Creating Space for a Female Audience in The Silence of the Lambs

Creating Space for a Female Audience in ‘The Silence of the Lambs’

Jonathan Demme’s 1991 film Silence of the Lambs is offers an interesting avenue to explore in terms of the female gaze in horror films. Traditionally the histories of horror films, - particularly ‘Slasher’ films - depict a high level of violence and gore and are specifically tailored to a male gaze. This is done through the cinematic objectification of women in combination with an established synonymy of sex and violence. Silence of the Lambs offers us this aspect of the genre with the perverse actions of Buffalo Bill and various interactions between Clarice Starling and male cast members. What is more interesting about Silence of the Lambs is that Demme also offers the viewer a strong female protagonist, Clarice Starling and a villain who is more chivalrous than most (if not all) males portrayed in the film. By atypical villainous construction and careful utilization of the camera, Demme subverts the hyper masculinity often associated with serial killers an opens an avenue for a female gaze. By presenting Thomas Harris’s story faithfully, with Clarice as the protagonist Demme allows a space for women not often enabled within the horror genre, but is always careful to temper this empowerment illustrating the precarious role women still hold in society.  

The opening sequence of Silence of the Lambs shows Clarice scaling a treacherous obstacle course, when the audience finally is given a medium lose up we see her don a FBI sweatshirt and drenched in sweat. This is an image of female empowerment; (non-sexualized) physical exertion in film is usually limited to the role of the man, for example the Rocky series. Jane Alexander Stewart suggests this image: “shows Starling pulling herself up from a metaphorical center like Inanna (the Sumerian goddess),”[1] and creates hope for the presence of feminine safety in our society through her success. This image is rapidly undermined by the next take, in which the camera follows Clarice running mimicking the point of view of a predator. Quick cuts to her feet, as well as the shaky camera work visually create a sense of urgency and directly undermine the image which we were initially presented. The undermining of Clarice’s power is a consistent theme throughout the film; this is done not only with camera work but also through narrative and dialogue. Clarice constantly has to bear the subordinate title of student agent, wear a visitors tag, is not granted permission to attend the “bust”, the list goes on. Both Ellis and Demme are careful in their mediums to ensure that Clarice’s power struggle never goes too far to one direction. Ultimately Clarice succeeds, she graduates.

Silence of the Lambs is a surprisingly asexual horror film. In spite of the content matter the camera never fully commits itself to sexual objectification. The one instance in the film which does removes the camera’s agency. This scene in which Buffalo Bill asks the famous question: “Would you fuck me?” This scene is unconventional for two reasons: the way in which it undermines the masculine ideal and the secondary role which it ascribes to the camera. The sexualization of a man is an odd choice for a genre which traditionally caters to a masculine gaze. The object, Jame feminizes himself for the camera. The montage of makeup application, the fetishization of the body through use of extreme close ups on aspects of the body are traditionally used to objectify female characters. The perversion of this falls into places the traditional male viewer into an uncomfortable position as it asks them to gaze upon this aberration of society the way they would traditionally gaze upon a woman.[2] This scene is cut with shots of Catherine’s attempts to escape. The juxtaposition of a highly atypical scene which makes the male viewer uncomfortable - the sexual objectification of a man –with a very typical scene of a damsel in distress visually poses a poignant question about female empowerment within this genre. The secondary role ascribed to Demme’s camera by Jame’s introduction of his own camera simultaneously offers comfort to the audience with the logic “we are not watching him, he is watching himself” but also further emasculates a role which is oft portrayed as hyper masculine. Often the man watches the woman; in this case the man is watching himself as woman. The willingness to ascribe to the ‘less powerful’ gender and imitate the male gaze due to a lack of desirability not only removes Jame’s power as man, but removes his power as woman as he does not have the influence to be an object even of the gaze.

The power of women in film is usually in their ability to manipulate the male gaze; this power is seen in every ‘femme fatale’, the manipulation of men through sexuality. The basis for this power in the film is seen through Clarice’s manipulation of Chilton’s interest to attain access to Lecter. In the horror genre sight thus becomes a motif for power; the killer is powerful because he sees, in the opening scene Clarice is suggested to be powerless because she is seen. Thus Lecter can be seen to be the most powerful character in the cast.

In Lecter’s first interaction with Clarice the power balance is almost immediately shifted as he asks “May I see your credentials, please?” Clarice’s apprehension towards approaching him cements this power. In this scene as Clarice approaches Lecter the audience is presented a close up of Clarice’s face which subtly shifts out of focus before cutting to a clear shot of Lecter’s face. Applying the logic of sight as power the audience is invited to view this unclear image of Clarice as a visual suggestion of her lack of power. In one interaction between the two Lecter is unseen, in the dark for almost the entire interaction. Thus the audience and Clarice are made aware of Lecter’s power as they are unable to see Lecter, Clarice furthermore because she is an object of his gaze. The juxtaposition of these two characters is poignant as we are asked to assess the power dynamic between a caged man and a “free” woman, though it is not the free which is powerful.[3] This consistent dynamic between Clarice and Lecter, visually communicated through Demme’s focus on seeing/seen says a great deal about gender relations. Power is vested in Lecter’s character through his ability to observe the world around him in ways not permitted to other characters, this is extended through his qualifications as a psychiatrist. He becomes a character that not only sees the tangible, but intangible aspects of people.

Lecter occupies an interesting role in the film; he is simultaneously limited in agency through his imprisonment but also highly important and active in catching of a monster. The complexity of Lecter’s character casts him as both villain and pseudo-hero. For obvious reasons he is a villain, but his inclination towards high culture, intelligence and chivalrous interactions with Clarice also allow him the narrative conventions to become the ‘White Knight’, in effect with Clarice’s southern accent we imagine his values similar to that of the old South: righteous and honor bound with a proclivity towards violence. His inherent respect for civility makes his killings some form of vigilantism, shown in the film for the poetic justice he distributes having Miggs swallow his tongue for foul words said to Clarice. This character attribute makes his presence symbolic for two reasons, both his actions distribute justice and his imprisonment is justice. This unclear character makes Lecter an odd, but apt representation of masculinity and the patriarchy.

In spite of the power that is given to Clarice throughout Silence of the Lambs she still exists within the patriarchy, a system exposed to be flawed. Lecter becomes an acceptable serial killer for female viewers as the only killings the audience is afforded (in both book and film) are that of male characters, in the end of the film he sets off to have ‘dinner’ with Chilton who imposed his sexual gaze upon Clarice. In this ending there is room for the female audience to feel comforted, even empowered through Clarice’s graduation though it does not change the fact that Lecter (functioning as a representation of the patriarchy) is still ‘at large’. Furthermore Lecter’s freedom subverts the system of justice to which Clarice has graduated, the FBI so his character can still be read to undermine her authority.

Demme said in an interview: “I did like that The Silence of the Lambs was a woman’s picture … I love that he’s (Harris) taking some really good pokes at the patriarchy while spinning this tale. And I think the movie sort of manages to do that, too.”[4] Demme does indeed manage to get some pokes in, but that is all. A horror film will never be truly free from the male gaze; will never be “a woman’s picture” due to its generic establishment in a field dominated by men. But The Silence of the Lambs is unique in the space it creates for a female viewer, not only through a strong female character, but also through cinematographic exploration of male characters and playing open the power of sight.  

WORKS CITED

Allue, Sonia Baelo “The Aesthetics of Serial Killing Working Against Ethics in “Silence of the Lambs” and “American Psycho”,” Atlantis vol. 24, no. 2 (2002) pp. 7-24

Demme, Jonathan, The Silence of the Lambs, Orion Picture, 1991

Mann, Karen B. “The Matter With Mind: Violence and “The Silence of the Lambs”, “Criticism vol. 38, no. 4 (1996)

Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” in Warhol, R.R., D. Price Herndl (ed) Feminisms: An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticisms Rutgers: New Jersey (1997)

Stewart, Jane Alexander “The Feminine Hero of Silence of the Lambs” in Kittleston, M.L (ed) The Soul of Popular Culture Caru Publishing Company: Caru (1998)

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[1] Jane Alexander Stewart “The Feminine Hero of Silence of the Lambs” in Kittleston, M.L (ed) The Soul of Popular Culture Caru Publishing Company: Caru (1998) pg. 52

[2] Mulvey’s theory dictates that the male gaze pertains only to straight males. Laura Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” in Warhol, R.R., D. Price Herndl (ed) Feminisms: An Anthology of Literary Theory and Criticisms Rutgers: New Jersey (1997) pg. 438

[3]Karen Mann, “The Matter With Mind: Violence and “The Silence of the Lambs”, “Criticism vol. 38, no. 4 (1996) pg. 588

[4]Sonia Baelo Allue,  “The Aesthetics of Serial Killing Working Against Ethics in “Silence of the Lambs” and “American Psycho”,” Atlantis vol. 24, no. 2 (2002) pg. 12

Inertia in 'The Four Railroads of Iserlohn"

Lars Gustafsson’s short story “The Four Railroads of Iserlohn” is preoccupied with the metaphoric value of railroads. Gustafsson’s preoccupation deals greatly with the concept of inertia. This is seen in the exploration of characters contentment with model railroads which within the story explore characters inertia. This is philosophically complicated with the metaphorical representation of railroads which traditionally symbolize forward motion, opposing the concept of inertia. By confusing the readers traditional understanding of the thematic significance of the railway Gustafsson uniquely frames a consideration of what it means to be happy, an appropriate concern in an anthology titled: Stories of Happy People.

The four railroads of Iserlohn are as follows: the ‘true’ railroad that moves people in and out of town, the ones owned by both the upstairs and downstairs neighbors of the unnamed female character and finally the internalized model railroad that the female character dreams about. The intangible aspect of the woman’s railroad cements the philosophical preoccupation of the text. This railroad represents: “a possibility of death, perhaps, but also of freedom and of change.” (Gustafsson 24) This truly underscores the importance of combating a personal inertia by reflecting the thematic connotations of the railroad internally suggesting that the pursuit of happiness is one to be endeavored upon internally.

The crux of Gustafsson’s story mimics Scandinavian philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard’s argument pertaining to happiness in the human condition:

“A man who as a physical being is always turned toward the outside, thinking that his happiness lies outside him, finally turns inward and discovers the source is within him.” (Kierkegaard, 108) 

Over the four short sections of “The Four Railroads of Iserlohn” we see the concern of the story itself turn inwards. The woman’s internal railroad: “That was the third railroad of Iserlohn.” (Gustafsson, 24) came only after dealing with two concrete railroads before it. The thematic continuation through a shift from physical to spiritual world dramatizes the pursuit of happiness by following the lines of Kierkegaard and: “finally turns inward.”

This introspection is follows a logical and linear narrative progression as the physical presence of the railroads in the story are minimized – full scale to model to imagined – the thematic importance of them is amplified. This is touched upon in the opening passage of the story: “It is hard to say which one was the most important; that would depend on what perspective they were viewed from and, in particular, from whose.” (Gustafsson, 13)

In exploring the thematic significance of the first railroad the reader is provided with vital narrative framing which presents the concern of inertia as not only being one that is present in the physical world but also in the spiritual world. These are embodied by the unnamed narrator who is both geographically and spiritually experiencing inertia. There are several passages which suggest a double entendre strengthening this reading: “I realized that I must have lost my way.” (Gustafsson, pg. 15) This is again strengthened by the textual emphasis of his lack of agency and the portrayal of a melancholic resistance towards change:

“I strolled along pensively, pondering problems that were entirely my own, when it suddenly struck me that perhaps I ought to get back to the hotel and find the hosts for that evening’s reading.” (Gustafsson, 14)

The significance of this passage is in the way it highlights the narrator’s failure to defy the monotonous and uniform motion of his life: the inertia in his life. By being introduced to the story in this way, with a narrator who is both physically and emotionally embodying inertia the metaphor of railroads as life is neatly framed.

Through the despondent introduction of this narrator the reader begins to understand the first train as negative, this is further emphasized by the introduction of the characters the railroad worker and the woman. The railroad worker suggests that the first train of Iserlohn is responsible for what is essentially construed as a spiritual death: “… I do my job, actually. I do it with the same blind precision as an electronic machine. I may have the worst hangover some mornings, but the signal box gives you no scope for imagination, no improvisation, you know. … Then you’ve got no time for a spiritual life.” (Gustafsson, pg. 17) This can be read as a comment that the resignation to monotony and the menial and the acceptance of inertia symbolized by the first railroad is stifling to the spiritual self and ultimately bad. This is alluded to again by language suggestive of railroads: “Once you’ve gotten onto the wrong track in a conversation, it’s almost impossible to get away from it.” (Gustafsson, 18) The first - the “real” - train of the story thus becomes the most oppressive and the least spiritual due to its being firmly grounded in the physical world or in the words of Kierkegaard the “outside.” It is from this point that the narrative concern is thus turned inwards, through the perspective of the woman.

Much as the trains in the narrative graduate in physical presence, the characters in the narrative differ in terms of spiritual self-awareness. The woman teeters on the line between the physical and spiritual worlds and despite the philosophical writings of the railroad worker she is – or at least becomes – more spiritually grounded throughout the text. When she initially discusses the first railroad of Iserlohn she comments that: “I’ve always had to be content with the ordinary railroad.” (Gustafsson, 19) which efficiently highlights the characters discontent by binary interpretation. It is through this character that the symbolic downsizing of the railroad first takes place; her enthusiasm for model railroads opens up our reading of symbolic significance. This move from real to model railroad is a necessary in shifting the thematic focus from the “outside” or the real into the personal and spiritual world.

The reader is moved into the spiritual world through the model railroad by understanding that a model railroad is inherently more personal than the “ordinary” railroad in the fact that is individually owned and is to an extent subject to individual agency. When the woman remarks: “if I had your job I’d look at it quite differently. I’d consider myself as having access to a large, wonderful model railroad. On a scale of one to one.” (Gustafsson, 20) she articulates a desire to exercise agency over the railroad and in turn break the inertia it represents spiritually. The dialogue that follows in the text is what truly moves the narrative into the philosophical world. The railroad worker articulates: “Except that a model on a scale of one to one can never be surveyable. It ends up over the horizon, you can’t follow the trains all the time.” (Gustafsson, 20) what can be seen in this passage is the articulation of the innate fear of the unknown which is present within all humans. The preoccupation then of the characters with the real world can be read to be the source of their discontent. Their focus on the “outside” and the physical (represented by the first railroad) leaves “no time for a spiritual life” which in the perspective of both Kierkegaard and Gustafsson is necessary for happiness.

The personal struggle of the woman to come to terms with this spiritual life is presented within the text through the repetition of the numbers three and four, which correspond to the four railroads in the title. When the woman moved she had “four big boxes”, (Gustafsson, 21) she moved into “a quiet house in which three families were living” (Gustafsson, 22) and she woke “regularly… at three or four in the morning.” (Gustafsson, 22) The repetition of these numbers illuminates the symbolic struggle to come to terms with and acknowledge the presence of the third railroad despite the fact it does not exist in the physical world: to acknowledge the introverted pursuit of happiness. This struggle is brought to a thematic forefront when we encounter the second railroad of Iserlohn.

Immediately the woman knew that her neighbor’s “unusual happiness” and “unaccustomed hopefulness” (Gustafsson, 23) were contingent upon the model railroad: “It just occurred to me that it must be” (Gustafsson, 23) By noting the (seemingly) trivial significance of the model railroad her awareness of third – and progressively more significant – railroad is illuminated. This implication positions the reader to understand and accept the significance of the third section of the narrative. When the reader and the woman acknowledge the model railroad as a coping mechanism of the existential anxieties faced in his divorce: “retreated to the paradise of your boyhood, to a surveyable world, the model railroad.” (Gustafsson, 24) the integral symbolism of the pursuit of happiness and the defiance of inertia are thematically recognized: “it was just a symbol for something else.” (Gustafsson, 24)

  What is recognized in the pursuit of happiness is the necessity to accept the unknown. This acceptance denies the surveyable world and the confining inertia of monotony. The narrator poses us the question: “… if the meaning couldn’t be located anywhere else but within us, in the darkness that is your own self, beyond all moral traps, then we also have to remain forever unknown to ourselves. Was that how it was?” (Gustafsson, 26) but when reflecting on the text we see this question has already been answered: “And in life the trains disappear over the horizon.” (Gustafsson, 20) Thus by defying the inertia and relinquishing the control that is given to mankind in the acceptance of the quotidian, the surveyable world and accepting the unknown of the internal horizon then we can find happiness. Accepting the unknown allows the woman her previously unknown happiness: “She became aware of a faint feeling of happiness mounting, a happiness of some new, unknown kind. / Like the happiness before a long journey.” (Gustafsson, 26)

As readers we are implicated in the philosophical exploration of the story and asked to continue the progression that has just played out. The concluding lines of the text read: “Here ends our impossible story.” (Gustafsson, 27) Gustafsson here concludes the narrative but also alludes to the impossible conclusion of its philosophical concern. Keeping with the neatly framed analogy of the railroads, the reader in the text is given only a model railroad and has been told as much: “Perhaps the fact is, … that literature is a whole lot easier to deal with than life. Literature is a small scale model.” (Gustafsson, 20) So much like the woman in the narrative, the reader must also heed Kierkegaard’s advice and turn inwards and continue in spite of the fact that conclusion is impossible.

Having been told that “… everyone was fleeing and would flee forever.” (Gustafsson, 25) the reader is presented with the opportunity to turn towards the horizon and accept the unknown. It is through this acceptance that inertia ends; no longer is life characterized by resistance, no longer are we perpetually fleeing. It is suggested by Gustaffson in this text and Kierkegaard before him that it is only accepting the horizon that man is imbued with potential energy: “the possibility … of freedom and of change.” (Gustafsson, 24) and that this possibility is the true source of happiness.

Works cited:
Gustafsson, Lars. “The Four Railroads of Iserlohn” Stories of Happy People New York: New Directions Books, 1986. 13-27. Print.

Kierkegaard, Soren. A Kierkegaard Anthology New York: Modern Library, 1959. Print

Who Is Really the Monster?

John Ajvide Lindqvist’s Let The Right One In provides a powerful critique of the social and moral state of Sweden by drawing upon the potent socio-cultural resonances of the Vampire myth. Through carefully thought out genre manipulation and juxtaposition of a traditionally evil figure, the Vampire against the very real and non-mythical failings of society Lindqvist poses the audience with the question: Who is the monster here? The representation of the Vampire, Eli is thus very important in framing the presentation of this question.  The construction of Eli will be explored in three ways: the adherence to specific elements of Vampire myth, their physical appearance and finally the relationship between Eli and Oskar.

Unlike the vampires in hit television show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Lindqvist’s Vampire does not suffer any dramatic physical change when hunting. Eli is constantly kept to the form of human. This refusal to distinguish Eli from other human characters despite their vampirism visually forces the reader to understand the character as human in at least some regard. This visual strength is amplified in the visual adaption of the text.  This is also the primary source of society’s fear of Vampire. After Darwin published On The Origin of Species in 1859 society began to acclimate the concept of Evolution, thus Vampire by the publication of Bram Stoker’s Dracula in 1897 was viewed not as an outlier of society but as a potential representation of the future of.

In the Gothic era Vampire functioned allegorically in texts as a representation of Victorian fears. In that period it was fears of shifts in female sexuality and general anxiety regarding the conflict of empirical knowledge and faith in the Age of Reason, present day fears are different. Lindqvist also thematically employs Vampire in this sense, but opposed to stressing the corruptive influence of Vampire on society (such as Stoker’s Dracula) Lindqvist illustrates the corruptive influence of society by means of comparison to this familiarized narrative.

The fear of Vampire as an allegory for the future is easily read in the odd depiction of Eli as a 12 year-old child. This narrative technique nods to the familiar view that ‘children are the future.’ Although the potency of this statement is lost in regards to Eli given that the agelessness of their vampirism prevents them from truly taking part in the future it also becomes more potent when the relationship between Oskar and Eli blossoms. The reader becomes truly uneasy about potential outcome of the real future for this child, a question Lindqvist truly avoids answering in both novel and film form.

The negation of the violence at the hands of Eli is an interesting departure from the traditionally understood Vampire. Vampires are commonly represented as not only having a blood lust but also in taking a carnal pleasure in the satiating these needs. In the popular HBO show True Blood the act of drinking blood is usually involved in the sex act, visually taking the place of climax. By removing this pleasure the audience loses much of the grounds in which they could criticize Eli. Even religiously needs are validated, it is the finding pleasure in these fulfilling needs which is sinful. (Sleep translates to sloth. Hunger to gluttony, etc) It is interesting then that the most real threat posed in narratives by vampires, the threat of attack is carried out by proxy. This narrative tool directly morally implicates humanity.

If we view the sexual (perceptibly immoral) element of a vampiric blood lust as being  primary aspect of a vampire’s evil, it is telling that it is projected into the human character of Haekan. His acquisition of blood for Eli is contingent upon his receiving in some form or another sexual gratification: “I’ll do it for you. But I want something in return. … One night. All I want is one night. … Lie next to you? Touch you?” (Lindqvist 110) Understanding the transference of this vampiric trait into humanity is crucial in assembling a reading of Lindqvist’s social critique. It is not by accident that every human character in Let the Right One In exists within a moral grey zone, even the character of Oskar. (This is not true for the character of Virginia, but it is not her thematic function which we are evaluating.) From a pedophilic Haekan, excessively violent schoolyard bullies, a small collection of drunks even extending to oblivious parents this book is not brimming with hope for humanity. Eli is an interesting way in which to explore this.

The childlike appearance of Eli as mentioned previously draws upon the potential for a corrupted future, but it also goes a ways towards deterring the common belief that the Vampire is generically threatening because of the seductive qualities they possess. It then is not by chance that Lindqvist has cast this ‘powerful’ character in a role that is historically powerless: a child. Stoker’s Dracula by comparison presents the vampire, Dracula as being a height of influence. Male and aristocratic, he is only hampered by his ‘otherness’ not in the form of vampire, but as a geographical foreigner. This though is overcome through his great understanding of the English (modern) society.

If we compare this historic character to that of Eli the contrast is phenomenal. Eli is cast in between genders, neither truly male nor female thus is not privy to any of the manipulative power techniques belonging to either. Furthermore the physical representation of Eli exemplifies the one weakness of Dracula: that of being an outsider. Eli presents a vast contrast to the Nordic norm of Aryan. One of the only characters in the novel described as having black hair. Their class is not as openly discussed as with the character of Dracula but it is not a leap to infer a lower socioeconomic bracket. Constantly Eli is said to be underdressed, shoeless and wearing the same clothes for days at a time. Furthermore they are not adept at communication: “She talked funny too, like a grown up.” (Lindqvist 57) and often described as physically repugnant: “Doesn’t she ever take a bath? The smell was worse than old sweat; it was closer to the smell that came when you removed the bandage from an infected wound. And her hair …” (Lindqvist 57) By comparing Eli to the Founding Father of the vampire myth, Dracula (a character so widely known the comparison is begged) we are presented with an entirely un-seductive prospect, on all accounts. Eli does not possess the power of True Blood vampires to ‘glamor’ nor does they possess any worldly seductive qualities. These particular choices in constructing Eli subtly hints to the question: If the ‘evil’ represented by Vampire is not seductive or particularly powerful, why is there evil in society?

It is undeniable that the most crucial element in Lindqvist’s narrative is the relationship between Eli and Oskar. Both characters are presented in the text as being outsiders: Eli for her non-human form and Oskar in spite of his. The similarities of the characters and their relationship open up a direct point of comparison for the imagined evils of the vampire and the real evils of humanity, which are in Oskar presented as potential.

From our first introduction to Oskar the reader understands the uncomfortable potential for ‘evil’ in Oskar:

“Now he was going out into the forest to select his next victim. … He would make him plead and beg for his life, squeal like a pig, but in vain. The knife would have the last word and the earth would drink his blood.” (Lindqvist 22)

The inclusion of the term “drink his blood” inviting a direct comparison to vampirism, but instead of being present in the vampire this blood lust is again transferred into a human character.  This is especially potent when presented within not only a human, but a human child which contradicts a widely held presumption of children as an embodiment of innocence.

Eli draws the reader’s attention to the ‘monstrous’ element of humanity through their relationship with Oskar, at no point is this more clear than in her direct comparison of the desire to kill of the two:

“If you got away with it. If it just happened. If you could wish someone dead and they died. Wouldn’t you do it then? … Sure you would. And that would be simply for your own enjoyment. Your revenge. I do it because I have to. There is no other way.” (Lindqvist 351)

By underlining this potential for and desire of evil as being something not exclusively contained to the ‘monsters’ of fiction, Eli breaks the literary conception of monster as being something other than human and defines it as something very human. Also in the act of saving Oskar from his bullies the potential for good and evil is highlighted in society by Eli.

Through the perversions of the reader’s expectations of the vampire myth, Lindqvist has illustrated that very few distinctions can be made between human and the ‘monster’ represented by Vampire. By exemplifying the non-mythical evils that are present in society, pedophilia, bullying, murderous desire and to a lesser extent gluttony and ignorance the reader is left to ponder whether Eli was ever truly the horrific narrative element in Let The Right One In because the question is begged: Who is the monster?

Works cited:
Lindqvist, John. A. 2004. Let The Right One In. New York: St. Martin’s Press

Identifying the Guilt in Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily"

William Faulkner’s short story A Rose for Emily masterfully presents a tale of horror made all the more poignant through the fluid constructing ambiguity in chronology and narrator. This ambiguity creates a literary frame that poses an ethical question of social values in the ‘New South’. This will be assessed in three parts. Most importantly: the construction of the character of Emily Grierson. Though this can only be appraised after exploring the necessary ambiguity of the narrator and its integral importance in reading the character of Emily. Thirdly we see how the intersection of the characterization of Emily and of narrative voice in tandem with vague and deliberately delineated chronology produce a question of morality in the south of the United States.

Narrative theorist Helen Nebeker was one of the first scholars to publish on the implied distinctions within the narrative voice. This reading identifies and underscores an implicit importance in the distinctions between the narrative use of they, we and us. If, rather than assuming that these terms suggest an encompassing collective the reader ascribes different societal roles to them the social critique masterfully sculpted through form becomes apparent. While it takes a keen reader to endeavor this - Faulkner himself throws his audience a red herring with the first personal term used by the narrator is “our whole town” (Faulkner, 998) – it is fundamental in understanding the broader social comment required in all literature.

The distinctions between the voices can be identified by examining their placement within narrative development and also in the emotion that they suggest. Despite the introduction of the narrator as being a unified “our” we are also presented with divisions within the group along gendered lines: “the men through a sort of respectful affection … the women mostly out of curiosity…” (Faulkner, 998) The acknowledgement of this distinction is what invites the reader to further question the ambiguous point of view.

On the first page, following the introduction of “our” the reader is also presented with two different references of they: both “the representatives of those august names” and also “the next generation … mayors and aldermen” (Faulkner, 998) This effectively introduces the thematic concern of the text, which appraises the ethical resonance of the move from ‘Old’ to ‘New’ South following the Civil War. This also introduces the narrative technique employed by Faulkner of a deliberately fluid chronology. By seamlessly transitioning from one generation to the next the reader is subtly made away of the broad reaching social implications that come to be revealed as the text progresses towards its ‘horror.’

The next narrative voice that the reader is presented with in section II is that of we: “… after her sweetheart – the one we believed would marry her – had deserted her.” (Faulkner, 999) This voice offers a far more emotionally connected and sympathetic response to the character of Emily: “we were glad that Miss Emily would have an interest” and “we said it would be the best thing.” (Faulkner, 1001) This is arguable the most important voice in shaping the readers response to Miss Emily as it represents the Old South of which Emily is constructed as a symbol of. This is evidenced in the introduction of the narrative voice of we:

“We had long thought of them as a tableau; Miss Emily a slender figure in white in the background, her father a spraddled silhouette in the foreground, his back to her and clutching a horsewhip, the two of them framed by the back-flung front door.”

This quixotic explanation of the we perception of Miss Emily firmly cements this voice as the Old South. The construction of Emily in white and overshadowed by a man plays into the heavily gendered values of the Old South. By including this view in section II it allows the reader to recognize the moral disparity between Old and New South that centered on Emily: “Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town …” (Faulkner, 998) By placing this tableaux in section II and contrasting it to section I the reader is further disoriented by the chronology of the text. This technique is integral in shifting the guilt – blame – for Miss Emily’s murder of her lover and allowing it to resonate as an allusion to fundamental flaws of Southern society.

The delineated chronology of A Rose for Emily when combined with the blurred distinctions of narrative voice and point of view are what alleviates and redirects the guilt of Miss Emily. This is largely exercised by the aforementioned empathetic narrative voice of we as the ethical judgments it provides are what call into question the direction of the blame. This is achieved because the fluid chronology and the rejection of traditional linear narrative form means that the reader is unable to correctly – or at least with certainty – place these judgments in the narrative. The crux of this argument is seen when the reader and the townspeople discover the body of Homer Barron: “Already we knew that there was one room in that region above stairs which no one had seen in forty years…” (Faulkner, 1003) This passage clearly and distinctly articulates that this was not an exclusive secret of Emily. The poignancy of the question of blame is heightened when the reader is left to consider of which group Faulkner had intended this we to represent.

The reader now understands that the act of killing Homer occurred some 30 odd years ago, some two years after the death of her Father. What complicates the morality of this issue is the fact that Miss Emily has already been pardoned for hoarding the body of her father:

“We did not say she was crazy then. We believed she had to do that. We remembered all the young men her father had driven away, and we knew that with nothing left, she would have to cling to that which had robbed her, as people will.” (Faulkner, 1000)

By providing this exemption to Miss Emily for her actions regarding her father the morality is confused about the actions regarding Homer. Because isn’t she simply clinging to that which has robbed her?

Nebeker commented on this ethical grey zone:

“…the immediate post-war remnant of the Old Southern hierarchy – symbolized in the person of Emily – lies dead, buried, even pardoned in the light of her heritage, her madness, her incorruptible endurance.” (Nebeker 10)

And this cuts to the core of the ambiguity of blame in A Rose for Emily. If the society had in fact known about this horrible secret of Emily’s and kept it the reader is forced to acknowledge that this sick perversion is not only contained within a dead symbol of the past but also in the narrative presence. The reader is thus haunted more by we than by the actions of Miss Emily.

Works cited:
Faulkner, William “A Rose for Emily” in Norton Anthology of American Literature Shorter Eighth Edition Volume 2: 1865 to the Present, ed. Nina Baym, 2013, pp. 998-1004

Nebeker, Helen. E., “Emily’s Rose of Love: Thematic Implications of Point of View in Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily” The Bulletin for the Rocky Mountain Modern Language Association, 1970, vol. 24, no. 1, pp. 3-13

Gender Roles in Charlotte Perkins Gilman's The Yellow Wall-Paper

An exploration of tensions between liberation and conformity of female gender roles in Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wall-Paper”

Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story The Yellow Wall-Paper was published in 1892 amidst the Victorian Era. Through contortion of the conventions of Gothic texts, Gilman presents a pessimistic picture of the marital life of an unnamed narrator and her husband John which serves to present a most poignant critique of the stifling aspects of Victorian society in regards to personal potential, particularly that of women. Eugenia DeLamotte articulates the thematic concerns of Gothic texts as pertaining to issues of: “self-defense; the encounter with a Hidden Woman; speech and silence; … the horrors of repetition; and the problem of freedom.”[1] In examining some of these concerns and the ways in which Gilman has perverted the conventions which traditionally present them it becomes apparent that the greatest defiance of the Gothic codes in Gilman’s text is in her failure to resolve the concern of freedom. This is the result of constant and articulated tensions between liberation of and conformity to prevalent Victorian social morays.

To explore the theme of self-defense in this text, the reader must first identify the threat or in this case: the villain. As true to Gothic conventions, it is often the self-cast hero whom becomes the villain. In the case of The Yellow Wall-Paper it is the gracious husband, John who is gradually revealed to be the villainous character. His evolution into the role of villain is contingent upon his wife’s growing self-awareness: firstly, in the understanding of her feminine role and sphere and finally, in her resentment of it. Thus as the narrator begins to understand the villain as the threat, her behavior can then be classed as ‘self-defense.’

John’s narrative participation as the villain can be seen in the three forms of oppression he imposes. Firstly, in his physical confinement of his wife to the domestic (and thus feminine) sphere. This is evident in his perpetual insistence that she sleep, his transportation of her to a place of confinement, the “colonial mansion.”[2] The negative connotations of these actions are provided to the reader in the first journal entry, the narrators comment on the estate was that “Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it … John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.”[3] This not only subtly (if not subconsciously) expresses the narrators ill feelings towards not only her domestic containment through comment on the estate, but also the seeds of her resentment of John.  The second example of John’s oppressive tendencies is in his control of the domestic and feminine sphere. This is most evident in the process of room selection: “I don’t like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window, … But John would not hear of it. He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room for him if he took another.”[4] This excerpt not only demonstrates John’s complete control of the domestic sphere but also juxtaposes his own freedoms with that of his wife. The two deciding features of their bedroom allow his freedom to either take another bed, or another room than that of his wife. This alludes to the fact that his marital freedoms as a man might extend beyond the domestic sphere and into an extramarital affair, this suggestion is furthered by John’s regular absences: “John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious.”[5] Also again in the staunch denial of a change of wallpaper, an act of control which had obvious mental effects on the protagonist that cannot be overstated and are reiterated in the title of the story.[6]

The most important example of John’s oppression is seen in his definition of the masculine sphere as being one of knowledge. The only two male characters in which we are given insight[7] are both physicians a profession which in the Victorian era was confined to men. This masculine sphere repeatedly exerts control over the narrator’s life:

“If a physician of high standing, and one’s own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression- a slight hysterical tendency- what is one to do?... My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same thing… So I take phosphates or phosphites-whichever it is- and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to “work” until I am well again.”[8]

The narrator again expresses discontent for her physical confinement while underscoring the social standing of both men and the masculine sphere. This conflation of masculine influence expresses the latency of her self-awareness at this early juncture in the text.

Applying a feminist reading to the text it could be viewed that the narrators exclusion from the masculine sphere or at least it’s dominance over the feminine sphere is the cause of her “nervous tendencies”, the narrator alludes to this: “John is a physician, and perhaps-(I would not say it to a living soul …)-perhaps that is one reason I do not get well faster.”[9] The narrators attempt to penetrate the intellectual field that is reserved for men, and expressly forbidden to her is most easily seen in the pursuit of writing.

Writing and much of respected Academia in the Victorian Era was kept almost exclusively to men. The act of writing in The Yellow Wall-Paper pertains to the Gothic concern of speech and silence for obvious reasons. The act of writing on the part of the narrator not only increases the narrator’s self-awareness through the increased repetition of the noun, “I”[10] expressing a broadening awareness of the narrator’s awareness of their own individuality, and not merely a wife. The act of writing, as well as strengthening the narrator’s individuality also presents a dissonance between the narrator’s wishes and that of her husband’s. This disobedience gives the narrator a feeling of empowerment,[11] not only is this act penetrating the masculine sphere it is simultaneously diminishing its power. By hiding this from John: “I did write … in spite of them; … having to be so sly about it, or else met with heavy opposition.”[12] The narrator has removed an element of control from the masculine figure in the text, undermining the authority of the masculine over the feminine.

The narrator can further be seen to rebel against the masculine influence in the act of tearing the wallpaper from the walls. This pertains to the theme of speech and silence through the narrator’s perception of the paper. Not only is the paper a symbol of the patriarchy as John refused to change it[13] but the narrator’s depiction of it as “living”[14] means that the act of removing it turns it into “dead paper”[15] much like that on which the narrator writes. This transformation can then be seen as a liberating act for the narrator, she is creating the potential to further strengthen her voice and herself through the act of writing by creating more “dead” paper and symbolically destroying the control of the patriarchy.

Ironically though, it is in this act of ‘writing’ that the tension between the narrator’s act of liberation and the societal pressures of conformity become apparent. Ultimately the narrator’s transgression into delusion is as a result of her writing, the intimacy with her imagined Hidden Woman. DeLamotte suggests that the narrator’s indulgence of imagination in the creation of the Hidden Woman acted as a technique of self-defense; a means to disguise her own suffering as she was coming to terms with it.[16] Throughout the text Gilman flirted with Gothic conventions, a “haunted house”[17] and a Hidden Woman as a representation of a romanticized escapism to mask the narrator’s unconscious desire for escape.[18] Ultimately, the narrator refused a real escape from her circumstances and instead escaped from reality while still staunchly confined in the physical world to her domestic sphere. Thus we can read her attempts at liberation to have failed due to the aforementioned tension between expectations of conformity and desires of liberation.

The Hidden Woman is a convention in the Gothic which usually allows the female protagonist to sublimate. Acting as an external, humanized object in which the female protagonist can project their ‘subversive’ desires or sexual desire, discontent, anger, so on and be absolved of them.[19] This technique functions to provide the female protagonists of the Gothic a ‘happily ever after’ so that they might carry on their lives in a socially sanctioned state of domestic bliss. This is another technique of the Gothic which has been contorted by Gilman. Denying the conflicted narrator this easy (albeit fictional) way out of a common feminine struggle in Victorian society, Gilman forces the reader to acknowledge her critique.

The epistolary form in which the text is present raises interesting questions about the mental state of the narrator and thus questions the extent of her escape from reality. While the reader understands that the narrator is obviously mentally unbalanced they are also presented with proof of her coherence and logic in the form of the final journal entry. Jurgen Wolter’s paper regarding The Yellow Wall-Paper suggests that the “coherent manner in which she continues to chronicle the events that transpire” suggest the narrator is “angry, not insane.”[20] Throughout the text the narrator can be seen slowly directing her anger in the direction of her husband, John: “I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I’m sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition.”[21]  We could present the idea that in this final entry the narrator’s anger finally found its intended direction. This direct emotion is the culmination of the narrator’s self-awareness of her domestic sphere and her resentment of it and ultimately undermines the power of the masculine sphere. Predicated by Victorian society and indeed the narrator’s previously documented passivity, the power of the masculine over the feminine necessitates a feminine willingness.

In spite of the achievement of self-awareness -the ultimate goal for any individual- the narrator is still denied societal recognition. This denial is represented in the text by John’s fainting in the room, a most absolute way to deny acknowledgement of the narrator’s liberation; however involuntary she is still denied patriarchal acceptance of her self-awareness. We see this presented in the text as an obstacle for the liberated woman in the passage: “Now why should that man have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so that I had to creep over him every time!”[22]   The masculine figure as a physical obstacle in the path of a ‘liberated’ female has obvious connotations if we continue the reading of this text as a social critique.

The final scene the reader is left with is a triumphant image for neither male nor female. The masculine figure has succumbed to all the symptoms of a “nervous disorder” almost exclusively reserved for women. While the rebellious ‘liberated’ woman has physically tied herself to her marital bed and willingly confined herself to the domestic sphere: “It is so pleasant to be out in this great room and creep around as I please! I don’t want to go outside, I won’t, even if Jennie asks me to.”[23]  This hopeless image which the reader is left with enables a plethora of different interpretations through its ambivalent suggestiveness. Unlike in a traditional Gothic text the reader is not presented with a triumphant hero, or a conclusion of any kind. It is in this denial to resolve apposite questions of Victorian society that the important Gothic concern of freedom is most sharply underlined and questioned.

DeLamotte, E.C “Male and Female Mysteries in ‘The Yellow Wall-Paper’,” Legacy, 1988, vol. 5, no. 1, pp. 3-14

Perkins Gilman, C. “The Yellow Wall-Paper” in Norton Anthology of American Literature Shorter Eighth Edition Volume 2: 1865 to the Present, ed. Nina Baym, 2013, pp. 485-497

Wolter, J. “ ‘The Yellow Wall-Paper’: The Ambivalence of Changing Discourses”, American Studies, 2009, vol. 54, no. 2, pp. 195-210

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[1] DeLamotte, E.C “Male and Female Mysteries in “The Yellow Wallpaper”, Legacy, 1988, vol. 5, no. 1, pg. 3

[2] Perkins Gilman, C. “The Yellow Wall-Paper” in The Norton Anthology: American Literature Shorter Eighth Edition Volume 2: 1865 to Present, pg. 486

[3] Ibid

[4] Ibid, pg. 487

[5] Ibid

[6] There is an interesting suggestion that the denial for a change of wallpaper was a deliberately subversive act on the part of the husband due to the asbestos used in yellow wallpaper which was beginning to be understood as a health threat by the late 19^th Century. Wolter, J. “The Ambivalence of Changing Discourses” American Studies, 2009, vol. 54, no. 2, pg. 198-199

[7] Other than Cousin Henry Gilman, pg. 488 and again on pg. 490but little insight is given to his character beyond the description of he and Julia as “stimulating.”

[8] Ibid, pg. 486

[9] Ibid, pg. 486 This quote could also further the reading of John’s deliberately subversive attempts to worsen the condition of his wife which was proposed in Wolter’s paper.

[10] 38 times on Gilman, pg. 496 nearly twice as many times than pg. 486 in which it is only said 21 times. (Yes, I counted.)

[11] DeLamotte, pg. 6

[12] Gilman, pg. 486

[13] Dialogue documenting his denial Gilman, pg. 488 the line “He laughs at me so about this wall-paper!” most clearly articulates the clear hierarchy in the relationship, the wife is reduced to an object of ridicule.

[14] Gilman, pg. 489

[15] Gilman, pg. 486

[16] DeLamotte, pg. 5

[17] Gilman, pg. 486

[18] DeLamotte, pg. 4

[19] DeLamotte, pg. 6                       

[20] Wolter, pg. 204

[21] Gilman, pg. 487

[22] Gilman, pg. 497

[23] Gilman, pg. 496 this quote is extended with: “For outside you have to creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of yellow. there is an interesting symbolic meaning that can be attached to the use of the color yellow in this passage. Wolter pg. 202 articulates that in the last quarter of the Nineteenth century yellow became the color of the feminist movement. Thus by saying she cannot creep beyond her own personal space further articulates the limited influence of the feminine sphere despite her liberation. It is yet to permeate into the more dominant masculine sphere and is self-contained.