-lawrence-venice-film-festival-1202545924/.
Heller-Nicholas, Alexandra. “Facial Landscapes: Elina Löwensohn and Let the
Corpses Tan (2017).” Senses of Cinema 87 (2018). http://sensesofcinema.
com/2018/split-screen-cattet-forzani/let-the-corpses-tan-2017/.
Holden, Stephen. “Ogled and Threatened on a Journey to Womanhood.” New
York Times, October 28, 2010. Accessed November 10, 2018. https://www.
nytimes.com/2010/10/29/movies/29amer.html.
Kelly, Seth. “Box Office Mother! Crumbles with $7.5 Million, It Repeats No. 1.”
Variety, September 17, 2017. Accessed November 10, 2018. https://variety.
c o m / 2 0 1 7 / f i l m / n e w s / b o x - o f f i c e - m o t h e r- i t - a m e r i c a n - a s s a s s i n -
1202561464/.
Lim, Dennis. “Seijun Suzuki, Director Who Inspired Tarantino and Jarmusch,
Dies at 93.” New York Times, February 22, 2017. Accessed November 10,
2018. https://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/22/movies/seijun-suzuki-direc-
tor-who-inspired-tarantino-and-jarmusch-dies-at-93.html.
106  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Looper Staff. “The Real Reason Why Firefly Got Canceled.” looper.com n.d.
Accessed January 9, 2019. https://www.looper.com/10800/real-reason-
firefly-got-canceled/.
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Berkeley: Stone Bridge Press, 2005.
Mittell, Jason. Complex TV: The Poetics of Contemporary Television Storytelling.
New York: New York University Press, 2015.
Miyao, Daisuke. “Dark Visions of Japanese Film Noir: Suzuki Seijun’s Branded to
Kill (1967).” In Japanese Cinema: Texts and Context, eds. Alastair Phillips and
Julian Stringer, 193–204. New York: Routledge, 2007.
Musil, Robert. “On Stupidity.” In Precision and Soul: Essays and Addresses, ed. and
translated by Burton Pike and David S. Luft, 268–286. Chicago: The University
of Chicago Press, 1990.
Neale, Steve. Genre and Hollywood. New York: Routledge, 2000.
Newman, Michael Z. and Levine, Elana. Legitimating Television: Media
Convergence and Cultural Status. New York: Routledge, 2012.
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Thrill: The Delirious Cinema of Suzuki Seijun, eds. Simon Field and Tony
Rayns, 5–11. London: Institute of Contemporary Art; Japan Foundation, 1994.
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September 15, 2017. Accessed November 10, 2018. https://observer.
com/2017/09/darren-aronofsky-mother-worst-movie-of-the-year/.
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netflix-interactive-tv-every-viewer-is-a-showrunner/.
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netflix-personalization-making-you-feel-seen-or-profiled.
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Schneemann.” Wide Angle vol. 20, no. 1 (1998): 20–49.
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The Episode (Again).” uproxx.com, March 14, 2017. Accessed April 9, 2019.
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 CHAPTER 4

The Stupid as Narrative Dissonance

Introduction: Narratives Want to Be Dissonant

Different from a surprising plot twist, narrative dissonance pertains more
to narrative syntax than it does to narrative content. In effect, it has more
to do with form than content. Like music, where even to the completely
untrained ear, we somehow innately anticipate the flow of particular
rhythms, harmonies, and pattern of notes—correspondingly, dissonance,
then, only exists because of our conditioned response to music. Far from
immutable, dissonance reveals not simply the negative possibilities of con-
sonance, but the imaginative potential beyond reified norms. Theodor
Adorno goes so far to say that, “Dissonance is the truth about harmony.”1
The root of “dissonant” the prefix “dis” contravenes the suffix “sonant”
which comes from the Latin “sonāre to sound.” But, of course, this goes
beyond hearing or not hearing, but what is pleasant to the ear, or not. The
etymology of “dissonant” comes from the Latin: “Latin dissonānt-em,
present participle of dissonāre to disagree in sound, sound diversely, dif-
fer.” “Dissonant” then is that which is: “Disagreeing or discordant in
sound, inharmonious; harsh-sounding, unmelodious, jarring.”2 Narrative
dissonance, then, often “hits” the viewer. And this jarring affect might
happen in near literal terms, because when confronted with narrative dis-
sonance the viewer might respond in a real and very physical way: recoil,
mouth fall agape, brow furrow, shake their head in the negative, gesticu-
late hands, utter an exasperated expression. Conventional narratives, per-
haps even narratives with surprising endings, lead the viewer along a

© The Author(s) 2019 109

A. Kerner, J. Hoxter, Theorizing Stupid Media,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-28176-2_4
110  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

predictable path, in the same way that a musical composition might. Even
if someone is unfamiliar with the composition might instinctively follow
its melody. Narrative dissonance, then, as a jarring affect jolts the viewer as
it diverges from the conventional expectation—stupidity emerges on the
occasion where narrative expectations are shattered.
Suzanne Keen uses similar terminology referring to narrative conso-
nance and dissonance: while she refers to the former as a “relative close-
ness to the related events” between narrator and reader, the latter on the
other hand corresponds to a “greater distance between the happening and
the telling.”3 For her part, Keen is interested with reader identification—
specifically how a reader might come to empathize with characters. And
assuredly our conception of narrative dissonance pertains to spectator
identification to some degree, however, what we intend to emphasize here
relates more to cultural conventions regarding storytelling structures.
Daniel Melnick also uses similar phrasing in reference to narratives, but
states that, at least in his study of Proust, his “concern is … with the bear-
ing of dissonance on the aesthetic and ethical aims.”4
The composer Arnold Schoenberg actively incorporated dissonance
into his musical scores. “Schoenberg’s dissonance achieves an intention-
ally difficult negation of music’s grounding, commonly received, tonal
conventions,” Melnick surmises. As others have observed (namely Charles
Rosen and Theodor Adorno) Schoenberg’s dissonance functions “in the
context of the common musical language” by which it stands in contrast.
Schoenberg, however, did not view consonance and dissonance as an
unchanging binary, rather he mobilized dissonance “to explode the com-
pulsively and falsely ‘affirming’ stasis of the common language in order to
emancipate the creative imaginative potentiality of language itself.”
Although set in negative opposition to consonance, Schoenberg’s ambi-
tion was to lend “his musical language the guise and substance of free-
dom, of a freed, continual becoming.”5
Narrative dissonance indicates a moment of excess, where the perceived
bounds of conventional narrative are breached. “Dissonance is the techni-
cal term for the reception through art of what aesthetics as well as naiveté
calls ugly.” The ugly as Adorno surmises “is that element that opposes the
[art]work’s ruling law of form.”6 The ugly is that which is mixed, a com-
posite, the abject, the referent that falls outside established categories.
Narrative dissonance is not necessarily aligned with negative emotions;
indeed, dissonance offers a potential well-spring of pleasure in its violation
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  111

of narrative conventions. But the pleasure fully derives from the excess, the
transgression of customary narrative paradigms.
Dissonance, for Adorno, is indicative of the artistic impulse toward lib-
eration. And while dissonance has the potential to elicit unease in its jar-
ring affect, at the same time, Adorno insists that: “There is more joy in
dissonance than in consonance.”7 And while consonant narratives amount
to the conventional narrative paradigm, it is always shadowed by disso-
nance. “Art, whatever its material,” as Adorno insists, “has always desired
dissonance, a desire suppressed by the affirmative power of society with
which aesthetic semblance has been bound up. Dissonance is effectively
expression; the consonant and harmonious want to soften and elim-
inate it.”8
Undoubtedly there is something of a paradox baked into this concept
of narrative dissonance, because it can only exist because of our implicit
understanding of narrative consonance.9 Embedded in the paradox is the
always already presence of stupidity. Narrative conventions paper over the
stupid. The form of the conventional narrative paradigm falsely presumes
that stupidity can be eradicated, but as much as consonant narratives work
to evacuate it does not mean that it has been overcome, vanquished, made
extinct. In the same way that the attraction surfaces as a return of the
repressed, the stupid—as narrative dissonance—ruptures narrative as a
form of liberated expression and, then, as such, wields the potential to be
joyously stupid.

Joyously Stupid: Elastic in Just About Every Way …

The animated series Adventure Time (2010–2018)—which aired on the
Cartoon Network, and was created by Pendleton Ward—is joyously stu-
pid. It is not inane, or unintelligent, in fact it is probably just the opposite.
It is stupid insofar as it throws off the shackles of contemporary storytell-
ing conventions—it celebrates the topsy-turvy world of the carnivalesque
(a subject for later discussion), and explodes narrative paradigms.
Adventure Time invites us to confront the Foucauldian “black stupidity,”
to think outside conventional narrative paradigms.10 It does this in a num-
ber of ways: defying conventional story-structure, adopting videogame
logic, and enact Bakhtinian principles.
Adventure Time is a bizarre exhibition of carnivalesque tropes, and with
some regularity casts the yoke of narrative conventions aside. While there
is an overarching narrative loosely tying the individual atomized episodes
112  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

in the series together, the rudiments of the series are this: the program
focuses on Finn (the human), and Jake (the dog). The series is set in the
Land of Ooo, after the apocalyptic Mushroom War, wherein all humans
(save Finn) perished or mutated. Innumerable other creatures and ani-
mated inorganic entities (e.g., the candy people) with varying degrees of
sentience also inhabit the Land of Ooo.11 Finn is juvenile in nature. He is
approximately 13 when the series begins, and by the end of the series has
his 17th birthday. Although he matures emotionally, he has a childish
demeanor throughout, nevertheless, he is often responsible for the well-­
being of the inhabitants of the Land of Ooo—he is also prophesied to be
the savior of Ooo. (The series, however, in the end undoes “the knight in
shining armor saves the day” narrative trope, and Ooo is saved through a
team effort, and significantly it’s the female characters that are instrumen-
tal in saving Ooo.) Emotionally immature and relatively diminutive in
stature, his sidekick and more mature brother often has to come to Finn’s
assistance. Jake’s parents found Finn alone in the forest and adopted
him—raising them as their own along with Jake, and at least one other
dog-brother. Jake, born of odd and unnatural circumstances, possesses
superhuman (or rather super-dog) abilities—stretching into nearly any
shape or size, as well as possessing abnormal strength. In many cases Finn
and Jake seek out, or are compelled to go on some sort of quest, which in
the end serves as the narrative logic for many of the episodes.
Relative to the later seasons the first season is fairly “straightforward,”
establishing the internal logic of the Adventure Time story-world (e.g.,
the cast of characters, the quest motif) peppering episodes with fart jokes,
double entendre, and discreetly veiled sexual innuendo. Later seasons
experiment more with narrative and aesthetic forms—nonsensical psyche-
delic mind-trips, episodes that defy conventional storytelling logic, and
the incorporation of bizarre carnivalesque tropes. In “Beyond the Grotto,”
for instance, Finn and Jake are in pursuit of a sea lard (something like a sea
slug) and get pulled into a whirlpool—a veritable rabbit hole—and slip
into a dimension where words begin to become undone from their mean-
ings, and the composition is saturated with colors and psychedelic designs.
Whether an episode slips into nonsensical psychedelia or ends in some
counterintuitive manner many Adventure Time episodes stupefy.
Adventure Time is stupid for a number of different reasons—but chiefly
because of its repeated retreat from conventional narrative conflicts and
anticipated resolutions. In some cases, this might be the product of the
videogame logic that is integrated into Adventure Time narratives. Think
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  113

too of the plot plausibility in animation, which is incredibly elastic. “Recall

a standard Tom and Jerry cartoon,” Slavoj Zizek reminds us, “Jerry is run
over by a heavy truck, dynamite explodes in his mouth, he is cut to slices,
yet in the next scene he’s back again with no traces of the previous disas-
ters. The stuff of comedy is precisely this repetitive, resourceful popping-
­up of life—no matter how dark the predicament, we can be sure the small
fellow will find a way out.”12 This narrative elasticity is not unique to the
animated form, it is also found in videogames where a player’s avatar
might be afforded multiple lives—dying and miraculously re-spawning—
characters in Adventure Time likewise might well die, but then re-emerge
no worse for wear in the next shot, scene, or episode. In addition, the
videogame informed narratives mesh with the quest scenarios that fre-
quently dictate the structure of Adventure Time episodes. Like the sudden
demise of a videogame avatar, in a number of different instances, Adventure
Time episodes come to an abrupt end as if in mid-…

WTF Narratives: “There Is More Joy in Dissonance

Than in Consonance”13
Adventure Time is strange for many reasons, including the mystery behind
what the actual target demographic actually is, which is a commonly traf-
ficked discussion in the popular press and blogosphere. It originally aired
in the early evening, largely targeting an elementary school to adolescent
audience. But clearly it appeals to adults as well—whether it is stoners,
hipsters, or the parents of the supposed “real” target demographic.14 On a
number of occasions, watching Adventure Time with my daughter (she
was 4 years old when the series began), at the conclusion of an episode we
might turn to each other in stunned amazement and in unison utter an
exasperated, “What the …!?” This surprise usually stems from our shat-
tered sense of narrative expectation: an episode might end “prematurely,”
Finn and/or Jake, or some other character, seemingly might be left for dead.
Although Cartoon Network schedules Adventure Time in a standard
half-hour broadcast time-slot, many of the episodes are only 10 minutes in
length (a number of episodes are only 3 minutes long—for instance, “All’s
Well That Rats Swell”). The length in itself is not necessarily an issue—
assuredly economic conventional storytelling can be highly concentrated.
The “limitation” of 10 minutes then is not what predicates the truncated
quality of the narratives, rather these are conscious choices made by the
114  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

writers. Herein lies the stupidity, or at least one variety of it: the apparent
narrative “failure”—the narrative dissonance—found in some episodes.
An episode like “All’s Well That Rats Swell” appears to meander without
any purpose, the ostensible resolution finds BMO successfully chasing
away a rat raiding the household’s stash of flour. However, the short epi-
sode in effect follows BMO on its morning routine—a mundane litany of
chores and habituated procedures. And in the face of such a routine the
compendium of events the spectator might be inclined to think: What was
that about? On other occasions an abrupt conclusion of a narrative that
leaves a plot unresolved, or resolved in some unexpected or improbable
fashion (e.g., the death of Finn and Jake) wields the potential to stupefy
the spectator. Stupidity, then, in these cases is not only located at the site
of production but also in its anticipated reception.
Anecdotally at least based on my (Kerner) 4-year-old daughter’s
response to the conclusion of some episodes, it is striking how deeply
seated narrative expectations apparently are. As stated previously, whether
musically trained or completely ignorant we seem to innately recognize
that which is consonant and dissonant. No doubt what we are referring to
as “innate” comprehension of music is based in the acquisition of specific
cultural musical conventions, and therefore strictly speaking not innate.
Nonetheless, Adventure Time, because on occasion it shatters narrative
expectations, plays with what we might call “narrative dissonance.”
Narrative dissonance might materialize in the untimely demise of a pri-
mary character(s), which appears to stand in opposition to the overarching
narrative of the series as a whole. In “Web Weirdos,” for example, Finn
and Jake are performing parkour-type stunts in the forest. Jake announces
that he has found a “vertical trampoline,” but that it is all sticky—it turns
out he is stuck in a spider’s web. Jake asks Finn to cut him out, but that
would be too simple and says, “No way I’ll stunt you out.” Of course,
things do not go as Finn intends and the boy also gets stuck in the web.
The male partner of the roosting pair of spiders cuts Finn and Jake (and a
couple of flies) free after a bitter argument with his female companion.
Finn and Jake escape as the pair argue, but Finn is compelled to return
when the female spider is poised to cannibalize her male partner. Finn
appears to be doomed when all of a sudden the female spider’s egg-sack
explodes showering everyone with thousands of tiny baby spiders. Finn
and Jake are slowly subsumed in a mound of baby spiders wondering if the
couple will resolve their differences now that they are parents, but Jake in
a sedate inebriated voice observes: “Love like theirs will always find a way.
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  115

It’ll crawl all up over you and drain your body fluids, poisoning you slowly
until you pass out …” With this Finn breaks into hysterics, flapping his
arms wildly and belting out a feral, “Whaaa!” But Jake seemingly resolved
to his fate says calmly, “Circle of life Finn.” And in a dying whisper repeats,
“Circle of life.” The shower of tiny baby spiders is nowhere near its end it
seems, but this is precisely where the episode ends leaving Finn and Jake
to be consumed in a sea of baby spiders with no apparent means of escape.
Beyond this atomized episode, one is left befuddled in how this squares
with the larger Adventure Time story-arc.
Similarly, the possibilities of “dying” and respawning are integral to
videogaming, and this is worked into some of the Adventure Time plots.
The episode, “Guardians of Sunshine,” explicitly incorporates videogam-
ing into its plot. The very first image is “Level 1” in green letters on a
black matte: Finn and Jake are playing an early generation computer game
on their game console/computer BMO.  The game features monochro-
matic low-resolution graphics—simple angular green lines and a blocky
avatar. After Finn loses the game in frustration he throws his joystick con-
troller to the floor and complains that if he were combating the digital foes
with his own hands he would assuredly win. BMO acknowledges that in
fact it is possible for Finn and Jake to enter the internal digital landscape,
but BMO insists that it is too dangerous. After BMO goes to sleep, Finn
and Jake manage to smuggle themselves into BMO’s internal digital
world. Once inside Finn and Jake, while retaining their familiar color pal-
ette, appear as blocky pixilated 8-bit figures approximating their “real”
bodies. The pair enter the cavern where the quest begins and coming
upon the first challenge—leaping over a molten pit—they discover that
the chasm is much wider than it appears in the videogame. Jake recalling
how easy the first challenge is jumps, but falls into the pit of lava and
screams, “Ah, I’m burning!” Finn screams after him, but with a flurry of
digital beeps Jake re-spawns and chuckles. Finn is puzzled at Jake’s mirac-
ulous reappearance, Jake points to the top of the frame where icons repre-
senting how many “lives” Jake has left. Finn comments, “You still have
two left,” and Jake laughs as he willfully flings himself over the edge again,
and twirling in the molten mass screams, “Ow! It burns!” When Jake re-­
spawns again, Finn lectures Jake asking, “Dude, what if losing all your
lives in here makes you die in real life?” At this possibility Jake sullenly
slumps down. Finn “dies” twice too when the Bouncy Bee screws in one
of its spikes square through Finn’s prone torso—Finn watches himself
116  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

being gored to death by the bee and screams in agony. Finn dies again
when he is consumed by a frog, and quickly expelled as a digital block turd.
At the end of the episode BMO lectures Finn and Jake about not listen-
ing to its admonishing words. Finn and Jake though, addicted to the thrill
of quests (and videogames), insist that they now know what to expect and
it should be easier. (This is precisely the logic of videogaming—once the
idiosyncratic logic of a videogame is established, gameplay becomes eas-
ier.) Infuriated by their insolence, BMO begins to perform a combo move
which presumably kills Finn and Jake (or perhaps returns them to its digi-
tal internal world) immediately followed with, “Game Over” on the screen
written in that familiar green lettering on a black matte. Respawning
appears to resolve narrative dissonance and the untimely demise of a char-
acter, however, as Finn posited, it remains an open question “if losing all
your lives in here makes you die in real life?”
The nonsensical can also serve as another form of narrative disso-
nance—surrendering meaning to aesthetic experimentation. As previously
mentioned, “Beyond the Grotto” quickly slips into psychedelic non-
sense.15 Finn and Jake are in the pursuit of a sea lard, which they have
tossed into a pond imagining that it would be happiest in the freshwater
environment, but in the end, have to chase after it upon discovering their
twofold error: (1) the pond is freshwater, not saltwater, and (2) a sea lard
is actually a mammal and in fact a land creature. Like Alice who follows the
White Rabbit down the hole, Finn and Jake follow the sea lard through a
series of underwater tunnels. (In fact, in one shot Finn’s apparent alternate-­
dimension doppelganger is reimagined in the form of a white rabbit—
emerging from a crevice at the base of a tree.) Immediately prior to be
sucked into a whirlpool a water nymph admonishes, “Don’t touch the
purple stuff!” Of course, this is precisely what Finn and Jake end up doing.
When they reach the lowest strata, the illustration itself changes: the
lines that outline Finn and Jake, as well as the environment all around
them, vibrates, and become unstable. The entire color palette changes
too—everything is washed out in a greenish blue tint when they first
arrive. Finn yells out, “Lard! Lard!” multiple times in an effort to locate
the sea lard, but he loses himself in the rhythm of the call and his utterance
shifts from a beckoning into something musical, “La, la, la, la!” And in
this shift temporarily forgets all about his objective, and Finn begins sim-
ply singing for the sake of singing, rather than attempting to call for the
sea lard. Finn comments that, “Everything is like wonky here. It’s familiar,
but weird.” As he says this a fox crosses their path opens its mouth ­allowing
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  117

a duck to march out, only a second later to consume the duck again in a
single gulp. (The cyclical relation to consumption, expulsion, and a con-
nection to the natural world has some bearing on the grotesque body in
the carnivalesque imagination—discussed later.)
Finn and Jake do stumble upon the sea lard, but are distracted by a
singing flower (clearly an avatar of Marceline, the Vampire Queen); capti-
vated with the flower’s tune Finn and Jake lose track of the sea lard once
again. The full-force of psychedelia occurs when Finn and Jake encounter
Princess Purple Patch (clearly an avatar of the Ice King)—the frame is suf-
fused with purple, all color is drained from Finn and Jake’s form, and the
landscape in the background, while pretty minimal in detail and simplified,
slips into an abstraction of color only with highly abstracted foliage dot-
ting the backdrop. Jake introduces the pair, “Hi Purple, I’m Jinn and he’s
Fake.” Jake mumbles to himself, “Hmm, that’s not right,” as Finn plops
down on the ground and tosses tufts of purple (the purple stuff) up in the
air. In the end, it is the sea lard that saves Finn and Jake, catapulting them
back through the whirlpool wherein they entered the alternate purple
dimension. While the quest ultimately resolves with the sea lard safe and
sound, the journey itself, just like Alice in her adventures in Wonderland,
is filled with lektons—signifiers without a signified: color, sounds, words—
all divorced from their meanings. Utterances given over for the sake of
rhythm (rather than expository purposes), color for the sake of color, joy-
fully absent of meaning—stupid.

Videogame Logic
In addition to bucking conventional narrative structure at times, Adventure
Time also adapts the logic of videogames. In fact, videogaming is worked
into the plot itself on a number of occasions. Finn and Jake regularly play
videogames, and the audio design is peppered with sound elements that
recall early home-console videogames. The top executive of Frederator
Studios, Fred Seibert, where Adventure Time inaugurated, reflects on the
evolution of storytelling in the wake of gaming. Seibert suggests that in
“the post-Hill Street Blues era” television forged its own way forward,
while the film industry clung to, as Seibert calls it, “novelistic storytell-
ing.” Television, Seibert notes, can accommodate “fifteen storylines
simultaneously, without even thinking about it.” Seibert suggests that
gaming has made allowances for narratives that are not exclusively focused
on a central character, their motivations, and how they negotiate the
118  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

i­nternal diegetic conflict. “Traditional movie and television narrative

would tell you, you have to have a main character, three subcharacters and
a couple of ancillary characters, and that is all you can balance in an hour
or ninety minutes.” If nothing else, Seibert observes, videogaming, and
games in general (e.g., Dungeons and Dragons), have expanded narrative
possibilities. “Games, in the same way, have changed our ability to think
through characters and stories. For example, in Pokemon, there are 150
characters just to start, and then it grows from there.”16 But it’s not simply
the quantity of characters that is at issue with videogame storytelling, but
the basic form particularly its reliance on spatial storytelling, rather than
linear narratives that correspond to the temporal axis (this is explored in
greater detail in the discussions of Gone Home).
Beyond the audience’s apparent openness, if not an expectation for
videogame-inspired narratives, as Seibert suggests, the creators of
Adventure Time have consciously applied videogaming to their storytell-
ing. Seibert is amazed by Ward’s efforts to adapt videogaming into cine-
matic storytelling, explaining that Ward for the last 20 years has attempted
“to integrate video games into filmmaking, I think almost no one has
done it successfully except him.” Seibert adds, “Going through a great
Adventure Time episode is like getting into a video game for the first time
and not knowing the rules of the universe, and fumbling through until, at
a certain point, you’re playing the game without even [having realized]
you’ve started.”17
Ward himself is invigorated by videogame narrativization—and particu-
larly its haptic potential that invites a “deeper” more “embodied” identifi-
cation with videogame characters. Ward heaps praises upon Fullbright’s
videogame Gone Home (discussed later), which is something like a choose-­
your-­own-adventure story, but experienced through a first-person per-
spective, unearthing discoveries as you make your way through the
character’s empty family-home. As you proceed through the home, you
rummage through drawers, bookshelves and the like, finding notes, jour-
nals, and other things that help to unlock the story. Ward describes the
experience of playing Gone Home as hair-raising, and while Ward insists
that this haptic investment in characters or that embodied thrill of vid-
eogaming is only ever achieved through gameplay itself, nonetheless Ward
clearly draws from videogaming not only to seed plots but to inform the
structure of his narratives.
The videogame logic seamlessly meshes with the quest motif found in
the series. In many episodes Finn and Jake have to pass through various
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  119

“levels” before advancing in a quest—for example, in “Wizard” Finn and

Jake want to obtain wizard powers and have to go through a series of lev-
els graphically illustrated onscreen (e.g., “Level 8”). Similarly, in “Ocean
of Fear” Jake develops a multi-level plan to help Finn overcome his fear of
the ocean. The quests in Adventure Time, just like videogames, demand
that the characters do any combination of things: solving puzzles/riddles,
locate secret keys or passages, and/or battle a series of foes.
Adapting the videogaming structure in Adventure Time, opens other
opportunities for narrative dissonance, because videogaming story struc-
ture often relies on spatialized storytelling. While conventional storytell-
ing draws on the expectation of cause and effect relations, in concert with
character motivation, and conveyed in a linear fashion, videogames, on the
other hand, are told as an avatar traverses the virtual landscape. Unlocking
narrative elements is dependent upon an avatar traversing through space,
through obstacles, unlocking elements, etcetera. Videogaming storytell-
ing is almost entirely dependent on an avatar’s movement—save perhaps
cut-scenes, and even still to arrive at a cut-scene an avatar must navigate
through some spatial field first. Without movement, it’s entirely possible
that the story-game (or game-story) will effectively pause. Many Adventure
Time episodes are premised on videogame logic, where the traversal of
spatial fields yields narrative elements. And the aggregated narrative ele-
ments amount to story—but the accretion of atomized story-elements, set
in contrast with the conventions of the default linear, cause and effect
trajectory, has the potential to come off as dissonant.
Gameplay is also found in the visual perspective as well. In “Hug Wolf”
Finn is attacked by a hug wolf—imagine a werewolf that rather than eating
or mauling its victim, accosts its victim with affectionate hugs. Finn is
accosted by a she-wolf on the night of a full-moon, which transforms Finn
into a hug wolf. At night Finn transforms into a hug wolf, and while in his
monstrous form a number of shots are taken from his POV. The shots are
reminiscent of both the wandering I-camera found in the slasher genre
(somewhat fitting given that werewolves are a trope of the horror genre),
but the shots also share affinities with the perspective associated with first
person shooter games (FPS). Frequently with FPS games the means of
delivering violence is featured at the bottom-fore of the frame, similarly in
“Hug Wolf” Finn’s outstretched arms (with his heart-shaped paws) are
visible as he attempts to accost a victim. Adapting the videogame visual
form, but replacing guns for hearts, countervails videogame conventions.
120  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

(There are affinities here with Gone Home, where some of the conventions
of gameplay—namely, shooting, jumping, running—are notably absent.)
The quest motif is a staple of the series, and this dovetails with the vid-
eogame logic of some episodes. In “Too Young,” for instance, Jake is
playing a game on BMO, while at the same time Finn is away trying to win
the affection of Princess Bubblegum. Jake is not progressing well in the
videogame and begs BMO to tell him where the key to the castle is. In this
we witness how the videogaming narrative meshes with the quest motif:
Just as much as Jake attempts to locate a key to the castle, Finn is on a
quest to “open Bubblegum’s heart” so to speak.
In many episodes Finn and Jake seek out, stumble upon, or are com-
missioned/compelled to go on a quest. They might need to save a prin-
cess locked up in a dungeon, to prove their own valor (just for the sake of
it), save a realm from some nefarious agent, or some such thing. And this
motif extends to other characters as well: Marceline, for instance, con-
scripts Princess Bubblegum in an effort to retrieve her teddy bear, Hambo,
stolen by Maja the Sky Witch (“Sky Witch”). While the quest motif has in
effect a conventional narrative structure virtually inherent to it: the chal-
lenge of the quest serves as the narrative conflict, and whether that quest
is successfully accomplished typically functions as the narrative resolution.
And while this might seem to directly contradict the premise of the cur-
rent chapter the individuated quests generally have no immediate correla-
tion to the overarching Adventure Time narrative. The quests are divorced
from the real biographical time of the characters (a subject of later discus-
sion). As such the atomized quests stand alone as episodic units, as indi-
viduated story elements, as opposed to a clear linear progression.

Bakhtin’s Literary Adventure Time

The title of the program, Adventure Time, whether by design or coinci-
dence (I suspect the former), points to Mikhail Bakhtin’s literary notion of
the chronotope: literally meaning “time space.”18 Bakhtin notes that:
“This term [space-time] is employed in mathematics, and was introduced
as part of Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. The special meaning it has in
relativity theory is not important for our purposes; we are borrowing it for
literary criticism almost as a metaphor (almost, but not entirely).”19
Bakhtin’s mobilization of the term intends to account for the ways in
which time-space is depicted in literature.
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  121

As part of the chronotope and the negotiation of spatial-temporal con-

cerns in early literary narratives is what Bakhtin calls the “adventure time.”
This is a common motif, and Bakhtin identifies the Greek romance tradi-
tion as particularly emblematic: “There is a boy and a girl of marriageable
age. Their lineage is unknown, mysterious … They are remarkable for
their exceptional beauty. They are also exceptionally chaste. They meet
each other unexpectedly, usually during some festive holiday. A sudden
and instantaneous passion flares up between them that is as irresistible as
fate, like an incurable disease. However, the marriage cannot take place
straightway. They are confronted with obstacles that retard and delay their
union.”20 The adventure time occurs in the interstitial moment between
the initiation of passions and their long-delayed consummation at the res-
olution of the narrative. “The first meeting of hero and heroine and the
sudden flare up of their passion for each other is the starting point for plot
movement; the end point of plot movement is their successful union in
marriage.”21 The contemporary equivalent of this is the formula for the
romantic comedy: girl meets boy, girl loses boy, girl gets boy back. In this
conventional formulaic model, the “loss of the boy” is where the adven-
ture time takes place. All manner of mayhem and mishaps might befall the
hero and heroine during this median act, but in the end, it makes no dif-
ference to the arc of the romantic narrative.22
The lovers in adventure time—Finn and Princess Bubblegum being the
most obvious heteronormative pairing, though Flame Princess is also a
love interest for Finn in later seasons—are obstructed from effectuating a
union. All manner of mischief and mishaps impede any union. The lovers
in adventure time typically do not have parents, or they are absent. Finn’s
parentage is mysterious for a good part of the series. Finn’s father is a
deadbeat, and in fact when Finn actually finds his father, he is a scoundrel
through and through and rejects the boy. Finn’s mother is absent for
almost the entirety of the series, allowing the suggestion of immaculate
conception to simmer in the background.23 (In season 8 the episode,
“Islands Part 7: Helpers,” Finn does actually locate his mother, Minerva
Campbell. Minerva, however, has long since died, but before dying she
uploaded her consciousness to the Internet, and “lives” on in the ether,
and an army of automatons that are modeled after her likeness, and that
she controls.) Finn, as with most lovers in adventure time, is an object of
desire for a number of characters—on the rare occasions when Finn
removes his iconic white hat he reveals long flaxen hair over which Oooians
gawk and swoon. The objective of adventure time, the moment that the
122  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

adventure time resolves and comes to a close is the pairing of the long-­
dashed lovers. Finn the ostensible hero of Adventure Time is too imma-
ture to be considering marriage; though in at least one episode, “Puhoy,”
in a parallel dimension he witnesses himself as an elderly man (who dies!),
with a wife and children, and in other episodes begins to develop romantic
relationships with other characters. (Jake has a girlfriend and has off-
spring.) Marriageability aside, many of the other tropes resonate with
Adventure Time—among a host of other tropes not listed here.
The adventure time as such is stupid. It makes no difference what the
adventures are, they have little or no bearing as such on the overarching
narrative, the adventures are interchangeable. “This time—adventure-­
time, highly intensified but undifferentiated—is not registered in the
slightest way in the age of the heroes. We have here an extratemporal
hiatus between two biological moments—the arousal of passion, and its
satisfaction”24 And yet this is what Adventure Time focuses on, which the
title spells out quite literally; it is in the least concerned with the “real”
narrative, as if disregarding the “arousal of passions, and its satisfaction,”
and instead focuses on everything in-between, all the things which are in
a sense “meaningless”—in other words, stupid.
Adventure time in the Greek romance is torn from the moorings of
human time.25 The adventures that happen between the arousal of pas-
sions and consummation seem to occur outside normal biological time.
With adventure time “nothing changes: the world remains as it was, the
biographical life of the heroes does not change, their feelings do not
change, people do not even age. This empty time leaves no traces any-
where, no indications of its passing.”26 The internal logic of adventure
time is amorphous—divorced from the conventions of linearity, continu-
ity, and cause and effect determination. Untethered from the bounds of
linearity and driving to a specific conclusion, adventure time by its very
nature is episodic: “It is composed of a series of short segments that cor-
respond to separate adventures; within each such adventure, time is orga-
nized from without, technically. What is important is to be able to escape,
to catch up, to outstrip, to be or not to be in a given place at a given
moment, to meet or not to meet and so forth.”27 Whether an adventure
sequence is measured in days or hours it makes no difference, an adven-
ture might come to an abrupt end, or take a sudden turn. The logic of
adventure time invites chance, randomness, good fortune, some abrupt
interruption that (at the last moment) allows our characters to live and
fight another day—and most significantly, to go on yet another adventure.
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  123

As we have already indicated though, some quests, or Adventure Time

narratives end quite abruptly without any, or perhaps a negative resolution
to the individuated adventure. Nonetheless, the individual adventures (no
matter how they end) in most instances stand on their own as isolated
vignettes largely disconnected from the overarching framing narrative.
Adventure Time, the cartoon, like the literary conception of adventure
time is presented as a series of episodic sequences that “are strung together
in an extratemporal and in effect infinite series: this series can be extended
as long as one likes; in itself it has no necessary internal limits.” Bakhtin
continues, “For all the days, hours, minutes that are ticked off within the
separate adventures are not united into a real-time series, they do not
become the days and hours of a human life. These hours and days leave no
trace, and therefore, one may have as many of them as one likes.”28 In
Adventure Time the atomized quests typically stand alone as individuated
events, but occasionally we find glimmers of the overarching narrative,
which begins prior to the Mushroom War and ends with some yet unknown
but presumably stable future. The literary concept of adventure time sus-
pends the rules of the “normal” world, where so-called normal life is inter-
rupted: “These points provide an opening for the intrusion of nonhuman
forces-fate, gods, villains—and it is precisely these forces, and not the
heroes, who in adventure-time take all the initiative. Of course, the heroes
themselves act in adventure-time—they escape, defend themselves, engage
in battle, save themselves—but they act, as it were, as merely physical per-
sons, and the initiative does not belong to them.”29 Everything in the
Land of Ooo is out of the ordinary, but throughout the series there is a
suggestion that there is (or at least was) a moment when things were “nor-
mal,” or perhaps that “normalcy” exists in a parallel dimension. The Land
of Ooo is built upon the detritus of our civilization—but “civilization” as
we know it is never restored as such at the end of the series. Melancholy is
built into Adventure Time, nothing can ever stay the same, life and the
world is always already in a state of becoming. There is nothing to
“restore,” because there is nothing to “go back to.” In fact, while there is
an ostensible “happy ending” to Adventure Time, there is simultaneously
that terribly sublime feeling that change is inevitable, that nothing is per-
manent—sharing certain affinities with the ephemerality found in Ozu,
but far more potent in its subliminity.
The conclusion of season 2 is interesting in how it plays with the roman-
tic narrative and adventure time. In “Mortal Recoil” Princess Bubblegum
is inhabited by the spirit of the Lich—an evil entity hellbent on killing all
124  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

life. Taking on a monstrous form, and gigantic proportions the possessed

Princess Bubblegum goes on a rampage. Finn enrolls the Ice King in the
battle; the crackpot old wizard encases the monstrous Bubblegum in ice
and halts the assault. But the monstrous statuesque figure, to no one’s
fault, topples over and shatters into multiple pieces—torso, limbs all
strewn about. The medical staff try to reassemble Bubblegum. At the con-
clusion of the episode she re-emerges—although there was not enough
gum to restore her to her original age, and she re-emerges as a 13-year-old
girl, the same age as Finn. Both characters are surrounded by the span-
gling of stars—completely smitten with each other. The story arc of season
two at least, seems to come to a close (or is it an opening?) in precisely the
way that Bakhtin describes: biological age makes no difference, and the
median events make no difference, what matters is that the couple (re)
unite in the end.
This is all undone, however, in the following season with, “Too Young.”
Princess Bubblegum is still 13 and Finn is winning her affections. When
the Earl of Lemongrab comes to rule the Candy Kingdom until the
Princess once again reaches the age of 18, his authoritarian and utterly
unnuanced conception of governance force Bubblegum to rejuvenate as
her “real” adult age. The candy people donate parts of their bodies to
increase her biomass, and so lumped together she needs one more thing,
the Princess says: “Only the heat from a whopping love-hug will catalyze
the re-agefying process.” Before the pair hug, the Princess laments that
she wishes that she could stay 13 and remain with Finn, but her kingdom
needs her. The pair hug, and kiss which is enveloped into a scalding white-­
hot light, and the Princess is once again 18. The Princess casts Finn aside
after she transforms—the dissonance of biological ages reintroduced into
the narrative, as is adventure time.
In adventure time the temporal is uninhibited by the laws of our world
where time marches unrelentingly in a unidirectional fashion and in con-
sistent increments. These laws in Adventure Time come loose allowing for
a certain fluidity—time is reversible, thousands of years might be no more
than a second by our conventional notion of time, or vice versa. Marceline
the Vampire Queen, for instance, apparently used to reign over the Land
of Ooo, and is 1000  years old. And yet Finn is only about 13 and was
probably born shortly before or after the Mushroom War. The biographi-
cal time of these characters does not appear to line-up, but this is of little
consequence in Adventure Time, or adventure time.
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  125

Adventure time, the literary conception that is, the spatial is also fun-
gible. And as Beaton Roderick observes that in actual fact Bakhtin prob-
ably used the term “adventure time” as a shorthand, because the concept
is best understood as “‘adventure-time-space,’ since the theory of the
chronotope binds time and space into a continuum. What happens in this
time-space Bakhtin contrasts with what he terms ‘biographical
moments.’”30 With Adventure Time space indeed is interchangeable, but
also the very concept of space itself is flexible. While it does not matter if
an adventure takes place in the Candy Kingdom, or the Nightosphere
hardly makes for any difference. But in addition to this in certain instances
Finn and Jake enter environments that are governed by very different spa-
tial logics: the flat blocky pixilated world of the BMO videogame (dis-
cussed earlier), or with encounters with Prismo, a god-like figure that
grants wishes and inhabits a yellow cube (the Time Room) in a liminal
nonplace, in some other dimension. (Prismo is an apparition of an old
man’s dream.) Prismo has no three-dimensional shape as such, he is noth-
ing more than a mere two-dimensional silhouette. Not only are locales
interchangeable so are dimensions. And in perhaps one of the most inter-
esting plays with time and space is the episode “Sad Face,” where Jake’s
tail stretches out in a snake-like form, and regularly goes out to lead a
separate life as a circus clown. At the conclusion of the episode, when
Jake’s tail retreats it is not entirely clear if it recoils according to spatial
logic (as would be logical), but rather retracts according to the chronol-
ogy of previous events.

Neither Fish nor Fowl: Videogaming

and Environmental Storytelling

Not surprisingly, most embedded narratives, at present, take the form of

detective or conspiracy stories, since these genres help to motivate the play-
er’s active examination of clues and exploration of spaces and provide a
rationale for our efforts to reconstruct the narrative of past events. Yet …
melodrama provides another—as yet largely unexplored—model for how an
embedded story might work, as we read letters and diaries, snoop around in
bedroom drawers and closets, in search of secrets that might shed light on
the relationship between characters.31 (Henry Jenkins)

This passage seems prophetic—written more than a decade prior to the

release of Gone Home. In terms of game mechanics and melodramatic
126  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

storytelling Gone Home is exemplary of Jenkins’s prescient vision. The

game though in its emphasis on storytelling places it in a liminal space.
The very fact that Gone Home has been reviewed in The Los Angeles Review
of Books already says something of the status of the Gone Home narrative:
It suggests that the videogame has some literary merit.32 Ian Bogost, in his
review of Gone Home, questions the paradigm on which we might assess
the videogame. Bogost suggests that it is unfair to weigh Gone Home
“against time-tested works of narrative accomplishment. But if not, then
by what measure shall we judge it? Gone Home gets the praise one would
associate with Alfonso Cuarón-does-7th Guest or Sarah Waters-does-Myst,
when in reality it’s more like John Hughes-does-7th Guest or Judy Blume-­
does-­Myst. It’s a literary work on the level of young adult fiction.”33 Rather
than disparage Bogost insists that, “Hughes’s movies and Blume’s books
have a place in the world, and that place is not necessarily better or worse
than Jim Jarmusch films or Roberto Bolaño novels. But it is different, and
that difference makes a difference.”34
Indeed, the difference is critical, not only in terms of the associated
cinematic/literary genre that we might justly compare Gone Home to (or
any other videogame for that matter), but also acknowledging the unique
characteristics of the videogame format. It is important to recognize that
simply mapping (cinematic, or literary) narrative theories over the video-
game platform does it a disservice. Videogames deserve to be viewed on
their own terms, and the experience of playing a videogame is (while not
wholly alien) different from reading a book or watching a film. The video-
game platform also affords medium-specific narrative potential that a con-
tent oriented narrative analysis cannot account for. Cinema scholars cringe
when literary analysis is applied to cinema without any regard for the spec-
ificity of cinematic storytelling, why would we not expect ludologists to
bemoan the increasing trespasses on their discipline with the rapid and
seductive expansion of media convergence?35 And this is a well-worn con-
cern, debated at least more than a decade prior to the release of Gone
Home.36 Henry Jenkins insists that spatiality is critical to our understand-
ing of videogames, and thus an analytic approach to videogame necessi-
tates that we think about it in spatial terms—noting that game designers
are less storytellers and more aptly “narrative architects.”37
In the cinema, the mise-en-scene might carry a tremendous narrative
responsibility, and Walt Disney Imagineers understand this too. When
designing an attraction Don Carson, who has worked as a videogame
designer and a Disney Senior Show Designer, insists that the physical
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  127

e­ nvironment must be infused with story elements, and it is the environ-

ment that shoulders much of the storytelling responsibility.38 The lessons
of a theme park attraction designer apply to cinema and videogames as
well. Much of the storytelling though relies on player/viewers own cul-
tural awareness. “Armed only with their own knowledge of the world, and
those visions collected from movies and books,” Carson observes, “the
audience is ripe to be dropped into your adventure. The trick is to play on
those memories and expectations to heighten the thrill of venturing into
your created universe.”39 (With spatialized storytelling and Walt Disney
Imagineers we are, once again, returned to the fairgrounds and the cinema
of attractions.) And herein lies another possible emergence of stupidity in
Gone Home: players prior to or following Gen-X might find it difficult to
connect with the 1990s-nostalgia woven into the mise-en-scene.40 An
anonymous review of Gone Home laments that players will “experience a
lot of 90’s references,”41 surely this is not a point of endearment. The early
90s decor, technology, and cultural iconography to players of a certain age
draws on our “memories and expectations,” where to younger genera-
tions (in particular, but perhaps to older generations as well) the artifacts
of the 90s fails to resonate (read: find a category, or contextualize the
referent), and thus might simply seem stupid.
While much of the significant and critical expository narrative is deliv-
ered through Sam’s diary entries (read aloud by Sam in voiceover), it is the
environmental storytelling that cradles those expository moments. And
environmental storytelling is a product of spatial relations instead of the
cinematic/literary causal relations, which are generally mapped onto the
temporal axis (e.g., this happened, and then this, which led to this conclu-
sion). Katie is the narrative device that gives us entry into the Greenbriar
narrative—and we/she unlock the narrative through her spatial explora-
tions. The spatial nature of Gone Home is more in keeping with quest-­
orientated literature than horror infused romantic fiction (which in terms
of narrative content, and, at first glance, might seem more fitting). And
this quest-orientated narrative aligns with the storytelling structure of
Adventure Time (discussed previously). Many videogames, Jenkins
observes, “fit within a much older tradition of spatial stories, which have
often taken the form of hero’s odysseys, quest myths, or travel narratives.
The best works of J. R. R. Tolkien, Jules Verne, Homer, L. Frank Baum,
or Jack London fall loosely within this tradition, as does, for example, the
sequence in War and Peace that describes Pierre’s aimless wanderings
across the battlefield at Borodino. Often, such works exist on the outer
128  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

borders of literature.”42 In many cases these literary works are genre outli-
ers, and more concerned with constructing fabulous or spectacular land-
scapes/storyworlds perhaps “at the expense of character psychology or
plot development.”43 A point that is likely to earn a (spatialized) narrative
the moniker: stupid!
The videogame platform does not necessarily lend itself to linear cine-
matic/literary storytelling, rather because of the spatial element inherent
to the videogame platform stories tend to be more episodic, or fragmen-
tary. Each space, each room, each turn might unlock one more piece of a
larger narrative-whole. Carson, again, notes that designing an attraction
or videogame concentrates less on constructing a linear narrative, and
more on developing the “big picture,” a story-world with a set of rules,
and wherein individuated story elements convey a story more through an
accretion of constituent parts than through conventional linear cause and
effect and relations. Causal relations very well might have a place in video-
games, but generally contained within isolated vignettes. For instance, we
discover a locker in Sam’s room, which is locked in Gone Home. Why is it
locked? What is she hiding? Inside the locker we find a photograph of
Lonnie with bright freshly dyed hair, which is accompanied by one of
Sam’s voiceover diary entries that recounts an intimate encounter between
Sam and Lonnie. This corresponds to another discovery in the house: a
bathtub splattered with red. At first glance, we expect foul-play, but then
discover the bottle of Wild Color hair dye (clearly the label is modeled
after Manic Panic hair dye). We also see clothing in her locker with secu-
rity tags still affixed, suggesting that Sam has engaged with some petty
shoplifting (another suggestion that she is testing the bounds of author-
ity). All these individuated details—hair dye in the bathroom, Lonnie’s
bright red hair, locked locker, diary entry, evidence of shoplifting—speak
to Sam’s relationship with Lonnie, and how her experimentation and
exploration also brushes up against (petty) delinquency. (It must be stated
that there is perhaps a problematic equation that is established here
though: Where illicit behavior is made synonymous with queer sexuality.)
The episodic structure of videogame narratives flies in the face of con-
ventional cinematic storytelling that relies on a specific sequence of events
to make the narrative as a whole comprehendible. The spatial construction
of videogames function on a different order, where one story fragment
might be compelling in its own right independent of the overarching nar-
rative. Moreover, the spatial design of videogames allows for players to
assemble them as they please, or simply by happenstance electing, for
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  129

instance, to investigate the ground level floor of the Greenbriar home,

rather than electing to go straight upstairs. Consider, for instance, whether
one discovers the bathroom stained with hair dye first, or open Sam’s
locker and find Lonnie’s picture first? It probably makes no (narrative)
difference really. Along these very lines Jenkins observes that “often the
episodes [in videogames] could be reordered without significantly impact-
ing our experience as a whole.” And this is entirely true of Gone Home.
Clearly the creators of Gone Home intend players to discover certain ele-
ments prior to others (controlling a player’s access to parts of the house by
hiding keys and combinations to locks). “The organization of the [video-
game] plot becomes a matter of designing the geography of imaginary
worlds, so that obstacles thwart and affordances facilitate the protagonist’s
forward movement towards resolution.”44 Nonetheless, even certain parts
of the house might go completely unsurveyed, without any loss to the
“big picture” narrative (I for one never unlocked Katie’s father’s filing
cabinet, but that did not seem to matter). Whether certain story elements
are skipped, overlooked, randomly assembled this potentially has little
consequence for the story as a whole—which might sound like sacrilege to
narratologists of most stripes. Literary and cinematic analytic paradigms
are in themselves geared toward the analysis of conventional narratives and
are not particularly well-equipped to negotiate other modes of storytell-
ing. “Spatial stories are not badly constructed,” Jenkins argues, “rather,
they are stories that respond to alternative aesthetic principles, privileging
spatial exploration over plot development.”45 Nonetheless, critics
approaching Gone Home from a more cinematic/literary paradigm tended
to praise it, most of the negative criticism has come from (some facets of)
the gamer community.
While constituents of the gamer community deride the narrative-
heavy elements of Gone Home, the videogame platform opens the poten-
tial for environmental storytelling. Inhabiting the narrator’s body,
manipulating Katie so that we/she can unlock the secrets of the
Greenbriar home. As novelistic as Gone Home might be, the videogame
platform necessitates an embodied investment and physical engagement
as the player, and thus, unlike a novel, calls upon the body of the player
in addition to their cognitive faculties. Pendleton Ward, the creator of
Adventure Time, was enthralled by Gone Home, explaining: “it was wild
to feel so intimately connected with the character in that game. Movies
and books transport you to a place where you’re along for the ride,
games make you drive the thing forward. That’s especially true in scary
130  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

games, because instead of shouting, ‘Don’t go in that room!’ … you’re

the one taking the steps forward towards that room. It’s huge.”46 And this
intimacy with the player’s body might qualify Gone Home as stupid—con-
ventional game play relies in a real sense on being “absent minded,” more
experiential than cerebral. Clearly, though, as much as Gone Home is expe-
riential, and relies on the physical maneuvering of Katie, it engages cogni-
tive faculties as well. Katie as our avatar works through the narrative in
spatial terms. “Spatial stories are held together by broadly defined goals
and conflicts and pushed forward by the character’s movement across the
map.”47 The resolution of the Gone Home narrative rests on Katie’s/our
ability to assemble story elements together discovered throughout the
house, and even if the player manages to get to the end of the game, some
of the enigmas might remain. The reliance on spatialized storytelling,
especially when attempting to compare it to the supposed default linear
narrative paradigm, might strike some as dissonant—stupid.

Conclusion: It’s the Paradigm Stupid!

When assembling Ikea furniture, it is essential that you have an Allen
wrench. If, however, you attempt to assemble the EKEDALEN/
HENRIKSDAL dining set with standard tools, it is likely to leave you
exasperated. Even if by some minor miracle you managed to assemble the
dining set with standard tools, you will likely discover that it’s wonky, or
unstable. Without the Allen wrench, one is likely to declare (along with
some choice expletives), “That’s stupid!” Obviously, we are not here to
discuss the joys of assembling Ikea furniture, but rather to illustrate the
importance of bringing the right tools to the occasion.
Narrative dissonance, spatialized storytelling, and other narrative forms
that do not conform to conventional storytelling modes wield the poten-
tial to stupefy and, in turn, to elicit awe, bemusement, surprise, or ire. The
experience of stupefaction—what Foucault refers to as “black stupidity,”
because the object is obtuse, or absent of a category—might very well
invite a reflexive dismissal on the part of the critic or consumer. Indeed,
depending on the content and the cultural proclivities of the individual
consumer, that dismissal might be relatively benign (“oh geez, that was
strange”), or much more critical (“that doesn’t even merit my attention”).
What we are arguing is that this experience of stupefaction demands
greater consideration, not because it is “secretly better” than conventional
storytelling modes, but because the very form and bounds of storytelling
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  131

are at stake. Stupefaction is also potentially symptomatic of narrative dis-

sonance, and it is incumbent upon us as cultural and media scholars/crit-
ics to be patient and contemplative, not only with the content but also
with the form.
The quest motif, inspired at least in part by the logic of videogaming, is
well-suited to the logic of Adventure Time. Many of the show’s episodes
can be viewed as individuated quests which, while potentially having some
marginal relation to the overarching narrative of the series, by and large
are contained events. Additionally, given the predilection for videogame-­
inspired narratives, the respawning of a character (which allows for a char-
acter to “die”), can be accommodated by the show’s (stupid) structural
affordances, whereas by most narrative standards the death of a protago-
nist or major character would likely spell the end of a story. Capitalizing
on the potential for respawning also affords writers of the series to intro-
duce narrative dissonance: disrupting the viewer’s expectations of narra-
tive. Even without the death of a character, the storytelling rhythm of an
Adventure Time episode might simply be “off”—utilizing narrative dis-
sonance to celebrate the stupidity of a story that appears to go nowhere,
to exploit meaninglessness, to meander without apparent purpose.
Adventure Time is not on the same order as Schoenberg, obviously,
nonetheless the abrupt endings, the non  sequiturs, the baffling psyche-
delic mind-trips that lead nowhere, these still rigorously disrupt narrative
expectations. Narrative dissonance wields the potential to unlock creative
storytelling strategies, and (at least theoretically) to afford the viewer
greater agency in their discernment of the narrative.48 Adventure Time is
not necessarily unique, it is however exemplary in its enthusiastic and cre-
ative embrace of the stupid. Other programs, notably other animated tele-
vision series—such as Family Guy, and The Cleveland Show—incorporate
radical non sequiturs into their narratives. These are perhaps more narra-
tive idiosyncrasies than the stupid, though. Viewers familiar with the
Family Guy narrative recognize when a non sequitur is coming; leading
into these narrative eruptions a character will likely say something like,
“It’s like that time when …” And as part of the idiosyncratic narrative
syntax, it stops being stupid—it is no longer an innovation, it does not
surprise, nor does it disrupt the narrative rhythm, it is integral to the pro-
gram’s rhythm—it is an expected feature of these narratives. Similarly, for
years the running gag on South Park was how was Kenny going to die in
this episode?
132  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

The HBO series Game of Thrones offers another instance where narra-
tives are disrupted. The first seasons of this series were notable for killing
off significant characters, Game of Thrones sometimes quite quickly and
perhaps unceremoniously, dispatches characters that we might even like,
or have come to identify with. South Park brilliantly satirizes this in a
three-episode trilogy: “Black Friday,” “A Song of Ass and Fire,” and
“Titties and Dragons.”49 Randy, taking up a part-time job as a mall secu-
rity guard, mourns over a dying mall cop, “No, you can’t die. Everybody
really likes you.”50 But Game of Thrones routinely upsets our narrative
expectations. In our narrative conditioning, we have come to assume that
certain characters—by virtue of being central to the narrative—will not be
killed. In Game of Thrones, however, we discover that almost no character
is safe, no character is completely indispensable. But as the South Park
parody suggests, this too has become an essential part of the series’ idio-
syncratic narrative syntax. Following Game of Thrones, we are contingently
conditioned, and if for a moment surprised (or saddened, or perhaps
relieved—“bad guys” get it too) by the loss of a character, at the same
time, the narrative contract that Game of Thrones issues demands that we
accept their demise.
After a certain point, oft repeated innovations cease being novel. Rather
they slip into their adjacent status as exploitable narrative motifs. Once
they are, thus, established, once they are loaded in the quiver of narrative
devices, they stop being stupid. Recall, for instance, the use of handheld
camera in Hill Street Blues (1981–1987). It was by no means the first show
to use the technique but, in the visual-vocabulary of primetime television
drama, the choice was initially fairly surprising, perhaps even annoying to
some viewers, or even stupid. Since Hill Street Blues though, the use of
handheld camera has become a mainstay of police procedurals, thrillers,
and medical dramas. It is no longer a surprise, it is perhaps still annoying—
the style was over-done on early seasons of NYPD Blue (1993–2005), for
example—but it is now a customary part of dramatic television syntax. The
creative dissonance in Adventure Time, on the other hand is so varied, so
quirky, so unpredictable that it resists the drive toward codification. It
resists the urge to distill story-elements into a recognizable motif—and
refuses to let go of the stupid. The stupid then is often located at the edges
of a category; it marks the liminal point or points where a paradigmatic
shift is occurring. Correspondingly, analytic paradigms might well need to
shift as well to accommodate such evolutions in narrative—whether those
evolutionary branches are spurred by changes in technology, changing
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  133

tastes, or creative innovations. As a relatively new storytelling mode, vid-

eogames have contended with how to tell stories (or whether they should
tell stories at all). This is the subject of Chap. 5.

Notes
1. Theodor Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, trans. and eds. Gretel Adorno and Rolf
Tiedemann (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999), 110.
2. “Dissonant,” s. v., OED.
3. Suzanne Keen, “A Theory of Narrative Empathy,” Narrative vol. 14, no.
3 (2006), 224.
4. Daniel C. Melnick, Fullness of Dissonance: Modern Fiction and the Aesthetic
of Music (Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1994), 74.
5. Ibid., 55–56.
6. Adorno, 46.
7. Ibid., 40.
8. Ibid., 110.
9. “Although art revolts against its neutralization as an object of contempla-
tion, insisting on the most extreme incoherence and dissonance, these ele-
ments are those of unity; without this unity they would not even be
dissonant.” Ibid., 157.
10. Michel Foucault, “Theatrum Philosophicum,” Language, Counter-­
Memory, Practice, ed. Donald F. Bouchard, trans. Donald F. Bouchard and
Sherry Simon (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977), 189.
11. In later seasons, other human beings are discovered.
12. Slavoj Zizek, “Camp Comedy,” Sight and Sound vol. 10, no. 4 (April,
2000), 29.
13. Adorno, 40.
14. Neda Ulaby, “An Adventure for Kids And Maybe For Their Parents, Too,”
Morning Edition, NPR, June 17, 2013, accessed November 10, 2018,
http://www.npr.org/sections/monkeysee/2013/06/17/192385255/
an-adventure-for-kids-and-maybe-for-their-parents-too.
15. The episode “King Worm” might be equally bizarre, with multi-level
dreamscapes.
16. Maria Bustillos, “It’s Adventure Time,” The Awl, April 15, 2014, accessed
November 10, 2018, http://theholenearthecenteroftheworld.com/.
17. Ibid.
18. Mikhail Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, Michael Holquist
ed., and trans. by Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist (Austin: University
of Texas Press, 1981), 84.
19. Ibid. The bracketed text is in the original.
134  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

20. Ibid., 87.

21. Ibid., 89.
22. Some might argue here that the median act where the character (or char-
acters) is challenged, perhaps even tempted by another’s affection
“changes” the character, and thus leads to the negotiated resolution,
Bakhtin has this to say: “What is important here is not only the organiza-
tion of separate adventures. The novel as a whole is conceived precisely as
a test of the heroes. Greek adventure-time, as we already know, leaves no
traces-neither in the world nor in human beings. No changes of any con-
sequence occur, internal or external, as a result of the events recounted in
the novel. At the end of the novel that initial equilibrium that had been
destroyed by chance is restored once again. Everything returns to its
source, everything returns to its own place. The result of this whole lengthy
novel is that—the hero marries his sweetheart. And yet people and things
have gone through something, something that did not, indeed, change
them but that did (in a manner of speaking) affirm what they, and precisely
they, were as individuals, something that did verify and establish their iden-
tity, their durability and continuity. The hammer of events shatters nothing
and forges nothing—it merely tries the durability of an already finished
product. And the product passes the test. Thus, is constituted the artistic
and ideological meaning of the Greek romance” (Bakhtin, 106–107).
Although Bakhtin is speaking here of ancient Greek romance narratives,
the same might be said of contemporary romantic comedies.
23. Bakhtin, 88.
24. Ibid., 89.
25. There appears to be a clear nod to this Greek heritage in the 8-part Island
series, where Finn, Jake, Susan Strong, and BMO go on an adventure
across the seas, wherein Finn actually finds his mother, and all the other
humans that survived the Mushroom War. There are sea monsters, Siren-­
like-­hallucinations, and other echoes of the Odyssey.
26. Bakhtin, 91.
27. Ibid.
28. Ibid., 94.
29. Ibid., 95.
30. Beaton Roderick, “Historical Poetics: Chronotopes in Leucippe and
Clitophon and Tom Jones,” in Bart Keunen et al. eds. Bakhtin’s Theory of the
Literary Chronotope: Reflections, Applications, Perspectives (Gent, Belgium:
Academia Press, 2010), 63.
31. This passage seems prophetic—written more than a decade prior to the
release of Gone Home. Henry Jenkin, “Game Design as Narrative
Architecture,” in First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  135

Game, eds. Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan (Cambridge: The MIT
Press, 2004), 128.
32. Discussed in another chapter, Bioshock has also been reviewed in the London
Review of Books, Felan Parker, similarly notes that it is not common for a
videogame to be reviewed in the company of literature, “which speaks to
Bioshock’s prestige status.” Drawing from John Lanchester’s review of
Bioshock, Parker summarizes, “the game presents a timely critique of
Randian objectivism, free-market capitalism, and individualism in an era
when these ideologies are not often subject to scrutiny.” Felan Parker,
“Canonizing Bioshock: Cultural Value and the Prestige Game,” Games and
Culture vol. 12, nos. 7–8 (2015), 748. See John Lanchester, “Is It Art?”
London Review of Books vol. 31, no. 1 (January 2009): 18–20. https://
www.lrb.co.uk/v31/n01/john-lanchester/is-it-art.
33. Ian Bogost, “Perpetual Adolescence: The Fullbright Company’s Gone
Home,” Los Angeles Review of Books (September 28, 2013): https://lare-
viewofbooks.org/article/perpetual-adolescence-the-fullbright-companys-
gone-home/.
34. Ian Bogost, “Perpetual Adolescence: The Fullbright Company’s Gone
Home,” Los Angeles Review of Books, September 28, 2013, accessed
November 10, 2018, https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/perpetual-
adolescence-the-fullbright-companys-gone-home/.
35. Graeme Kirkpatrick makes a similar observation, regarding the fears that
the field of ludology might be colonized by other narrative-centered disci-
plines: “The inauguration of game studies involved violence too. In the
first years of video game studies ludologists waged a polemic war against
‘narratologists.’ The latter became a kind of catch-all term for anyone who
wanted to study video games but who did not start from the centrality of
play and gameness. Thinkers for whom video games represented a new way
to tell stories, for example, were viewed as ‘colonising’ the new disciplinary
field, notwithstanding Aarseth’s own background in literary studies. Video
game studies was forged in the heat of a struggle between these two
approaches.” Graeme Kirkpatrick, Aesthetic Theory and the Video Game
(New York: Manchester University Press, 2011), 52–53.
36. Janet Murray is often cited as initiating this discussion in her Hamlet on the
Holodeck: The Future of Narrative in Cyberspace (New York: Free Press,
1997). Henry Jenkins also raises the topic in his discussion of the ludolo-
gists versus the narratologists in his “Game Design as Narrative
Architecture,” found in Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan (eds.), First
Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game (Cambridge: The
MIT Press, 2004), 118–130. Chapter four, “Defining Narrative,” of
Michael Nitsche’s book Video Game Spaces: Image, Play, and Structure in
3D Worlds (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2008), surveys this very topic.
136  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

37. Henry Jenkins, “Game Design as Narrative Architecture,” in Noah

Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan (eds.), First Person: New Media as Story,
Performance, and Game (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2004), 121.
38. Don Carson, “Environmental Storytelling: Creating Immersive 3D Worlds
Using Lessons Learned from the Theme Park Industry,” Gamasutra,
March 1, 2000, accessed November 10, 2018. http://www.gamasutra.
com/view/feature/131594/environmental_storytelling_.php.
39. Ibid.
40. For a concentrated discussion of nostalgia in videogames including Gone
Home see: Robin J.  S. Sloan, “Videogames as Remediated Memories:
Commodified Nostalgia and Hyperreality in Far Cry 3: Blood Dragon and
Gone Home,” Games and Culture vol. 10, no. 6 (November 2014): 1–27.
41. Anonymous, “Gone Home: THIS IS NOT A GAME,” no post date,
accessed August 8, 2016. https://encyclopediadramatica.se/Gone_
Home.
42. Jenkins, 122.
43. Ibid.
44. Ibid., 124–125.
45. Ibid., 124.
46. Bustillos.
47. Jenkins, 124.
48. Melnick, 9.
49. “Black Friday,” (episode 7), “A Song of Ass and Fire,” (episode 8) and
“Titties and Dragons” (episode 9) aired during season 17 (2013).
50. “Black Friday,” Trey Parker, South Park, Comedy Central, season 17, epi-
sode 7 (November 13, 2013).

References
Adorno, Theodor. Aesthetic Theory. Translators and editors Gretel Adorno and
Rolf Tiedemann. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999.
Anonymous. “Gone Home: THIS IS NOT A GAME.” Encyclopediadramatica
(blog). n.d. Accessed August 8, 2016. https://encyclopediadramatica.se/
Gone_Home.
Bakhtin, Mikhail. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, ed. Michael Holquist,
and translated by Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. Austin: University of
Texas Press, 1981.
Bogost, Ian. “Perpetual Adolescence: The Fullbright Company’s Gone Home.” Los
Angeles Review of Books, September 28, 2013. Accessed November 10, 2018.
https://lareviewofbooks.org/ar ticle/perpetual-adolescence-
the-fullbright-companys-gone-home/.
 4  THE STUPID AS NARRATIVE DISSONANCE  137

Bustillos, Maria. “It’s Adventure Time.” The Awl, April 15, 2014. Accessed
November 10, 2018. http://theholenearthecenteroftheworld.com/.
Carson, Don. “Environmental Storytelling: Creating Immersive 3D Worlds Using
Lessons Learned from the Theme Park Industry.” Gamasutra, March 1, 2000.
Accessed November 10, 2018. http://www.gamasutra.com/view/feature/
131594/environmental_storytelling_.php.
Foucault, Michel. “Theatrum Philosophicum.” In Language, Counter-Memory,
Practice, ed. Donald F.  Bouchard, trans. Donald F.  Bouchard and Sherry
Simon, 165–196. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977.
Jenkins, Henry. “Game Design as Narrative Architecture.” In First Person: New
Media as Story, Performance, and Game, eds. Noah Wardrip-Fruin and Pat
Harrigan, 118–130. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2004.
Keen, Suzanne. “A Theory of Narrative Empathy.” Narrative vol. 14, no. 3
(2006): 207–236.
Kirkpatrick, Graeme. Aesthetic Theory and the Video Game. New York: Manchester
University Press, 2011.
Lanchester, John. “Is It Art?” London Review of Books vol. 31, no. 1 (January
2009): 18–20. https://www.lrb.co.uk/v31/n01/john-lanchester/is-it-art.
Melnick, Daniel C. Fullness of Dissonance: Modern Fiction and the Aesthetic of
Music. Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1994.
Murray, Janet. Hamlet on the Holodeck: The Future of Narrative in Cyberspace.
New York: Free Press, 1997.
Roderick, Beaton. “Historical Poetics: Chronotopes in Leucippe and Clitophon
and Tom Jones.” In Bakhtin’s Theory of the Literary Chronotope: Reflections,
Applications, Perspectives, eds. Bart Keunen et  al., 59–76. Gent, Belgium:
Academia Press, 2010.
Sloan, Robin J. S. “Videogames as Remediated Memories: Commodified Nostalgia
and Hyperreality in Far Cry 3: Blood Dragon and Gone Home.” Games and
Culture vol. 10, no. 6 (November 2014): 1–27.
Ulaby, Neda. “An ‘Adventure’ for Kids And Maybe For Their Parents, Too.”
Morning Edition, NPR, June 17, 2013. Accessed November 10, 2018. http://
www.npr.org/sections/monkeysee/2013/06/17/192385255/an-
adventure-for-kids-and-maybe-for-their-parents-too.
Žižek, Slavoj. “Camp Comedy.” Sight and Sound vol. 10, no. 4 (2000): 26–29.
 CHAPTER 5

The Stupid as Ludonarrative Dissonance

Introduction: Ludonarrative Dissonance

and the Stupid

Clint Hocking coined the term “ludonarrative dissonance” in his critique

of the videogame Bioshock, developed by 2K and initially released in 2007
(followed by successive sequels). He argued that, in the experience of play-
ing Bioshock, the game’s two competing architectures, the narrative (story-
telling) and ludic (gameplay), come into direct and dissonant conflict
around a player’s allowances. Bioshock at its core is a first-person shooter
game set in 1960 in an underwater urban center called Rapture. The nar-
rative is fairly complex, but our avatar and protagonist, Jack, survives a
plane crash and finds his way to Rapture, an underwater city designed by
the business tycoon Andrew Ryan as a utopian experiment. With the initial
help of the enigmatic character Atlas, Jack discovers that the planned uto-
pia has been undermined by Ryan’s rival (the gangster Frank Fontaine)
after the discovery of ADAM, a genetic substance that can alter a user’s
DNA to grant them superpowers. Fontaine and his scientist accomplices
have mass produced ADAM by implanting it into orphan girls, the “Little
Sisters” of the story. The story has two possible outcomes depending how
the player interacts with the Little Sisters. If they are spared, Jack will
bring them to the surface and even adopt some of them. This version of
the ending then plays out scenes of their happy lives on the surface. If all,
or at least more than one Little Sister is killed or “harvested” for their
ADAM, however, the narrative morally upbraids Jack at the end as he

© The Author(s) 2019 139

A. Kerner, J. Hoxter, Theorizing Stupid Media,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-28176-2_5
140  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

turns on the innocents and (presumably) destroys them, the level of vitriol
dependent on how many Little Sisters have been harvested. The philo-
sophical underpinning of Rapture is premised on Ayn Rand’s conception
of Objectivism, which dovetails (if not fully aligns) with Libertarian values.
A premium is placed on subjective autonomy, and champions self-reliance
and unabashed (financial) advancement, while rejecting social welfare—in
short, Rand advocated for a radical form of social Darwinism. Needless to
say, the underwater social experiment does not go exactly to plan, and the
stage is set for an adventure in a dystopian landscape.
Hocking actually goes out of his way to differentiate his “game criti-
cism” from a “game review” proper. While the latter is generally targeted
to gamers and whether they should purchase a game (often focusing on
gameplay mechanics and visual appeal), Hocking positions his own post,
“Ludonarrative Dissonance in Bioshock,” as game criticism, which is
addressed to “game developers and professionals who want to think about
the nature of games and what they mean.”1 And were he to be writing a
game review of Bioshock, Hocking would lavish the game with praise.
However, approached from the paradigm of game criticism, Hocking is
interested in the tension between the imperatives of the rules of the game,
and the underlying (moral) implications for the narrative.
Furthermore Bioshock, within conventional gameplay rules, offers the
player a degree of autonomy. At the narrative climax of the game, how-
ever, autonomy is revealed to be a ruse. The phrase, “would you kindly,”
which prefaces Atlas’s directions, is revealed to be an implanted autosug-
gestion command, where Jack unconsciously submits to Atlas’s directives.
When Jack confronts Rapture’s “Randian patriarch, Andrew Ryan,” with
the intent of murdering him, and to “rescue Atlas” gameplay is unveiled,
as a series of preordained narrative choices, previously plotted by the
designer.2 Ryan mocks Jack (or us, the player), “An assassin has overcome
my final defences. And now he’s come to murder me. In the end, what
separates a man, from a slave? Money? Power? No, a man chooses, a slave
obeys.” Wresting control from the player, the actual murder of Ryan is
rendered in a cutscene—Ryan hands over his own golf putter and com-
mands Jack to execute his orders, and Jack obediently bludgeons him to
death. Hocking complains that, “The game openly mocks us for having
willingly suspended our disbelief in order to enjoy it.”3 This pulling back
of the curtain, to reveal the wizard/designer, discloses the illusion of rela-
tive autonomy in the game, and this is where the ludonarrative tension lies.
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  141

The ludic contract—and this is probably true of nearly all games—is

that as a player you need to acquire powers, defeat foes, overcome obsta-
cles, solve puzzles in order to advance and ultimately to win. “The rules of
the game say, ‘it is best if I do what is best for me without consideration
for others.’” Hocking adds, “However, it must be pointed out that
Bioshock goes the extra mile and ties this game’s mechanical contract back
to the narrative in spectacular fashion through the use of the Little Sisters.
By ‘dressing up’ the mechanics of this contract in well realized content I
literally experience what it means to gain by doing what is best for me (I
get more ADAM) without consideration for others (by harvesting Little
Sisters).”4 What Bioshock establishes is a sadean logic, and sadean in the
truest sense of the term. Sadism is often confused as simply the pleasure
derived from the suffering of others. This is the colloquial understanding
of the term. Read from a philosophical perspective though, the Marquis
de Sade leveled a searing critique of the Enlightenment project. Sade was
a minor noble; he witnessed the Reign of Terror firsthand, dug graves for
fellow members of the French aristocracy, and narrowly escaped the guil-
lotine himself. His pornographic novels are veiled allegorical polemics on
the failings of the Age of Reason. Sade’s novels enact the logical outcomes
of the Enlightenment project, where reason unchecked by ethics is fol-
lowed to its ultimate conclusion. The French Revolution, inspired by the
principles of the Enlightenment and the ability for subjects to determine
their own fate (without the guiding hand of a sovereign or theocracy) in
the pursuit of liberty, justice, and democracy literally led to blood running
through the streets and the mass execution of the noble class. Bioshock
places the player in the sadean position, to act in accordance with the rules
of the game, without regard for ethics. Hocking recounts that, “The game
literally made me feel a cold detachment from the fate of the Little Sisters,”
and that killing the Little Sisters “in pursuit of my own self-interest seems
not only the best choice mechanically, but also the right choice. This is
exactly what this game needed to do—make me experience—feel—what it
means to embrace a social philosophy that I would not under normal cir-
cumstances consider.”5 And this is exactly what Sade was warning us
against. The sadean logic is interesting, because reportedly in the games
early development the game-world was originally set in an abandoned
Nazi laboratory. When you elect to harvest Little Sisters, Atlas attempts to
assuage our guilt, “You did the right thing. Just remember, them things
aren’t people no more.”
142  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

For Hocking the ludonarrative dissonance, then, emerges in this ten-

sion between what the rules of the game dictate in order to be successful,
and the disturbing implications of “successful gameplay” for the story. As
Hocking outlines it, ludonarrative dissonance is the “leveraging of the
game’s narrative structure against its ludic structure.”6 Encountering
instances of ludonarrative dissonance arguably adds an emersive element to
the player experience. The dissonant collision between story and gameplay
potentially breaks Huizinga’s “magic circle,” drawing the player out of a
state of relative immersion and making them aware of the unbalanced
(stupid), or at least fictive nature of their experience.7 Arguably such an
encounter is, in this limited sense at least, of a deconstructive nature. Nick
Ballantyne, Managing Editor at GameCloud, describes it as “something
like a hypocrisy in the game’s beliefs … ludonarrative dissonance isn’t
about your beliefs, it’s about the system’s imposed beliefs.”8 In the gaming
blogosphere, and in Hocking’s own conception of ludonarrative disso-
nance, there appears to be an almost unquestioned assumption that the
cleft between gameplay and narrative is inherently defective, and that
ludonarrative consonance is the presumptive default. Narrative disso-
nance, though, as explored in Chap. 4 can lead to some playful innova-
tions in storytelling. What is automatically presumed to be a flaw, has in
fact tremendous potential to be an innovation in game-design and story-
telling. Nick Ballantyne also sees this potential, asking his online readers
“what if it could be used to a dev’s advantage? Video games can force
players into uncomfortable situations, and ludonarrative dissonance can
help foster that uncomfortableness. Faux glitches have been used as ludo/
narrative tools before, so why is ludonarrative dissonance avoided so
much? If your intent is to unsettle or confuse a player, then ludonarrative
dissonance seems perfect, but this relies heavily on the player.”9 Arguably
it also relies heavily on the deployment of what Ian Bogost calls a game’s
“procedural rhetoric,” or its persuasive power, enacted through game
mechanics: “the art of persuasion through rule-based representations and
interactions, rather than the spoken word, writing, images, or moving pic-
tures.”10 Of course, the power of a game’s procedural rhetoric is modified
by player skill, experience with the game, and the difficulty setting or level.
A player who can defeat the opposition in Bioshock without being pushed
toward the choice to harvest Little Sisters in order to beat the game will at
least partially bypass the draw of its procedural rhetoric and, thus, of its
ludonarrative dissonance as well.
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  143

The tension that is built into Bioshock, for instance, also gives the player
an opportunity to contemplate sadean logic (whether players actually
think about it in these exact terms or not).11 In fact, the game in its sadean
tension is not that far removed from the enormously popular television
series Breaking Bad, where our protagonist Walter White, is (if not in
name, but in action and deeds) a Nazi. White sets aside all ethics to kill, to
profit from the manufacturing of, sale, and distribution of methamphet-
amine. He orchestrates mass hits, he corrupts Jessie, a wayward youth,
compelling him to commit murder. White justifies this all in the name of
saving his family; diagnosed with terminal cancer, White creates a criminal
empire to ensure the financial well-being of his family. He fulfills the
imperative to be a “real man,” and to provide for his family. And while
“successful” in heeding this imperative, White is a reprehensible human
being. Despite our own presumed moral disposition, we root for White,
we want him to succeed at all cost. Cognitive dissonance.
This indeed is a fascinating area of investigation, and we cannot explore
it fully here, but emotional and affective pleasure can be drawn from
things that are politically regressive—despite our best vigilance. Our bod-
ies in particular can betray us—laughter spawned by epic fails or coming at
the expense of someone’s dignity (see for instance Jackass, Tosh.O), sexual
arousal elicited by problematic content. We can vociferously rail against
problematic content all we want, but until we contend with the emotive
and affective experience, then, it does not seem that we are making head-
way in our understanding of why videogames are a multi-billion-dollar
industry. Calling out regressive content is necessary, and there is nothing
inherently “wrong” in doing so, indeed we have an obligation to do so,
but moral indignation by itself is an exercise in self-indulgence (flattering
our own progressive egos), because it fails to address the very real feelings
that are experienced during gameplay. This is fertile ground from which
fantasies emerge—allowing for the violation of prohibitions, transgressive
(even criminal) behavior, as Hocking says, “what it means to embrace a
social philosophy that I would not under normal circumstances consider.”
Cognitive dissonance aside, the term “ludonarrative dissonance” gained
some currency in the blogosphere, and is beginning to penetrate scholar-
ship, gaining traction with emerging scholars including a growing number
of theses and dissertations. It has come to generally refer to the disconnect
between gameplay and story. Another example that is frequently cited is
Max Payne, where in the gameplay-world our avatar is a kick-ass (former)
cop, but at the same time, in the story-world the same character is a
144  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

depressed alcoholic addicted to painkillers—setting the gameplay at odds

with the insobriety of our character. “Authenticity,” then, is woven into
this general conception of ludonarrative dissonance—where infinitely
deep pockets, endless rounds of ammunition, and the weight of weapons
or devices have no bearing on your ability to run, jump, or dodge. “Is it
stupid and unrealistic?” Scott Hughes asks. “Sure. Does it matter? No.
Why? Because it’s a video game.”12 For Hughes, even as games become
increasingly more “realistic”—a term that makes us cinema scholars
cringe—this in no way should impair gameplay. Nevertheless, ludonarra-
tive dissonance is located in the tension between “naturalistic” aesthetics—
a term that we cinema scholars are perhaps slightly more amenable to—
and the lack of fidelity to earth-bound physics demands a suspension of
disbelief.
Hughes focuses on The Last of Us (Naughty Dog, 2013, remastered for
PS4 2014)—in effect a post-apocalyptic survival game, in a world popu-
lated by humans infected by the Cordyceps fungus causing infected indi-
viduals to act like zombies (though they are never called that). In the
infinitude of resources and nearly superhuman strength of our avatar, the
gameplay and the narrative fail to align, thus, generating the ludonarrative
dissonance for Hughes. He insists that the “developers could have made it
more realistic, thereby weaving its narrative and gameplay together more
cohesively.” While such fidelity to “reality” would have likely compro-
mised market-share, making the game harder to play, “[t]his distressing
realism wouldn’t have simply served to inform the story; it is the story.”
Hughes insists that videogames “could stand to have a little more real-
ism—not in graphics but in gameplay. If developers want their virtual
world to seem brutally real, they shouldn’t hold back.”13
But, like Bioshock, this game too, also demands that we make a difficult
if not an impossible choice. The plot of The Last of Us resembles in many
ways the plot of the AMC series The Walking Dead. Ellie a teenage girl is
immune to the infection that has led to the destruction of civilization. Our
avatar is Joel, and it’s his (our) mission to smuggle Ellie out of the quar-
antined area and get her to a group of revolutionaries in the hopes of
developing a cure, and ultimately to save humanity. However, what we
discover is that in order to determine what makes Ellie immune, she will
die. Although the narrative is derivative, as Jason Sheenan observes, it is at
the same time, “one of the most moving, affecting and satisfying stories
you’ll find anywhere.”14 Sheehan recounts that during the first run through
the game he drew his weapons “and slaughtered my way to the end ­credits,
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  145

alight with fury and sure knowledge that I’d made the only choice I
could.” However, on his second go-around Sheehan, played with the
“awful wisdom. Cassandra’s curse. I know how this story ends and I have
made up my mind that, this time, I will make the other choice. The right
one (morally, mathematically, humanistically), and so I walk with ghosts
the whole way, right up to the end, and then …” Sheehan makes “the
exact same choice again. I can’t make the other. It hurts too much. Because
that is how good the storytelling is in The Last Of Us. It makes you care so
deeply for a smartass bunch of pixels in the shape of a teenage girl that you
will damn the whole world twice just for her.”15 Sheehan, in the face of
ludonarrative dissonance, wins (as it is designed), but cognizant of the
(narrative) consequences feels guilty, or perhaps even feels like he lost.
Despite the narrative tug—to allow the surgical procedure to proceed—in
fact there is only one possible option in The Last of Us—to damn the world
and to save our precious Ellie. Hypothetically, we suppose, a player could
simply put the controller down, and theoretically allow the surgical proce-
dure to happen (in their own imagination), but this would be a willful
conceit, and something that the ludic design does not permit for.
Despite the critical interest in particular instances of ludonarrative dis-
sonance like those discussed above, from the perspective of many gamers
the concept, while familiar, is often dismissed as an unnecessary critical
overthink of the emergence of complex narratives into gaming. Either
gamers simply don’t care, because their personal gaming priorities lie else-
where, or they see ludonarrative dissonance merely as a run of the mill
symptom of what we are calling the evolutionary stupid, attending on the
videogame medium to mature through an inevitable period of dissonance
toward eventual consonance, just like the evolutionary serial drama in
expanded television. Elijah Gonzalez outlined this position succinctly in
an article for GameRVW in 2018. “As gamers,” he suggests, “we’ve inter-
nalized this logic as acceptable over time, particularly because for the
majority of the medium’s existence gameplay has been prioritized over
story. When your protagonist is nothing but a vague cliché, and the plot
boils down to “kill those aliens,” or “save the princess,” there’s no narra-
tive to clash with in the first place. This problem is mostly a modern one,
arising out of an increasing sophistication of the ideas that games present,
as well improved graphical fidelity.”16 Gonzalez credits many AAA games
for attempting to avoid, mitigate, and minimize the issue while acknowl-
edging that some independent developers are making a virtue of the cre-
ative potential of ludonarrative dissonance in their design. He cites the
146  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

example of Lucas Pope’s indie game Papers Please (3909 LLC, released in
2013) in which the everyday work of an immigration officer in a dystopian
nation is gamified. “It has puzzle sequences that require players to sift
through the documents of potential immigrants, rewarding harsh vigi-
lance over empathy.”17
We argue that an even more extreme, yet equally knowing manipula-
tion of the phenomenon of ludonarrative dissonance occurs in the “cult”
role playing videogame Undertale (created by independent developer
Toby Fox and released in 2015). Here the collision of the ludic and narra-
tive principles is intentional (designed-in) and both immersive and emer-
sive. In other words, it is at turns integrating dissonance into the ludic
experience and yet at others drawing the player out of the game to con-
sider its manipulative, even deconstructive procedural rhetoric. It is also
morally highly charged. In Undertale the player navigates an underground
world, attempting to find their way to the surface. As they quest, they
encounter a number of monsters and denizens of this Underground.
These sprites can either be pacified or non-violently subdued, or alterna-
tively slaughtered to allow passage. Depending on the player’s previous
choices in their interactions with the monsters the game imposes perma-
nent consequences to all future gameplay. There are three possible end-
ings. The first “Neutral Route” is imposed by the game and the outcome
is the same regardless of how many characters you choose to kill or spare;
from there the player can choose to engage in either the “Pacifist Route”
or the “Genocide Route” provided that they adhere to the strict criteria of
sparing or killing every monster resulting, in the latter case, in the effective
destruction of the game world of Underground. If the player completes a
genocide run, any subsequent play-through will effectively treat the player
as tainted. However, in order to play again in any fashion, the player must
first go through a sequence that confronts them with the consequences of
their actions, as the Undertale fan WIKI explains: “Upon relaunching the
game, only a black screen with howling wind appears, and the game’s
window is unnamed. Inputs do nothing, and the player must wait ten
minutes before Chara [their companion] addresses them. Chara reminds
the player that they destroyed the world and then questions if the player
thinks they are above consequences. If the player confirms by selecting
‘YES,’ Chara simply says, ‘Exactly.’ If the player selects ‘NO,’ Chara asks
them, ‘Then what are you looking for?’ Chara suggests that they could
compromise and that they will bring back the world in exchange for the
protagonist’s SOUL …”18 If the player agrees, the game relaunches as if
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  147

after a hard reset, but although the now “soulless” player can choose a
Pacifist Route or Genocide Route as before, they will discover that the
new “soulless” versions of the game have been subtly changed. The player
cannot undertake a “pure” Pacifist Route again (unless they completely
purge the gamefiles). The consequences of their actions and, presumably,
implicitly, their guilt remain with them forever and the gameworld is
changed permanently and accordingly.
Similar to the way procedural rhetoric underpins ludonarrative disso-
nance and initiates the stupid in Bioshock, critics have argued that in
Undertale it interferes with the player’s allowances and pushes their moral
choices toward pacifism. As Frederic Seraphine suggests in a recent confer-
ence paper, “Undertale is incentivizing some choices of the player by
unbalancing the gameplay.”19 In the game’s narrative the player is actively
encouraged to avoid violence, so there is an argument that undertaking a
Genocide Route is an act of willful imbalancing; a willing initiation of the
stupid, in our terms, because the player knows—or at least intuits—that
the decision is ludonarratively dissonant. Certainly, it has consequences
that more than imply it is an incorrect action in the terms, once again, of
the game’s procedural rhetoric and of its explicit moral judgment in the
narrative. In this case this initiation of the stupid is also potentially decon-
structive because, as Seraphine argues with some justice, the game “messes
with pre-established hierarchies, it allows its players to break the processes
to understand how they are made and it puts them in aporic situations—
situations where an informed logical choice on the basis of the pre-­
established morals or rules is made impossible, leaving the player with only
a choice of their own.”20
It is around this question of player choice, or agency that the judgmen-
tal morality and dissonant imbalance of Undertale rubs up directly (and
intentionally) against the psychology of gamers and their expectations of
gameplay. Indeed, the game offers its overtly dissonant option to players
as a kind of dare—will you make a mistake you can never take back? The
Genocide Route is clearly designed to appeal to the kind of player who is
a completist; if the game allows for a certain kind of gameplay, then it
should be attempted. Also, players tend to gravitate toward violence
because in videogames, as Undertale’s creator Toby Fox reminds us,
“hurting things is normalized and has loads of established ways to make it
feel fun.”21 Jake Krajewski highlights the connection between Undertale’s
ludonarrative dissonance and player psychology in a piece for the Rochester
Institute of Technology’s student-run Reporter magazine: “Every aspect
148  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

of the Genocide Route is tailored to a gaming mindset. If something ‘can’

be done, we ‘have to’ see it through … We make friends in one timeline,
then slaughter them in the next with no regard for consequences because
we can just delete that save and do everything over. ‘Undertale’ doesn’t
allow that … There is no way to cleanse oneself of the Genocide Route’s
consequences. It puts perspective on the way we play video games and
enacts harsh, unavoidable punishment on violent players. When playing
‘Undertale,’ gamers are no longer above consequences.”22 The many dis-
cussion threads about the experience of playing Undertale that flowered
on game sites and WIKIs after the game’s launch in 2015 also make it clear
that for many players the moral implications of killing digital characters in
a video game are a real issue and often genuinely felt. (The number of
posts asking about how to “cleanse” your game files also hint at this.) One
player, who posted on Steam’s discussion boards as Wisp-Odyssey in
2016, summed up the feelings of many: “[w]ell, if YOU do the Genocide
route, even if you REMOVE the sin from your files, you still KNOW YOU
did it. Which is why some might not even do it. Even if everyone else
forgets, you cannot MAKE yourself forget it.”23
While the challenging and (creatively) stupid moral choices of Undertale
play out in a graphically simple—one might say consciously retro—story
world, ludonarrative dissonance also inhabits AAA games that place narra-
tive and graphical realism above all other considerations. In more recent
memory than Undertale, on its release Red Dead Redemption II (Rockstar
Games, 2018) was hailed for its aesthetic qualities. It even allowed players
to go into “cinematic mode,” which made for (as the term suggests) a
more cinematic experience of the game. The camera angle shifts and black
bars—very labor intensive black bars—appear at the top and bottom of the
screen as if this visual intervention alone communicates the cinematic.24
And while selecting cinematic mode enhanced the narratological element
of the game in a narrow sense, it also led to some hilarious gameplay inci-
dents often involving your horse plowing straight into obstacles and send-
ing your avatar flying, sometimes with grave consequences.25 The tension
between the gameplay and the cinematic, in the case of Red Dead
Redemption II, is certainly an illustration of ludonarrative dissonance inso-
far as Hocking positions it. While this is how ludonarrative dissonance has
been used, however, we think there is more to it than just that. The term
is, in fact, productive in thinking about the historical tensions between
narratological and ludological approaches to games. However, at least
according to many players and critics, the stupidity of Red Dead Redemption
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  149

II goes beyond encouraging amusing, or even tragic—depending on your

affective investment in your character’s horse—digital pratfalls. Rather it is
built deeply into the gameplay and even into the interface, where con-
scious design choices have led to an often-counterintuitive interactive
experience. The same buttons control key combat and conversation
options, for example. “I keep trying to do things …” one player lamented
on Twitter, “but the game seems to have other plans.”26 More importantly
for our current purposes, the game’s pursuit of realism at all costs brings
the narrative and ludic principles into clearly dissonant and emersive mis-
alignment. Much of the work made evident in the game’s design and a
player’s activity revolves around maintaining the minutiae of a “real” west-
ern life. Horses need constant care and attention, the character’s weight,
warmth, and level of comfort in the game world’s wintery environment
must be maintained or they will suffer negative consequences. The quest
for realism also condemns the frequent gunfights in the game to be expe-
rienced at the same general level of difficulty. This works against the more
typical combat mechanic of videogames in which subsequent fights
become harder, requiring more skill and attention to beat. As the inimi-
table Film Crit Hulk argues, video games have grown past realism, but you
wouldn’t know this when playing the (stupid) game-movie hybrid that is
Red Dead Redemption II. “The gunfights never really get harder or more
interesting,” he notes, “Rockstar just adds more characters you have to kill
if it wants a battle to feel like a big deal.” Furthermore, the hyperrealist
approach “doesn’t work in practice. The endless capacity to interact with
equally endless items ends up creating endless, but meaningless [stupid],
interactions. Those meaningless interactions then numb the player to the
meaningful aspects of the game.”27 With a knowing glance toward the
creative exceptions of our next case study, the common-sense lesson here
seems to be that successful games still defer to the ludic over the narrative,
no matter the potential for dissonance. Games should, in this sense, first
and foremost be games. Under this grid, when a game pushes too far
toward the cinematic, or diffuses its ludic content with too much realism,
even moral realism, it becomes stupid. Intentionally or otherwise. And yet
the stupid emerges not only in the tension between gameplay and narra-
tive, but also in the potential of storytelling innovations at the increasingly
fuzzy boundary between videogames and other storytelling modes.28
Once again Gone Home serves as a particularly potent example.
150  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

“THIS IS NOT A GAME,” Damn It!

The Fullbright videogame Gone Home was highly praised by many video-
game critics, but quite vociferously ridiculed by some facets of the gamer
community. Gone Home is a mash-up of a choose your own adventure
thriller and a first-person shooter game (significantly, minus the shoot-
ing).29 In videogame contemporary parlance it is derisively characterized
as a “walking simulator.” The POV perspective of the game, and its con-
spicuous absence of shooting (or any violence whatsoever) is made all that
more evident by the fact that a key plot point revolves around one of the
characters, Lonnie, a JROTC cadet, who enlists into the US Army. Lonnie,
we learn, has earned ribbons for orienting, adventure training, and rifle
team—all the stuff of conventional gameplay. From the conventional con-
ception of gameplay—running, jumping, shooting, and general running
amok—this is where ludonarrative dissonance materializes: the narrative
effectively is given priority, while the facets of gameplay are essentially
secondary. Gone Home generates ludonarrative dissonance in the reversal
of priorities from the perspective of the conventional conception
of gameplay.
Our embodied avatar is a woman in her early 20s, Kaitlin (Katie)
Greenbriar, who returns home from a European adventure in the middle
of the night. It is stormy, which makes for a foreboding atmosphere. She
arrives at her Portland Oregon family home to discover that no one is
there, and this introduces the basic conflict into the narrative: Where is
everyone? The objective of the game is to discover the whereabouts of
Katie’s parents, and more urgently her younger sister Samantha (Sam). In
the most rudimentary sense the narrative structure of Gone Home shares
affinities with Citizen Kane: Katie, like Thompson, is kept in the dark
(literally and figuratively), but is the narrative device that unlocks informa-
tion about the central character.
Sam, who is a couple of years younger than her sister Katie, is the cen-
tral character, and we learn more about her as Katie rifles through her
family’s belongings. In many instances, we learn about Sam through infer-
ences: She leaves whiny and snarky notes for her parents, we find disciplin-
ary notes from school, we find encouraging notes from teachers that direct
Sam to make plans for college, etcetera. Through these various clues we
are led to infer that Sam is in many respects a completely ordinary middle-­
class (white) teenage girl testing the limits of her parents’ authority, and
beginning to establish her own independence. We are also given direct
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  151

insight into Sam and her inner-life through journal entries—these are nar-
rated aloud with Sam’s voiceover. The narrative takes place on June 7,
1995, and Sam is very much of the grunge/indie rock generation—an
archetypical Gen-X-er. We learn about her through mix-tapes, fliers for
shows (grrrl rock), magazines (one with Kurt Cobain on the cover), and
zines promoting girl-power.
Stripping Gone Home down to its most basic mechanics, and how the
story is revealed to the player, it is actually no different from Bioshock. As
mentioned earlier, much of the narrative in Gone Home is revealed in diary
entries, which are read aloud by Sam in voiceover. Katie needs to explore
the home to find these diary entries, which are woven into the environ-
mental storytelling. All the other facets of the mise-en-scene further the
embodied story as well (e.g., the mix-tapes, the zines, etc.)—collectively,
all these embedded story elements build a complete picture. At its most
fundamental sense, the Bioshock narrative manifests in exactly the same
fashion. “The player gradually uncovers what happened to Rapture,”
Felan Parker explains, “in the course of exploring the game world’s
‘embedded narrative’ through radio communication from other charac-
ters and collectible audio diaries that both reveal important plot informa-
tion and flesh out the history of the city and its inhabitants.”30 Although
diary entries are a weak storytelling crutch, and almost invariably make for
cringe-inducing expository dialog, nevertheless, they are an efficient (if
not necessarily elegant) device for conveying important plot details.
Nonetheless, storytelling in Gone Home, or Bioshock for that matter,
relies on the exploration of space. And our story develops not so much as
a matter of cause and effect relations, in a relatively linear chain of events,
but rather as an accumulation of narrative elements. (We discuss spatial-
ized storytelling at some length in Chap. 3 Narrative Dissonance.) This
videogame narrative strategy is also found in conventional media as well.
Graeme Kirkpatrick establishes a difference between stories and (story)
worlds, and he takes the television series Lost as exemplary—while the
former offers explicit plot details, the storyworld “fleshes-out” what we
know. “The web-based elements will cast light on events in the TV show,
which most people would still consider central to Lost, but they do so not
in a direct, linear fashion but rather by adding to our accumulating back-
ground knowledge. We do not follow events in Lost so much as we gather
information about it and piece together snippets we have found in order
to extend rather than deepen our understanding.”31 Experiencing the nar-
rative of Lost, then, is very much like videogame narratives, which more
152  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

often than not, is a cumulative process. Kirkpatrick directs our attention to

Henry Jenkins, who “describes the way we build our understanding of
such worlds as a process of ‘additive comprehension’ and relates it to a
new kind of reading process: ‘we are seeing the emergence of new story
structures, which create complexity by expanding the range of narrative
possibility rather than pursuing a single path with a beginning, middle and
end.’”32 Jenkins insists that this novel development in storytelling requires
that we be “inside” the narrative. “This precludes the kind of distanced
reading associated with narrative fiction, where readers interpret the mean-
ing of a text as a representation. Now people are actively involved in pro-
ducing the fiction, which Jenkins sees as a point of connection between
video games and other contemporary media.”33 Gone Home, then, is
placed right at the intersection of this convergence of gameplay and con-
temporary media narratives—in fact, for the story to materialize at all, it is
incumbent upon us to be inside the story, to physically move (our avatar)
through space in order to reveal the story-elements embedded in the
mise-en-scene.
The mise-en-scene, the melancholic non-diegetic scoring, and the
ambient diegetic sounds of the storm outside—emphasized further by
narratively opportune claps of thunder and lightning—guide (or perhaps
more accurately mislead) our narrative expectations. During the interven-
ing time between Katie’s departure for Europe, and her return home the
family has moved into a new house—inherited from a delusional uncle
who has passed away. The move offers convenient narrative motivations
for Katie’s apparent befuddlement in her own family’s house, as well as the
still unpacked boxes, and the general feeling that—while they have been
there for quite some time, maybe as much as a year—the Greenbriars are
still settling into their new home. Likewise, the delusional uncle makes the
existence of secret passages and compartments hidden behind wall panel-
ing plausible. The player has to rummage through drawers, sift through
notes and journals, locate keys, combinations, hidden compartments, and
passages to resolved the narrative conflict. And assuredly Gone Home
problematizes this term “player,” because the player is also a reader, a
viewer (in the cinematic sense), and even an amateur sleuth. Despite the
thriller and horror genre tropes the overarching narrative is melodramatic
(though) with a heartwarming twist at the end.
Many critics lauded Gone Home. In a New York Times review of the
game Chris Suellentrop from the onset heaps his praises upon it: “Gone
Home, the first game from the Fullbright Company, is the greatest video
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  153

game love story ever told and proof, in case any more were needed, that
video games do not require shooting or punching or jumping or action of
any kind to create gripping fiction.”34 Hard to imagine a more glowing
response to the game. Writing for Kotaku, an online platform for video-
game blogging/journalism, Patricia Hernandez gushes:

The personal ache I felt is partially due to the knowledge that I’ve been wait-
ing so long for a game to feature someone like Sam—a game that was about
someone that’s similar to me in a non-abstract way. Me! My background
makes me a most unmarketable demographic (or so I am told). It feels
embarrassing to say, but I could cry—did cry—with the relief of knowing a
game like this even exists. Between the superbly written Sam and the focus
on quiet, contemplative exploration, everything about Gone Home makes
you wonder how the game can exist in a market that doesn’t seem to value
the same things as it does—there’s no explosions or shooting, no adrenaline-­
pumping excitement, no gritty story of unlikely heroes. Just you, a house
and its (still living) ghosts. Better yet, it’s the type of game that makes you
wonder why it’s taken so long for games like this—games this personal and
human—to be made and come to our attention.35

We cite Hernandez at length here to illustrate the affect-laden charge of

her prose, expressing this pent-up desire—this longing for a game that
finally speaks to her. And the empathy and the identification invested in
the characters that are “like me” are probably the key to the game’s critical
success, and at the same time it’s near hysterical rejection from other cor-
ners of the gamer community. As for the latter, there is a refusal or a ter-
rible soul crushing anxiety elicited by the invitation to identify with a
female character(s)—and arguably a “real” woman, rather than some
buxom fetishistic male fantasy of woman. In fact, aside from a single-­
family portrait that hangs in the entry foray, there are no visual representa-
tions of Sam and Katie, rather we are invited to identify with the two
young women through their innermost thoughts: their anxieties, their
desires, their ambitions. The portrait is as “white bread” as it comes: per-
haps taken at a local Sears on a Sunday afternoon after church.
Many of the negative comments regarding Gone Home are done so
anonymously—offering a platform for some of the most toxic rhetoric.
One such entry is entitled, in big flashing rainbow colored lettering,
“THIS IS NOT A GAME,” a title that is repeated seven times no less. The
entry begins:
154  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Gone Home is a full-on architectural simulator, made by two chicks, a fag and
a white guy with dreadlocks, wherein you control Kaitlin Greenbriar who
will unravel the uninteresting history of her lesbian sister who decided to
bail on her military duty [sic.] in order to scissor with her dyke friend. You
can also learn about how her parents don’t love each other anymore, her
uncle is a child molester who is now a ghost and you will get to experience
a lot of 90’s references and text … lots and lots of text.36

This too is quoted at length to illustrate the affectively charged vitriol. The
internet trolls that spout misogynistic and homophobic diatribes such as
this, and perhaps some of the reserved critical responses to Gone Home
reveal yet another reason why the game might be stupid: It’s narrative is
girl-focused.
It is no secret that the mainstream videogame industry has been largely
geared toward (young) male audiences and trades heavily in the currency
of heteronormative machismo—allowing (young) men to play-out fanta-
sies of power and unbridled aggression. In recent memory, the controver-
sies around “Gamergate” brought these tendencies to the light of day in
truly noxious ways. In fact, Gone Home and another game, Depression
Quest—an interactive fiction game (and thus also at odds with convention-
ally conceived gameplay)—were two of the games that spawned the
Gamergate controversy. Inconsistent, and without a clear structure or
organization, Gamergate amounted to a conservative backlash against
“progressive” games. Zoë Quinn independently developed Depression
Quest in 2013. It largely received positive reviews, acknowledging its sig-
nificance as a tool to lend insight into the experience of depression.
However, Eron Gjoni, Quinn’s disgruntled ex-boyfriend, alleged in a
blogpost that Quinn’s personal relationship with Nathan Grayson, a jour-
nalist at Kotaku, led to the favorable reviews. Gamers were convinced that
there was collusion between journalists and “progressive” game develop-
ers, and what resulted was a deluge of negative comments (including death
threats, and rape threats). Gamergate exposed the worst elements of game
culture as a hotbed of toxic masculinity. The fact that Gone Home is very
consciously “feminine”—our avatar is a young woman, the central narra-
tive conflict is about an adolescent girl discovering her (queer) sexuality—
disrupts the common currency of videogames, and thus is seen by many as
counterfeit, or in other words, stupid. Not only is it a “girl” game, it is a
“queer” game.
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  155

Even critics that are generally amenable to Gone Home struggle with
the fact that it is neither fish nor fowl. Gone Home is not quite a videogame
(in the conventional sense), nor is it a movie or novel—it is in a sense,
abject, something in-between categories.37 Ian Bogost, who admires the
game, in a rhetorical gesture wrestles with the question: By which para-
digm are we to assess a game like Gone Home? While conventional gamers,
on the other hand, understand videogames in the narrowest terms. In
their opinion, and the recurring motif in internet troll posts, is that Gone
Home is not a game, which is explicitly stated in the title of the cited nega-
tive post above. The latter anonymous post laments that Gone Home has
“lots and lots of text,” which apparently impedes, if not excludes the pos-
sibility of, gameplay. Indeed, the very paradigm of “videogame” is at
stake here.

Stupid Games: Mobile, Casual, and Freemium

In his New York Times Magazine article, “Just One More Game … Angry
Birds, Farmville and Other Hyperaddictive ‘Stupid Games,’” Sam
Anderson argues that, “Today we are living, for better and worse, in a
world of stupid games.”38 It began, Anderson suggests, with the Nintendo
Game Boy, which came bundled with Tetris. The simple game, designed
“in a Soviet computer lab in 1984,” as Anderson describes it, was “a sim-
ple but addictive puzzle game whose goal was to rotate falling blocks—
over and over and over and over and over and over and over—in order to
build the most efficient possible walls. (Well, it was complicated. You were
both building walls and not building walls; if you built them right, the
walls disappeared, thereby ceasing to be walls.)”39 The coupling of Tetris
with its rather primitive graphics, paired perfectly with “the Game Boy’s
small gray-scale screen.” The simple block design of Tetris pieces, and the
pace of the descending blocks meant that graphics did not blur, “its action
was a repetitive, storyless puzzle that could be picked up, with no loss of
potency, at any moment, in any situation.”40 Fast-forward decades later,
where many of us have a smartphone (probably on your person at this very
instant, or strategically placed right next to you for a welcomed interrup-
tion from our hapless musings about the stupid, or perhaps you’re even
reading this on your phone!), nevertheless, the phone, like the Game Boy
before it, serves as a platform for “small,” what have been called “casual
games”41 that typically do not demand constant and intense attention, but
156  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

are perfectly suited to killing time while on the bus, waiting for a friend to
arrive, and so on. (The term “casual” already suggests a major cleft
between these phone-based games, and PC or console-based games,
which in a contingent relation with phone-based games would have to be
considered “serious,” or “real” games.) The casual phone-based game
owes its heritage to the Game Boy, which Anderson calls “(half descrip-
tively, half out of revenge for all the hours I’ve lost to them) ‘stupid
games.’”42
Unlike AAA (triple-A) PC and console-based games that invest heavily
in graphics, narratives, and established franchises (e.g., Call of Duty, Halo)
designed to be played for extended periods of time in front of a stationary
monitor, Anderson notes, “Smartphone games are built on a very differ-
ent model.” The phone-based game is designed for a much smaller screen,
and free of a Dualshock (or similar) controller. The phone-based game
interface “responds not to the fast-twitch button combos of a controller
but to more intuitive and intimate motions: poking, pinching, tapping,
tickling. This has encouraged a very different kind of game: Tetris-like
little puzzles, broken into discrete bits, designed to be played anywhere, in
any context, without a manual, by any level of player.” Anderson adds
that, “You could argue that these are pure games: perfectly designed mini-
systems engineered to take us directly to the core of gaming pleasure with-
out the distraction of narrative.”43 This aligns (almost uncannily) with our
conception of the stupid—“storyless,” “without the distraction of a
narrative.”
The smartphone platform democratized gaming, by Anderson’s esti-
mation, though not necessarily for the good. When the iPhone was first
released in 2007, suddenly games did not require legions of EA designers,
programmers, and marketing departments, rather relatively modest games
could be developed (perhaps even by an individual person), and then find
distribution through the Apple app store. The Apple app store did not
require esoteric knowledge, or familiarity with online gaming distribution
platforms like Steam (which officially launched in 2003), and that serves a
relatively small niche market. “Instead of just passing their work around to
one another on blogs, independent game designers suddenly had a way to
reach everyone—not just hard-core gamers, but their mothers, their mail-
men and their college professors. Consumers who never would have put a
quarter into an arcade or even set eyes on an Xbox 360 were now carrying
a relatively sophisticated game console with them, all the time, in their
pockets or their purses.”44
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  157

In somewhat of a paradox though, what Anderson fears the most (don-

ning his Frankfurt School hat) is the “gamification” of everything.
Specifically, where advertisements will be cloaked in casual gaming. We say
“paradox,” because the fleecing of games, where advertisements are
embedded into the game, suggests at a minimum “messaging,” and thus
narrative. “Gamification seeks to turn the world into one giant chore chart
covered with achievement stickers—the kind of thing parents design for
their children—though it raises the potentially terrifying question of who
the parents are. This, I fear, is the dystopian future of stupid games: amoral
corporations hiring teams of behavioral psychologists to laser-target our
addiction cycles for profit.”45 Anderson’s fears are warranted, of that we
have little doubt. The gamification of everything is Adorno’s worst night-
mare; an activity that we willfully (and quite happily) participate in, that at
the same time works against “thinking,” fostering in Adorno’s conception
of it—stupidity. However, we have to part company here, because the
stupid, insofar as we have conceived it, is not about the stupefaction of
consumers, or the duped consumer incapable of seeing the wolf in sheep’s
clothing, but rather speaks more to the form of videogaming, and its
potential for storytelling.
The casual game industry threatens to dumb-down “serious” gaming.
Indeed, those fears also permeate the world of “serious” PC and console
gamers who tend to dismiss or disparage mobile “freemium” (ostensibly
free to play, but with microtransaction monetization built in) games as
simultaneously formally unsophisticated and economically meretricious;
not merely stupid-by-failure, but stupid-by-design. The most cynical con-
temporary mobile games are deployed in models that offer gameplay para-
digms that only become satisfying after the player engages in
microtransactions to purchase resources and upgrades of various kinds.
Game of War: Fire Age, for example, monetizes its player versus player
structure through microtransactions that are necessary for a player to
become and remain competitive. Clash of Kings uses its in-game economy
to encourage players to purchase the resources needed to defend their
digital empires. Many other mobile games follow similar models, encour-
aging the most dedicated players, or “whales” in the vernacular of gaming,
to spend thousands of dollars to compete.
Inspired by research undertaken by its creators after receiving pitches
from mobile game developers, South Park dedicated an episode,
“Freemium Isn’t Free,” to critiquing freemium games.46 In the episode,
the Canadian Minister of Mobile Gaming describes his game’s m ­ onetization
158  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

model, thus: “It’s a simple cycle. A never-ending loop based on RPGs.

Explore. Collect. Spend. Improve. But whereas those just used the con-
cept of XP or experience points, WE’VE introduced the idea of micropay-
ing with money.” The creators of South Park, apparently relented, in 2017
Ubisoft released South Park: Phone Destroyer developed by RedLynx. And
yes, in-game purchases are available to boost abilities. There are multiple
endings to the game, depending on how much money the player spent on
in-game purchases. Along with the rest of the South Park gang,
“Businessman” Cartman congratulates us on our success, “Yes, excellent
work, new kid. Of course, now we will need to be collecting your payment
for the game. All these costumes, props and sets cost a lot of people time
and money. So now let’s see what your contribution to our game has
been,” Cartman pulls back a curtain and reveals how much the player has
spent. If a player spends a lot of money Cartman exclaims, “Holy shit,
dude, what a contribution!” Some of the other kids chime in to congratu-
late the player, and Kyle finally adds, “Yeah, and you might wanna see
someone about mobile game addiction.” If the player spends a relatively
small amount of money, the kids whine and wonder what they might do
with such a pittance, Stan finally laments, “told you, we should have
charged them money before playing the game like in the olden days.” And
if the player spends nothing, then, the kids moan, and Stan whinges,
“That’s not cool, people worked really hard on this game.” He adds,
before walking off-screen, “I told you guys we’d get fucked going
freemium.”
There are three broad models of game design monetization in the
mobile games market. The first puts obvious barriers of difficulty in single
player games, requiring the purchase of power-ups and stamina boosts to
beat the levels. The second leverages player-versus-player titles in terms of
competitiveness. The third is based, either loosely or explicitly around the
functionality of Japanese “gacha” capsule toy slot machines, using the
rareness of key in-game items to encourage the purchase of “blind” loot
boxes, containing possible desirable gameplay content. The loot box sys-
tem is not confined to mobile gaming, Overwatch uses it on PC and Mac
for example, but only for cosmetic items and not to enable “pay to win.”
“Serious” gamers’ attitudes to and anxiety around the meretricious mobile
market were on clear display recently when Blizzard Entertainment, previ-
ously an independent developer before it merged with Activision,
announced that it was putting more resources behind the development of
mobile games for its existing franchises (notably Diablo and World of
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  159

Warcraft). The announcement drew loud boos from the audience of fans
at the company’s annual convention, Blizzcon, in 2018 and angry online
discussion among the fan-base. Arguably Bethesda committed a similarly
stupid “mobile” gamer-foul with the release of the AAA game Fallout 76.
With this title, the developer forced an online-only competitive player ver-
sus player model onto an existing solo-play franchise and monetized it
through the sale of in-game items, including skins and power-ups that are
only relevant in a multi-player environment (showing off to other
players).47
Of course, to tar all mobile games with the same brush misses the
unique social and formal spaces occupied by hybrid games such as Pokémon
GO, and ignores the often-radical landscape of truly independent game
development using mobile-friendly platforms such as GameMaker Studio
and Twine. While independent games have penetrated the market in sig-
nificant ways, nothing compares to the Pokémon GO phenomenon in
terms of its global scale. Launched in July of 2016, Pokémon GO is a
phone-based game that relies on GPS positioning, allowing players to
interact with the physical environment. Building on the design of its devel-
oper Niantic’s previous AR phone-based game, Ingress, Pokémon GO is
one of the first consumer products to utilize “augmented reality” (AR), an
emerging technology. It is certainly the first game to do so at such a mas-
sive scale.48 Narrative is largely evacuated from Pokémon GO, however the
game serves as a paratextual element to the larger Pokémon franchise, espe-
cially as it relates to the animated series and previous handheld videogames
developed by Game Freak. Why are we invested in collecting Pokemon,
why do they inhabit specific spaces, what is your role as a Pokemon collec-
tor/trainer, what is the final objective? These narrative questions are not
necessarily answered within Pokémon GO. Rather Pokémon GO is liberated
from extensive narrative obligations, because that work is done elsewhere,
within the larger Pokémon franchise.
Pokémon GO is stupid precisely because it demands a surrender both to
the body and to spectacle—the GPS locator dictates how we orientate our
bodies, walking in this or that direction, pivoting toward the illusive crea-
ture lurking within the augmented environment. The game eschews nar-
rative, replacing it entirely with the untamed attraction of discovering
digital monsters cohabiting your apartment, or some other quotidian
location like a bus stop or coffee shop. Surrendering to the body, which
overshadows good reason, is not without its problems though. Out of
respect, both the Arlington National Cemetery and the US Holocaust
160  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Museum in Washington DC have asked visitors not to play Pokémon GO

on their grounds, or in their facilities.49 Implied in this plea is that visitors
need to approach these institutions with stone-cold sobriety to properly
reflect on the solemnity of the sites. Playing Pokémon GO at these sites is
deemed disrespectful precisely because of the ways that it directs us away
from (cognitive) reflection, and steers us toward the stupidity of the body.
While Pokémon GO invites us to interact with our immediate environ-
ment, at the same time, the siloed experience—intently focusing on our
phone screen—removes us from the very environment that we inhabit.
Directing our attention to the screen and the positioning of our bodies has
had deadly consequences—numerous car crashes have been reported, with
players either playing while they are driving, or drivers swerving to avoid
hitting a Pokémon GO player that has haplessly wandered into the street.
While there have been grave consequences for playing Pokémon GO, emi-
nently more hilarious (if sadistically so) are the countless Pokémon GO fails
posted online. Often caught on surveillance cameras, Pokémon GO players
have been witnessed falling into fountains, walking to lamp posts, falling
down stairs, falling into pools, property owners confronting players in
their yard.
One of the things that Pokémon GO illustrates is that the stupid is not
singularly located in the media referent, but rather in the reception of the
body. The way that we respond to watching other bodies (mindlessly)
twist, tumble, fall, relent to gravity, or confront the concrete realities of
space, geography, architecture. Where the out of control body in the
“frenzy of the visible” elicits arousal in the spectator (per Linda Williams’s
discourse on hardcore), it is the uncontrolled flailing body in a Pokémon
GO fail that elicits a different affective response—laughter. Arguably, how-
ever, this exercise in schadenfreude, this (relatively) harmless stupidity,
carries with it more than a whiff of white privilege, because bodies of dif-
ferent colors are received very differently in our culture. As a polemical
article in the left-wing Jacobin magazine reminds us, “the game might be
very dangerous for young black men. A player wandering blithely through
a white neighborhood, maybe passing several times in front of the same
houses in pursuit of a grinning cartoon tortoise, would be subjected to a
very different form of mapping and systemization of reality: they could be
read as suspicious, and being read as suspicious can get a young black man
killed.”50 The potential for catalyzing stupid violence and authoritarian
discipline lurking under the digital skin of Pokémon GO reminds us also of
the Arab Situationist Abdelhafid Khatib’s attempts to carry out a
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  161

­ sychogeographical report on Les Halles in Paris in 1958 (at the time of

p
the Algerian War of Independence). Khatib was arrested twice and his
unfinished report ends with this matter of fact editorial note: “This study
is incomplete on several fundamental points, principally those concerning
the ambiant [sic] characteristics of certain barely defined zones. This is
because our collaborator was subject to police harrassment [sic] in light of
the fact that since September, North Africans have been banned from the
streets after half past nine in the evening. And of course, the bulk of
Abdelhafid Khatib’s work concerned the Halles at night. After being
arrested twice and spending two nights in a holding cell, he relinquished
his efforts. Therefore, the present—the political future, no less—may be
abstracted due to considerations carried out on psychogeography itself.”51
It is, perhaps, unsurprising that a number of observers and participants
have attempted either to praise or critique the game by associating it with
the psychogeographical experiments of the Situationist International,
whereby a player’s wanderings in search of their cartoonish digital prey is
likened to a derive, or by vainly populating it with nerdy twenty-first cen-
tury variants of that other archetype of the wandering—and also privi-
leged—modern city dweller, the Flâneur. Of course both matches are
decidedly imperfect, and a full discussion is beyond the scope of this proj-
ect, and yet Jeff Sparrow has a point when he suggests that the game offers
its players a reimagined derive at the same time as it demonstrates exactly
what Guy Debord was attempting to critique, namely the commodity
colonizing social life.52 “In societies dominated by modern conditions of
production, life is presented as an immense accumulation of spectacles,”
Debord famously wrote in Thesis 1 of Society of the Spectacle. “All that
once was directly lived has receded into representation.”53
Pokémon GO superimposes a ludic grid of fantasy monster hunting on
the urban and exurban GPS mapscape, encouraging players—whether
they happen to be in or out of control—to explore their neighborhoods
or current locations the digital surfaces of which are now invested with
secret meanings only apparent to themselves and their fellow players.
Incidentally, because this digital grid is adapted from GPS tracking soft-
ware, as a number of critics have pointed out, the AR game shares soft-
ware functionality with a system originally designed to guide missiles, and
thus in the broadest sense its technological architecture sits somewhat at
odds, or is indeed in a dissonant alignment—for those who are aware or
who think of it—with the ludic. Of course, we have normalized our rela-
tionship with GPS technology in so many other aspects of our daily lives
162  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

that it barely rates a mention here. However, one typical critique of

Pokémon GO from the left draws additional authoritarian analogs from the
game’s GPS-driven software interface, arguing that the faux derive is itself
transformed from an unplanned journey in which the traveler opens their
mind to the attractions of the locality and allows themselves to be drawn
through it, to a directed excursion in which the digitally colonized land-
scape is already codified with gaming destinations and commodified with
lures purchased by businesses that wish to attract players: the stupid player
body accedes to this stupid derive. As the Jacobin piece continues: “all
routes are already set, all eventualities accounted for, all points of interest
marked and immutable; there’s not even the possibility of a purely idle
wandering, not when Pokémon GO creates its map and its territory all at
the same time.”54
And yet when considered paraxially to the intent of its gameplay, play-
ers of Pokémon GO invest physically and socially in their (stupid) directed
excursions in unexpected and arguably productive ways. Anecdotally, we
know relatively unathletic people who walk miles a day in their attempts to
complete their Pokedex who likely would get little physical exercise other-
wise, arguably a less stupid bodily interface with the AR universe. In 2016
The Mary Sue recorded numerous (but also anecdotal) Twitter reports of
players suffering from depression and other mental conditions who have
felt able to engage with the outside world in ways they had not before.
This is facilitated by the recently implemented raid functionality that turns
the world into an MMO, where complete strangers can emerge at a spot
and engage in an activity together with no prior coordination or contact.
“Depression and many mental illnesses can often make one feel they
should stay at home, so given the fact that Pokémon Go’s works by tracking
players’ movements and location, people feel motivated to leave the house
and be outside for a bit.”55 The anecdotal evidence is backed up by a sci-
entific study at McMaster University reported by the American
Psychological Association. “One third of participants (33  percent)
reported changes in social behavior since they started playing Pokémon Go.
Within this group, 85 percent spoke to more unfamiliar people, 76 per-
cent spent more time with friends, 41  percent made new friends while
playing, and 51 percent reported that the game increased their physical
activity. In addition, 29 percent reported an improved sense of well-­being
and 12 percent reported weight loss.”56 Dissonant systems often produce
creative byproducts.
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  163

Conclusion: This Is a Narrative (Game)

There appears to be a knee-jerk attempt to legitimize gaming through a
comparison of other narrative-driven media—specifically cinema, and per-
haps to a lesser extent literature.57 In his NPR series “Reading the Game,”
Jason Sheehan reviews Red Dead Redemption II, noting that the video-
game “is, in the universe of video games, our Godfather, our Star Wars or
Wild Bunch—the work that transcends its genre and, in this case, its
medium. It is a film brought to life, a novel given legs, and to speak about
any piece of it is to necessarily reduce it to a bunch of cogs and sprockets—
how this piece fits with that one. And that’s a disservice, I think. It’s why
deconstructionists are often very little fun at parties.”58 We are killjoys par
excellence. While we understand the impulse, nevertheless videogame nar-
ratives need to be taken on their own terms to account for their unique
mode of storytelling.
And upon further reflection, it seems that everything is at stake here—
not just videogames. For as much the videogame is a contested (narrative)
paradigm, it also compels us to reconsider the nature of (cinematic) narra-
tives as well. With a certain Barthesian resonance, the spatialized storytell-
ing of videogames invites us to begin thinking about the location of a
narrative—regardless of the narrative form. The “[e]vocative elements”
located in the videogame environment, as Michael Nitsche observes,
“improve the meaning-building process of the player.” Nitsche does not
go so far as to call these “evocative elements” as “‘stories,’ but [rather]
suggestive markings. They are clustered in certain ways, and aimed to trig-
ger reactions in players in order to help them to create their own interpre-
tations. One consequence of such a model is that the stories are never in
the piece itself but in the mind of the player.”59 Nitsche, then, proposes
the death of yet another author—the videogame designer—and locates
the narrative with the player and his/her accretion of “evocative ele-
ments,” and the connections that players draw from them. And perhaps it
is this intense sense of authorial responsibility that encourages such a deep
investment in gameplay?
What is also revealed in the tension of ludonarrative dissonance particu-
larly, and “casual” phone-based games as well, is an encounter with the
untamed attraction. The innovations in gameplay and storytelling reveal
themselves, and the attraction is always rooted in the novelty of the tech-
nology. Whether it’s Bioshock and the uneasy tension between gameplay
and narrative that reveal the mechanics of the game, Gone Home which sits
164  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

somewhere between literary fiction and gaming, freemium games (or

some form of pay-to-play), hilarious Pokémon GO fails, all these bring to
light the novelty of the technology and our stupefaction in an effort to
make sense of them.
One of the things that Pokémon GO illustrates is that the stupid is not
singularly located in the media referent, but also in the reception of the
body. The way that the body (mindlessly) twists, tumbles, falls, the way
the body relents to gravity, to the physics of space. And the location of the
stupid might also be located in reaction to Pokémon GO fails, when the
body is swept up in the spasms of laughter. There are affinities between
laughter and orgasm, where the body is, at least for a moment, “out of
control.” In her book Beyond Explicit, Helen Hester expands the notion
of the pornographic, arguing that “the conceptualization of the porno-
graphic as a realm of representation that not only sporadically eschews or
displaces sex, but that need not be sexually explicit at all.”60 Rather,
Hester’s notion of the expanded pornographic is something that elicits an
intense affective charge in the viewing subject—laughter being a
prime example.
While there is perhaps colloquial sadism in the humor derived from
witnessing Pokémon GO fails, there is what Kerner has called elsewhere a
clinical sadism built into Bioshock.61 There is discontentment in the tension
between gameplay mechanics and the Bioshock narrative, and most partic-
ularly in the revelation that our choices are effectively preordained whether
we decide to harvest Little Sisters or not, or whether we have been
“tricked” into subscribing to sadean logic, this is precisely where the
game’s critical success rests. As much as Bioshock is about a 1960s-­dystopian
world, it is also about gameplay itself. The narrative twist, which is meshed
with the gameplay (which is wrested away when you/Jack are compelled
to kill Ryan), as Parker observes, functions “as a self-reflexive, critical
metacommentary on the artifice of gaming conventions.” And in this
sense, the dissonance is the meaning of the game. “Dissonance is seen to
be crucial to Bioshock’s artistic achievement offering players the kind of
(post)modernist reflexivity typically associated with a medium or art form’s
evolution to maturity.” However, being at the forefront is bound to stu-
pify, even “a dangerous and decisive artistic move, imposing critical reflec-
tion upon complacent, unsuspecting players.”62
We are seeing evidence that designers are beginning to treat ludonarra-
tive dissonance, not so much as a flaw, but as a creative potential. The third
person shooter videogame, Spec Ops: The Line (designed by Yager
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  165

Development, and published by 2K Games, 2014) actively uses ludonar-

rative dissonance as part of the gameplay and the story. “What if the nega-
tive feelings resulting from ludonarrative dissonance was not some
byproduct of miscalculated design but was instead purposefully crafted
and mobilized for ends other than gratifying the player?” Matthew Thomas
Payne asks. Payne continues to wonder, “Would players be ‘game’ for such
a potentially un-fun adventure? Might such a different set of expectations,
in turn, liberate designers to create more diverse gameplay experiences,
and encourage publishers to bankroll them?”63 While most militaristic
shooter games spare the player the true realities of warfare, particularly the
“collateral damage” that is often inflicted on populations, Spec Ops makes
an explicit point of illustrating the wanton destruction that you have
reaped in an effort to “win” the game. “The result is a game that wields
its affective distance as a critique of the necessary illusion that all military
shooters trade in, but one that so few acknowledge,” Payne observes. “In
particular, the game’s brutal mise-en-scéne, its intertextual references to
other war media, and its real and imagined opportunities for player choice,
create a discordant feeling that lays bare the ease with which most video
war games indulge in their power fantasies.”64 Clearly Spec Ops illustrates
that the creative potential of ludonarrative dissonance is being explored.
However, and it is evident in Payne’s framing, ludonarrative dissonance
retains its negative connotations—“un-fun adventure.”65 Gone Home per-
haps remains one of the most significant steps forward insofar as gameplay
serves the story—reversing the presumed hierarchy in the ludonarra-
tive pairing.
As noted above Pendleton Ward (creator of Adventure Time), along
with a host of reviewers, expressly recalls feeling “intimately connected
with the character” in Gone Home, and more so than any film or novel. It
borders on blasphemy to not share the enthusiasm voiced by so many crit-
ics. Philosopher, game designer, and journalist Ian Bogost, for instance,
admits: “I felt charmed upon completing Gone Home, but then I felt
ashamed for failing to meet the emotional bar set by my videogame-­
playing brethren.” Bogost is quick, however, to validate the very legiti-
mate feelings that some players of Gone Home reported. “But it’s also not
unreasonable,” Bogost adds, “to ask how these players could have been so
easily satisfied. For readers of contemporary fiction or even viewers of seri-
ous television, it’s hard for me to imagine that Gone Home would elicit
much of any reaction, let alone the reports of full-bore weeping and
breathless panegyrics this game has enjoyed.”66 I (Kerner) share Bogost’s
166  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

sentiments. I too was invested in the outcome of the narrative, but not
bowled-over at its conclusion. But perhaps Gone Home was not speaking
to me (or Bogost) in the same way that it was to Patricia Hernandez, for
instance: “Me!” Even as part of the presumptive default gamer constitu-
ency, I could identify—did identify—with the characters in Gone Home.
Just not as intensely as others apparently. Nonetheless, Gone Home serves
as an important indicator of what is possible with the videogaming plat-
form, and the mobilization of environmental storytelling. Gone Home
probably should not be held as the pinnacle of what is possible, but an
important milestone in a quickly evolving (and still converging? or con-
verged?) media landscape. But perhaps most importantly, what is particu-
larly novel is that the game is designed with a different demographic in
mind, beyond what the multi-billion-dollar gaming industry is commonly
geared toward.
Gone Home is a videogame, but this also necessitates (at least among
some in the gamer community it seems) to expand the category of what
gaming is. Indeed, if gaming is only shooting, kicking, punching, dodg-
ing, running, driving, flying, running amok, then narrative elements get in
the way of just “having fun.” If gameplay is an end in itself (and gameplay
here is understood as the action-orientated play) then, as Jenkins notes,
“exposition can be experienced as an unwelcome interruption to the plea-
sure of performance.”67 Videogames inherently involves physical activity—
Graeme Kirkpatrick and others have associated gameplay with dance—and
thus often at odds with the cerebral activity of “reading” a film or novel.
In this chapter, we have problematized this false binary, nonetheless,
gameplay does act upon the body. And this suggests to me that conven-
tional videogames are pornographic.68 Our characterization here is not
intended to be pejorative, rather it is more in keeping with a genre assess-
ment. As Linda Williams has suggested, the pornographic genre is akin to
the musical—the musical number aligns with the sexual number of por-
nography. In pornography, and especially contemporary pornography, a
great deal of emphasis is placed on the sexual numbers, and very little
attention, if any, is given to the narrative. (It seems that earlier pornogra-
phy, for whatever it was worth, offered more opportunities for narrative—
think for instance of Deep Throat, or Behind the Green Door.) In fact, some
pornographic films do away with narrative as such, and simply organize
the sexual numbers according to themes. In conventional videogames
gameplay, like the sexual number, is the focus. And like the pornographic
genre, gameplay might be briefly interrupted and quite typically filled with
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  167

narrative information, particularly save points. The brevity of the intersti-

tial narrative moment is critical (else threatening to frustrate the player),
an eager player might in fact (just like porn) skip the narrative to return to
the action. Like pornography that invites an affective response from the
viewer, with conventional gameplay there is also an embodied response:
jerking around, throwing your controller across the room, adrenaline
induced sweating, non-linguistic utterances (e.g., ugh!, oh!), or expletives
accompanied with intense excitement or exasperated frustration. The
essential function of the body genres, of which pornography is one of the
three constituents (horror and melodrama being the others), is that they
speak to the body, and elicits sensations. Videogaming, then, like the body
genres anticipates the playing body.
Gone Home, and games like it (Depression Quest, What Remains of Edith
Finch), because it is “narrative heavy” relatively speaking might unbound
videogaming from the pornographic. We are not altogether sure where to
situate it though, perhaps softcore erotica? Retaining some element of
pornography, but at the same time developing a narrative? The embodied
gameplay is critical to Gone Home, but it is not on exactly the same order
as something like Call of Duty. But we realize that this framing of video-
games comes with potentially problematic gendered norms—where hard-
core is associated with male pleasure, while softcore erotica is perceived to
be feminine. While acknowledging the potential pitfalls here, the analogy
appears to be productive in thinking through the emotive and affective
pleasures found in different types of gameplay. Wherever we might elect to
place Gone Home (or other games like it, or games like it yet to be imag-
ined), it necessitates a paradigmatic shift in our consideration of
videogames.

Notes
1. Clint Hocking, “Ludonarrative Dissonance in Bioshock,” Click Nothing,
October 7, 2007, accessed November 10, 2018, http://www.clicknoth-
ing.com/click_nothing/2007/10/ludonarrative-d.html.
2. Marcus Maloney, “Ambivalent Violence in Contemporary Game Design,”
Games and Culture vol. 14, no. 1 (2016): 35–36.
3. Hocking.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.
168  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

7. Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play-Element in Culture

(Kettering, OH: Angelico Press, 2016).
8. Nick Ballantyne, “The What, Why & WTF: Ludonarrative Dissonance,”
gamecloud.net, February 15, 2015, accessed April 10, 2019, https://
gamecloud.net.au/features/opinion/twwwtf-ludonarrative-dissonance.
Italics in original.
9. Ballantyne. Italics in original.
10. Ian Bogost, Persuasive Games: The Expressive Power of Videogames
(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2007), ix.
11. The Smithsonian The Art of Video Games: From Pac-Man to Mass Effect
exhibition catalog similarly observes, “BioShock manages to deliver an
action game that forces the player into uncomfortable situations and
requires him or her to think about the implications of one’s actions.” Chris
Melissino and Patrick O’Rourke, The Art of Video Games: From Pac-Man
to Mass Effect, exhibition catalog (New York: Welcome Books; Smithsonian
American Art Museum, 2013), 162. At the same time, however, the game
is not necessarily a wholesale rejection of sadean logic, or Randian
Objectivism. As Parker observes, “Bioshock is neutral enough in its politics
to be widely marketable. As Aldred and Greenspan argue, the game is
politically ambivalent, sometimes interrogating and sometimes celebrating
the ideology it engages.” Felan Parker, “Canonizing Bioshock: Cultural
Value and the Prestige Game,” Games and Culture vol. 12, nos. 7–8
(2015), 747–748. Parker, in this instance, is drawing from Jessica Aldred
and Brian Greenspan, see: Jessica Aldred and Brian Greenspan, “A Man
Chooses, A Slave Obeys: BioShock and the Dystopian Logic of
Convergence,” Games and Culture vol. 6, no. 5 (2011), 480.
12. Scott Hughes, “Get Real: Narrative and Gameplay in The Last of Us,”
Journal of Comparative Research in Anthropology and Sociology vol. 6, no.
1 (Summer 2015), 150.
13. Ibid., 153–154.
14. Jason Sheehan, “Reading the Game: The Last of Us,” NPR, December 31,
2016, accessed December 31, 2016, https://www.npr.org/sections/
alltechconsidered/2016/12/31/505592646/reading-the-
game-the-last-of-us.
15. Ibid.
16. Elijah Gonzalez, “What is Ludonarrative Dissonance,” gamrvw.com, July
22, 2018, accessed April 23, 2019, https://gamervw.com/2018/07/22/
ludonarrative-dissonance-matter/.
17. Ibid.
18. Undertale WIKI, accessed April 21, 2019, https://undertale.fandom.
com/wiki/Genocide_Route.
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  169

19. Frederic Seraphine, “The Rhetoric of Undertale—Ludonarrative Dissonance

and Symbolism,” Digital Games Research Association JAPAN, Proceedings
of 8th Conference, accessed April 21, 2019, 2. https://www.researchgate.
net/publication/323545890_The_Rhetoric_of_Undertale-
Ludonarrative_Dissonance_and_Symbolism.
20. Ibid.
21. Chris Isaac, “Interview: Undertale Game Creator Toby Fox,” The Mary
Sue, December 102,015, accessed April 232,019, https://www.themary-
sue.com/interview-undertale-game-creator-toby-fox/.
22. Jake Krajewski, “‘Undertale’ and Permanent Consequences in Video
Games,” Reporter, November 30, 2015, accessed April 23, 2019, https://
reporter.rit.edu/leisure/undertale-and-permanent-consequences-
video-games.
23. “Wisp-Odyssey,” post to Steam discussion boards on January 24, 2016
@11:12  pm, accessed April 23, 2019, https://steamcommunity.com/
app/391540/discussions/0/458606877328944567/.
24. Jason Schreier, “Inside Rockstar Games Culture of Crunch,” Kotaku,
October 23, 2018, accessed April 20, 2019, https://kotaku.com/
inside-rockstar-games-culture-of-crunch-1829936466.
25. For some laughs search: “Red Dead Redemption II cinematic mode fails.”
26. Quoted in Film Crit Hulk, “Red Dead Redemption Six Months Later: A
Detailed Look at the Failures and Success of Rockstar’s Latest Hit,”
Polygon, April 22, 2019, accessed April 22, 2019, https://www.polygon.
com/2019/4/22/18298277/red-dead-redemption-2-review-rdr2-
story-design-criticism?fbclid=IwAR1r8A5zVy6X0o4ZfiHnHmt7Hx3quH
yda3xfxcw_aY4ubrUorH6htpUoMJA.
27. Film Crit Hulk.
28. The Netflix series Love, Death, and Robots (2019) some of the episodes use
photo-realistic animation, but the movement in some cases is slightly
stilted. It is difficult at times to determine what we are looking at—wait is
this real, or is this animated—and in this confusion, there is a possible
encounter with the stupid.
29. Almost invariably Gone Home is compared to, or placed in the company of
the Myst videogame franchise (the first in the series released in 1993) where
players were likewise invited to read diaries, and to manipulate parts of the
world to unlock secrets.
30. Felan Parker, “Canonizing Bioshock: Cultural Value and the Prestige
Game,” Games and Culture vol. 12, nos. 7–8 (2015), 743. For “embedded
narratives” see Henry Jenkins, “Game Design as Narrative Architecture,”
in First Person: New Media as Story, Performance, and Game, eds. Noah
Wardrip-Fruin and Pat Harrigan eds. (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2004),
118–130.
170  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

31. Graeme Kirkpatrick, Aesthetic Theory and the Video Game (New York:
Manchester University Press, 2011), 163.
32. Ibid., 165. Henry Jenkins, Convergence Culture: Where Old and New
Media Collide (New York: New York University Press, 2006), 129, 121.
33. Kirkpatrick, 165.
34. Chris Suellentrop, “Student’s Trip Ends; A Mystery Just Begins in Gone
Home, a Family Mystery Unfolds,” New York Times, August 18, 2003,
accessed November 10, 2018, http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/19/
arts/video-games/in-gonehome-a-family-mystery-unfolds.html?_r=0.
35. Patricia Hernandez, “Gone Home: The Kotaku Review,” Kotaku, August
15, 2013, accessed November 10, 2018, http://kotaku.com/
gone-homethe-kotaku-review-1118218265.
36. Anonymous, “Gone Home: THIS IS NOT A GAME,” no post-date,
accessed August 8, 2016, https://encyclopediadramatica.se/Gone_
Home.
37. Daniel Nye Griffiths suggests that it might be best to read Gone Home
as a novel: “It might be best to think of Gone Home as a novel—once it
is read it is read, although you may wish to dip back in—and a set of
modifiers allowing the player to unlock all doors and turn on all the
lights will allow second runs to focus on neglected areas without retrac-
ing too many superfluous steps.” Daniel Nye Griffiths, “‘Gone Home’ –
Review A Teenaged Girl at the Heart of a Grown-Up Game,” Forbes,
August 15, 2013, accessed November 10, 2018, http://www.forbes.
com/sites/games/2013/08/15/gone-home-review-a-teenaged-girl-at-the-heart-
of-agrown-up-game/#b84cafc583a5.
38. Sam Anderson, “Just One More Game … Angry Birds, Farmville and
Other Hyperaddictive ‘Stupid Games,’” New York Times Magazine, April
4, 2012, accessed November 10, 2018, https://www.nytimes.com/2012/
04/08/magazine/angry-birds-farmville-and-other-hyperaddictive-stu-
pid-games.html.
39. Ibid.
40. Ibid.
41. Aubrey Anable defines “casual games” in the following way: “The industry
classification of casual games encompasses several genres—online puzzle,
word, and card games such as Candy Crush Saga, Angry Birds, and soli-
taire; simulation, time management, and social games such as Words with
Friends and FarmVille; and less definable hits like Kim Kardashian:
Hollywood and Clash of Clans. These very different games share some basic
similarities: they have simple graphics and mechanics, they are usually
browser or app based, and they are free or cost very little to play. Perhaps
more than anything, casual games are designed to be played in short bursts
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  171

of five to ten minutes and then set aside. With the advent of micro-pur-
chases, often these games have built-in features that limit the amount of
time a person can play in one sitting before being prompted to take a break
or pay to continue playing. These games are designed to be interruptible
because they are understood to be played in the context of work done
while sitting in front of a computer or played on a mobile phone that
might at any moment receive an email, text, or call.” Aubrey Anable,
Playing with Feelings: Video Games and Affect (Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press, 2018), 74.
42. Anderson. Related to the topic of “wasted time,” see Katherine Isbister’s
discussion of networked-games, many of which are app-based intended to
be used in small snatches of time, and how this potentially interferes with
“real world” interactions. Katherine Isbister, How Games Move Us: Emotion
by Design (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2016), 126–130.
43. Anderson. Anderson cites Charles Pratt, “a researcher in New  York
University’s Game Center, refers to such games as ‘knitting games.’” This
seems slightly problematic, it connotes a gendering of “casual games” or
phone-based games as feminine; while “real” console based games are pre-
sumably masculine. We understand the analogy of knitting being an activ-
ity that can be done during “idle time,” nonetheless the cultural
connotations of the analogy are impossible to overlook.
44. Anderson.
45. Ibid.
46. “Freemium Isn’t Free,” Trey Parker, South Park, Comedy Central, Season
18, Episode 6 (November 5, 2014).
47. Incidentally, Fallout 76 could also be viewed as a stupid genre fail because,
in the opinion of many of its players, the new genre added nothing to the
franchise and that, arguably for gamers more than the consumers of other
media, game genre directly implies and addresses questions of respect
between developer and consumer.
48. Paul Tassi reports in his 2018 Forbes’s article that, “The game made
$104 million in May, which is a 174% jump from the previous year, and the
game had 147 million active users in May.” Paul Tassi, “Pokémon GO Is
More Popular Than It’s Been At Any Point Since Launch in 2016,” Forbes,
June 27, 2018, accessed November 10, 2018. https://www.forbes.com/
sites/inser tcoin/2018/06/27/pokemon-go-is-more-popular-
than-its-been-at-any-point-since-launch-in-2016/#7ecededacfd2.
49. Rebecca Hersher, “Holocaust Museum, Arlington National Cemetery
Plead: No Pokémon,” NPR, July 12, 2016, accessed April 20, 2019,
https://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2016/07/12/485759308/
holocaust-museum-arlington-national-cemetery-plead-no-pokemon.
172  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

50. Sam Kriss, “Resist Pokemon Go,” Jacobin, July 14, 2016, accessed April 13,
2019, https://www.jacobinmag.com/2016/07/pokemon-go-pokestops-
game-situationist-play-children/.
51. Abdelhafid Khatib, “Attempt at a Psychogeographical Description of Les
Halles,” Internationale Situationniste #2, December 1958, accessed April
28, 2019, https://www.cddc.vt.edu/sionline/si/leshalles.html.
52. Jeff Sparrow, “Live in the moment: the Situationists & Pokémon GO,”
Overland Literary Journal, July 12, 2016, accessed April 25, 2019,
http s : //o ve rl a n d .o rg.a u / 2 0 1 6 / 0 7 / l i v e -i n-the -mome nt-the -
situationists-pokemon-go/.
53. Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle (London: Rebel Press, 2002), 7.
54. Kriss.
55. Jessica Lachenal, “It’s Super Effective: Players say Pokémon GO Helps
Their Mental Health,” The Mary Sue, July 12, 2016, accessed April 30,
2019, https://www.themarysue.com/pokemon-go-mental-health/.
56. News report, “New Research: Pokémon Go: A Potential Tool for Mental
Health,” American Psychological Association, May 06, 2018, accessed April
30, 2019, https://www.psychiatry.org/newsroom/news-releases/new-
research-pok%C3%A9mon-go-a-potential-tool-for-mental-health.
57. Note that among Sheehan’s “Reading the Game” series, is a review of
Walden, a videogame premised on the Henry David Thoreau’s memoir
Walden. See Jason Sheehan, “Reading the Game: Walden,” NPR,
December 13, 2018, accessed December 13, 2018, https://www.npr.
org/2018/12/13/676129780/reading-the-game-walden.
58. Jason Sheehan, “Reading the Game: Red Dead Redemption 2,” NPR,
January 1, 2019, accessed January 1, 2019, https://www.npr.
o rg / 2 0 1 9 / 0 1 / 0 1 / 6 8 1 2 2 2 3 1 6 / r e a d i n g - t h e - g a m e - r e d - d e a d -
redemption-2.
59. Michael Nitsche, Video Game Spaces: Image, Play, and Structure in 3D
Worlds (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2008), 44. Others have drawn on
Fredric Jameson’s conception of cognitive mapping to frame the discus-
sion of spatialized storytelling. See for example, Luke Arnott, “Mapping
Metroid: Narrative, Space, and Other M,” Games and Culture vol. 12, no.
1 (2017), 21–22.
60. Helen Hester, Beyond Explicit: Pornography and the Displacement of Sex
(New York: SUNY Press, 2014), 65.
61. See Aaron Kerner, Torture Porn in the Wake of 9/11: Horror, Exploitation,
and the Cinema of Sensations (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University,
2011), 56–59.
62. Parker, 751. Parker has assimilated a lot of research here, see: Roger Travis,
“Bioshock in the Cave: Ethical Education in Plato and in Video Games,” in
Ethics and Game Design, eds. Karen Schrier and David Gibson (Hershey,
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  173

PA: Information Science Reference, 2010), 97; Tom Bissell, Extra Lives:
Why Video Games Matter (New York: Vintage Books, 2011), 153–154;
Grant Tavinor, “Bioshock and the Art of Rapture,” Philosophy and Literature
vol. 33, no. 1 (April 2009), 101; Anonymous, “Game Play: BioShock
Narrative,” blogpost, September 21, 2007, accessed February 12, 2019,
http://cathodetan.blogspot.ca/2007/09/game-play-bioshock-narrative.
html; A. Pfister, review of “BioShock” blogpost, August 16, 2007, accessed
February 12, 2019, http://www.1up.com/reviews/bioshock_3; Andrew
Vanden Bossche, “Analysis: Would You Kindly? BioShock And Free Will,”
Gamasutra, August 18, 2009, accessed February 12, 2019, https://www.
gamasutra.com/view/news/115766/Analysis_Would_You_Kindly_
BioShock_And_Free_Will.php; R. Tulloch, “Ludic Dystopias: Power,
Politics and Play,” in Proceedings of the Sixth Australasian Conference on
Interactive Entertainment, ed. M.  Ryan (New York: ACM., 2009), no
pagination; Sparky Clarkson, “You Can’t Put a Price on Your Soul,” blog-
post, Ludo-narratology, April 4, 2009, accessed February 12, 2019,
http://ludo.mwclarkson.com/2009/04/you-cant-put-a-price-on-your-
soul/; Charles Onyett, “Bioshock,” review, IGN, August 17, 2007, accessed
February 12, 2019, https://www.ign.com/articles/2007/08/17/bio-
shock-review-2; and Tavinor, 104.
63. Matthew Thomas Payne, “War Bytes: The Critique of Militainment in Spec
Ops: The Line,” Critical Studies in Media Communication vol. 31, no. 4
(October 2014), 269.
64. Ibid., 270.
65. Ben Whaley cites Catherine (designed by Atlus 2011) as an example where
ludonarrative dissonance is used for comedic (and meta-gameplay) pur-
poses: “a crucial difference between Hocking’s critique of Bioshock and
Catherine is that the latter consciously uses these jarring, alternative design
choices precisely for meta-narrative and comedic purposes. Catherine
wants to make players laugh and think at the same time. Because of this,
the distanced engagement of Japanese game design capitalizes on the feel-
ing of ludonarrative dissonance and redeploys it as a useful tool for player
creativity and immersion” (Whaley, 109). Whaley suggests that the objec-
tive of Catherine is actually to get gamers to stop playing games, and to get
out into the “real world”: “With regard to distance, the self-reflexive and
meta-­narrative elements continually force the player to be cognizant of the
fact that they are playing a video game. This is accomplished via the confes-
sional gameplay segments and online indexing of poll answers as well as the
occasional breaking of the fourth wall in character monologues. Meta-
gameplay such as this purposefully detaches the player from the game
world and encourages them to think about their real everyday life and
actions. Indeed, one cannot progress through the game if they do not
174  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

answer the polls and the sheer act of answering elicits self-reflexivity from
the player. It is the synthesis of these two forms of engagement that give
video games like Catherine the potential to function both as effectual social
narratives and also potentially encourage real social change through player
self-reflection.” Ben Whaley, “Who Will Play Terebi Gemu When No
Japanese Children Remain? Distanced Engagement in Atlus’ Catherine,”
Games and Culture vol. 13, no. 1 (2015), 110.
66. Ian Bogost, “Perpetual Adolescence: The Fullbright Company’s Gone
Home,” Los Angeles Review of Books, September 28, 2013, accessed November
10, 2018, https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/perpetual-adolescence-the-
fullbright-companys-gone-home/.
67. Jenkins, “Game Design as Narrative Architecture,” 126.
68. John Lanchester also associates videogames with pornography, but in a
decidedly less generous manner: “And what do they want? The same thing
the audience for any new medium always wants: they want pornography,
broadly defined. They want to see things they aren’t supposed to see. This
is why video games, in general (and away from the world of Miyamoto-
san) are so preoccupied with violence—it’s what young men want to see.
(Pornography in the sexual sense is less of an issue: they can get that from
the internet, any time they want.) Their rule-bound, target-bound educa-
tions and work lives leave them with a deep craving to go and commit
imaginary crimes—as well they might. Not all games are cynically, affect-
lessly violent, but a lot of them are, and this trend is holding video games
back. It’s keeping them at the level of Hollywood blockbusters, when they
could go on to be something else and something more.” (John Lanchester,
“Is It Art?” London Review of Books vol. 31, no. 1 (January 2009): https://
www.lrb.co.uk/v31/n01/john-lanchester/is-it-art.) Summerley, how-
ever, similarly recognizes the structural similarities between the porno-
graphic (and musical) genre and that of videogames: “Pornography,
musicals and games are all forms that can be enjoyed apart from a fictional
context and it is surprising that they are not compared more often given
their remarkable structural similarities. For pornography, games and musi-
cals an explicit narrative is arguably optional and their formal structure
means that they often come across tensions when trying to convey fictional
information. Fiction in pornography is fraught with difficulty when read-
ing it mostly due to the nature of pornography and its audience. Like
games, there are those who would question whether there is even any need
for any kind of fiction, narrative or story in pornography. Game developer
John Carmack made the infamous analogy that, ‘Story in a game is like a
story in a porn movie. It’s expected to be there, but it’s not that impor-
tant.’ … However, this does not detract from the fact that there are audi-
ences that engage with stories in both games and pornography.” Rory
 5  THE STUPID AS LUDONARRATIVE DISSONANCE  175

K. Summerley, “Approaches to Game Fiction Derived from Musicals and

Pornography,” Arts vol. 7, no. 3 (2018): no pagination. Summerley cites
David Kushner, Masters of Doom: How Two Guys Created an Empire and
Transformed Pop Culture (New York: Random House, 2003), 120.

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 CHAPTER 6

Conclusion: Well That Was Stupid

Introduction: An Exercise in Stupidity—Sucker

Punch
We opened the present volume with Zack Snyder’s 2011 film Sucker
Punch, so let us return to it as a concluding exercise. Snyder’s film is not
stupid in all the ways that we have explored in this volume, but it hits
many of the notes. By conventional narrative standards, the screenplay is
an unmitigated disaster, and there is even a sense that Snyder is fully aware
of this fact, and that he is being consciously stupid. (Snyder co-wrote the
screenplay with Steve Shibuya.) Our primary character is Babydoll, and
she has been institutionalized in the Lennox House asylum—she is grief-­
stricken by her mother’s death, and further traumatized after accidentally
killing her younger sister during an altercation with her smarmy stepfather.
Babydoll’s stepfather in all likelihood murdered her mother, and he is
merely interested in the family’s wealth. The Lennox House, though, is no
ordinary asylum, it is a cover for a high-end brothel, where the institution-
alized women perform burlesque numbers for the clientele, as well as
sexual services. The stage, the theater, the incorporation of burlesque into
the narrative (such as it is) gives license to the shameless exhibition of
highly fetishized female bodies.
The burlesque, of course, was a feature of the cinema of attractions.
And the tradition of burlesque continued even after narrative cinema
matured; notably, the musical genre assimilates the burlesque. At the apex
of studio controlled Hollywood narrative cinema in the 1950s there was

© The Author(s) 2019 179

A. Kerner, J. Hoxter, Theorizing Stupid Media,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-28176-2_6
180  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

an effort “to contain female sexuality,” Eric Schaefer observes, “the bur-
lesque film was directly confronting viewers with the sight of women who
were uninhibited in their sexual expression. In burlesque films women
strutted, pranced, swung their arms, bumped their hips, poured out of,
and then stripped off their costumes in what appeared to be a flood of
uncontained sexual display. The women on screen met the gaze of the
spectator, acknowledged that gaze, and defiantly invited him to look fur-
ther.”1 When Babydoll initially encounters the business of the brothel, a
fellow asylum inmate explains (while seated on a private brothel-room
bed), “Blue owns the club. And we, my dear, heh … are the main attrac-
tions. Ta-da!” Here is a degree of awareness within the diegetic space, and
a meta-diegetic nod that Sucker Punch is nothing more than an untamed
attraction.
Babydoll acknowledges that she is being looked at, she is explicitly
placed on various stages—in the dance studio, in the burlesque theater, on
the kitchen cutting block (as a piece of meat?). In this latter instance, in an
effort to steal a knife, Babydoll dances for the cook in order to distract
him, and immediately prior to her dance one of Babydoll’s accomplices
seductively instructs the cook, “You’re gonna want to watch this.”
However, there appears to be dread built into this moment—especially in
the face of female directives to look at the fetish head-on. Aligning our
perspective with the corpulent and sweaty cook, who seems gripped with
fear more than erotic desire. The spectator in this case, perhaps shies “away
from the grotesque image of phallocentrism” that the cook signifies, “and
perhaps [is] actually relieved this time to have escaped” the erotic encoun-
ter “in favour of Sucker Punch’s impossible fantasy”2 (Fig. 6.1). The slip
from an erotically charged dance number into a sci-fi heist scenario, wards
off the dread of unbridled female sexuality.
In addition, the performance of the female gender (not woman) in Sucker
Punch is so exaggerated, played to the absolute hilt that the hollowness of
the fetish is made painfully obvious. The outfits and accoutrements of
patriarchal-imagined femininity—pigtails, unnaturally long eyelashes, glis-
tening lips, schoolgirl outfits, nurse uniforms, lingerie, thigh-high stock-
ings, fishnet stockings, high-heeled shoes, battle-gear, leather, and so on,
and so on—draws attention to the constructed nature of the fetish of
woman, which Schaefer calls “hyperfeminine.”3 Schaefer adds the outfits
in burlesque are “far removed from contemporary fashion and often
harked back to the nineteenth century (bustles and corsets) or biblical/‘slave
girl’ costuming (veils, sarongs) as filtered through Hollywood period
 6  CONCLUSION: WELL THAT WAS STUPID  181

Fig. 6.1  Babydoll

invites the male gaze in
Sucker Punch (Zack
Snyder, 2011)

­ ictures. Costumes also featured tassels, feathers, sequins, elaborate head-

p
dresses, and other ‘feminine’ signifiers and were often designed to empha-
size the breasts and pelvis. Hyperfemininity in the costuming, while
drawing attention to sex, simultaneously functioned as a virtual ‘masquer-
ade,’ taking on parodic overtones.”4 While the clothes and accoutrements
of performed femininity in Sucker Punch do not follow this precisely,
though many of these elements are in fact present, nevertheless the flaunt-
182  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

ing of the fetishistic image of woman performs the masquerade, and

potentially invites parodic readings. These highly fetishistic gestures—
erotically charged spectacles, which is what truly drives Sucker Punch—are
addressed outward toward an acknowledged spectator, rather than work-
ing to contain events within the interior diegetic narrative.5 And this out-
ward address—as found in early kinetoscope films, or traveling Lumière
programs—is where we find the untamed attraction, the stupid.
But Sucker Punch even goes one step further, layering one fetish upon
another.6 When Babydoll performs, she is apparently so captivating that
she induces an awe-struck paralysis in those that gaze upon her. What is
particularly striking though, is that we never see Babydoll dance. Rather as
she begins to sway Sucker Punch slips into Babydoll’s fantasy worlds—
invariably some sort of battle scene. The erotically charged dance number
is given over to the videogame-inspired combat mission—wholesale eroti-
cism is displaced for erotically charged violence. Oscar Moralde views this
radical disconnection between erotic dance numbers and the scenes of
highly choreographed violence as a transparent gesture: “the effect is dis-
orienting and forces disengagement from the flow of the story while mak-
ing a thematic connection between the CG pyrotechnics and the girls
performing in the brothel. Drawing attention to this disconnect, fellow
patient/prostitute/commando Sweet Pea (Abbie Cornish) comments
that Baby Doll’s first dance (in place of which we watch a sequence—bor-
rowing from Terry Gilliam’s Brazil—where she fights a trio of giant samu-
rai) looks like meaningless ‘gyrating and moaning.’”7 She disparagingly
adds, “The dance should be more than just titillation.” Whether it is an
erotically charged dance number, or an exciting fight scene (which might
be simply a different type of dance number), makes little difference. These
are both “meaningless,” and are directed toward titillation—favoring
affect over emotional investment in characters—stupid.
A slightly decelerated iteration of Transformers’ aspirant Hollywood
vernacular is evident in Sucker Punch, and this is particularly true of the
combat mission sequences. Take, for instance, the combat mission set in
WWI trenches, fused with a steampunk aesthetic (we learn that the
German side is manned by zombified German soldiers powered by steam
and clockworks). As Babydoll and her companions fight their way through
the trenches spatial geography is nearly impossible to discern, quick cuts
from one perspective to another hurriedly disorientate—but this is of little
consequence, it does not matter. Likewise, individuated fights (of which
there are many) are reduced to lightning quick shots, usually ending with
 6  CONCLUSION: WELL THAT WAS STUPID  183

steam jetting out from the fallen German soldier. Beyond intensified con-
tinuity (Bordwell), Sucker Punch avails itself of the chaotic (Stork), the
stylistics of post-continuity (Shaviro), and jubilantly exchanges “visual
intelligibility for sensory” stimulation.8 Stupid!
As for genre, Sucker Punch is perhaps most indebted to the women in
prison film—that fixture of 1970s exploitation cinema—this is perhaps the
only genre that could possibly “contain” the film. However, the slips into
various combat missions, Babydoll’s fantastical musings are individually
genre-coded: chambara/samurai movie (with faint whiffs of daikaiju
eiga—Japanese monster movies), war movie (filtered through the lens of
videogames—namely Bioshock), fantasy film (a middle-Earth battle replete
with dragons and Orcs), western heist movie set in a science fiction world
(Apocalypse Now meets The Matrix meets Star Wars). These individuated
set-pieces have their own distinct characteristics. The diegetic narrative,
set in the Lennox House asylum while largely governed by the women in
prison film it is infused with a litany of other genre tropes (pornography,
action, fantasy, horror, torture porn). While John Truby assures us that
multiple genres can (and should) co-exist in the contemporary mediascape,
in Sucker Punch’s pastiche of genres there is an uneasy collision, which
Moralde already suggested disorientates and prompts the spectator to dis-
engage “from the flow of the story.” Stupid!!
Narrative dissonance emerges in a couple of different ways in Sucker
Punch: first, there is a question about whose story is actually being told?
And second, the mode of address does not necessarily correspond to the
narrative at hand. Let us begin with this basic story question, in the latter
moments of Sucker Punch, Babydoll turns to her last surviving compatriot
Sweetpea and says, “This was never my story. It’s yours. Now, don’t screw
it up, okay.” (Snyder’s wink that this is all stupid?) Despite the fact that we
begin with Babydoll, despite the fact that Sucker Punch is quite literally her
vision, her perspective, it is apparently Sweetpea’s story? Shortly after
Babydoll arrives at Lennox House she is lobotomized, though this event
is not explicitly presented, in the latter moments of the film we see Babydoll
in a catatonic state—it leads us to believe that everything that has trans-
pired is a figment of Babydoll’s imagination, not just the fantastical com-
bat missions, but even the diegetic events within the Lennox House. This
realization also casts a dark shadow on the ostensible “happy ending”
where Sweetpea boards a bus to make her escape. As the bus rides off into
the sunset (or dawning light) it is as if she is Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz
traveling down the Yellow Brick Road—to the right of the road is a field
184  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

with a scarecrow, and a billboard with “Paradise Diner” scrawled across it.
The billboard appears to reference an earlier line of dialog, where Blue, a
Lennox House orderly and the despotic brothel manager, notes that fol-
lowing Babydoll’s lobotomy, “She’ll be in paradise.” The coloring of the
closing scene also leads one to think this is yet another one of Babydoll’s
fantasies. So, is it Sweetpea’s story or not? Is it still Babydoll’s (post-­
lobotomy) story?
There is a cut from Babydoll’s lobotomy to a staged burlesque perfor-
mance of a lobotomy; Sweetpea takes the role of Babydoll, complete with
a blonde wig resembling Babydoll, but Sweetpea interrupts the dress-­
rehearsal: “Stop! This is a joke, right? Don’t you get the point of this? It’s
to turn people on. I get the sexy little schoolgirl. I even get the helpless
mental patient, right? That can be hot. But what is this? Lobotomized
vegetable? How about something a little more commercial, for God’s
sakes?” But perhaps this is exactly the point: Snyder appears to be calling
attention to the fact that the fetishistic image of woman, is, in fact, noth-
ing more than a lobotomized vegetable, which is infinitely open to com-
mercialization. “Because of all the stylistic and narrative roadblocks thrown
up between the audience and the characters, it’s nearly impossible to iden-
tify with them as ‘real’ people,” Moralde observes. “This leaves only one
significant way to identify with anything in the film: the act of watching a
spectacle.”9 Let’s spell this out, “S-t-u-p-i-d!”
However, there is an “emptiness” here, not simply because the charac-
ters are effectively non-existent beyond their superficial fetishistic appeal,
the meta-cinematic critique potentially even threatens to destroy the fetish
that it so painstakingly constructs. Sucker Punch—and we cannot believe
we are doing this—might actually be, in certain instances, too smart for its
own good. Although Sucker Punch establishes itself as an exploitation film,
it could be viewed equally as a film about exploitation (films). “We see the
mechanisms of how exploitative cinema works because this film pushes
forward an example where all the breaks and the seams are showing,” as
Moralde observes. From this perspective, Sucker Punch does not encour-
age stupidity (as Adorno views it, inducing “unthinking”), but rather
demonstrates how the cinematic fuels stupidity. Sucker Punch is “a deeply
tragic message driven by the knowledge of the true power of the fetishized
image. Sucker Punch knows that these images, seemingly charged with
significance, have the power to turn brains off—which seems to include
the brains of most critics.”10 Similarly, Alexander Sergeant suggests that
Sucker Punch places “[f]antasy and scopophilia … in an overt dialogue
 6  CONCLUSION: WELL THAT WAS STUPID  185

with one another, and this dialogue features throughout the rest of
Snyder’s increasingly impossible plot.”11 In a complex tug and pull, then,
Sucker Punch at once invites us to consider the ways in which the fetishistic
economy has “the power to turn brains off,” and at the same time, appar-
ently still works to seduce the spectator with a compendium of fetishis-
tic images.
Sergeant makes an analogous argument, “By placing the fantasy act up
on screen within a narrative that consistently dramatizes the multifaceted
dream worlds of its protagonist Babydoll, Sucker Punch invokes rather
than supports the symbolic structures of patriarchy, objectifying its female
protagonists not in a manner that supposedly renders them as possible
objects of a male scopic desire, but instead in a manner that transmits their
status as impossible objects of an impossible desire.” While at first glance
it seems obvious that Sucker Punch caters to the male gaze, however, it
seems to problematize this, “with its latex costumes rendered as impossi-
ble as its high-kicking action and folkloric imagery.” Sergeant does not
suggest that Sucker Punch undoes the male gaze altogether though, but
rather “illuminate[s] its inherently fantastical nature,” and resists the
potency of the fetish.12 In its stupidity, is it too smart?
Narrative dissonance is located at many junctures. While the trajectory
of the story is told through Babydoll, the narrative arc supposedly belongs
to Sweetpea, despite the fact that she is a supporting character, and often
is at odds with the established narrative objectives. This is not to suggest
that upending conventional storytelling structures—where secondary
characters are in fact the “real” focus—is not possible, clearly such a thing
is conceivable, but in this case, it feels off. And while we agree that we
might be overly generous here, it is possible to read Sucker Punch as a
critique of the very thing it depicts, a meta-cinematic exercise in the econ-
omy of fetishism. Leading us to question, is the spectator the one being
(sucker) punched?
Additionally, there is a problem in storytelling mode. Sucker Punch
does not quite know what it wants to be. A string of music videos, a musi-
cal, or a narrative film (“properly speaking”)—genre failure? Narrative
wants to be dissonant, conventional narratives are beaten into submission,
smoothed out, and shaped to meet standard expectations—molded into a
consonant narrative. Sucker Punch, on the other hand, is beaten, but not
beaten into submission, and emerges misshapen, wonky, it exposes “all the
breaks and the seams,” and allows its dissonance to come through. The
opening scene is nothing short of a music video (most, if not all in slow
186  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

motion), very limited muted diegetic dialog (though we are given some
establishing voiceover narration from outside the diegetic space), desatu-
rated color palette, all the while Emily Browning’s affecting cover of the
Eurythmics’s, “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” plays as the non-­
diegetic score—Browning plays the primary character Babydoll. Shortly
thereafter another music video number follows. In a duet, again, Browning
covers the Pixies, “Where Is My Mind?” Narrative is mounted in the inter-
stitial moments between the music video numbers. However, the estab-
lished pattern of music video-narrative-music video is given over to the
spectacle of Babydoll’s fantasy worlds and thus becomes narrative-­
spectacular fantasy-narrative, and so on. In terms of structure just like the
musical, or porn, narrative is shoehorned in-between arousing set-pieces.
While the general spectacle-narrative-spectacle pattern remains intact, the
nature of those spectacle set-pieces is so divergent, so idiosyncratic, that
despite their formulaic regularity they feel dissonant.
Sucker Punch: A rose by any other name would smell as stupid.

The Charge of Stupidity, and How the Stupid

Questions Our Assumptions About Storytelling
Robert Musil took stupidity seriously. His published lecture, “On
Stupidity,” notes that the “most general notion of stupidity” has to do
with the soundness of a thing, a category, or with capability, “and every-
thing that is incapable or unsound might then, on occasion, also be called
stupid.”13 From interventions in narrative conventions to genre fails, we
too associate the stupid with “soundness” and “capacity”—the stupid
emerges when the integrity of a category, paradigm of assessment, or
established narrative/genre conventions are challenged. Media-makers
flirt with catastrophe when advancing innovations, and appear to lack the
capacity to play by prevailing storytelling regimes—stupid!
Perhaps what is most intriguing about Musil’s meditation on stupidity
is his placement of it in the realm of aesthetics and the sensate experience.
Although Musil does not characterize it exactly in these terms, it is not
that far removed from Kant’s conception of the beautiful. To express,
“That’s beautiful,” says nothing of the referent, but says far more about
the subject uttering it, because it merely functions as a veiled expression of
pleasure.14 In a similar fashion to utter, “That’s stupid!” potentially says
very little about the object, but rather reveals frustration, exasperation,
 6  CONCLUSION: WELL THAT WAS STUPID  187

confusion on the part of the subject. “There is something of a ‘short cir-

cuit’ in this, and it is more understandable if we consider that stupid and
vulgar, whatever they may mean, are also used as terms of abuse,” Musil
notes. “For the meaning of these terms, as we are well aware, lies not so
much in their content as in the way they are used; many among us might
well love the donkey, but be insulted if we are called one. The insult does
not stand for what it signifies, but for a mixture of ideas, feelings, and
intentions which it cannot even remotely express, but which it can sig-
nal.”15 “That’s stupid!” in most instances is inflected with feelings—affec-
tively charged. Slang, contemporary vernacularism, “teasing words,
faddish words” are adopted not simply for what they might communicate,
but also in their slipperiness as (novel) signifiers indicating their emotive
charge: “what they all have in common, however incomparable they may
otherwise be, is that they are in the service of an affect, and it is precisely
their lack of precision and absence of referent that enables them to sup-
press, when they are used, whole realms of words that are more accurate,
more relevant, and more correct. Evidently life sometimes needs this, and
we have to allow for it, but what happens in such cases is without a doubt
stupid; it wanders, so to speak, along the same path as stupidity.”16
Expletives work in a similar fashion; they do not signify as such, but rather
forcefully communicate “affectivity.” Language is not purely utilitarian
(serving as a means of communication), but is frequently laced with the
sensate experience, what amounts to communicative excess, as Musil
insists, “thoughts and feelings act together.”17 “Stupid” is affective laden.
While the stupid is something that might be felt, it is often elicited
through storytelling structures. In his discussion of Richard Kelly’s 2006
film Southland Tales, Steven Shaviro notes that elements of the film might
come off as effectively stupid because they appear as unmotivated tan-
gents. Shaviro does not use the term stupid here, but just as well might
have: “The compositional logic of Southland Tales is paratactic and addi-
tive, having little to do with conventional film syntax. The film is filled
with inserts; it overlays, juxtaposes and restlessly moves between multiple
images and sound sources. But it does not provide us with any hierarchical
organisation of all these elements. Many of the film’s most arresting images
just pop up, without any discernible motivation or point of view. For
instance, around the five-minute mark, shortly after a title reading ‘Los
Angeles,’ there is a shot of a G. I. Joe doll, advancing on knees and elbows
along a wet sidewalk, then firing a rifle.”18 This element has no narrative
function per se, other than to in effect give some sense of the storyworld.
188  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

Shaviro adds there might be a loose association between certain provoca-

tive images, “but we are not given any rationale for this connection. All
these correspondences and connections form something like an affective
constellation; but they are too dispersed, and too indefinite and arbitrary,
to work in the focused and organised way that Eisensteinian montage the-
ory demands. Rather, these links are weak ties, such as we are accustomed
to find on the Internet.”19 These “weak” connections—or affective con-
stellations—might well make them stupid, precisely because they are dif-
ficult to contextualize within standard narrative conventions. And the idea
of “affective constellations” might share certain affinities with the concep-
tion of spatialized storytelling. A constellation appearing across the vast
space of the sky, the discernable celestial bodies only perceptible with the
star-gazer’s capacity to connect the dots. Spatialized storytelling also relies
on the spectator to assemble the accretion of story-elements into an intel-
ligible “narrative” (if only as an “affective constellation”). Videogame nar-
ratives might work in this manner.
Although we have not come right out to say it until now, what this
volume illustrates is that we (critics, and scholars) fetishize continuity edit-
ing. Far too much emphasis has been placed on its importance. We can
turn to Michael Bay as evidence of this fact—audiences are remarkably
forgiving for violations in continuity. Shaviro also observes that the
“Transformers series no longer seem to be invested in meaningful expres-
sion, or narrative construction, at all. They don’t even show a concern for
accurate continuity.”20 Shaviro goes on to cite Bay himself, “I think you
have to make movies for the general public and not the details … When
you get hung up on continuity, you can’t keep the pace and price down.
Most people simply consume a movie and they are not even aware of these
errors.”21 We actually concur with Bay, as far as he goes, and are disap-
pointed with Shaviro’s summary dismissal of audiences—voiced with a
thinly veiled classicist contempt—that “no longer seem to be invested in
meaningful expression, or narrative construction.” While nowhere as fre-
netic as Bay, we only need to look to figures like Jean-Luc Godard, who
famously violated the 180-degree rule (among other rules of continuity)
in his 1960 film Breathless. Why is it that Godard’s violations of continuity
are enthusiastically celebrated, and Bay subject to such virulent scorn? Was
it not Godard’s cinematic violations that lent license to filmmakers after
him, from Kubrick, to Wong Kar-Wai to … Tony Scott, to experiment
with the established rules of continuity?
 6  CONCLUSION: WELL THAT WAS STUPID  189

David Denby observes that there has been a sea-change in cinematic

storytelling, one that moves away from psychological dramas, and into the
realm of the stupid (without calling it such, rather he calls it the “con-
glomerate aesthetic”). “In contrast to films made before 1960, which
seem to modern audiences to wallow in pathos,” Denby bemoans, “mod-
ern films provide spectacle and excitement without emotion. Blockbusters
like Kill Bill and Pearl Harbor offer audiences the opportunity to be
spooked, titillated, dazed, impressed, and blown away without giving
them the chance to share in any of the characters’ feelings.”22 It is not that
Denby, and so many other critics and scholars are “wrong,” indeed we
actually concur with Denby, as far as he goes. But what Denby and others
fail to recognize, is the significance of corporal investment, as if psycho-
logical investment is the only storytelling investment that merits serious
consideration. In economic terms, the stupid far outstrips anything that
Denby might consider “worthy” storytelling. From the widespread circu-
lation of pornography to videogames (and its ancillary activities—for
instance, Twitch and E-sports), to the most profitable box-office pictures,
there is a global demand for the stupid. It seems to us that our paradigms
of assessment should make a critical shift in order to account for the major-
ity of contemporary media output, rather than wring our hands and vocif-
erously protest, “They don’t make them like they used to!”
Indeed, spectators can be deeply moved by other storytelling conven-
tions and modes, beyond our established narrative standards. Recall
Adventure Time creator Pendleton Ward’s jubilation with Gone Home,
explaining: “it was wild to feel so intimately connected with the character
in that game.” Far beyond what we in the literary and cinematic disciplines
have (problematically) called “identification,”23 videogames have enor-
mous potential to “put us in the shoes” of a character. Ward highlights the
potential for scary games, because instead of simply witnessing events
unfold, with videogames where you manipulate the onscreen avatar
(whether that’s third person or first person) “you’re the one taking the
steps forward towards that room.”24 Imagine, now, the possibilities for
(videogame) storytelling with VR! This seems like an emerging area to
watch for, precisely because VR is explicitly orientated toward the viewing
body. VR invites us to look around, to move our bodies to see below us,
behind us, and so on. VR has the very real ability to induce nausea, or
vertigo by simulating the experience of being exposed to tremendous
heights. The unfortunate example of a friend of ours who is an avid gamer
and yet who is unable to engage in any way with VR because it gives her
190  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

terrible motion sickness is a case in point. She laments that an important

component of the evolving gaming world is now passing her by. The fact
is that the body genres—which invariably are addressed to the body (and
thus, open to the stupid)—are initial adopters of emerging technologies.
And this is particularly true of pornography, which is one of Linda
Williams’s body genre trifacta, horror, and melodrama being the other
two. (At the conclusion of our Ludonarrative Dissonance chapter we
made some cursory gestures to add videogames to the body genres as
gaming invites us to mimic the kinetic action onscreen.)
The widespread penetration of moving image technologies owes some
of its success to the pornographic. Even at the inception of the moving
image we find evidence of this from Eadweard Muybridge’s study of
(female) human movement,25 to Lumiere films and kinetoscope films that
featured burlesque numbers (and other erotic content),26 to the adoption
of VCRs,27 to the earliest mobilization of VOD via cable television,28 to
video-streaming online, to VR video. At every significant technological
innovation, the pornographic has been there as an early adopter, advanc-
ing the possibilities for storytelling. While some have speculated that
“porn gravitates to new media because new media are more free from
restraint than existing ones, whose content authorities have learned to
regulate.” This does not quite explain pornography’s incessant forays into
technological innovations though. While published in the mid-1990s
Peter Johnson, in his short piece, “Pornography Drives Technology,”
which is just as relevant now, speculates that “Porn, like its subject matter,
is always eager to experiment.” He continues, “Its design is, simply, to get
to market as quickly and easily as possible. When new media offer new
markets, porn spies them quickly and rushes to fill them.”29 But this
emphasis on new technology and early adoption opens up a significant
point of contention, which we have not addressed in this volume: The
stupid is often a site of privilege—the ability to take risks with innovative
storytelling and access to new technologies (both at the production and
consumption end) is, at least to begin with, accessible only to those with
resources. Johnson observes that “porn draws curiosity seekers, who stay
to see what else the new media can do. There is a convenient dovetailing
in the audience for computers and pornography: young, white males dom-
inate both markets.”30 Indeed, the Michael Bays of the world can take
creative risks without jeopardizing their careers, and not to mention the
substantial capital it takes to make a film like Transformers: The Last Knight
(2017). While viewing the latest installment of the Transformers franchise
 6  CONCLUSION: WELL THAT WAS STUPID  191

might be in reach of most consumers, access to something like VR hard-

ware and content demand significant resources. A privilege check: We
count ourselves in this too, as tenured faculty, we can investigate “ques-
tionable” cultural objects without fear of jeopardizing our professional
profile. We can also bemuse ourselves by exploring ideas and cultural arti-
facts, which some scholars/critics might view as silly, frivolous, not “seri-
ous,” indulgent, or just simply stupid (and not stupid in a good way).
While the materialist inquiries are important, our primary focus here has
been the structure of storytelling across media.
Stupidity emerges from our assumptions about storytelling. In his pref-
ace to Mythologies, Roland Barthes bitterly intones, “I resent seeing Nature
and History confused at every turn, and I wanted to track down, in the
decorative display of what-goes-without-saying, the ideological abuse
which, in my view, is hidden there.”31 While our project is less politically
motivated (at least overtly), nevertheless, we too are indignant about the
presumed qualities of a narrative, which are a product of historical devel-
opment. Moreover, the paradigms of assessment have evolved in tandem
with storytelling conventions. And let us remind ourselves that “conven-
tions” are merely culturally agreed upon norms, and the analytic para-
digms have developed to police those. The stupid challenges our most
fundamental assumptions—what we assume to be true, narrative conven-
tions that are presumed to be unmoving, static, intrinsically essential, even
natural. All of our storytelling conventions are arbitrary. They are only
conventions because they have been assimilated over many years of model-
ing. John Lanchester in his London Review of Books review of the video-
game Bioshock, reminds us that “Northrop Frye once observed that all
conventions, as conventions, are more or less insane; Stanley Cavell once
pointed out that the conventions of cinema are just as arbitrary as those of
opera.” And because there is no natural storytelling syntax, or mode,
there are bound to be evolutionary elements that, prior to becoming con-
ventions, will appear stupid. As a relatively new storytelling mode video-
games are stuffed with stupidity, Lanchester observes that videogames
“are full, overfull, of exactly that kind of arbitrary convention. Many of
these conventions make the game more difficult. Gaming is a much more
resistant, frustrating medium than its cultural competitors. Older media
have largely abandoned the idea that difficulty is a virtue.” Adding a per-
sonal note Lanchester recounts, “if I had to name one high-cultural notion
that had died in my adult lifetime, it would be the idea that difficulty is
artistically desirable. It’s a bit of an irony that difficulty thrives in the
192  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

­ ewest medium of all—and it’s not by accident, either. One of the most
n
common complaints regular gamers make in reviewing new offerings is
that they are too easy. (It would be nice if a little bit of that leaked over
into the book world.)”32 So do we.

A Final Word: I’m with Stupid →

Recounting Musil’s observations, Avital Ronell notes that, “stupid often
comes in couples—like dumb and dumber, perhaps, or Dick und Doof
(the German version of Laurel and Hardy), or Bouvard et Pécuchet, or,
reaching back further to Hellenic comedy, the alazon and eiron, who
became the significant dumb-ass couple of de Man’s reflections on irony.”33
But there is no need to go that deep, after all, we do not have to look any
further than the present authors—Aaron and Julian.

Notes
1. Eric Shaefer, “The Obscene Seen: Spectacle and Transgression in Postwar
Burlesque Films,” Cinema Journal vol. 36, no. 2 (Winter, 1997), 53.
2. Alexander Sergeant, “Zack Snyder’s Impossible Gaze: The Fantasy of
‘Looked-at-ness’ Manifested in Sucker Punch (2011),” in Sensational
Pleasures in Cinema, Literature and Visual Culture: The Phallic Eye, eds.
Gilad Padva and Nurit Buchweitz (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014),
136.
3. Shaefer, 55.
4. Ibid., 55–56.
5. See Tom Gunning, “The Cinema of Attraction[s]: Early Film, Its Spectator
and the Avant-Garde,” in The Cinema of Attractions Reloaded, ed. Wanda
Strauven (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2006), 384.
6. Commenting on the doubling, or the displacement of fetishistic imagery
Oscar Moralde notes, “The General (Scott Glenn) speaks almost entirely in
platitudes like ‘If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything,’
and any dialogue that doesn’t directly drive the action forward is the type
of one-liner audiences have heard in countless action films before this one.
Like the fetishized imagery, the dialogue is pushed to such an artificial
extreme that it approaches self-parody, detached from concerns of narra-
tive tension—just like how the battle sequences mostly dispense with the
labored process that many action films go through to justify why the heroes
need to slaughter their enemies, and instead relies on the audience recog-
nizing that zombies and orcs need to be destroyed because that’s what
 6  CONCLUSION: WELL THAT WAS STUPID  193

happens in these sequences. The battlefield layer is pure decontextualiza-

tion composed of setpieces extracted from other action stories and sutured
into this one, worlds constructed entirely of surfaces.” Oscar Moralde,
“Sucker Punch and the Fetishized Image,” Slant, April 5, 2011, accessed
November 10, 2018, https://www.slantmagazine.com/film/sucker-
punch-and-the-fetishized-image/.
7. Ibid.
8. Drawn from Stork’s petulance (cited in our introduction), “Contemporary
blockbusters, particularly action movies, trade visual intelligibility for sen-
sory overload, and the result is a film style marked by excess, exaggeration
and overindulgence: chaos cinema.” Matthias Stork, “CHAOS CINEMA:
The decline and fall of action filmmaking,” IndieWire, August 22, 2011,
accessed November 10, 2018, http://www.indiewire.com/2011/08/
video-essay-chaos-cinema-the-decline-and-fall-of-action-filmmak-
ing-132832/. Bold text in original.
9. Moralde. Italics added. Sergeant comments on this same scene: “In this
shift from reality to Babydoll’s imagination, an off-screen negotiation of
eroticism is now placed on screen and, rather than spectators watching the-
atricality, we become spectators watching fantasy spectators watching the-
atricality who, like Sweetpea, are aware of our role in the process. Žižek’s
impossible gaze of fantasy is made apparent, and the spectator’s own role in
masking that impossibility is thus made equally apparent.” Sergeant, 133.
10. Moralde.
11. Sergeant, 134.
12. Ibid., 129.
13. Ibid., 276.
14. Salim Kemal, Kant’s Aesthetic Theory: An Introduction Second Edition
(New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997), 34.
15. Robert Musil, “On Stupidity,” in Precision and Soul: Essays and Addresses,
eds. and trans. Burton Pike and David S. Luft (Chicago: The University of
Chicago Press, 1990), 278.
16. Ibid., 278–279.
17. Ibid., 285.
18. Steven Shaviro, Post-Cinematic Affect (Washington: Zero Books, 2010),
70–71.
19. Ibid., 72–73.
20. Ibid., 119.
21. Michael Bay cited in Shaviro, 119. See Armageddon DVD Review, https://
www.michaelbay.com/articles/armageddon-dvd-review/.
22. David Denby cited in Carl R. Plantinga, Moving Viewers: American Film
and the Spectator’s Experience (Berkeley: University of California Press,
2009), 85.
194  A. KERNER AND J. HOXTER

23. Carl Plantinga productively complicates “identification.” Plantinga instead

suggests that “engagement” offers a more nuanced approach, but is rooted
in the end to emotional involvement in the narrative: “Character engage-
ment is the trajectory of mental activities and responses viewers have in
relation to film characters. Viewers sympathize with, have antipathy for, are
conflicted about, and are indifferent to various characters. Engagement
involves cognitive assessment, viewer desires for various outcomes, and
sympathetic and antipathetic emotions in response to a character’s situa-
tions.” It’s the narrative, not simply characters that invites any sort of
“identification” as such. Emotional engagement or identification, espe-
cially in the Hollywood tradition, is steered: “the audience cares deeply
about a character,” but this is because the spectator “also has deeper con-
cerns about the unfolding narrative.” Plantinga, 111.
24. Maria Bustillos, “It’s Adventure Time,” The Awl, April 15, 2014, accessed
November 10, 2018, http://theholenearthecenteroftheworld.com/.
25. See Chap. 2 “Prehistory: The ‘Frenzy of the Visible,’” in Linda Williams’s
Hardcore: Power, Pleasure, and the “Frenzy of the Visible” (Berkeley:
University of California, 1989).
26. See The Good Old Naughty Days (Michael Reilhac, 2003), a collection of
explicit films dating between 1905 and 1930.
27. Megumi Komiya and Barry Litman note that, “From the inception of the
prerecorded videocassette industry, adult-orientated movies have been a
substantial component of sales and rentals.” Megumi Komiya and Barry
Litman, “The Economics of the Prerecorded Videocassette Industry,” in
Social and Cultural Aspects of VCR Use, ed. Julia Dobrow (New York:
Routledge, 2009), 36. Sony’s failure with Betamax was in part driven by
the tape-length, running an hour, while VHS boasted 2-hour run time and
eventually developed tapes that could hold 6 hours of content. “What were
people watching on these early videotapes? The early home video rental
stores, the outlets that drove Betamax from the market, were almost exclu-
sively pornographic, drawing on the same clientele as early nickelodeons.
The same was true of home video sales. It was not until the mid-1980s that
first, local video rental stores, and next, national chains like Blockbuster
entered the field with videos for the mass-market. By then, porn had shown
the way. Thus, the victory of VHS over Betamax, and the triumph of video
rental and purchase over time-shifting, is a rare example of pornography
specifically adopting a product and a method of retailing that drove its
competitor from the market.” Peter Johnson, “Pornography Drives
Technology: Why Not to Censor the Internet,” Federal Communications
Law Journal vol. 49, no. 1 (1996), 222.
 6  CONCLUSION: WELL THAT WAS STUPID  195

28. “One of the first uses of pay-cable was pornography: people would pay to
watch X- and R-rated films at home.” Johnson, 221.
29. Ibid., 223.
30. Ibid.
31. Roland Barthes, Mythologies, trans. Annette Lavers (London: Vintage,
1993), 11.
32. John Lanchester, “Is It Art?” London Review of Books vol. 31, no. 1
(January 2009): https://www.lrb.co.uk/v31/n01/john-lanchester/
is-it-art.
33. Avital Ronell, Stupidity (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2002), 85.

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216  BIBLIOGRAPHY

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The Good Old Naughty Days, Michael Reilhac, 2003, 69 mins.
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Let the Corpses Tan, Hélène Cattet and Bruno Forzani, 2017, 92 mins.
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218  BIBLIOGRAPHY

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The Mummy, Alex Kurtzman, 2017, 170 mins.
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Pacific Rim, Guillermo del Toro, 2013, 131 mins.
Pearl Harbor, Michael Bay, 2001, 183 mins.
Pink Flamingos, John Waters, 1972, 93 mins.
Pistol Opera, Seijun Suzuki, 2001, 113 mins.
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Porky’s, Bob Clark, 1981, 94 mins.
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Star Wars I: Phantom Menace, George Lucas, 1999, 136 mins.
  BIBLIOGRAPHY  219

Star Wars II: Attack of the Clone Wars, George Lucas, 2002, 142 mins.
Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith, George Lucas, 2005, 140 mins.
Star Wars VI Return of the Jedi, Richard Marquand, 1983, 131 mins.
Star Wars V The Empire Strikes Back, Irvin Kershner, 1980, 124 mins.
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Suspiria, Dario Argento, 1977, 92 mins.
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Transformers: Age of Extinction, Michael Bay, 2014, 165 mins.
Transformers: Dark of the Moon, Michael Bay, 2011, 154 mins.
Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, Michael Bay, 2009, 150 mins.
Transformers: The Last Knight, Michael Bay, 2017, 154 mins.
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 Index1

A Antiporno, 2, 3, 83, 85–88

AAA games (triple-A), 145, 148, 156, Apocalypse Now, 183
159 Apple, Wendy, 26n55
ABCs of Death, The, 79 Apple app store, 156
Abject (abjection), 72, 80, 110, 155 Argento, Dario, 77, 81
Adorno, Theodor, 15, 16, 72, Aristotle, 17
109–111, 157, 184 Aronofsky, Darren, 75, 76
Adventure Time, vi, 21, 32, 111–115, Aroused by Gymnopedies, 83
117–120, 122–125, 127, 129, Attraction (theme park ride), 5, 48
131, 132, 165, 189 Augmented reality (AR), 159, 161,
Adventure time (literary concept), 21, 162
120–125 Aumont, Jacques, 59
Affect, 2, 9, 32, 40, 61, 82, 91,
109–111, 182, 187
Alien, 74 B
Allegory, 76 Bad Boys II, 49, 55
Altman, Rick, 72, 73 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 21, 120–125,
Amer, 11, 75, 77, 78, 80–83, 96 134n22
American Pie, 13 Balsom, Erika, 59, 60
Anable, Aubrey, 170n41, 171n41 Barnum, P.T., 47
Anderson, Sam, 155–157, 171n42, Barthes, Roland, 14, 191
171n43 Bates, Norman, 80

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

1

© The Author(s) 2019 221

A. Kerner, J. Hoxter, Theorizing Stupid Media,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-28176-2
222  INDEX

Bay, Michael, 4, 15, 33–39, 42, 43, Casual games, 22, 155, 157, 170n41,
45–52, 55, 56, 60–62, 188, 190 171n43
Beautiful (aesthetics), 186 Catherine, 173n65, 174n65
Behind the Green Door, 166 Cattet, Hélène, 11, 77–82, 96
Belladonna of Sadness, 77 Chambara (samurai movies), 1, 183
Benioff, David, 93 Chaos cinema, 4, 51
Benshoff, Harry M., 26n55 Chronotope, 21, 120, 121, 125
Bernardi, Daniel, 66n32, 103n55 Church, David, 26n55
Beugnet, Martine, 7, 14, 23–24n26, Cinema of attractions, v, 5–7, 12, 14,
81 127, 179
Bibbiani, William, 64n17 Citizen Kane, 150
Bioshock, 16, 21, 135n32, 139–144, Clark, Bob, 13
147, 151, 163, 164, 168n11, Clarkson, Sparky, 173n62
173n65, 183, 191 Clash of Kings, 157
Bissell, Tom, 173n62 Cleveland Show, The, 131
Bitel, Anton, 99n21, 100n22 Comedy, 23n13, 31, 41, 43, 113,
Black Mirror: Bandersnatch, 96 121, 134n22
Blume, Judy, 126 Conglomerate aesthetics, 48
Body genres, 18, 167, 190 Coppola, Francis Ford, 5
Body-humor, 13 Cuarón, Alfonso, 126
Bogost, Ian, 126, 142, 155, 165, 166 Cult film, 85
Bollywood, 20 Cutting Edge: The Magic of Movie
Bonnie and Clyde, 50 Editing ,The, 26n55
Bordwell, David, 3, 4, 51, 52, 183
Branded to Kill, 83–85, 87, 95
Breaking Bad, 143 D
Breathless, 188 D’Alessandro, Anthony, 76
Brinkema, Eugenie, 14 Dargis, Manohla, 37
Burlesque, 179, 180, 190 Dawn of the Felines, 83
Debord, Guy, 161
Deep Throat, 166
C Deleuze, Gilles, 61
Call of Duty, 16, 156, 167 Denby, David, 48, 49, 61, 189
Cameron, Allan, 23n26 Depression Quest, 98, 154, 167
Camp, 9–12, 25n42, 73, 76 Derive, 161, 162
Campbell, Joseph, 72 DeSanto, Tom, 34
Canavan, Gerry, 24n27 Disney, 34, 64n8
Carnivalesque, 5, 12, 111, 112, 117 Doki Doki Literature Club, 96
Carson, Don, 126–128 Duchamp, Marcel, 59
Case of the Scorpion’s Tail, The, 77 Dudrah, Rajinder, 20
Casetti, Francesco, 47 Dungeons and Dragons, 118
  INDEX  223

E G
Earth Defense Force 5, 12 Gallagher, Mark, 26n55
Easy Rider, 18, 19 Game of Thrones, 90, 93, 132
Ebert, Roger, 31, 37 Game of War: Fire Age, 157
Ebiri, Bilge, 37 Gamer, 16, 17, 21, 22, 98, 129, 140,
Edelstein, David, 1 145, 147, 148, 150, 153–158,
Eisenstein, Sergei, 188 166, 171n47, 173n65, 192
Electronic Arts (EA), 156 Gamer (the movie), 6
Ellinger, Kat, 81 Gamergate, 154
Enlightenment, the (Age of Reason), Gardner, Chris, 63n6
141 Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai, 85
Epstein, Jean, 14, 56, 59, 60 Giallo, 33, 77–79, 81, 96
Erskine, Chris, 40 Gladiator, 4
Escape at Dannemora, 92 Gleiberman, Owen, 75, 76
E-sports, 189 Global positioning system (GPS), 159,
Exploitation, 1, 12, 100n33, 161
183, 184 Godard, Jean-Luc, 101n40, 188
Gone Home, vi, 17, 22, 98, 118, 120,
125–130, 134n31, 149–155,
F 163, 165–167, 170n37, 189
Fahey, Mike, 12 Good Old Naughty Days, The, 194n26
Family Guy, 131 Greenaway, Peter, 79
Fantasy, 1, 12, 51, 65–66n31, 85, Griffiths, Daniel Nye, 170n37
143, 153, 154, 161, 165, 180, Gross-out humor, 13
182–186, 193n9 Gunning, Tom, 4–6, 14
Fast and the Furious, The, 22
Fetish (fetishism), 50, 180, 182, 184,
185 H
Firefly, 61, 74 Haptic, 18, 47, 48, 118
First person shooter games (FPS), Harrigan, Pat, 26n54, 135n31,
119, 139, 150 135n36, 136n37, 169n30
Fischer, Russ, 66n37 Harris, Neil, 67n57
Flâneur, 161 Heist movie, 84, 183
Flashdance, 86 Heitmann, John, 66n45
Forzani, Bruno, 11, 77–82, 96 Heller-Nicholas, Alexandra, 81
Foucault, Michel, 63, 130 Hernandez, Patricia, 153, 166
Fox, Megan, 50, 51 Hester, Helen, 164
Freemium, 155–162, 164 Hill Street Blues, 93, 132
Freud, Sigmund, 80 Hilton, Paris, 50
Fuses, 79 Hocking, Clint, 139–143, 148, 173n65
Futurism (futurist), 33, 59, 60 Holden, Stephen, 11, 96
224  INDEX

Hopper, Dennis, 18 Komiya, Megumi, 194n27

Horror, 1, 17, 18, 25n46, 33, 41, Kotsko, Adam, 25n50, 99n17
74–82, 91, 96, 119, 127, 152, Koven, Mikel J., 33
167, 183, 190 Kristeva, Julia, 2, 22n1, 80
Huber, Christopher, 100n32 Kruger, Ehren, 37, 40, 41, 46, 47, 52
Hughes, Scott, 144 Kubrick, Stanley, 26n55, 188
Hulu, 89 Kuleshov, Lev, 49
Kushner, David, 175n68

I
Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark, L
5 Laderman, David, 50
Intensified continuity, 3, 4, 52, 183 Lanchester, John, 135n32, 174n68, 191
iPhone, 156 Last of Us, The, 144, 145
Isbister, Katherine, 171n42 Lawrence, Francis, 75
It, 75 Lechte, John, 22n1
Lekton, 2, 10, 76, 117
Let the Corpses Tan, 81
J Levine, Elana, 93
Jaffe, Leo, 19 Lim, Dennis, 102n47
Jahn-Sudmann, Andreas, 36 Litman, Barry, 194n27
Jancovich, Mark, 25n46 Lost (television series), 151
Jarmusch, Jim, 85, 126 Lucas, George, 71, 72, 85
Jenkins, Henry, 18, 125–127, 129,
135n36, 152, 166
Johnson, Peter, 190 M
Jones, Oliver, 35–39, 48 Maloney, Marcus, 167n2
Marlow, John Robert, 65n30
Martino, Sergio, 77
K Marvel Comics Universe (MCU), 8,
Kant, Immanuel, 186 34, 63n8
Keen, Suzanne, 110 Marvel Studios, 34
Kelleter, Frank, 36 Matrix, The, 183
Kelly, Richard, 187 Melancholia (melancholic), 19, 80, 152
Kemal, Salim, 193n14 Melissino, Chris, 168n11
Kerner, Aaron, v, vi, 9, 81, 85, 114, Melnick, Daniel C., 110
164, 165 Melodrama, 15, 18, 102n43, 125,
King, Geoff, 25n47 167, 190
Kirkpatrick, Graeme, 135n35, 151, Mes, Tom, 101n38, 101n40, 102n48
152, 166 Miike, Takashi, 85
Klein, Yves, 86 Miyao, Daisuke, 102n43, 102n44,
Koepnick, Lutz, 33, 34, 36, 60 102n45
  INDEX  225

Mobile games, 157–159 Payne, Matthew Thomas, 165

Monster movies (daikaiju eiga), 12, Pearl Harbor (the movie), 189
62, 183 Phalen, Patricia F., 39, 65n25
Moralde, Oscar, 182–184, 192– Pink eiga (Japanese softcore erotic
193n6, 193n9 films), 77
Mother!, 75–77, 95 Pink Flamingos, 12, 25n46
Mummy, The, 36 Pistol Opera, 87, 88, 101n42
Murray, Janet, 135n36 Plantinga, Carl, 9, 194n23
Muschietti, Andy, 75 Playstation (Sony PS4), 13, 144
Musical, 5, 15, 17, 18, 20, 23n13, 81, Pokémon (cartoon, card-game), 118,
96, 110, 114, 116, 166, 174n68, 159
179, 185, 186 Pokémon GO, vi, 159–162, 164,
Music video, 19, 185, 186 171n48
Musil, Robert, 24n37, 186, 187, 192 Pollock, Jackson, 86
Muybridge, Eadweard, 190 Porky’s, 13
Myst, 169n29 Pornography, 17, 18, 52, 166, 167,
174–175n68, 183, 189, 190,
194n27, 195n28
N Post-continuity, 3, 183
Nakata, Hideo, 83 Prospero’s Books, 79
Neale, Steve, 73 Psychogeography, 161
Netflix, 13, 89–92, 94, 96–98, Purse, Lisa, 4
102n51, 169n28
New French Extremity, 81
Newman, Michael Z., 93 Q
Nikkatsu Studio, 82–84 Quinn, Zoë, 154
9/11 (September 11, 2001), 1
Nintendo Game Boy, 155
Nitsche, Michael, 135n36, 163, R
172n59 Rand, Ayn, 140
Rayns, Tony, 84
Red Dead Redemption II, 148, 149,
O 163
O Is for Orgasm, 79 Reed, Rex, 75
O’Rourke, Patrick, 168n11 Robot Chicken, 48
Rock, The, 4
Roddenberry, Gene, 74
P Roderick, Beaton, 125
Pacific Rim, 22, 34, 41, 62 Roman Porno, 82, 83, 85, 86, 88
Parker, Felan, 135n32, 151, 164, Romantic comedy, 41, 72, 121,
168n11, 169n30, 172n62 134n22
Parker, Trey, 136n50, 171n46 Ronell, Avital, 16, 26n51, 192
226  INDEX

Rubin, Peter, 97 Steam, 34, 96, 148, 156, 182, 183

Russolo, Luigi, 59 Stiller, Ben, 92, 103n60
Stork, Matthias, 4, 23n10, 51, 66n48,
193n8
S Strange Circus, 85
Sade, Marquis de, 141 Strauven, Wanda, 23n11, 192n5
Sadism, 141, 164 Sucker Punch, 1, 179–186
Sausage Party, 13 Suellentrop, Chris, 152, 170n34
Schneemann, Carolee, 79, 100n24 Summerley, Rory K., 174n68, 175n68
Schoenberg, Arnold, 15, 110, 131 Suspiria, 77, 80
Science fiction, 12, 26n55, 32, 61, 71, Suzuki, Seijun, 83–88, 95, 101n38,
74, 96, 183 101n39, 101n40, 101n41,
Scoggins, Jason, 65n26 101n42, 102n43, 102n47
Scott, Ridley, 4, 74 Szaniawski, Jeremi, 100n21
Sélavy, Virginie, 99n19
Sergeant, Alexander, 184, 185, 192n2,
193n9 T
7th Guest, 126 Tarantino, Quentin, 85, 102n47
Shaefer, Eric, 192n1 Tavinor, Grant, 173n62
Sharp, Jasper, 100n33, 101n35, Taylor, Brian, 6
101n37, 101n38 Tetris, 155, 156
Shaviro, Steven, 3, 6, 61, 67n55, 187, The Three-Sided Mirror (La glace à
188 trois faces), 56, 60
Sheehan, Jason, 144, 145, 163 Tiernan, Greg, 13
Shiota, Akihiko, 83 Toro, Guillermo del, 62
Shiraishi, Kazuya, 83 Torture porn, 1, 183
Slade, David, 96 Transformers, vi, 8, 19, 22, 31–63, 93,
Slasher genre, 119 95, 96, 182, 188, 190
Sloan, Robin J. S., 136n40 Transformers: Age of Extinction, 46
Snyder, Zack, 1, 179, 181, 183–185 Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen,
Society of the Spectacle, 161 31, 38
Softcore (or erotic), 3, 77, 82, 167 Transformers: The Last Knight,
Sono, Sion, 3, 83, 85–88 35–37, 39, 42–46, 49,
Sontag, Susan, 10–12, 24n30 51, 52, 55, 56, 58, 61,
Southland Tales, 187 64n8, 190
South Park, 16, 38, 131, 132, 157, Travis, Roger, 172n62
158, 171n46 Trifonova, Temenuga, 101n42
South Park: Phone Destroyer, 16, 158 Truby, John, 71, 72, 85, 183
Spec Ops: The Line, 164, 173n63 Tulloch, Rowan, 173n62
Spielberg, Steven, 5 Twitch, 189
Sragow, Michael, 76 Twitter, 149, 162
Staiger, Janet, 26n55 Tyler, Josh, 25n42, 38, 39
Star Trek, 74 2001: A Space of Odyssey, 26n55
  INDEX  227

U Weitz, Chris, 13
Uhlman, James Todd, 66n45 Weitz, Paul, 13
Ulaby, Neda, 133n14 Western, 71–74, 98n6, 149, 183
Untamed attraction, 7, 15, 32, 41, 48, Wet Woman in the Wind, 83
49, 159, 163, 180, 182 Whaley, Ben, 173n65, 174n65
What Remains of Edith Finch,
98, 167
V Whedon, Joss, 61, 67n54
Vernon, Conrad, 13 White, Armond, 38
Virtual Reality (VR), 13, 96, 97, White Lily, 83
189–191 Williams, Linda, 18, 79, 160, 166,
Vogler, Christopher, 72 190, 194n25
Women in prison (films), 1, 183
World of Warcraft, 158–159
W Writers Guild of America, 40, 41
Wagstaff, Christopher, 33, 63n4
Wahlberg, Mark, 51, 53
Walking Dead, The, 91, 94, 144 X
Walking simulator, 17, 150 Xbox (Microsoft), 156
Walt Disney Imagineers, 126, 127
War movie, 183
Ward, Pendleton, 111, 118, 129, 165, Y
189 Yamamoto, Eiichi, 77
Wardrip-Fruin, Noah, 26n54, 135n31, Yukisada, Isao, 83
135n36, 136n37, 169n30
Waters, John, 12, 25n46
Waters, Sarah, 126 Z
Weiss, D. B., 93, 103n61 Žižek, Slavoj, 113, 193n9