This chapter brings together work on rural landscapes and identity, the lives of young people in rural areas and the representation of rural youth in fiction to construct a critical analysis of Tim Roth's film The War Zone. Set in north Devon, the film reconfigures the rural as aberrant, heteroclitic and sinister in several linked ways. First, it challenges the lay discourse which positions the countryside as a safe place in which to grow up by portraying it as alienating and marginalising. Second, it resists the popular image of rural sexuality as playful, innocent fumbling in a hayloft by foregrounding Tom Holland and Jessie's exploration of their (deviant) sexual identities. Finally, by using as its setting the bleak landscape of north Devon, it envisions a contemporary alternative to a historically constituted version of rural England as a green and pleasant land.
Staging an encounter between cinema and countryside is to invoke a rich and diverse spatial imagery. This book explores the reciprocal relationship between film and the rural: how film makes rural and rural makes film. Part I of the book explores the idea of the nationhood and relatedly, how cinematic countrysides frame the occupancy and experience of border zones. It covers representations of the Australian landscape and the spatial imagery behind the 'inculcation of political ideology' of North Korean films. European 'films of voyage' are a cinematic tradition that articulates representations of the countryside with questions of boundaries and cultural diversity. The 'pagan' landscape of British cinema and the American and British war films are also discussed. Part II focuses on the role that countrysides play in mediating national self-image through globalising systems of cinematic production. Films such as The Local Hero and The Lord of the Rings, the latter in the context of New Zealand as a shooting location, are discussed. The third part of the book focuses on two key markers of social identity and difference - 'childhood' and 'masculinity' - which serve to amplify how embodied identities come to inflect the idea of rural space. A family's relocation to the countryside from the city serves to emphasise that they are isolated from the moral structures that might contain their deviant behaviour. Part IV of the book deals with, inter alia, the Amber Film and Photography Collective, and amateur films on the former coalfields of Durham.
Bordering intimacy is a study of how borders and dominant forms of intimacy, such as family, are central to the governance of postcolonial states such as Britain. The book explores the connected history between contemporary border regimes and the policing of family with the role of borders under European and British empires. Building upon postcolonial, decolonial and black feminist theory, the investigation centres on how colonial bordering is remade in contemporary Britain through appeals to protect, sustain and make family life. Not only was family central to the making of colonial racism but claims to family continue to remake, shore up but also hide the organisation of racialised violence in liberal states. Drawing on historical investigations, the book investigates the continuity of colonial rule in numerous areas of contemporary government – family visa regimes, the policing of sham marriages, counterterror strategies, deprivation of citizenship, policing tactics, integration policy. In doing this, the book re-theorises how we think of the connection between liberal government, race, family, borders and empire. In using Britain as a case, this opens up further insights into the international/global circulations of liberal empire and its relationship to violence.
Richly illustrated with over 110 colour and black and white images, the book
productively contests the supposedly exclusive feminine aspect of the style
moderne (art deco). It explores how alternative, parallel and overlapping
experiences and expressions of decorative modernism, nationalism, gender and
sexuality in the heady years surrounding World War I converge in the protean
figure of the deco dandy. As such, the book significantly departs from and
corrects the assumptions and biases that have dominated scholarship on and
popular perceptions of art deco. The book outlines how designed products and
representations of and for the dandy both existed within and outwith normative
expectations of gender and sexuality complicating men’s relationship to consumer
culture more broadly and the moderne more specifically. Through a sustained
focus on the figure of the dandy, the book offers a broader view of art deco by
claiming a greater place for the male body and masculinity in this history than
has been given to date. The mass appeal of the dandy in the 1920s was a way to
redeploy an iconic, popular and well-known typology as a means to stimulate
national industries, to engender a desire for all things made in France.
Important, essential and productive moments in the history of the cultural life
of Paris presented in the book are instructive of the changing role performed by
consumerism, masculinity, design history and national identity.
Printing Terror places horror comics of the mid-twentieth century in dialogue with the anxieties of their age. It rejects the narrative of horror comics as inherently and necessarily subversive and explores, instead, the ways in which these texts manifest white male fears over America’s changing sociological landscape. It examines two eras: the pre-CCA period of the 1940s and 1950s, and the post-CCA era to 1975. The authors examine each of these periods through the lenses of war, gender, and race, demonstrating that horror comics are centred upon white male victimhood and the monstrosity of the gendered and/or racialised other. It is of interest to scholars of horror, comics studies, and American history. It is suitably accessible to be used in undergraduate classes.
if she were
living in some great city.’ 79
There was a clear presumption that while cities offered anonymity for deviantsexuality,
rural Ireland left such activity exposed to prying eyes. Women who were understood by their
local community as sexually deviant held a devalued reputation. Women such as Annie Walsh
(1929) and Jane O’Brien were depicted in this light. The extramarital relationship
between Walsh and Martin Joyce, both condemned to death for the murder of Annie’s
husband, was the subject of local rumours
authors transform the lust of women into
witchcraft, and then into an apocalyptic vision of a world overrun with witches
and sexual deviance.
The worthy inquisitors certainly did not invent the perverse sexuality of
witches out of whole cloth; both heretics and night-traveling women were
linked in masculine imagination with traditions of deviantsexuality. Indiscriminate and orgiastic couplings were a familiar topos in clerical descriptions
of heretical cults, and Nicholas Jacquier was merely following this tradition
when he claimed that
nearly all worshipers in the
Towards a definition of (meta)cultural blackness in the fantasies of Clive Barker
Tony M. Vinci
. Some critics offer straightforward but thoughtful
Feminist and Marxist interpretations. 19 Others deepen these
analyses by moving Barker's work beyond cultural critique. 20 They
argue that, through Barker's explicit challenging of genre
fiction's heteronormative biases (especially in the arenas of
‘deviant’ sexuality, gender, and class), his work not
only articulates an
the very meaning of humanity in terms of possession of reason’ (1989:
14). This gendered dynamic is particularly acute and becomes implicated
with the construction and deployment of ‘deviant’ sexuality against
those who have refused to serve in the military. As Enloe notes, men in
societies where conscription exists are ‘propelled toward military service
not only by the conscription law, but also by a desire to be seen as manly
and by the fear of being seen by others as one of the cochones “faggots”’
(Enloe, 2000: 251). The charge of deviance and
identified by Victorian commentators and reviewers as something new and distinctive. Sensation fiction took the trappings of Gothic romance and domesticated them. The violence and deviantsexuality of the Gothic – the murders and threats and incarcerations, the bigamy and incest and illicit affairs – were set not in medieval castles in southern Europe but in the comfortable middle- and upper-class drawing-rooms of modern England, with plot lines ripped from headlines about real-life scandal and crime.
In sensation fiction, gardens tended to be both