JOURNAL OF AMERICAN CULTURE最新文献

How Machines Came to Speak is organized around twentieth-century questions related to technological changes and alterations to the meaning of free speech. Exploring vital Supreme Court cases that faced questions of free speech and diverse forms of media, Jennifer Petersen sheds light on modern issues of digital media surrounding Artificial General Intelligence. Thinking often about the difference between crowds and publics, as well as issues of uncanny influence and social contagion, How Machines Came to Speak discusses questions about the First Amendment and aspects of constitutional interpretation that altered consistently over time and currently exist through much different forms that what originalism might generally afford.

Focusing on the twentieth century and issues of social influence and understandings of crowds, individuals, and media persuasions, How Machines Came to Speak sets an excellent tone for inserting legal studies into social and economic discussions of modern robotics and algorithms. As a history of media technologies, and how their stimulations upon society changed the very meanings of speaking, Petersen's work should be read in legal studies courses as well as classes on the history of media and technology. On the edge of Artificial General Intelligence with programs like ChatGPT, and with the use of artificial intelligence and advanced game theory applied at the highest levels of international relations, these questions of speech and persuasion upon human consciousness have never been more vital.

Chapter One explores how late nineteenth-century and early twentieth-century businesses instigated a reimagining of free speech by asking the government to better define regulations upon new forms of media. Leading media corporations, especially with rising interests in film, requested the Supreme Court judge issues of discourse and public opinion to understand the limitations and powers of their new media. A reading of Mutual v. Ohio (1915) sets the stage for the chapter, as Petersen looks at legal briefs in the case to understand the roots of arguments concerning what in the film was considered to be influential upon society. At the time, speech in film was not deemed potent or influential enough to be greatly regulated, and free speech, as a constitutional protection, consequently remained a general matter only for printed and individually spoken words.

The second chapter moves the narrative along into the 1930s and 1940s to questions of mass influence that arose with new understandings of crowds and politics instigated in the public sphere due to international fascism and Bolshevism. Due to these political influences, and new ideas of racial inferiority, gestures, and eugenics that were part of fresh understandings of cultural influence, expressive conducts that became part of “speaking” were increasingly understood to be a part of filmic composition. Cases of the era analyzed sp

While scholarship on superheroes is prolific, Jeffrey A. Brown has succeeded several times in finding an as-yet-underexplored niche to unpack. In Love, Sex, Gender, and Superheroes, Brown delves into, in his words, “a range of issues about gender and sex that are modeled by superheroes, issues that are interconnected, shifting, progressive, conservative, and complex” (3). This clarity of objective characterizes his work in general, which is scholarly and incisive yet accessible to more than just an academic audience. His writing is ideal for teaching undergrads, asking them to think critically about the heroes who are often “assumed to be simple and innocent fun, not worthy of critical examination or reflection” (3). (At this point in the academic study of popular culture, surely we all know better, but it does bear repeating.)

This book, which has multiple full-color illustrations per chapter, is in many ways a continuation and expansion of his previous book, Panthers, Hulks, and Ironhearts: Marvel, Diversity, and the 21st Century Superhero, which addresses Marvel's history of racial and ethnic representation. Like that book, this one is well-researched, with a strong foundation of important cultural theorists (Laura Mulvey, Linda Williams, Henry Jenkins) and an evident understanding of recent work in the field. Williams gets the most shout-outs here; one of the most compelling arguments in the book draws a parallel between the superhero genre and the bodily genres Williams discusses in her work. To this end, the first chapter discusses the way in which the superhero body functions as an image of phallic power; by looking at an understudied body of work—superhero porn parodies, as well as the relationship between the comics and porn industries—Brown convincingly argues that the genre addresses social insecurity regarding hegemonic masculinity.

The following chapters address a wider spectrum of topics on gender and sexuality—Chapter Three compares superhero homosocial spaces to the real-life masculine ideal of the bachelor pad, while Chapter Four discusses the traditional mismatch of superheroes and domestic life. Here, as in other chapters, the examination of the genre's problematic past lays the groundwork for analysis of more recent narratives that suggest a progressive shift. This is true in most chapters (there are nine, in addition to the introduction and conclusion), and contributes to the positive tone of the book, which suggests that, mostly, the genre is responding to social change. Relatedly, Brown makes an interesting point in Chapter Seven about the ways in which allegory (which the genre has used as an excuse for many years—multiple readings are possible, but the difference is not real-world literal) becomes an obstacle to representation. This is one of the most powerful ideas in the book, especially for the purpose of teaching—that for so long, popular culture has relied upon allegory and metaphor, to t

George Ritzer's famous McDonaldization thesis describes how principles used by this fast-food chain dominate many sectors of society. First published by the Journal of American Culture in 1983 in the article “The ‘McDonaldization’ of Society,” the thesis developed Max Weber's argument that bureaucracy and capitalism trap people in an “iron cage” (stahlhartes Gehäuse) of rationality. Ritzer showed how Max Weber's characteristics of rationalized systems—efficiency, predictability, calculability, the substitution of non-human for human technology, and control over uncertainty—are used in many areas of society, including the “predictability and uniformity of work on the “academic assembly line” (Ritzer, 1998, 49). Ritzer tells a good story about how corporate rationalization spread across the world, through “such disparate phenomena as fast food restaurants, TV dinners, package tours, industrial robots, plea bargaining, and open-heart surgery on an assembly-line basis” (Ritzer, 1983, 100). He correctly anticipated the beginning of a “process that promises even more extraordinary changes” (100). His 20th anniversary edition predicted the “most likely scenario is the continued expansion of the McDonaldization of society” (Ritzer, 2013, x). And so it proved. Since 1983, McDonald's has grown from fewer than 10,000 outlets to about 40,275 locations in over 100 markets by 2023, while its stock (share) price has risen from US$1.12 ($3.38 in 2023 values) to US$270.00 in March 2023, giving it a market capitalization of almost $200bn as the world's 46th most valuable company (Google Finance)—see Figure 1.

However insightful, Ritzer's analysis does not enable people to solve social problems or improve society. If anything, it paralyzes people into believing McDonaldization is an unstoppable behemoth they are powerless to influence. In their controversial book, Usable Knowledge: Social Science and Social Problem Solving, Charles Lindblom and David Cohen lamented “the relatively thoughtless wastefulness” of much social research that is “a positive obstruction to social problem solving” (Lindblom & Cohen, 1979, 86). The eminent sociologist Jonathan Turner observed that research “has become increasingly an end in itself without reference to the accumulation of knowledge or to the theoretical cumulation that comes with systematic tests of theories” (Turner, 2001, 10). Five years later, in The Production of Knowledge: The Challenge of Social Science Research, William Starbuck observed that “Hundreds of thousands of talented researchers are producing little of lasting value” because they are focused on producing journal articles rather than knowledge (2006, 5; 142). This futility is compounded by the inability to replicate many social science experiments, and the fact that papers on non-replicable findings are cited more than replicable ones (S

Edward Buscombe knows his Westerns. He has written several books on this film genre that he clearly loves as well as understands. The Searchers is an insightful analysis of the classic 1956 John Ford film of the same name. It is an entry in the BFI Film Classics series that provides readers with succinct overviews of classic movies. Buscombe's study was originally published in 2000; this updated edition differs from the original largely through an afterward that makes some observations about The Searchers in the light of the Black Lives Matter movement and compares it to Tom Hanks' 2020 film News of the World.

The Searchers is a handsomely mounted paperback, gratifyingly concise at 96 pages, and generously illustrated with color stills from the film. This is not an exercise in revisionism. John Ford's film is widely regarded as a landmark of American moviemaking. A later generation of cinematic innovators like Martin Scorsese and George Lucas referenced The Searchers in their work. The movie influenced popular culture in other ways as well. The title and refrain of Buddy Holly's classic rock tune “That'll Be the Day” is taken from an expression used by John Wayne throughout the film. Buscombe shares this longstanding critical consensus, arguing that John Ford crafted a film that contains both stunning cinematography and a challenging narrative, boldly addressing what was and what remains a timely theme of race hatred.

The core plot of The Searchers is simple. Shortly after Confederate veteran Ethan Edwards belatedly returns home to Texas three years after the conclusion of the Civil War, his brother's ranch is attacked by Comanche raiders and most of the family is killed. Missing are two daughters, one of whom is later found murdered in the wilderness. Ethan and his brother's adopted son Martin Pawley set out on what will become a five-year pursuit of the surviving kidnapped girl and her captors. Nothing else about the central quest in the film is straightforward. Ethan Edwards is not simply a righteous uncle intent on rescuing his flesh and blood. Brilliantly portrayed by John Wayne in one of his most iconic roles, Ethan Edwards is a dark and driven man. He was in love with his sister-in-law, who reciprocated his feelings, a situation that perhaps helped explain his long absence. His obsession with vengeance for his family is accentuated by a virulently racist hatred of Indians. He regularly insults Martin Pawley because he is one-eighth Cherokee, shoots out the eyes of a dead Indian, thereby condemning him to “wander forever between the winds in the afterlife,” takes scalps, and fulminates over the likely rape and concubinage of his niece Debbie among the Comanche. One reason Martin stays with Ethan over the long years of their search, at the expense of his own romantic interests, is because he is convinced that Ethan will kill Debbie when he finds her, violently expunging the taint of mi

Racism is still a mystery to me. It doesn’t make any sense… Romance is romance. [There isn’t] such a thing as white love, Black love. To me.

~ Vivian Stephens

Editor and Literary Agent

If you listen to available recordings of the Romance Writers of America (RWA) professional conferences from the 1980s/1990s or pick up a mass-market romance novel from those decades, you could be forgiven for thinking that Black people did not exist. While African American authors have been writing romance stories with Black protagonists in many formats for over a century, author Beverly Jenkins, among others, has testified about the industry's resistance to such inclusion (2022). It was not until recently, however, that outsiders learned of romance publishing's racism problem. On December 23, 2019, news spread that author Courtney Milan—a former law clerk, woman of color, and outspoken critic of discrimination within the romance novel industry—had been suspended from the RWA for an “ethics” violation. The RWA also passed a lifetime ban to exclude Milan from a future leadership position. The backlash was swift, with many authors canceling their memberships and readers lambasting the organization on social media for trying to silence her. The RWA board called an emergency meeting and withdrew the suspension, but within a few months, numerous outlets had covered the controversy and the history of racism and gatekeeping in the industry (including bias in the RITA awards) (Grady, 2020). The tale of romance racism and the fight against it, however, goes back at least to 1980 and the first wave of what the New York Times's Ray Walters labeled “ethnic” romance novels. While Walters named one editor responsible for this wave, it was two Black editors and their vision for Americanizing mass-market romance fiction over the 1980s that was to change the form, theretofore dominated by the British/Canadian Harlequin Mills & Boon novels and their American imitators. Their vision embraced what they considered a more accurate representation of a post-Civil Rights era United States that was also grappling with the feminist movement's demands and with the sexual revolution. So, while Kimberlé Crenshaw would articulate the necessity to understand the combined pressures of these historical demands and political terrains in her now-widely used theory of intersectionality at the end of the 1980s, Vivian Stephens (at Dell and then Harlequin) and Veronica Mixon (at Doubleday) were operating on that principle at the start of that decade in the most unexpected of places—the popular romance novel genre (Crenshaw, 1989). Thanks to their bold intervention, American romance began to include stories of BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and People of Color) protagonists written by BIPOC Americans.

There is a surprisingly small number of articles and studies

The American film industry has long featured stories about immigrants that establish and interrogate what it means to be American in the twentieth century. Early examples such as Charlie Chaplin's silent film The Immigrant (1917) portray the uncertainty, or even illusion, of the American Dream as the ubiquitous Immigrant arrives in New York City only to become “hungry and broke” in short order; and Chaplin's comedic antics serve to underscore, rather than downplay, the difficulties of life in America for the new immigrants (The Immigrant). Beloved dramas as diverse as I Remember Mama (1948), The Godfather (1972), and Avalon (1990)—featuring Norwegian, Italian, and Eastern European Jewish families, respectively—demonstrate how integral the extended family is to the perpetuation or disintegration of the cultural values of the homeland. Films in the twenty-first century question which immigrants are welcome in the United States, as seen in Gran Torino (2009) and A Better Life (2011); examine the potential for interethnic romantic relationships, as in Brooklyn (2015); and examine the challenges of American-born children in understanding the immigrant parents' culture and values, as in The Namesake (2006). While Gran Torino, A Better Life, and The Namesake are set in their contemporary moment, most of the aforementioned films turn to the early decades of the twentieth century to dramatize the tropes of the American dream, assimilation and cultural plurality, and shared values.

Ali Selim depicts such discrimination in his film Sweet Land (2005), wherein a young German woman arriving in a rural Minnesota community in 1920 is ostracized—“She is not one of us,” the minister says bluntly—because of her “Germanness” (Sweet Land). The film reveals the forgotten past of anti-German sentiment in the early twentieth century, information that may allow white viewers of European descent to comprehend the pervasiveness of anti-immigrant discrimination in the United States and think more critically about their understanding of immigration laws, language acquisition, and cultural assimilation. With the advent of the First World War and the eventual entry of the United States into the global conflict, nearly eight million German Americans were pressured to end all German cultural practices (Siegel and Silverman 2017). Anti-German sentiment resulted in “the sanctioning of the German language and hostility toward public displays of German ethnicity” (Thompson 2015, 93). Sweet Land depicts the complications experienced by German Americans regarding “Americanization,” a movement during the First World War culminating in state and local legislation demanding immigrants and their American-born children speak English, learn American civics and values, and pledge allegiance to the United States (Wil