Author: mastlawrence

Unlike many other works of apocalyptic fiction which cite technology as the bringer of destruction (Looking at you, Fallout series.) Station Eleven use of a biological agent to end the world allows it to explore the symbol and reality of technology in a much more subtle manner. Chapters 27-47 give the reader a front-row seat to the collapse to technology, as seen from the perspective of Frank’s apartment. As the two brothers try to wait out the pandemic, it is described how the news stations become more and more of a shell of their former shells, eventually ending with the broadcast camera just turning off. Obvious symbolism aside, this degradation of the news system disconnects people, and makes the world more localized. With this comes a return to naivety, which Jeevan expresses by comparing his brother’s apartment to the treehouse they would play when they were young. Jeevan frequently comments on how nice the calm snow is, and shows a reverence for naturalism. It makes sense that this sentiment would translate into his desire to leave the apartment, because in many ways he has unbound himself technology permanently. However, Frank is forever bound to the technology of his wheelchair, which even though is perfectly functional cannot coexist with the new, post-technology society.

The ordeal Jeevan undergoes in the apartment is representative of the larger, multi-faceted way Station Eleven handles all technology. Station Eleven puts a strong emphasis on communications technology by frequently mentioning blocked off highways and airplanes. These chapters equate the symbol of the airplane to the menacing presence of the prophet, in-line with how the airplane served as the angel of death which brought the virus to North America.

The description of the state of the E.T. cartridges which the author was researching is one of the many permutations of views that we hold regarding technology. Many of the works we have examined in class have portrayed technology as having a timeless element. There Will Come Soft Rain captured this sentiment most poignantly, as it’s narrative portrayed a technological system running many years after humanity’s demise. However, this poem also flirts with the concept of technology’s death, in a much more gruesome way than E.T.‘s burial was portrayed in the current reading. The polluted atmosphere of the Bradbury poem is common imagery held throughout almost all views on the death of technology. Where the house in There Will Come Soft Rain squirts green bile from itself as it attempts to smother a fire, I imagine much more toxic pollutants will leach from the reactive metals used in constructing game cartridges (and whatever else the article classifies as “eWaste”). What I am ultimately driving at with these two examples is that what we consider to be the death of technology, in whatever form that may take, is an incredibly damaging thing to the health of the earth, and it is important for that connotation to carry through in portrayals of technological death such as the eWaste graveyard where the copies of E.T. were buried.

In an ironic twist, the lifespan of E.T. described by the article would have gone largely unknown if it were not for the “death” which the game experienced by having several thousands copies buried in a landfill. That spectacle turned a terrible Atari game into a cultural monolith, something gamers could point to as “the worst game ever made”.  It’s persistence after death has cultural significance which some of us have studied through our last class project and deserves to be further related to other works we have studied.

Many of the recent articles have addressed the idea of digital immortality. Old scrapbooks are often compared to social media profiles, but I feel that the whole “Life in the digital world is forever” concept requires a little more unpacking than these articles are willing to dive into. Specifically referring to Alexandria Sherlock’s article “Digital Resurrection and the re-Enchantment of Society”, the jump from a digital memento to symbolic immortality is made almost immediately. This opens up numerous avenues for interesting discussion, but I feel that it is not quite an accurate description of the phenomenon at hand. In last semester’s FMS 321 class, “Interactive Digital Narratives” we discussed the new layer of portrayal that modern technology allows. Along with visual, auditory, and more sensory-focused portrayal in art, we can now functionalize our art as well. Video games are an example of procedure-based art, and the digital reconstruction of humans is just another expression of that art form.

Take the 2-Pac hologram, for example. It resembles the likeness of 2-Pac, but the art on display is a procedure-based musical performance which doesn’t embody 2-Pac’s personality, but only makes reference to it. For example, When Snoop Dogg asked 2-Pac, “What kind of party is this?” 2-Pac responded by singing “Ain’t nuthin but a gansta party” making reference to a previous song. This is an example of Benjamin’s assertion that the “aura” of something must be connected to the original. Procedure-based artistic design lends itself extremely well to this, as seen in the episode of Black Mirror where the reproduced Ashe essentially accesses the “aura” of the original Ashe (via his Facebook profile) in order to seem more authentic. It becomes a procedure-based art form to construct a recreation of a being that can interact and interface with the viewer in an authentic way. Due to these likenesses being only portrayed in their own art form (rapping, acting, ect.) they are permanently bound to that space and become the spectacle themselves.

Ultimately, it is important to be cognizant of what is actually happening with digital recreations, and not go too far off the edge with postulation.

Alex Senemar in his article for Medium, “What Happens to you Data when you Die?” brings up a critical point which often gets lost in discussions regarding Facebook privacy. We have to be very honest with ourselves, and admit that social media came to prominence for two reasons.

1. Economic/capitalist motivation.
2. Easy data collection of populations.

Senemar points out the Facebook is and always has been a social experiment, which specifically collects data regarding the movement of ideas within a culture. Facebook has integrated itself into our lives to an intimate degree, and essentially translates thoughts, feelings, and habits into data which can be modeled. Every like, sad, love, “wow”, “haha”, and “angry” react is logged to show how you as a member of society connected with something or someone else. As a video is a series of continuous pictures, Facebook is creating a comprehensive series of sociological snapshots, compiled into a data set tracking large trends along with information regarding individual data points.

When participating in sites like Facebook, it should ideally be completely apparent that the data you input will be logged, or at least much more apparent than it is right now. Increasing awareness about the fate of one’s digital footprint is much more useful than debating the semantics behind privacy rights, because the data gathered from social media is a powerful tool not just to track modern trends, but for future historians to revisit and analyze.

Ethan Shiel writes on the subject of “Bots”, examining the fear of what an unchecked bot can post after the death of its care-taker. Having the bot turn off, or censored in some other way, is robbing the future historians mentioned in the New York Times article, “Cyberspace when you are Dead” of a cultural artifact that provides insight into early 21st century life. Just as it would be foolish to scratch out a line of an old poem, censoring the processes of a bot would injure it’s attempt to convey meaning and provoke thought.

The pictured painted by the collection of data from a deceased generation is not perfect. Be Right Back from Black Mirror season 2 shows that data gathered from our social media profiles are only rough estimations of our lives. However, for the first time the habits society shares during a given time period can be both quantified and studied using primary source material, and when talking about the fate of our online profiles I believe it is incredibly important to remember the historical contributions that data of this scale could make.

The fervent desire to preserve the voice presented in this article among those in the sound reproduction community remained strong. The article addresses sound recording as “an extension of the art of oratory” and this remains incredibly true today. Much like how the article describes the emotional desire to preserve messages in vocal form, the desire of today is to capture a phonetic alphabet of one’s voice, one that could modulate itself in order to speak words in the matter with which the voices original owner spoke them. What the article presents as “preservation” is preservation of a speech, a sentence, a song. It is not preservation of the voice, or “chemical embalming” of a voice, that gives it way too much credit. The pronunciation of one sentence is a fraction of what constitutes a voice. Much like how the article gives the example of Crampton, a man who recorded his life story onto a phonograph before having his tongue removed for medical reasons, preserved his voice with the intention of reusing it, we have the chance to do the same thing with digital technology, but on a much more custom scale. Imagine being able to record the voice of a man going in for throat surgery, compiling a phonetic alphabet based around his speech patterns, and handing his voice back to him after the surgery. Imagine having a relative’s voice read an audiobook to you. That is preservation of the voice. The article seems to speak on this issue as if its cultural impact is over, but in fact what the article presents are just the first cultural hurtles the practice of archiving sound had to clear in order to take off.

I would like to preface this blog post by ashamedly admitting that I have watched every episode of A Haunting that the Discovery Channel has ever produced. A Head Full of Ghosts is an almost perfect critique of this style of television. From my grand experience as a consumer of this media, and my limited experience as a film boom-operator, I have surmised the following about reality film crews:

1. There is a set formula that sells, and the creative director will get what they need regardless of the family’s consent.

2. Efficiency is prioritized.

Despite reassurances from Barry, the film crew is here to take as much dramatic material as possible. This is epitomized during Marjorie’s pre-exorcism evaluation, where Barry does not allow a shirt to be put over Marjorie’s sports bra. This example is particularly disgusting, because it shows that Barry knows that is his artistic medium sex sells, even the sexual image of a schizophrenic fourteen year old girl. The film crew manipulates the events of the story through father Waverly, who takes complete advantage of John’s desperation and drives his marriage apart to ensure that the exorcism happens. Sex appeal, then shock value, then a climactic exorcism is the formula employed by the film crew. While they come off as being on the side of the family, they haunt the house in order to get what they need. When Marjorie sneaks into Merry’s room and wraps herself in blankets, the first thing Merry describes is the LED of her camera staring at her at the foot of her bed. The crew also loads a dresser drawer to slam open and shut during the actual exorcism. Their cameras are everywhere, and their influence stretches through the entire house.

The film crew as a whole is an unfeeling, uncaring specter that floats through the house, twisting events to most efficiently and reliably produce episodes. Barry has no interest in whether Marjorie gets better, and he lets this show during the time between the evaluation and the exorcism. Marjorie is finally acting normal, and while the family is watching TV together Barry shouts at the family to provide entertaining, dramatic content. Even this desperate act was calculated, in order to efficiently create content through domestic disputes. In this regard, series writer Ken is almost more guilty. He builds a relationship with Merry in order to obtain footage that may not have otherwise shared. All of these transgressions of trust compound to create an entity that in many ways terrorizes the Barretts.

If you do not know what I mean when I say “Reality Horror television” check out this opening of A Haunting:

The opening to A Haunting (2005) Narration by Tony Call.