Play, Performance, and Identity

Play helps define who we are as human beings. However, many of the ­leisurely/ludic activities people participate in are created and governed by corporate entities with social, political, and business agendas. As such, it is critical that scholars understand and explicate the ideological underpinnings of played-through experiences and how they affect the player/performers who engage in them.

This book explores how people play and why their play matters, with a ­particular interest in how ludic experiences are often constructed and ­controlled by the interests of institutions, including corporations, ­non-profit organizations, government agencies, religious organizations, and ­non-­governmental organizations (NGOs). Each chapter explores diverse sites of play. From theme parks to comic-book conventions to massive, ­multiplayer online games, they probe what roles the designers of these experiences­ construct for players and how such play might affect ­participants’ identities and ideologies. Scholars of performance studies, ­leisure studies, media studies, and sociology will find this book an essential reference when studying facets of play.

Matt Omasta is the Director of the Theatre Education & Applied Theatre ­programs at Utah State University. His recent publications appear in Research in Drama Education: The Journal of Applied Theatre & P­ erformance, Youth Theatre Journal, The International Journal of Education and the Arts, and Theatre for Young Audiences Today.

Drew Chappell is an interdisciplinary researcher whose articles appear in Qualitative Inquiry, Children’s Literature in Education, and Youth Theatre Journal. His edited volume Children Under Construction: Critical Essays on Play as Curriculum was published by Peter Lang. Drew teaches theatre at Chapman University and California State University Fullerton. Routledge Advances in Theatre and Performance Studies

1 Theatre and Performance in 9 The Provocation of the Senses Digital Culture in Contemporary Theatre From Simulation to Stephen Di Benedetto Embeddedness Matthew Causey 10 Ecology and Environment in European Drama 2 The Politics of New Downing Cless Media Theatre Life®™ 11 Global Ibsen Gabriella Giannachi Performing Multiple Modernities Edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, 3 Ritual and Event Barbara Gronau, and Interdisciplinary Perspectives Christel Weiler Edited by Mark Franko 12 The Theatre of the Bauhaus The Modern and Postmodern 4 Memory, Allegory, and Stage of Oskar Schlemmer Testimony in South Melissa Trimingham American Theater Upstaging Dictatorship 13 Feminist Visions and Queer Ana Elena Puga Futures in Postcolonial Drama Community, Kinship, 5 Crossing Cultural and Citizenship Borders Through the Kanika Batra Actor’s Work Foreign Bodies of Knowledge 14 Nineteenth-Century Theatre Cláudia Tatinge Nascimento and the Imperial Encounter Marty Gould 6 Movement Training for the Modern Actor 15 The Theatre of Richard Maxwell Mark Evans and the New York City Players Sarah Gorman 7 The Politics of American Actor Training 16 Shakespeare, Theatre and Time Edited by Ellen Margolis and Matthew D. Wagner Lissa Tyler Renaud 17 Political and Protest Theatre 8 Performing Embodiment in after 9/11 Samuel Beckett’s Drama Patriotic Dissent Anna McMullan Edited by Jenny Spencer 18 Religion, Theatre, and 28 Art, Vision, and Nineteenth- Performance: Acts of Faith Century Realist Drama Edited by Lance Gharavi Acts of Seeing Amy Holzapfel 19 Adapting Chekhov The Text and its Mutations 29 The Politics of Interweaving Edited by J. Douglas Clayton & Performance Cultures Yana Meerzon Beyond Postcolonialism 20 Performance and the Politics Edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte, of Space Torsten Jost and Saskya Iris Jain Theatre and Topology Edited by Erika Fischer-Lichte 30 Theatre and National Identity and Benjamin Wihstutz Re-Imagining Conceptions of Nation 21 Music and Gender in English Edited by Nadine Holdsworth Renaissance Drama Katrine K. Wong 31 Nationalism and Youth in Theatre and Performance 22 The Unwritten Grotowski Edited by Angela Sweigart- Theory and Practice of Gallagher and Victoria the Encounter Pettersen Lantz Kris Salata 23 Dramas of the Past on the 32 Performing Asian Twentieth-Century Stage Transnationalisms In History’s Wings Theatre, Identity and the Alex Feldman Geographies of Performance Amanda Rogers 24 Performance, Identity and the Neo-Political Subject 33 The Politics and the Reception of Edited by Matthew Causey and Rabindranath Tagore’s Drama Fintan Walsh The Bard on the Stage Edited by Arnab Bhattacharya 25 Theatre Translation in and Mala Renganathan Performance Edited by Silvia Bigliazzi, Peter 34 Representing China on the Kofler, and Paola Ambrosi Historical London Stage 26 Translation and Adaptation in From Orientalism to Theatre and Film Intercultural Performance Edited by Katja Krebs Dongshin Chang 27 Grotowski, Women, and 35 Play, Performance, and Identity Contemporary Performance How Institutions Structure Meetings with Remarkable Ludic Spaces Women Edited by Matt Omasta and Virginie Magnat Drew Chappell This page intentionally left blank Play, Performance, and Identity How Institutions Structure Ludic Spaces

Edited by Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell First published 2015 by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN

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Play, performance, and identity : how institutions structure ludic spaces / edited by Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell. pages cm. — (Routledge advances in theatre and performance studies ; 39) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Play—Social aspects. 2. Games—Social aspects. 3. Fantasy games— Social aspects. 4. Role playing—Social aspects. 5. Identity (Psychology) I. Omasta, Matt, 1980- editor. II. Chappell, Drew, editor. GV14.45.P54 2015 790—dc23 2014037573

ISBN: 978-1-138-01677-4 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-78068-9 (ebk)

Typeset in Sabon by codeMantra To our families, with whom we first learned to play. This page intentionally left blank Contents

Acknowledgments xi

1 Introduction: Play Matters 1 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell

2 Warriors, Wizards, and Clerics: Heroric Identity Construction in Live Action Role Playing Games 22 Dani Snyder-Young

3 Homo Ludens and the Sharks: Structuring Alternative Realities while Shark Cage Diving in South Africa 33 Michael Schwartz

4 Playfully Empowering: Stunt Runners and Momentary Performance 44 Terry Dean

5 The Future of Family Play at Epcot 55 John Newman

6 Mormons Think They Should Dance 67 Megan Sanborn Jones

7 All the Dungeon’s a Stage: The Lived Experiences of Commercial BDSM Players 79 Danielle Szlawieniec-Haw

8 Cheering is Tied to Eating: Consumption and Excess in Immersive, Role-Specific Dinner Theatre Spaces 91 Drew Chappell x Contents 9 Becoming Batman: Cosplay, Performance, and Ludic Transformation at Comic-Con 105 Kane Anderson

10 Plaza Indonesia: Performing Modernity in a Shopping Mall 117 Jennifer Goodlander

11 Britpicking as Cultural Policing in Fanfiction 128 Erin Horáková

12 Dramatic Manipulations: Conflict, Empathy, and Identity in World of Warcraft 142 Kimi Johnson

13 Afterword: Who are You? 152 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell

Editors 161 Contributors 163 References 165 Index 177 Acknowledgments

We wish to thank the many scholars who participated in our working groups on play and performance at the American Society for Theatre Research and Association for Theatre in Higher Education conferences, including the con- tributors to this volume. Thank you to Johnny Saldaña, Sharon Chappell, and Jocelyn Buckner for their feedback as we developed this manuscript, and to Andrea Brandley for her assistance in preparing the Index. Finally, we are grateful to Routledge and our dedicated editorial team for their assistance throughout the production process. This page intentionally left blank 1 Introduction Play Matters

Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell

In The Wizard of Oz, Toto races to a corner of the Wizard’s chamber and pulls back a curtain, revealing a quite ordinary-looking man. His back to Dorothy’s party, the “Wizard” frantically pulls levers, turns cranks, and speaks into a microphone. The lion, scarecrow, tin man, and young girl from Kansas sud- denly realize the magic they’ve experienced – and need to help them – exists only in their imaginations, sustained by their (supposed) needs and some impressive theatrical tricks. The Wizard admits he is a “humbug,” a fraud who has kept up an act since a tornado deposited him in Oz years before. The man reveals how he came to play the role of the “Great and P­ owerful,” explaining he ordered the denizens of Oz to build an Emerald City and, within it, the palace that became his performance space. Nonplussed by the fact the city was not actually emerald-colored, the Wizard “put green ­spectacles on all the people, so that everything they saw was green.” Oz admits: “My people have worn green glasses on their eyes so long that most of them think it really is an Emerald City.” (Baum 1900, 109)

REMOVING THE GLASSES

This book aims to help us “take off the green glasses” we ourselves wear as we play in our own Emerald Cities. We embark on this journey because we believe play matters. Every day, adults and children­ ­perform and play through myriad roles as they engage in recreational­ ­activities. While many consider these ludic experiences diversions from “real” life, we assert they play an active role in structuring that very “reality.” We adopt roles when we play games (from board games to live-action role-playing), attend events (theme parties, interactive dinner theatre, ­athletic competitions, rodeos), enter certain spaces (theme parks, religious ­buildings), and/or manipulate avatars in virtual spaces. Even supposedly “passive” ­leisure activities (e.g. viewing theatre, television, or film) frame viewers in particular ways; this framing affects the social roles we play. When Oz grants the Scarecrow his “brains” – actually “a measure of bran, which he mixed with a great many pins and needles” (Baum 1900, 114) – the man of straw is no wiser than before. Simultaneously, however, his self-concept 2 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell and identity are transformed. Once his perception of his role changes, his actions change; he begins to speak “intelligently” to his friends, rattling off ideas and theories he previously believed himself incapable of understanding (Baum 1900, 117). In many contemporary societies, the recreational activities people ­participate in are created and governed by institutions such as corporations,­ non-profit enterprises, government agencies, religious groups, and ­non-­governmental organizations (NGOs). As Williams (1998) notes, “you cannot understand an intellectual or artistic project without also ­understanding its formation … the relationship between a project and its formation is always decisive” (168). In other words, art/play and the sources or entities that create them are not separate domains; they each exist for and with each other. No entity is ideologically neutral; institutions pursue particular social, political, commercial, and ideological agendas. This book articulates how the ideological underpinnings of institutionally structured ludic experiences may affect the player/performers who engage in them. There is no scholarly consensus on the nature of play. We therefore begin this introductory chapter by exploring various ideas of what play might be, the possible purposes it serves, its potential impacts on players, and how it can function as performance. We outline these theoretical frameworks­ ­without privileging any particular paradigm, playing at definitions and exploring con- cepts through metaphoric lenses drawn from literary and imagined scenarios. The subsequent chapters explore specific play phenomena, from swim- ming with sharks to visiting Disney World, considering how institutions­ structure these experiences, promote particular narratives, and engage ­player-­participants. While these chapters reference the theories ­outlined in this introduction, some contributors employ discordant theoretical­ ­frameworks, as is often the case with scholarly literature concerning play. What we are ultimately trying to do, as an interdisciplinary group of scholars interested in how play impacts (or possibly constitutes) our lives, is examine play from multiple epistemological, even ontological, standpoints.

(NOT) DEFINING PLAY

While definitions of play abound, arriving at “the” definition of play is an impossibly chimeric endeavor. We concur with Schechner’s (2013) ­observation that the task of defining or pinning down the term is indeed“very hard” (89). Words fail to capture ludic essences; play refuses to ­confine itself within the ivory tower of any academic discipline. Indeed, play ­scholarship is inherently and intensely interdisciplinary. It ­amalgamates ­theory from anthropology, art, cultural studies, education, game theory, leisure­ and ­recreation studies, literary theory, media studies, medicine, sociology­ , the- atre and performance, psychology, and beyond. Guided by their unique dis- ciplinary paradigms, these fields proffer diverse and ­sometimes ­incompatible ideas of what play is and might be. Introduction 3 That play “can be everywhere and nowhere, imitate anything, yet be iden- tifi ed with nothing” (Turner 1986, 31) has not prevented ambitious scholars from attempting to defi ne it. Among the fi rst was Johan Huizinga, whose 1938 Homo Ludens (“Man the Player”) describes play as:

A free activity standing quite consciously outside ‘ordinary’ life as being ‘not serious,’ but at the same time absorbing the player intensely and utterly. It is an activity connected with no material interest, and no profi t can be gained from it. It proceeds within its own proper bound- aries of time and space according to fi xed rules and in an orderly manner. It promotes the formation of social groupings which tend to surround themselves with secrecy and to stress their difference from the common world by disguise or other means. (13)

Though pioneering, Huizinga’s description excludes much of what we might call play. Later scholars (e.g. Caillois 1958; Carse 1986) acknowledged play’s enigmatic nature and abandoned attempts to defi ne it, instead attempting to categorize it; yet play evades such codifi cation. Even attempts to develop tools for analyzing play prove diffi cult. While Schechner (2013) offers seven ways to approach play and playing, he acknowledges “they cannot be sepa- rated out from each other” sharply. He thus “orbits” and “touches on” them when considering actual instances of play (93). We need not be uncomfortable with play’s amorphous nature, however. Schechner (2013) describes the Indian concept of maya-lila, a paradigm that suggests the material world we experience is but a playground for the gods – that life is “a kind of playing” in which “boundaries between ‘real’ and ‘unreal’ or ‘true’ and ‘false’ are continuously shifting and/or wholly perme- able” (113–114). Still, we had to develop a basic framework for describing the types of phenomena we explore in this book – that is, we had to decide what play might be for us at this particular moment. We began by considering previous defi nitions, then broadened them and solicited case studies from other scholars who investigated specifi c play phenomena. As contributors proposed ideas, we noticed the sites of study they offered were almost all structured by institutions such as corporations, government agencies, religious organizations, and NGOs, rather than by individual people. We decided to limit the scope of our project to play phenomena designed by such institutions while recognizing that even types of play seemingly developed apart from such entities (e.g. playground games) are infl uenced by them in subtle ways. While there are some exceptions, the phenomena we explore as play gen- erally share the following characteristics (for most people, most of the time):

• They are grounded in particular sites (designated physical or virtual spaces). • They are governed by pre-established rules or protocols. • They encourage players, implicitly or explicitly, to perform prescribed roles. 4 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell • Players usually visit or engage in the phenomena voluntarily, often for the express purpose of playing. • Players usually expect to experience some form of pleasure as they engage in the phenomena.

Although these parameters delineate the scope of our investigation, we do not intend them as a comprehensive defi nition of what play is or might be. While we adhere to no singular defi nition of play, we recognize our thinking has been infl uenced by the many scholars who have studied play before us. Their ideas have shaped, distorted, discredited, and affi rmed our own theories. It would be impossible to exhaustively review the myriad divergent theories that scrutinize or codify play in this space. However, in the next few sections we review some of the most prevalent and compelling literature on those aspects of play’s ontology and epistemology highly relevant to the analyses of ludic sites that comprise the following chapters.

PLATFORM 9¾: RELATING PLAY AND REAL LIFE

Given the human propensity to defi ne phenomena in terms of what they are not, many play theorists compare and contrast “play” with what we might call “real life.” As if watching students pass through the wall of Platform 9¾ in King’s Cross Station into the wizarding world created in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series, these scholars search out and attempt to delineate the border between the play and real-life realms. Their efforts reveal four major schools of thought:

1. Play and real life are discrete/separate concepts/realms/experiences, and/or, 2. Play is an imitation of and opportunity to learn about real life, and/or, 3. Conversely, real life is constituted/shaped by play, and/or, 4. There is no distinction between play and life; life is play, and vice-versa.

These theories are neither exhaustive nor mutually exclusive. Some theorists shift among them depending on the particular play experience they are discussing. Some other theories of play, such as the contention play is not an activity but rather a state of mind (Brown 2009, 60), are incongruous with any of these paradigms.

School 1: We Only Play at Recess: Play as Not-Reality An exemplar of the fi rst perspective is Huizinga’s (1938) theory that play is “quite consciously outside ‘ordinary’ life” and that “no profi t can be gained” from it (13). Consider a college student who, after spending hours revising a research paper, closes her word-processing program and plays a computer game in which she assumes the role of a brave medieval warrior fi ghting to Introduction 5 save a kingdom. One could interpret her game-playing as an escape from the pressures of real life, since the role she embodies in the game is necessarily “other than” real experience. Caillois (1958) might argue her play was “a separate occupation, carefully isolated from the rest of life” (6) because of its virtual nature and the fact it involved only one sentient being: the gamer herself. Similarly, consider an elementary school student who occupies her recess time stomping through the schoolyard pretending to be a fire-breathing dragon. Her play arguably occurs outside of the “real world” which, of course, has no room for dragons or interspecies transfiguration. As she roars and breathes imaginary fire upon her classmates and imagines setting their village aflame, her performance is a form of metacommunication (Schechner 2013, 103) that sends the message “this is play,” something distinct from reality. Those who subscribe to the idea that play is separate from real life ­logically conclude that play therefore lacks real-world effects. Henricks (2006) states that in “play, all of us are granted a certain dispensation from the normal consequences of action” (2). The girl/dragon is not reprimanded for her massive campaign of destruction, no matter how many villagers’ homes she destroys with her firey breath. Her play seems isolated in time and space, enjoyable in the moment but hermetically sealed off from real life.

School 2: Playing House: Play as Mimesis Many theorists, particularly those from the fields of psychology and ­education, postulate play is not distinct from real life but is rather an imitation­ of and/or opportunity to learn about it. According to these theorists,­ we make discoveries about the world around us by playing, usually in indirect and safe(r) ways. The skills we learn through such play benefit us when we later perform them in the “real world” (Bailey 2011, 151). Newman and Newman (2012), for example, report that children begin ­engaging in the playful repetition of motor activities as infants; such play later develops into “the deliberate imitation of parental acts” (211). Further, “once the capacity for symbolic thought emerges, children become increas- ingly flexible in allowing an object to take on a wide variety of pretend identities” (Newman and Newman 2012, 212). Vygotsky (1967) famously argued in his theory of proximal ­development that children progress through a series of developmental levels as they mature. In his view, by “playing at” behaviors at the next higher level, ­children eventually learn and attain that level of development. Lobman and O’Neill (2011) similarly claim: “in their everyday lives, children perform who they are becoming. Children perform as conversationalists by taking turns babbling and become speakers; they perform as readers by ­pretending to read, as they become readers” (x). In sum, this school of thought sees play as a rehearsal for life and holds that we play at and practice the skills we need in the future. 6 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell How then might play – children’s and adults’ – transfer to other­ ­psychological, intellectual, and social contexts within an individual’s life? Brown (2009) notes: “Play’s process of capturing a pretend narrative and ­combining it with the reality of one’s experience in a playful setting is, at least in ­childhood, how we develop our major personal understanding of how the world works. We do so initially by imagining possibilities – ­simulating what might be, and then testing this against what actually is” (36). As such, learning is the testing of imagined ideas in real-life contexts. Turner (2007) expands on this idea: “Role-play and problem-solving drama offer the participant an alternative social site for learning and understand- ing their behaviour and the world around them: an apprenticeship for life” (190). If play is rehearsal for life – a process of testing what could be against what is – how do ideologies play a role? What is being tested and applied by the players? What are the rules, strategies, and tactics, and how do we learn which to value and which to reject? Taussig (1993) connects the concept of physical embodiment to ­identity construction, stating that ideas and memory are strongly connected to ­physicality (46). Chappell (2010) applies this concept to play: “Through becoming the other – in a limited capacity and for an isolated period of time – the performer­ learns what it is to be the other, and makes choices about his or her identity-in-role, revealing those choices in bodily action and adherence to discursive practices” (5). Goffman (1959) and Butler (1993) note that people “rehearse” life, trying out various notions of the self, then materializing them, in concert with the structures we live in and through, into the versions of ourselves we wish to present.

School 3: Alice Promoted to Queen: Play as (Trans)formative In Through the Looking-Glass, Alice (as a white pawn) journeys across a giant chessboard, overcoming challenges and advancing through the game. The puzzles she solves and the bizarre experiences she navigates change her. When she finally reaches the final square of the board she is promoted to queen, completing her transformation. This enables her to take further action. She captures the red queen, wins the game, and returns home. Alice does not just learn about her world through play; she changes it. Like Vygotsky, child psychologist Piaget asserts that some play involves “­accommodation”: learning about and adapting to our environment, as explained in the previous section. However, Piaget regarded play “mainly as an assimilative activity” (Rogers and Evans 2008, 27). When we “­assimilate,” we do not adapt ourselves to our environment but rather adapt our environment­ to suit ourselves and our imaginations (Rogers and Evans 2008, 27). ­Nicholson (2013) similarly notes that some games are ­transformative because their “goals and structure [are] designed to change players.” He further argues that in some instances, play need not have goals or structures at all; “sometimes,­ the play activity itself is rich enough to be transformative” (np). Introduction 7 This sort of transformative play can challenge hegemonic norms, ­leading the dominant powers in a given society to repress it. Indeed, Spariosu (1989) notes that as early as Classical Greece, Plato and his contempo- raries deliberately subordinated play to other types of pursuits in order to suppress its transformative potential (162). If indeed the games a society plays constitute that very society (Caillois 1958), the ability to control play has far-reaching ramifications. Johnson (1998) notes the field of cultural studies interrogates cultural artifacts to determine if, as Plato may have intended, they suppress transformation or if indeed they enable it. He poses questions such as:

Do these forms tend to reproduce existing forms of subordination or oppression? Do they hold down or contain social ambitions, defining wants too modestly? Or are they forms which permit a questioning of existing relations or a running beyond them in terms of desire? Do they point to alternative social arrangements?” (Johnson 1998, 107)

How then might these cultural forms ask players to enact transforma- tive potential? If we can imitate real-life actions and situations in play without ­necessarily experiencing immediate real-world consequences, then play “provides a safe haven in which players can rehearse skills and ­behaviors that transfer directly to performance on all of life’s stages” (­Bailey 2011, 137). As with Augusto Boal’s (1974) theatre-based approaches to social change, play can be a forum for experimenting with new ways of ­engaging with the world and others, both subtle and profound. One of the sites with the greatest potential for change through play is the self. Children “try on a variety of roles and behaviors as they begin to learn who they are” (Heidemann and Hewitt 2009, xiii), and the identities­ they develop in play as young people may significantly impact their lives. For example, Brown (2009) discusses the case of two women whose adult ­relationships closely resemble those they chose for their Barbie dolls decades earlier. One woman recalled that while her Barbie “was always attracting men by being a damsel in distress – showing a bit of leg and cleavage,” her friend’s doll “was a hipster type, smoking cigarettes and wearing Ken’s shirts.” Fifty years later, the first woman had beenmarried­ three times while her friend had never married and still projected “a ­tough-guy attitude” (159). While the play the women in the preceding example engaged in may have affected their individual identities, Willis (1977) notes the collective choices we make also impact our world. For example, if a clique or other group of people choosing to wear a distinctive style of dress is considered play, Willis might note this “generation of a distinctive style in clothing … is material pro- duction. The basis for, and impetus of, this production is the ­informal social 8 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell group and its collective energies at its own proper level” (173, ­emphasis in original). As Brown (2009) notes, such play has ­applications beyond identity construction:

When we engage in fantasy play at any age, we bend the reality of our ordinary lives, and in the process germinate new ideas and ways of being. For adults, daydreams may give rise to new ways of doing business. Fantasies may lead to new love. Visualization may lead to a remodeled house or a new invention. Creative play takes our minds to places we have never been, pioneering new paths that the real world can follow. (93)

The unreal becomes the real! The impossible becomes the possible! At least—in theory.

School 4: We’re All Superheroes: Play as Reality In a rapidly evolving world, some forms of play may seem even more grounded and certain than real life. The rules of chess, for example, do not usually change during a person’s lifetime. Indeed, this fourth paradigm sug- gests that in in postmodern society, play not only influences the real world, it is the real world or, as Huizinga (1938) posits, play and reality are “a single field of action where something is at stake” (40). Banks’s (1988) novel The Player of Games presents a society in which all necessary work is delegated to machines, leaving humans free to pursue lives of play. Humans engage in leisurely pursuits ranging from relatively simple games of chance to sophisticated strategy games that take years to learn. In this world, “all reality is a game. Physics at its most fundamental, the very fabric of our universe, results directly from the interaction of cer- tain fairly simple rules, and chance; the same description may be applied to the best, most elegant and both intellectually and aesthetically satisfying games” (Banks 1988, 48). Though Banks’ character makes this observation in a fictional context, a basic premise can be abstracted from the novel. If play and reality share the same rules, perhaps they are not separate spheres at all. Is there, then, a boundary between play and the real world? If we are always playing, are we ever playing? This school of thought challenges the notion suggested by scholars like Caillois (1958) who call the domains of play and reality ­incompatible. After all, players often argue over interpretations of rules, in-game ­scenarios prompt ideas that help players become more productive at work, and ­daydreams play through the minds of people who are “supposed to be” working. In play, this paradigm holds; distinctions between self, player, and ­character fade. These identities amalgamate to create a unified persona, one who is (­usually) having fun while pursuing an objective. Consider the case of cosplay- ers, for example. These people dress as fictional ­characters when attending Introduction 9 conventions or other events in the “real” world. Their playful ­performances often take place in a “flow state” as defined by­Csikszentmihalyi (1975):

In the flow state, action follows upon action according to an ­internal logic that seems to need no conscious intervention by the actor. He experiences it as a unified flowing from one moment to the next, in which he is in control of his actions, and in which there is little ­distinction between self and environment, between stimulus and response, or between past, present, and future. (36)

Bailey (2011) connects Csikszentmihalyi’s flow to Turner’s (1964) concept of liminality. This “potential” or “transitional” space is a “metaphorical place where reality transitions into imagination and both co-exist” (139). A touring shark-cage diver not only acts as if she were jumping into a shark cage and being submerged in the ocean; she actually does it. On the other hand, this paradigm may seem insufficient in some cases. Does our girl on the playground actually turn into a dragon? Do LARPers (Live Action Role Players – gamers who participate in a theatricalized sce- nario in role, usually as iconic fantasy character types) become fighters and wizards with new physical and/or magical capabilities? Perhaps the answer to such questions is “Sometimes, maybe.” The LARPers are taking on new roles in the bounded area of the game. Part of their roles (e.g. being able to wield a two-handed sword effectively) might not be real, but other parts (e.g. having other members of one’s party defer to oneself as leader) are. Again we find it is not easy to distinguish the real from the imagined. When we play, either as ourselves or in role, do we truly replace our real-life objectives with the objectives of the game? Or are the game’s objectives our objectives? Even if, when playing, we become the other only for a limited time, do not the results of that embodiment continue after the game ends? Even if, in one sense, characters and their associated qualities do not exist, does it neces- sarily follow they do not have very real impacts in the real world? If characters that “do not exist” do impact the “world that does exist,” might not the char- acters actually exist in the real world in the first place?

WAS IT ALL JUST A DREAM? The Purpose(s) of Play

In the previous section we explored schools of thought that attempt to ­understand play by comparing and contrasting it with “real” life. Other scholars have attempted to explain play by considering its purpose(s). If we can identify why play is, perhaps we can begin approaching an ­understanding of what it is. Unfortunately, this approach also fails to yield a clear definition of play, as its purposes seem rather nebulous. In The Ambiguity of Play, ­Sutton-Smith (1997) identifies no less than seven (somewhat) distinct “rhetorics” sur- rounding play including: fate, identity, the imaginary, power, progress, the self, and frivolity. While we cannot sufficiently summarize Sutton-Smith’s 10 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell detailed analysis in this space, we discuss those ideas that are most directly relevant to the analysis of play sites.

Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200: Play as Frivolity At the extreme end of the spectrum of play’s possible purposes is the posi- tion that play is frivolous and serves no purpose. Those holding this per- spective might argue that play is a “waste of time” and that children and adults should abstain from playing in pursuit of more profitable endeavors. ­Puritanical-leaning societies throughout history have espoused this view, traces of which can also be found in early play scholarship, such as Huiz- inga’s (1938) claim “no profit can be gained from” play (13). Some scholars argue play may seem frivolous but this apparent lack of pur- pose is a façade cloaking the very real purposes play serves. For ­example, Brown (2009) describes play’s “apparent purposelessness,” emphasizing it seems to be “done for its own sake” (17). For example, when a child ­creates a finger-painting, it may appear no true art has been created and she has wasted her time, when in reality she is improving both her fine motor skills and beginning to experiment with how mixing primary hues creates ­secondary colors, shades, and tints.

Advance to Boardwalk: Play as Progress A second school of theorists posit that play enables or creates “progress,” ­identifying it as a phenomenon that “promotes development” in both humans and animals (Henricks 2011, 202). These scholars argue that play serves a critical evolutionary purpose by preparing animals to live on an ­evolving planet. In a study exploring play’s impact on juvenile brown bears, for instance, Fagen and Fagen (2004) noted “survival increases as play increases” (89). They observed that cubs who played more often than their peers also survived better, even after controlling for environmental fac- tors. Brown (2009) cites such evidence to argue that play must help ensure species’ survival, otherwise natural selection would have weeded out play behavior over time (29–31). Advocates for the inclusion of play time in children’s school days or adults’ workplaces often employ this rhetoric of progress. The Strong National Museum of Play (2013), for example, maintains that play “guides physical, ­intellectual, and social development … drives innovation, increases ­productivity, and contributes to healthier lives” (np). Similar rhetoric often appears in, for example, play-based preschool mission statements and ­children’s museum promotions.

“The Game of Life”: Play as Tool for Understanding Self & Society A third rhetoric holds that play is “an exploration and generator of the ­individual “self” (Henricks 2011, 202). This perspective harmonizes with theories that envi- sion an imitative and/or transformative relationship between play and real life, Introduction 11 proposing play serves an important role in our lives by ­providing ­opportunities to better understand and change ourselves and the world around us. Multiple scholars suggest that play prepares children for the kind of work they will do in adulthood. Lobman and O’Neill (2011) follow Vygotsky in locating play at the center of this maturation process:

Pretend play with its overt focus on fantasy, ‘what if,’ social interaction,­ and imitation provides children with an environment where they can … perform a ‘head taller’ than they are. In play children are the active creators of their activity and this allows them to try out new roles, relationships, and skills in a low-risk environment. (ix)

Here again, we want to look at the circumstances outside the play itself. While young people may be active creators of activities, are they active cre- ators of environments? How can and do they construct the rules of the games they are playing, and how does this process change when adults are not watching (or do not care what children are doing)? Who is framing both what these stages are and how the children move through them? If play encourages us to evaluate our attitudes, values, and beliefs, or even reconsider the social roles we perform, then it implicitly participates in the (re)formation of ideologies by influencing the metanarratives (Lyotard 1979) we adopt. If, through play, we construct, reform, or dismantle what Taylor (2003) has called “scenarios” and through play structure our social worlds, then play is far from frivolous; it constitutes the very essence of who we are. Intertwined with the purpose of learning about/becoming oneself, the pleasurable nature of play-based pedagogy may also promote learn- ing about a ­variety of other subjects because it “drives learning fueled by desire and curiosity. It motivates students to ask questions about what they don’t know and to seek answers” (Westlake 2011, 140). This idea dates to at least Ancient Greece. Hunnicutt (1990) notes that Plato’s writ- ing suggests that when we play, “we know more about ourselves, about Being, and about the nature of the cosmic game” (211). Mastery is an ongoing process. It occurs throughout our lives, after years spent playing a series of games. Yet we begin to learn rules and strategies early in our lives, as Heidemann and Hewitt (2009) point out:

Play teaches children about symbols, solving conflicts, and­taking turns. … Through play, children learn the cognitive and interaction skills they need to become successful in later school settings and adulthood. Thought- fully planned play experiences give children the opportunity to learn readiness skills. Play provides children with the opportunity to work out experiences that have confused or hurt them. Children take risks in play that allow them to learn new things. They try on a variety of roles and ­behaviors as they begin to learn who they are. (xiii)

We believe scholars can apply these concepts – taking risks, trying ­behaviors, working out confusing experiences – to adults as well. After all, throughout 12 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell our lives we acquire experience, learn in formal and ­informal contexts, rehearse roles and behaviors, and continually (re)discover who we are. In fact, given the proliferation of physical and virtual playful adult-oriented­ spaces in today’s world, we might consider ourselves the most playful adult society in history. Children’s and adults’ rehearsal-through-play is an embodied process. The direct connection between the play children engage in (the process of becoming) and desired skills/outcomes (future states of being) has become so socially ingrained it is rarely interrogated. Biologist John Byers Brown argues:

During play, the brain is making sense of itself through simulation and testing. Play activity is actually helping sculpt the brain. In play, most of the time we are able to try out things without threatening our ­physical or emotional well-being. We are safe precisely because we are ­playing. For humans, creating such simulations of life may be play’s most ­valuable benefit. In play we can imagine and experience ­situations we have never encountered before and learn from them. We can create possibilities that have never existed but may in the future. We make new cognitive connectives that find their way into our­ everyday lives. We can learn lessons and skills without being directly at risk. (Quoted in Brown 2009, 34–35)

By referencing the biological processes associated with rehearsal and ­connecting this rehearsal to fantasy, Brown demonstrates the brain’s ­remarkable ability to construct itself through its own creative processes. Later, however, Brown questions whether the concept of play as “rehearsal for later life” truly serves a biological foundation, using wild animals as a counter example:

One major theory is that play is simply practice for skills needed in the future. The idea is that when animals play-fight, they arepracticing­ to fight or hunt for real later on. But it turns out that cats that are deprived of play-fighting can hunt just fine. What they can’t do – what they never learn to do – is to socialize successfully. Cats and other social mammals such as rats will, if seriously missing out on play, have an inability to clearly delineate friend from foe, miscue on social sig- naling, and either act excessively aggressive or retreat and not engage in more normal social patterns. (Brown 2009, 31–32)

According to Brown, play isn’t about “rehearsing skills” for life but about social development and learning what the world is and how to interact with others. Rather than teaching children discrete skills, play teaches them how to act or perform more generally, and how to survive and thrive in social contexts. Introduction 13 Getting in sync with local groups of kids, and being able to follow that lead into more complex communal groups is a necessary ingredient for cohesive community life when conflicts and differences of style and opinion must be hammered out. This applies to families, school boards, church committees, and … Congress. (Brown 2009, 62)

If play is largely about social development, what types of communities and roles of interaction might specific sites of play promote? What kinds of “soci- eties in action” (Chappell 2010, 280) do games and narratives ­create, with what hierarchies and for what purpose(s)? How do they link to social sites outside the games or other sites of play? And when might the simulations­ become reality?

Capturing the Flag: Playing to Win Thus far, we’ve used the terms “play” and “game” somewhat interchangeably­ , but here we propose drawing a distinction between the two. Parlett (1999) writes: “[A] game is what you play, and to play is to do a game; therefore­ game and play are basically the same, except that one is a noun and the other a verb” (1). Following Parlett, we could consider games to be ­manifest con- structs through which much, but not all, play occurs. These constructs involve players, defined playing spaces, and specific methodologies of play. Parlett divides these methodologies into the “ends” (objectives and/or ­victory condi- tions) and “means” (rules) of the game. Though players often focus on the “ends,” Suits (1978) notes not all games lead toward the same types of ends:

First there is the end which consists simply in a certain state of affairs: a juxtaposition of pieces on a board, saving a friend’s life, crossing a finish line. Then, when a restriction of means for attaining this end is made with the introduction of rules, we have a second end, winning.­ Finally, with the stipulation of what it means to win, a third end emerges: the activity of trying to win – that is, playing the game. (48)

In most traditional games, players pursue all of these ends, ultimately striv- ing to “win.” In many games, such as Capture the Flag, Monopoly, or The Game of Life, players compete against each other, striving to either elimi- nate all other players to emerge as the sole victor or to attain the highest­ place in a rank order or, at the very least, avoid falling into last place. There are also cooperative games such as Pandemic or the Human Knot, in which the players’ collective goal is to beat the game system itself, pooling their resources to stave off the end of the game until they have met a prescribed victory condition. This creates a different culture from a competitive game – a sense of communal threat and a charge to work in harmony with the other players. Many role-playing games function through this model. 14 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell The goal of winning – the idea of victory or success when failure was possible – is usually tied to the power relationships inherent in game par- ticipation. Yet, as de Certeau (1984) notes, play can be a safe space to take risks: “Games, which as operations are disjunctive [producing differences between camps that were initially equal] because they produce differentiat- ing events, give rise to spaces where moves are proportional to situations” (22). Alice’s world is full of these experiences; she is made unequal to the Wonderland residents and even to her role as a Victorian child. She is asked to adapt to constantly shifting environments and rules, and yet is never in what we as readers recognize as real danger. De Certeau (1984) applies this concept to “outside life”: games that “exercise that [disjunctive] function precisely because they are detached from those everyday combats which forbid one to ‘show his hand’ and whose stakes, rules, and moves are too complex” (22). Here he returns to the concept of learning in safety, getting better at playing – whether one wins or loses individual games – and the idea of mastery. Mastery might be seen as a higher order of power, the power to consistently dominate other players, to internalize and make best use of the rules, strategies, and tactics of a game, and the pleasure in knowing that a move, solution, or risk paid off, in a game or in life. We also recognize the cultural importance of play does not begin and end with the personal or small group experiences of players. In fact, there exists a strong connection between societies at large and the games they play. ­Caillois (1958) notes that there is

a truly reciprocal relationship between a society and the games it likes to play. There is indeed an increasing affinity between their rules and the common characteristics and deficiencies of the members of the groups. These preferred and widely diffused games reflect, on the one hand, the tendencies, tastes, and ways of thought that are prevalent, while, at the same time, in educating and training the players in these very virtues or eccentricities, they subtly confirm them in their habits and preferences. (82–83)

Looking at play as cultural activity not only provides insight into societies’ norms and values but also the kinds of power relationships extant in those societies. According to Sutton-Smith (1997):

On the social play level, the general idea of the power rhetoric is that play or games or sports or athletics that have to do with some kind of contest and reflect a struggle for superiority between two groups (two people, two communities, two tribes, two social classes, two ethnic groups, two or more nations) exist because they give some kind of representation or expression to the existing real conflict between these groups. (75) Introduction 15 These struggles for power may be seen in formal and informal play, as play- ers compete for various types of dominance: regional, sexual, or intellectual,­ for example. Think of sporting events in which the spectators “play along” by cheering the home team while berating the opposing team. This type of play is as important to, and power-infused as, the experience of the game happening on the field. Power also compels play; people often play because they have little or no choice in the matter. Dating, job interviews, shopping: these playful (creative, open-ended) activities are often considered require- ments for daily life. Thus to play is required of each member of society and to win is almost always the overarching goal. The fact we are constantly presented with experiences in which we are driven to win, individually or collectively, may play a key role in helping game-makers transmit ideologies, socialize players, and create the seductive ludic structures that keep individuals playing. By presenting players who may feel they live in societies that limit their influence and self-efficacy with the opportunity to imagine themselves as champions, games can become powerful draws. Still, as Banks (1988) posits: “the game’s the thing. That’s the conventional wisdom, isn’t it? The fun is what matters, not the victory. To glory in the defeat of another, to need that purchased pride, is to show you are incomplete and inadequate to start with” (24). For many players, two objectives exist simultaneously: the drive to win and the drive to show the game is ultimately not important. Although not all of the ludic sites in this book are games in the traditional sense, they do include play that is defined in specific ways (Parlett’s “means”) and many establish objectives for players (Parlett’s and Suits’ “ends”).

BUILDING BETTER WORLDS: Intervention Into and Through Play

Diana Taylor’s (2003) concept of cultural scenarios – “sketches or ­outlines” that allow narratives to conform to a number of ideological stances – applies to the work of play-structuring institutions. Institutions may put forth ­narratives, often loosely structured ones, with specific corporate ­interests or goals. Players, however, can respond to those narratives from numerous­ aes- thetic, cultural, and philosophical standpoints. Iser (1980) suggests that texts – stories, performances, experiences – include “blanks” or “gaps” to be filled in by the perceiver: “participation means that the reader is not simply called upon to ‘internalize’ the positions given in the text, but he is induced to make them act upon and so transform each other, as a result of which the aesthetic object begins to emerge” (119). Given the flexibility of scenarios and the prevalence of gaps in any performance, players have the ­opportunity to reinterpret, re-envision, or completely reconstruct their roles as defined by institutions. As Alice says: “I don’t want to be anybody’s prisoner. I want to be a Queen” (Carroll 1872, 75). 16 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell Such re-envisioning happens often in role-playing. Players may subvert the familiar expectations of fantasy characters – for example, by having a half-orc character, typically associated with aggression, instead display compassion and gentleness. Similarly, when adult fans of television shows like My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic play at being (pony) characters online or through collection display or cosplay, they can subvert typical understandings of “target audiences.” Adult men without children (popu- larly but problematically known in the media as “Bronies”), watch the show (targeted at young girls) and discuss which pony character appeals to them and where the storyline of the show may be headed. Likewise, fan fiction, even though usually inspired by corporate sources, can subvert expected tropes by pairing characters who were not together in the source material or “canon” (Busse and Hellekson 2006) or writing scenes that might have been too edgy for publishers or filmmakers. Fan fiction authors take advantage of gaps in the canon to explore their own interests within a universe that appeals to them yet is potentially limited by commercial interests. How do these reinterpretations apply to theatre specifically? How might this ancient narrative art form based strongly in transformation of people and spaces allow for narrative play and possibly social transformation? Cahill (2010) writes:

This notion of fantasy as allowing us to ‘imagine ourselves and others otherwise’ may be at the heart of the transformative power of drama. By embodying the possible, which is not yet part of reality, we ‘bring the elsewhere home,’ thus bringing it into the realm of that which can be considered. Having been enacted, even in the fiction of the drama, it becomes a part of our reality. Then it becomes an opportunity, an option. (167)

Such liberatory possibilities seem exciting, but what are the limitations of Cahill’s “embodying the possible”? Returning to institutions’ deployment of specific scenarios, how are players steered toward specific visions/paths for the future by the parameters of particular ludic experiences, structured or unstructured? How might sites of play manipulate our conceptions of what we can and should be before we begin to imagine something different? On the other hand, how might those committed to social activism and change use roles and contexts to expand players’ understandings and ­create opportunities for liberatory play? Perhaps the key lies in undoing, ­illuminating, challenging, or overturning some of the hegemonic structures we as adults have existed under since childhood. Lobman and O’Neill (2009) write:

We tend to relate to older children and adults as being a particular kind of person or as only being able to do certain kinds of things. It is easy to get stuck in scripted roles and relate to ourselves, and each Introduction 17 other, with very limited expectations. In school and in the workforce people are rewarded for who they are and what they know how to do, not for who they are becoming. For many people this means that they stop doing what they do not know how to do. (x)

So can sites of adult play be deliberate attempts to challenge these roles people have become stuck in? Is there a corporate interest in using play to effect social change? Wisneski (2011) investigated how play could foster inclusive classroom communities but found that in many cases, children used play to exclude others rather than include them. The fact that play is often used in such negative, even destructive fashions is troubling; Wisneski found, however, that when she intervened in the children’s play, she was able to affect their choices and perceptions. For example, when she, an adult, began to play with one child usually neglected by the others, the other children began to play with this previously ostracized child as well. Not only did the students change their perceptions, they changed their actions. Just as a teacher can intervene in her students’ play and influence its course and outcomes, the institutions that structure and manage play for adults and children can intervene in and impact the players’ behaviors. While in unstructured environments groups of people might make choices based on any number of factors, spaces that have been structured by ­institutions are likely to have built-in interventions that influence and limit theplayers’­ options, potentially affecting their thoughts and actions. How, then, are players to respond? Can they find their way through the structures in which they find themselves? Do they have the information they need to interrupt and challenge the narratives and roles they inhabit, as well as the will to do so? If Alice successfully navigated Wonderland, a truly fascinating and confusing place, perhaps we can follow her example and when we are done with the worlds we’re playing in and the roles we’ve been assigned, call out: “You’re nothing but a pack of cards!”

PLAYING BY OUR RULES: Overarching Methodologies and Theoretical Frameworks

This section briefly introduces methodological and theoreticalterminology­ used throughout the following chapters. The researchers in this volume gen- erally employ qualitative methods to explore play phenomena, the institu- tions that structure play, and players themselves. As Denzin and ­Lincoln (2011) note:

The word qualitative implies an emphasis on the qualities of ­entities and on the processes and meanings that are not experimentally examined­ or measured … in terms of quantity, amount, intensity or frequency. 18 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell Qualitative researchers stress the socially constructed nature of reality, the intimate relationship between the researcher and what is studied, and the situational constraints that shape inquiry. (8, emphasis in original)

While qualitative methods are employed widely in the arts, humanities, and social sciences, there are limitations inherent in these methods. For example, the results of qualitative studies are not necessarily generalizable. ­Furthermore, because qualitative researchers “emphasize the value-laden nature of inquiry” (Denzin and Lincoln 2011, 8), the contributors to this volume recognize that their standpoints/subject positions influence their analyses. This book’s studies are also empirical in nature, following “empiricist philosophies of knowledge [that] generally argue that knowledge is based in direct experience of concrete objects or events” (Bredo 6). While the stud- ies in this book are far from positivistic, and are equally grounded in a variety of critical theories (as detailed below), they do primarily draw on direct, experiential data. Ultimately, the essays tend to adopt the theoretical framework of pragmatism, “avoid[ing] totalizing accounts of an idealistic or materialistic sort by focusing on the requirements of specific situations, each of which [is] considered unique when viewed as a whole” (Bredo 25). As Creswell and Plano Clark (2007) suggest, this involves blending methods­ and theories from multiple paradigms and “doing whatever it takes to attempt to understand problems in the real world” (22–23). The studies are generally ethnographic, and are concerned with the descrip- tion, interpretation, and analysis of culture, broadly construed (Bogdan­ & Biklen 2003, 27); they seek to explain how humans make meaning­ of/from phenomena (Anderson-Levitt 2006, 279). To varying degrees, each chapter’s author is present as a participant in their study, sometimes as a cultural insider (e.g. someone who was an active participant in the culture before beginning their study), other times a guest who first experienced the culture they explored through the research process. Many of these studies could be considered auto-ethnographic because they “include the author’s ‘standpoint’ perspec- tives as an explicit presence in the fieldwork” (Denzin and Lincoln 2011, 52). Our authors engage in critical ethnography because they take “account of the researcher’s impact on the context under study” (Gallagher 2006, 63–64). That is, each author realizes their presence within the sites they study affects what they witness; none claim to be objective outside experts or attempt to make positivistic truth claims about the sites/cultures they explore. Many of the chapters are grounded in case studies, “detailed examination[s] of one setting or a single subject, a single depository of ­documents, or one particular event” (Bogdan and Biklen 2003, 54). Of these, some are ­multi-case studies, in which two or more sites were researched (Bogdan and Biklen 2003, 62). The authors understand sites to mean both physical­ ­structures in which phenomena occur (e.g. theme parks or marathon race courses) as well as virtual sites framed by digital boundaries in which Introduction 19 ­avatars carry out actions corresponding to commands given to them by their users (e.g. World of Warcraft). Many authors collected data through participant observation, in which they “enter[ed] the worlds of the people [they studied …] and ­systematically ke[pt] written record[s] of what [they] heard and observed” (Bogdan and Biklen 2003, 2). Although most of the authors in this ­volume used this method on a short-term basis, experiencing just one performance, one dive, etc., they nevertheless gathered significant data. In truth, most ­player-­participants at these sites generally encounter them in the same short-term fashion. Additionally, some researchers conducted semi-structured interviews in which they asked participants open-ended questions about play experiences (Bogdan and Biklen 2003, 3). Whether conducting participant observation­ or interviews, researchers generated field notes to record their observations, questions, and interpretations regarding phenomena (Bogdan and Biklen 2003, 161). They later coded these notes, assigning “a word or short phrase that symbolically assigns a summative, salient, essence-capturing, and/or evocative attribute for a portion of language-based or visual data” (Saldaña 2012, 3). Other authors conducted archival research, analyzing primary sources such as publications, websites/online posts, text chats, screen shots, and other meta-diegetic narrative elements. Through coding and ­analysis, the authors identified salient themes in their data and theorized about their implications. Through these analyses they analyzed elements of ludic experience(s) such as expectations, lines of power, cultural contexts, ­narrative structures, and affective engagements. Another specific mode of analysis some authors employ is ­scenography, which views the space in which phenomena occur as a stage space (Mc­Kinney and Hill 2011, 111). Others, who believe “humans, ­individually and socially, live storied lives” view the data through the lens of ­narrative inquiry and present their data in storied formats (Connelly­ and ­Clandinin 2006, 477). Finally, most authors interpret their data through one or more ­post-structural (McCormick 2006) and/or critical lenses (Bredo 23–24), such as feminism (Mulvey 1975, Diamond 1996), Marxist or class-based ­criticism (Althusser 1971, Williams 1977), critical race theory (Jan Mohamed 1985, Gilbert 1994), or queer theory (Butler 1990, Meyer 1994). Through the use of these lenses, the authors suggest implications of their analyzed data with regard to a range of identities and experiences.

COMING ATTRACTIONS: Chapter Previews

The following chapters each address how specific institutionsstructure­ ­particular ludic experiences, illuminating some of the ideological ­implications of each site that become evident when analyzed through the 20 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell lens of performance.­ In the final chapter of this volume, we discuss the potential collective impacts of these individual experiences and others like them, considering how they may structure our understanding of ourselves and the world around us and how we might choose to engage with the ­narratives they present. The majority of the following chapters focus on played-through ­experiences grounded in physical spaces explicitly designed for playing (as the term is defined by our various contributors). Michael Schwartz explores the experience of shark-cage diving off the coast of Africa, paying ­particular attention to how the experience is framed both in the moment and in the video narrative produced to document the experience. John Newman discusses how Disney’s Epcot asks park guests to interact with attractions, exhibits, and experiences, explicating the methodologies the company employs to engage guests and offering thoughts on how these strategies can be used by other entities. Drew Chappell similarly looks at three tourist-industry-driven immersive dinner-theatre productions, explor- ing how they structure guest engagement with the cast and production and place the audience members in particular roles to play through. Danielle Szlawieniec-Haw probes a contrasting but equally constructed experience in her exploration of activities taking place in BDSM dungeons by analyzing the roles and experiences of professional Dominatrixes and their long-term male clients. Several authors explore physical sites where the play that takes place may not have been that of the designer’s original intention. Jennifer Goodlander discusses how patrons at an Indonesian shopping mall are called to perform and play through particular identities as they shop, or not, in the space. Dani Snyder-Young reveals how Live Action Role Players (LARPers) can ­convert a college campus into a fantastical land inhabited by wizards and warriors as she analyzes a long-running LARP game she studied in Connecticut. Kane Anderson discusses how Cosplayers playfully perform at ComicCon, ­influencing the experience in ways the event organizers cannot necessarily predict or control, despite the fact the Cosplayers, through their attire, act as unofficial representatives of company’s brands. Other contributors speak to how spaces that are designed for one type of play can be co-opted or overwhelmed by players who approach the ­experience in untraditional ways or who bring particular cultural ­backgrounds to the played-through experience. Terry Dean explores the performances of stunt-runners, who subvert typical marathon-running experiences by donning theatrical costumes or performing stunts as they proceed through the course. Megan Sanborn Jones explains why “Mormons think they should dance” in her treatment of contemporary dance-based reality television shows and historical analysis of Mormon participation in dance. Finally, our contributors discuss play and performances that take place in virtual spaces. Kimi Johnson discusses the massive, multiplayer online Introduction 21 game World of Warcraft with an eye to how player/characters interact with the game’s narratives, making choices based on their dual identities as both gamer and in-game character. Erin Horáková explores the reading, writing,­ and critiquing of fan fiction in order to understand fans’ impact on the ­creative processes of writing cross-culturally. Throughout this volume, the editors and contributors refer back to the principles and ideas introduced in this chapter, often expanding on them by sharing additional theory and analysis. We illuminate how viewing played- through experiences through the lens of performance can deepen scholars’ and practitioners’ understandings of both play theory at large and these phenomena in particular. 2 Warriors, Wizards, and Clerics Heroic Identity Construction in Live-Action Role-Playing Games1

Dani Snyder-Young

Down the stairs, three warriors creep, trailed by a hooded monk, a girl clutching a teddy bear, and a bosomy noblewoman taking frantic field notes (that’s me!). Clad in duct-tape armor, clutching swords and axes made of PVC pipe, foam, and more duct tape, the warriors slide stealthily up to a closed door. The lead warrior gestures to the monk and the women to hide in a corner; the monk positions his body between the women and the door. With a synchronized cry, the three warriors throw open the closed door, surprising two duct-taped goblins and a black-cloaked wizard. The warriors coordinate their strikes, delivering fatal blows to the goblins and injuring the wizard’s hands so he is unable to cast spells. The leader of the warriors instructs the others to tie up the wizard so he can be questioned.

QUEST & LIVE-ACTION ROLE PLAY

In the fall of 2005, I conducted a case study examining a Live Action Role Playing (LARP) game. My participation was limited to a single “Tavern Night” – one eight-hour-long game – embedded within a twenty-year-long campaign. Many players in this game are now in their thirties; the game I studied took place on the campus of the elite liberal arts college from which many of them graduated in the 1990s. In this game, adults (mostly men) inscribe heroic identities for themselves. The game’s liberal-arts-­ ­educated creators hold progressive social values. As a result, the rules of the fictional world codify progressive stances on social issues such as ­gender equity and gay partnership, ostensibly creating a utopian fantasy world in which female knights and queer couples are not only accepted but are considered­ quite normal. However, even working within these formal rules, real-world­ social norms and expectations of masculinity can sometimes prove ­difficult to shake, as evidenced by the opening anecdote. This essay explores ways ­performances within this landscape reinforce mainstream ­discourses of ­heroism and construct alternative forms of masculine status. I operate within Henricks’ (2011) framework of play as “an exploration and ­generator of the individual ‘self’” (202), examining the ways in which the identities men con- struct through game play sometimes reflect and at times consciously resist the “selves” they play in everyday life. Warriors, Wizards, and Clerics 23 LARP developed out of tabletop role-playing games such as Dungeons and Dragons (Ewalt 2013). In LARP games, participants develop heroic ­characters within a set of fixed constraints, physically going out and doing battle with the forces of evil within a sprawling fictitious world. Some ­campaigns, like the one I participated in, can stretch on for years as ­participants develop many facets of the characters’ personalities and engage in complex, epic battles saving the world from the forces of evil. This ­particular form of play is unique in that it is fully embodied and takes place in real time and space, creating a highly structured fantasy world ­overlapping with the real world. Quest Interactive Productions, founded in 1991, is a non-profit organiza- tion based in Connecticut. Its sole purpose is to produce LARP games set in a continuing fictional world. It is run by a volunteer board of directors and administrated by volunteer-staffed committees ­responsible for organizing the work of overseeing event operations, maintaining props and weapons, and maintaining the continuity of the fictional world in which the games are played (quest.org). Quest, as an institution, has a stake in games being fun and feeling safe; since it consists entirely of volunteer ­players ­participating for recreational purposes, those players need to continue enjoying games for the organization to continue to exist. Quest produces an average of five events per year, ranging in length from several hours to several days, all set in a constantly evolving fantasy world. Events are designed by Game Masters (GMs), who function as writer/­ director/producers, and are executed by a staff of over thirty Non-Player Characters (NPCs) who, as interactive actors, provide obstacles for the ­participants to overcome. The participants, or players, are the protagonists of the game, collectively and individually. Games take place in a variety of environments including multiple ­locations on a college campus. Common rooms transform via rough set dressing into medieval taverns. Courtyards, with the aid of a few props and a great deal of imagination, become forest clearings. As game participants­ not only choose to attend events but arrive prepared with clearly ­determined ­characters, ­suspension of disbelief is high. Aligning with Huizinga’s (1938) definition of play, this game consciously stands outside ordinary life, even while ­overlapping it in ordinary campus spaces. This overlap creates ­differentiation between those “inside” the world of the game and those “­outside” of it, creating social bonds among players as they enjoy the ­pleasure of navigating their own secret world embedded in the pedestrian. The social overlap means the game is not fully isolated from everyday life, as it both deepens and is informed by these existing relationships. New players begin building characters by choosing personae familiar from tabletop role playing and fantasy novels. The principal “classes” of warriors, wizards, clerics (healers), and rogues initially helped me under- stand the sorts of characters players can construct, but advanced play- ers begin with more complex character concepts (e.g. thieving farm worker, noblewoman fleeing an arranged marriage, or out-of-work 24 Dani Snyder-Young magician). ­Players then flesh these concepts into personalized characters by ­responding to an extensive series of written prompts designed to assist the ­non-actor in character development: Where do you come from? How old are you? What sorts of things do you like doing and with whom? What are your goals? Your fears? What did you have for breakfast this morning?­ Players use this information to choose from a set of ­predetermined ­talents (e.g. ­superior strength, immunity to poison), abilities (e.g. first aid, ­lock-­picking), ­weapons (e.g. short sword, crossbow), disadvantages (e.g. overconfidence,­ illiteracy), and limitations (e.g. mute, hemophiliac). ­Enthusiastic ­players may sew their own costumes or purchase elaborate attire, but most ­assemble an outfit with thrift-store finds and duct-tape accessories. ­Preparing to play a Quest game is labor intensive; participa- tion is not for the casual observer. The story of the particular “Tavern Night” I attended focuses on the troubles of a remote village set upon by monsters. When the town had been founded, a magical protective stone had been set to defend the town against attack; at the start of the game, players discover this stone has disappeared. They must overcome obstacles to figure out who took it, why it was taken, and how to put it back together. “Obstacles” include NPCs playing mon- sters to fight off, phsyically, and potential allies to enlist, logic puzzles to figure out, and physical puzzles to assemble and transport.

JOINING THE PARTY

I operated as a participant-observer throughout this game, playing in a party alongside four veteran Quest players. I developed a character who would have an excuse to keep field notes and conducted informal ­interviews while playing the eight-hour-long game. My relationship to Quest prior to this study was tangential; my college boyfriend Aiden2 was and remains an active participant. We stayed friendly over the eight years between our breakup and this game. As an undergraduate, I mocked him and his friends mercilessly as they made weapons out of PVC pipe, foam, and duct tape, organized “fighter practices” to work on their physi- cal combat skills, and marched around campus pretending to be dwarves and elves. When I approached Aiden and his friends Scott, Damon, and Greg about the ­possibility of studying a Quest game as part of a larger project on ­interactive theatre traditions, my request was met with peals of triumphant laughter. They were excited to share their adventures with me, prove my years of mockery had been misguided, and have an excuse for an impromptu college reunion. They invited me to join their “party” or group of players navigating the game together, and this chapter focuses on the identities they crafted and performed throughout the game. My ongoing friendships with the players color my perceptions of the game and of Quest as an organization; I do not claim to be unbiased. Warriors, Wizards, and Clerics 25 I know them in other contexts, and this cannot help but bleed into my ­understanding of their play in this event. Yet as games are social events, these ­ongoing ­relationships enabled me to fold into the fabric of the game ­relatively smoothly and my enjoyment spending time with old friends enabled me to understand the social pleasure of this form of play differently than if I had played with strangers. Scott developed the concept for our party. We played representatives of the King, sent to investigate reports of suspicious activity in the remote region of the game world in which the adventure took place. Each participant­ developed his own character; Scott and Aiden helped me develop mine. The party’s relationship to the King gave it high status within the world of the game. This turned out to be appropriate, as the age and veteran status of the other members of my party meant they were looked to for leadership by less experienced players.

HEROIC IDENTITIES, ALTERNATIVE MASCULINITIES

Though masculinity can be expressed, perceived, and performed in many ways, Smith (2009) posits: “The idea of being a hero is at the center­ of ­masculine identity” (88). Representations of heroism reflectcultural ­ ­currents ­consumed in contemporary North American life. Reeser (2010) argues: “Images can be turned into myths when they become so widespread­ that culture takes them for granted as a narrative of masculinity” (22). Representations­ of masculine heroes from many action movies (Lichtenfeld­ 2007), western films (Slotkin 1992), and war movies (Smith 2009) help ­reinforce a set of stock features associated with both masculinity and ­heroism. Bonner (2005) uses the term “manliness” to discuss these ­characteristics and behaviors that “extend, and typically symbolize, the cultural values and traditions­ of being a man” (xii); stereotypical “manly” characteristics might include “aggressiveness,­ sexual prowess, muscular strength, social dominance,­ and competition” (xi). ­Gender theorists describe this stereotypical set of characteristics and behaviors as “hegemonic masculinity.” In-game, the men participating in this study displayed some (though not all) of these behavioral patterns as they enacted images of heroism, most notably muscular strength, “getting things done,” competition, and bravery. While these behavioral patterns may be normative, they are only enacted by a minority of men, as Connell and Messerschmidt (2005) point out, not- ing actual masculinity is far from one-dimensional and “many men who hold great social power do not embody an ideal masculinity” (838). Many models of ideal masculinity circulate through contemporary society; “such models refer to, but also in various ways distort, the everyday realities of social practice” (838). These models “express widespread ideals, fantasies, and desires” (838). As a result, the performance of fantasy construction seems an ideal site for the investigation of models of masculinity. 26 Dani Snyder-Young LARPing is often understood as a geeky practice, its players generally rep- resented in popular culture as socially inept, physically weak, straight, white males ignored by girls and obsessed with science fiction, such as in the main- stream comedy Role Models (Wain 2008). The LARP game in this movie is populated by adult men in chain mail speaking in mangled ­Shakespeare quotes, adults who do not appear to be able to separate the fantasy world from the real world, socially awkward teenage boys, and one particularly winsome teenage girl. Outsiders to this world pathologize ­participation as falling outside the bounds of stereotypically “manly” behavior. Aderegg (2007) theorizes why, despite “the fresh air and physical activity and lack of computers” (210), LARPing is associated with nerdiness and geekiness. He believes mainstream anti-intellectualism devalues and derides activities requiring an extreme up-front expenditure of attention and effort – such as learning a detailed backstory and complex rules. Cheng (1999) classes nerds with women and homosexuals as “feminine”­ others marginalized by hegemonic masculinity (295) and Lusher and ­Robins (2009) identify “gay or academically inclined” subordinate ­masculinities (387). However, I do not believe nerds or geeks are a ­subaltern group. Con- temporary adult American society does not mirror the social structures rep- resented in movies about high school and, most of the time, ­college-educated men in their thirties who like math and science ­benefit from the privilege of their education, social class, and market forces offering financial rewards for math, science, and technology skills. Perhaps it is this very status that gives the men described in this study the confidence to engage openly in a form of play so openly mocked by outsiders. As Segal (2001) argues: “The greater men’s status and recognition in the world, the more feasible their mocking detachment from heroic muscular masculinity” (246).

REAL BODIES, REAL SKILLS

Quest’s democratic ethos encourages players to have a stake in the rules of the game and to propose changes to them. As a result, the game world’s rules reflect a set of progressive political values explicitly designed with ­gender parity in mind. The rulebook states: “Heroes in the [game] don’t protect ‘innocent women and children,’ since many women are able to protect­ ­themselves, and many men are not. (Plus, many heroes are themselves women!) Instead, they protect ‘the innocent and children’” (Yaus 2005). While the game world draws inspiration from medieval social structures, it includes female knights, noblewomen can inherit property, and while some characters “deviate from this norm [of gender parity],” they are “regarded as odd, aberrant, backward and/or unjust” (Yap 2006). In practice, women more often take on historically male roles than vice versa. As Helen, a vet- eran female Quest player, explains: “Men can take on the roles of ‘damsels in towers’ but no one is very interested in playing that kind of character.” 3 Warriors, Wizards, and Clerics 27 Waiting to be rescued is, in practice, rather less fun than doing the rescuing. GMs sometimes highlight gender in unexpected ways, as in a game that was structured around groups of players assisting knights in gathering items and completing tasks in a competition to win marriage to a wealthy, attractive noble. The knights were women, the noble a man. Yet the game is played by real bodies, and real bodies have real ­limitations. Physical strength and agility are assets in combat; real combat skills are developed over years of practice. As Helen puts it: “In a tournament, you have all these guys and a couple of women and the women are usually eliminated within the first couple of rounds because men have a physical advantage involving upper body strength.” Many women, as a result, tend to gravitate toward less combat-centered roles. In addition, as players age, they become aware of how their physicality changes. Undergraduate players may be available to attend regular fighter practices to develop and maintain their combat skills, but as Helen points out: “When you are living a more normal adult life, you tend to lose skills very fast.” That said, three of the four men described in this study played ­combat-heavy roles in this game, even though in 2005 they were in their late twenties and living in a large city several hours from weekly fighter­ -practice sessions. It is perhaps an oversimplification to declare these men spend much of their time in the real world focused on intellectually oriented tasks, using LARP as a space of play in which they can engage physically. They have been playing LARP combat for approximately a decade and have achieved high levels of real skill, akin to fencing or sword fighting. These skills are a source of status within the Quest community and this game presents an opportunity to show off. Combat skills are not the only real skills prized by the Quest community; crafting is central to the Quest world. All weapons in Quest are homemade, and creative weaponry like Scott’s custom-built sword with an axe head attached to one side, Damon’s set of throwing stars, and Aiden’s comically oversized sword are much admired. This presents an additional, if different, way to show off real skill. The weapons Scott, Damon, and Aiden create and bring to the game are whimsical, personalized, and specific. Designing and making weapons is part of the fun.

HEROIC QUALITIES

As Giardina (2007) states: “The action hero responds to our deepest desires: we look at this hero with a thousand faces and we dream that one of those faces could be ours” (135). So in LARP, players are able to embody their heroic dreams and fantasies. To many players, this is part of the appeal of participating in the space of play. The men participating in this study constructed and performed characters­ embodying a number of heroic qualities. They expressed the qualities in 28 Dani Snyder-Young idiosyncratic and unique ways, but were still embedded in larger cultural discourses of heroism: intelligence, strength, bravery, and humor.

Quick of Wit Scott plays Hunter, a fast-talking lieutenant in the King’s Guard. He is the undisputed leader of the group. Hunter stands a stocky 5’8” and wears shiny metal chainmail over a white linen shirt, a red and black velvet ­doublet, black pants, and a black beret with a gold pin in the center; he carries ­multiple homemade weapons. Hunter drives much of the game’s action and does much of the talking for our group. His by-the-book attitude toward law and punishment assists in the flow of the game, as Scott, a real-life lawyer, wrote much of the game world’s legal structure and therefore knows the law inside and out. In many ways, while Scott constructs a warrior character, his greater contributions to the game come in the form of verbal negotiations, as he uses his status as a veteran within the Quest organization and his comfort with verbal negotiation to problem-solve both in and out of role. Hunter interrogates the renegade wizard captured in the opening anecdote; Scott freezes the action to express safety concerns when a fight sequence is initiated on a wide flight of stairs. The heroic identity Scott crafts derives most of its status from verbal ­aptitude and quick wit, utilizing skills he has at his disposal in both the world of the game and the real world. Brant (2000) characterizes “‘doing things’ or getting things done” as an expression of masculine authority (70). Hunter uses intelligence to get things done. But for all Hunter’s verbal aptitude,­ he is defined, in game-world terms, primarily as a warrior, drawing status from physical strength. Within the world of the game, physical strength and the damage done by blows from a sword or an axe are measured in points, existing purely within the framework of fiction. Scott’s verbal skills afford him high status within the gaming community and upper-middle-class ­professional status in the real world, yet within the fiction, he constructs a character whose status derives from excellence in physical competition.

Strong and Silent Damon, as “big game” fighter Mr. Crouth, wears grey chain mail loosely knit out of chunky grey yarn over a white Henley shirt and dark pants. A stocky 5’11”, he carries a large sword, an axe, throwing stars hidden in his boots, and an immense shield. In the rare instance in which Damon ­initiates dialogue in non-combat scenes, he does so without character inflections;­ Mr. Crouth sounds, gestures, and utilizes speech just like Damon. But within this world, Mr. Crouth does not often need to talk. Damon dis- plays what Breu (2005) would call a “suppression of affect” (1); his “detached, laconic utterances” in-role display a “prophylactic ­toughness” reminiscent of Clint Eastwood’s strong, silent onscreen persona. This strong, silent archetype Warriors, Wizards, and Clerics 29 of masculine heroism “resists language” (Horrocks 1995, 76). Horrocks (1995) critiques the strong, silent ­archetype as “the demand made by patriarchy to men: deaden yourself, show no feelings, do not speak, carry out your duties and don’t complain, and then die” (77). Silence becomes a badge of masculine strength, and Mr. Crouth is, by definition,­ macho; he kills big things for a liv- ing. This gives Damon, who is rather shy, a method by which he can be a hero without needing to talk much. He can become, within the world of the game, the strong, silent warrior striking fear in the hearts of his enemies. This heroic identity derives status from both physical strength and silence. His stoicism is level-headed and practical, his physical skills earned over a long lifetime of fighting large monsters. The archetype of the strong, silent hero is perhaps as much of an homage to Western films as to fantasy novels, reflecting the hegemonic cultural value that it is manly to keep emotion and fear hidden behind physical strength.

Self-Sacrificing Greg’s Merrimack is a cleric whose power comes from divine sources; his pri- mary purpose in the game is healing people. Lean and standing almost 6’ tall, he wears simple, dark clothing and a large, unstructured, brown leather hat. He carries a spell book and a whistle instead of weapons. Greg responds to verbal prompts in-game but does not initiate dialogue or scenes; he does not have to as he is constantly approached for aid. As the group’s only healer, he is of vital importance; with fighting comes injury and people must be healed for the game to continue. Greg emplots Merrimack as Hunter’s partner. This close relationship enables him to be near the center of the action – where Scott/Hunter is – without needing to do much of the talking. Merrimack’s labor is necessary and in demand; this means he needs to stay out of the way during combat sequences. This becomes particularly clear when, in the first battle of the game, Merrimack sustains a chest wound. Few players in this particular game have chosen to play characters with healing skills, so Merrimack, the strongest healer, is vital. Two other healers pool their strength to begin his healing process, and he must rest for twenty minutes to complete his healing and regain his strength. In light of this, it seems odd to me that several hours later, in the moment described at the opening of this chapter, Greg positions himself physically between me and the fighting. In the world of the game, my character is expendable. As an inexperienced player, I have few skills. Had we been ­playing a strategy game on a game board, few players would have placed a powerful game piece in a vulnerable position to protect a weak game piece. Yet because LARP is embodied praxis, cool strategy does not always prevail. Greg positioned himself to protect my small female body. As Aiden puts it: “It’s hard sometimes to separate the gender roles we grew up with as part of our society. These are the gender roles of the world. Because there’s a lot of unwritten assumptions that are kicking around in the back of your brain.”4 30 Dani Snyder-Young Connell and Messerschmidt (2005) note patterns of gender relations are situated in specific social environments (232) and patterns of male behavior do not operate in isolation from patterns of female behavior (849). In light of this discussion, I cannot treat Greg’s performance as separate from my own; Greg’s move to physically protect me operates in dialogue with my move to seek physical protection.5 Yet in this discussion it would be inappropriate to neglect the ways in which self-sacrifice is considered heroic in the Quest world. In separate interviews, Helen and Aiden both discussed self-sacrifice in stories they told me about in-game heroism. Aiden’s definition of heroism is “putting ­yourself in danger for the benefit of other people.” Helen tells a story of an in-game sacrifice she witnessed:

We had one player who had to do a ritual to save [an important ­cathedral] but that would consume her life. … She walked into the final scene with the understanding that “I am never ever going to play this character again and this is going to be the most talked about death ever for the good of my country.”

This kind of self-sacrificing act ennobles players with status within the Quest community. From this angle, Greg’s act to place himself in vulnerable positions to protect weaker-seeming characters can be read as a quiet act of in-game heroism.

Comic Relief Aiden’s bright blue eyes light up with enthusiasm as he tells stories. He stands about 5’9”, wears his light brown hair in a ponytail, and, as Mr. Townsend, wears a blue renaissance-style shirt belted over dark pants while ­carrying a comically oversized crusader-type sword along with a foam-padded ­cardboard shield. His character, a hot-headed young fighter, rushes into ­combat first and thinks about it later. When encountering a large band of orcs, he dives in and hacks away, paying no attention to the fact that he is outnumbered. Out of combat situations, Aiden initiates ­improvised ­dialogue, mostly tangential to the action and comic in nature. When faced with a camp of refugees fleeing their monster-infested village, Mr. Townsend’s first response is to try to make them laugh. The heroic identity Aiden constructs derives status from both bravery and charm. Aiden has intentionally crafted a less-than-bright character for comic value; he is quite outgoing, but does not seem to want to compete with Scott for leadership of the group. Aiden’s choice to focus on tangential­ comedy enables him to get attention without causing conflict. He also gets attention, and status, through combat; taking on a roomful of orcs is quite a showy act. This stands in contrast to Aiden’s real life in which he ­infrequently puts himself in positions to receive a great deal of attention Warriors, Wizards, and Clerics 31 from the masses. In 2005, he was working in a technical support position, sharing an apartment with Damon, and spending time with his close-knit circle of old friends. Mr. Townsend, the character, derives status from physi- cal prowess and bravery, and through this comedic performance, Aiden, the player, derives status.

ALTERNATIVE STATUS

Role-playing games are as much about community as about competition. King and Borland (2003) characterize gaming communities as “people searching for a place that feels like home, surrounded by others who under- stand them” (4). This community – these friendships – are the first thing veteran Quest players cite when asked why they play; as such, they develop one form of alternative status. Skills from the game world can also translate into out-of-game tasks. Helen highlights the ways in which participating as a GM helped her develop project management and leadership skills that have carried over into her professional life, and how participants develop collaboration and social skills working in groups. This chapter has focused on the ways play- ers get and display status within the game world, but one could argue it is GMs who have the most “real” status in the Quest community, as they are the architects of the games, determining the framework within which the others play. These positions require and develop real skills, and GMs who run excellent games (or display talent for scene writing, game organization, or complicating situations when they play key antagonist characters) receive much attention and recognition. Aiden tells me: “Being good at something gets you attention. Fighting well or being a great storyteller or being able to adopt a character well, those sorts of things are highly prized.” Storytelling is a key community- building activity within Quest; it is central to both the playing of games and post-game reflection on shared adventures. Storytelling helps integrate new players into the ongoing world and community. It becomes a kind of glue holding a somewhat sprawling community together, reinforcing norms (like ideals of gender parity) and socializing “newbies” into the community’s standards of behavior (“Don’t be a jerk,” as Helen puts it). In the movie Role Models, LARP becomes a metaphor for quirky individ- ualism, the LARPer an underdog triumphing over mainstream scorn. This representation reflects King and Borland’s (2003) observation: “The fact that their games [take players] outside the mainstream of American popular entertainment culture help[s] solidify their bonds” (6). The Quest commu- nity builds its own internal systems of status, reinforcing these bonds. There is status to be had for men and women alike through the display of com- bat skills, problem-solving skills, storytelling skills, and game-design skills. And there is a kind of hegemonically masculine status to be had as adoring 32 Dani Snyder-Young nineteen-year-old girls in low-cut bodices sigh over impressive battle maneu- vers. Men admire each other’s skill in conceiving and constructing creative weaponry out of PVC pipe, foam, and duct tape. Within this space of play, there is room for men (and some women) to be heroes, if only for a few hours. The party hears a cry coming from below the patio on which it has regrouped. The fighters leap down into the “caves” to discover a female ranger – a fighter – has been captured by orcs. They hack and slash, each fighting with his signature weapons in his signature style until the ground is littered with the bodies of the orcs. Victorious, the fighters lift the injured woman in their arms, carrying her to safety.

Notes

1. This chapter was completed with support from an Illinois Wesleyan University Artistic and Scholarly Development Grant. 2. All names in this chapter are pseudonyms. 3. All quotes from Helen are from an interview I conducted with her in May 2011. 4. All quotes from Aiden are from an interview I conducted with him in June 2011. 5. The veteran women Quest players, including Helen, were NPCs at this ­particular game, so while I observed several veteran male players in action, I did not get to observe how the veteran women played. 3 Homo Ludens and the Sharks Structuring Alternative Realities While Shark-Cage Diving in South Africa

Michael Schwartz

The material is familiar from sea shanteys, literature, and film: man faces the ocean and its most dangerous predators. Hemingway’s Old Man battles for a great fish and his own dignity; Brody, Hooper, and Quint pursue a great white through the waters of Amity Island; Melville’s Ahab chases his mad obsessions and guilt embodied in Moby-Dick; Disney’s Little Mermaid sends the plucky piscine heroine through shark-infested waters in search of human treasures such as snarfblatts and dinglehoppers. My tale is a tale of sharks and the men and women who pursue them as a form of recreation, a kind of play in which divers can share the ocean with aquatic predators that have captured the public’s imagination: great white sharks. How the author, not necessarily the type who enjoys this sort of play, found himself so immersed, in more than one sense of the word, and the playful nature of this adventure are the subject of the tale in this chapter.

THE ROUGH WATERS OF PLAY THEORY

Sutton-Smith (2008) calls to readers to “come sail with me through a life spent fishing the waters of play theory” (82). In a similar invitational spirit, I invite readers to swim in the waters of play theory located off South Africa that are feeding routes for great white sharks. Tourists descend upon such ports as Cape Town and Gansbaai to set out on small boats only to descend again in cages to experience the sharks up close. I was one such tourist in the summer of 2007, and in this chapter I exam- ine how my excursion to this ludic site both illustrates and problematizes Huizinga’s (1938) concepts of “noble games” and escape, as well as the idea of “risky play” as evoked by modern play theorists such as Sandseter and Kennair (2011). Shark-cage diving is a world of commerce in which consumers are sold not only the adventure itself but a carefully manufactured “history” (­digitally recorded) of the event that creates feats of heroism, fun, and comic relief. Among the products that consumers buy at the site is a newly ­structured 34 Michael Schwartz reality or, perhaps, a record of the “illusion” that, as Huizinga (1938) noted, is literally “in-play” (11). Sutton-Smith (2008) looks back and forward on his ­groundbreaking ­studies in play theory and notes “there is the danger on this first-person ­voyage of seeming merely ludicrous.” But, he continues tantalizingly ­(playfully?), “what if that is precisely what the study of play itself turns out to require?” (82). In setting forth my misadventures in shark-cage ­diving in South Africa, I claim nothing resembling the erudition and ­lifetime ­expertise of Sutton-Smith. I do, however, stand a pretty good chance of being ludicrous.

OF SHARKS AND MEN

The story of my shark-cage experience can be summed up fairly easily­ . My wife and I went shark-cage diving in South Africa about six years ago at time of writing. It was a rough trip, I became violently seasick, and along the way I saw some sharks. At the end, we received a DVD of our shark-cage ­diving adventure and we had some good stories for our friends. ­Nevertheless, in this story of typical bumbling on my part, there also exists the opportunity to examine the way the “play” of shark-cage diving illus- trates and, perhaps, plays with the ideas of what play is and what it means. While taking the reader through this particular kind of play in this spe- cific ludic space, I will address the “stories” we participants were called upon to play through, as well as the story that the production and mar- keting team behind the shark-cage diving expedition produced by way of filming and editing. To follow the process further, I will illustrate how the “story” becomes the “product” that is bought and sold at the end of the prescribed adventure. Finally, I will examine the “roles” the participants play in these stories, and how participants are blended (or edited) into their appropriate roles in the narrative that is then given commercial and emotional value. Huizinga believed in the transformative powers of play, as Anchor (1978) asserts in his article on Huizinga’s body of work: “We can always resort to play either by seeking an alternative to reality in play, or else by transforming reality through play” (70). What Huizinga might not have been able to imagine is just how thoroughly reality can be transformed, and how other realities can be created, through the business of interactive play. My attempt at playing with sharks began, as noted, in South Africa, where the shark-cage dive is one of the most popular and seductive attrac- tions. My wife, ever game and ever adventurous, was looking for whale- watching opportunities on the Internet when we learned we would be going to South Africa for a theatre conference. Instead, she found the one recreational ­destination that could trump whale-watching: seeing sharks up close. Homo Ludens and the Sharks 35

Photo: Kathleen Kerns Figure 3.1 A shark circles the boat.

THE WEBSITES: HELLA FUN!

The many websites advertising the myriad shark-cage diving opportuni- ties fully capitalize on the collective popular image such events as the movie Jaws and the Discovery Channel’s Shark Week have helped to cre- ate. For example, The White Shark Diving Company of Gansbaai offers a good deal of dramatic buildup on its website: “A dorsal fin and part of the tail silently slice up through the water, leaving barely a wake; the ominous fins lock in on the boat. The undisputed lord of the deep has arrived!” The website also provides information of ecological and historical inter- est. The prospective tourist learns Dyer Island, made famous by Shark Week and home to what is known as Shark Alley, was named for “Samson Dyer, an American Negro who came to the Cape in 1806, and who lived on Dyer Island where he collected guano.” The websites and advertisements also further offer the promise of danger combined with the correcting promise of safety. The website assures the tourist that the diving company oper- ates responsibly, in an eco-friendly manner (they neither pollute the envi- ronment nor harm the sharks), and in accordance­ with the South Africa Maritime Safety Authority’s (SAMSA) safety regulations.­ “Our crew,” the website explains, “consists of a Dive Master, Level 3 Medic and a Skipper with SAMSA authority, who are trained to handle any emergency situation that may arise whilst out at sea.” 36 Michael Schwartz The emphasis on safety and ecological responsibility is important to the shark-cage diving trade, which still suffers criticism for, among other prac- tices, changing the feeding habits of sharks to attract the tourists, thus ­putting those who enjoy sea recreation (surfers, for example) in greater ­danger of attack. To counteract such criticism, shark-cage diving companies feature evidence of safe and environmental practices prominently in their ads. In the summer of 2009, for example, two major shark-diving companies qualified under Fair Trade Tourism South Africa (FTTSA) regulations. FTTSA provides and requires “a stringent assessment and certification process that examines the economic, environmental and social impacts of its operations” (Mohale 2009). Tourists especially concerned with ethical tourist practices and eco- logical responsibility will note the FTTSA stamp of approval as an important determining factor regarding which adventure company to choose. Testi- monials from satisfied customers offer further incentive to take the literal and figurative plunge. On Michael “Sharkman” Rutzen’s website, a happy American tourist writes, “Hella fun! Plus I got to wear Brad Pitt’s wetsuit!” A chance to come within touching distance of the great white shark seals the deal for a great many tourists, including my wife and, by extension, me. The idea of fun is, in many respects, at the heart of what we as a culture con- sider play. Huizinga (1938) defines play as “a voluntary activity or occupation executed within certain fixed limits of time and space, according to rules freely accepted but absolutely binding, having its aim in itself and accompanied by a feeling of tension, joy, and the consciousness that it is ‘different’ from ‘ordinary life’” (28). To extend the definition of this play adventure further, we might also categorize the shark-cage dive as “risky play,” that is, “thrilling and exciting forms of play that involve a risk of physical injury” and that “primarily [take] place outdoors” (Sandseter and Kennair 2011, 258). We might also include Geertz’s (1972) notion of deep play in which, roughly speaking, all participants are “in over their heads” (254). While the activity – Geertz was studying Bali- nese cock-fighting – may appear foolishly violent or worse, the stakes played for are nothing less than the essence of status: “esteem, honor, dignity, [and] respect” (255). In other words, “Hella fun!” At our location in Gansbaai, the fixed limits of shark-cage diving time takes about half a day, starting early in the morning. The shark-cage diving company we chose claimed additional cultural capital thanks to celebrity endorsements – besides Brad Pitt, whose wetsuit I apparently did not wear, there were also Leonardo DiCaprio and Prince Harry – as well as connections with National Geographic and the Discovery Channel, enough to convince most tourist-consumers these are shark-cage guides who know their business.

THE PACKAGE AND THE HERORIC SELF

The package includes a light breakfast, lunch on board the shark boat, and a turn in the cage as part of a group of five or six. Upon return, the Homo Ludens and the Sharks 37 ­participants get a chance to freshen up and to see themselves on a large TV screen, thanks to the videographer/editor who can take the roughly three- hour tour and edit it into a fifteen-minute film in a matter of about thirty minutes. Here, those who supervise and market the adventure make their greatest advance to constructing heroism and encouraging the ­tourists to construct, to use Steiner’s (1999) term, their “heroic selves,” in this case, heroes who can face the great white shark and laugh. With regard to this construction of “heroic selves,” the act of this kind of interactive, heroic play has a therapeutic element as well. A person could conceivably strengthen an otherwise fragile or damaged heroic self on the road to healthy men- tal development. The ­language of the websites, the cultural connections we make to the excitement­ and danger of sharks, and the familiar physical locations – known shark habitats – give tourists the opportunity to com- pare their prowess (or lack thereof) to outsiders and others, which is an important element in building the “heroic self.”1 The tourists can compare themselves to other tourists who have participated in the adventure, and they also have the opportunity to compare themselves to real shark experts, who provide information and background (as well as often being the centers of the action) during “shark week,” and to fictional heroes who confront sharks in movies, TV, and other entertainment. The day of our adventure was a particularly rough one. The seas tossed the boat and, by extension, us around as we bounced here and there, ­trying to change from our clothes into our wetsuits. We had been instructed to combat seasickness by chewing gum. Personal empirical analysis assures me chewing gum does not work, and of the thirty-odd people in the boat, I had the dubious distinction of rushing to the side first. I was not alone for long. “[V]irtue, honour, nobility and glory fall at the outset within the field of competition, which is that of play,” Huinzinga (1938) reminds us (64). These qualities also fall over the side of a heavily rocking shark boat or are, perhaps more accurately, tossed over. Eventually, I got into a wetsuit, the uniform of this particular kind of play, and I even found my way into the shark cage itself. Once immersed in the cage, the guides instruct participants to “Duck!” when the shark approaches, lured to the boat by chumming – that is, throwing bloody fish parts into the water. Underwater, the tourists have the best view of the shark and some also bring underwater cameras to try to capture the encounter. My wife made a valiant effort, getting various shark parts on each shot; if one put them all together, one would almost have a whole shark. For my part, my massive nausea greatly reduced my natural fear of the sharks, and I actually felt somewhat better in the water. In some cases, perhaps, a hero is someone who is too nauseous to do the unheroic thing. The next logical paragraph in adventure-telling dictates some mention of what happened when I was in the cage with my fellow adventurers, ­watching the sharks. Surely I must be able to say something that at least touches upon what must be the primal beauty, the ultimate encounter 38 Michael Schwartz itself between pasty-skinned­ tourist and great white shark, that perfor- mative combination of maya and lila described so eloquently by Schech- ner (1993), “where ultimate positivist distinctions between ‘true’ and ‘false,’ ‘real’ and ‘unreal’ cannot be made” (29). Nevertheless, the description of the ­experience itself will forever remain something of an anticlimax. If I ­remember thinking anything­ in my benumbed state in the water, it was along the lines of, “Yup, those are sharks.” If, as Shechner (1993) notes, “maya-lila is the presence of the performer enacting the ‘not’ of her role: the Ophelia who is not there, who never was there” (30), then I was enact- ing the playful tourist who was not there, the one who might have existed for the other tourists and perhaps my wife but for me only existed in the Internet advertisements and brochures. After the shark encounter, the boat took us back as we changed back out of the wetsuits (I had considerable help from my wife). None of us partook of the onboard lunch due to the aforementioned rough conditions but after we returned to the dock, the videographer had us wave as we disembarked. This wave, it turned out, would become an important part of our transfor- mation from spectator to actor and, for some of us, from ordinary tourist to shark-facing hero. In the wave for the camera, we participants became par- ticularly conscious as performers, as opposed to dealing with the moment- to-moment activities of facing sharks as well as seasickness. The wave for the camera serves to close the “story” that is sold as product at the location, the story, as we will see, of a “hella fun,” simultaneously risky and playful adventure, and the happy smiles and waves at the end confirm the story’s premise.

HEROES AND JOKERS

It is fair to say one of the purposes of interactive tourist attractions, whether the activity involves horses on a dude ranch or hiking or ­mountain ­climbing, is to encourage the indulgence and creation of the heroic self, even if the her- oism is playful as opposed to a function of the real world. The activity itself provides a great deal of the accomplishment, and certainly ­photography and slides can assist in fixing the accomplishment in time and memory. Like any live performance, however, the adventure is ephemeral. Filming the ­performance for the viewing enjoyment of the tourists brings about a number of interesting events in terms of both hero-making and “strange- making,” alienation that would cause both Marx and Brecht to nod in rec- ognition. (As Marx wrote in Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, “The worker has become a commodity, and it is a bit of luck for him if he can find a buyer.”) In fact, the spectators simultaneously become actors (in the sense they have actively participated in the event itself), heroes (in line with those who face sharks and live to tell about it), others (since the heroes on screen are now enhanced and improved versions of the real Homo Ludens and the Sharks 39 people), and commodities (since they are now part of a product, the DVD, that is meant to be sold). The DVD created by the videographer recasts, revises, and reinvents the historical event. Instead of a ship on turbulent seas and a seasick group of ­tourists, the DVD provides fifteen to twenty minutes ofthumping­ ­techno-music as the ship sets out without problems, the tourists smile and enter the cage, and the adventure goes smoothly. The brief “scare” as the shark gets its tail caught in the cage for a moment becomes part of the ­unpredictable, anything-can-happen adventure. As the tourists watch the DVD, they watch themselves but not themselves; the DVD “heroes” are in great spirits and not seasick. Rather than undergoing the decidedly unheroic­ activity of ­puking over the side of a boat, the tourists see themselves in a straightforward adventure, uncluttered by the unpleasantness of reality. The “heroes” complete the trip with the wave to the camera; as at the close of a live performance, they take a curtain call. As tourist-consumers, we are encouraged to embrace the playful hero narrative even as we are obviously aware of the less “hella fun” aspects of the journey. Just as McConachie (2011) notes that for theatrical participants, “blending ... is a cognitive necessity” for theatrical activity (40), such blending – that is, separating one’s self and the role one plays – functions in the exhibition portion of the entertainment the shark-cage adventure provides. In providing this exhibition, it becomes the job of the videographer to improve the adventure, in this case, by removing the unpleasant weather and even more unpleasant bodily reactions. The actual, real-time heroism of facing sharks (as well as turbulent waters) might well serve the memory, but the DVD for the tourist-actors is, quite literally, another story. The DVD is also, just as literally, a product or commodity. The game but occasion- ally sick tourists are turned into smiling, happy shark-diving heroes, stars of a DVD that is not included in the shark-diving package but for which one pays an extra fee. We, as the tourists, were alienated from the figures on screen by virtue of revised history and by the alienation of becoming a product for sale. If the shark-cage adventure constructs and complicates the hero image, it is also worth noting that even in the slickly produced DVDs, not ­everyone can be heroes, not even just for one day, to paraphrase David Bowie. To be forthright in this first-person account, I am not a hero on the DVD. For all the expert editing that reinvents and invites the participants to re-view or re-see the event as thoroughly exciting and pleasurable (omitting the unpleasant elements) and the players themselves as cheerful and intrepid, the producers of the DVD product could not or would not make me a hero. I am used as comic relief in an otherwise tense adventure movie; my actions (and one line of dialogue) are strategically placed so my fellow tourists can see and construct their heroic selves in direct contrast to my non-heroic self. For example, at one point during the excursion, I had been in the water for some time and asked if I could get out of the water. My request was ignored 40 Michael Schwartz and I stayed in the shark cage for a while longer. The viewer of the video sees a series of quick shots of mostly smiling participants, the shark approaching the cage, and some appropriate “oohing” and “ahhing,” a vocal sign of the tourists’ respect for the predator in its natural habitat, then a quick cut to me asking if I can get out (pause for laughter). The adventure then continues as before. As it happened, I provided the perhaps much-needed comedy for the brief twenty minutes’ traffic on film, but I was not done yet. The DVD closes with the aforementioned curtain call; the tourists leave the boat and walk back toward the facility where they later watch the DVD. The viewer, who had previously been the participant, watches the tourists wave to the camera or give a thumbs-up sign, some individually and some in couples. I also gave the thumbs-up sign but my face more openly betrayed the effects of Neptune’s (or Poseidon’s) capricious fury. Once again, among the audience of tourist-heroes, my presence generated a sizable laugh. By being the one who could not be heroic, I gave my fellow tourists permission to laugh, not directly at their now heroic DVD selves but at the classic funny sidekick, likable and perhaps lovable but never a hero. If, as Sutton-Smith noted, play is “largely a matter of power” (as cited in Brown 1995), I had in one sense ceded my power as prospective hero by the end of the session of play. Looked at another way, however, what had occurred was perhaps more accurately a power exchange, the power of the hero traded for the power of the joker. To fully complete the service of creating heroic selves for a group of tour- ists, there often needs to be a sacrifice, a concrete and tangible example of un-heroism to emphasize the heroism of the hero(es). Just as the other participants were encouraged to embrace their projected heroic selves (liter- ally, on the DVD screen), I was chosen to embrace the role of joker, comic servant, or other appropriate comedy-relief figure. I emphasize the term “chosen” because the creators of the event and the DVD could have edited me as playing just as heroically as the others. However, I gave the filmmak- ers the opportunity to create and emphasize my own tendencies that lent themselves to what we consider comic relief. If I were hoping to use the shark-cage diving adventure as an opportunity to repair or reinforce my own heroic self, I would have to look elsewhere. At any rate, to my fellow shark-cage tourists of that summer day in 2007 who did get a chance to see their heroic selves, I humbly say, “You’re welcome.”

FRONTSTAGE AND BACKSTAGE

Notable in the process of choosing, editing, and recreating the tourists as heroes (or jokers) are the roles of the captain and boat crew, none of whom was apparently affected by the rough seas. The awareness of role-playing and role-making is illustrated by an exchange between one of the onboard shark cage guides and my wife. Homo Ludens and the Sharks 41 “This was a particularly rough day, wasn’t it?” my wife asked. The guide smiled, which led to something of a combination of knowing smirk and outright snort. (Ideally, of course, the job of asking such key ques- tions should have fallen to the author, but I was not, at that moment, at my best.) While the exchange was brief and, as I understand it, good- natured and without malicious intent, I would submit the laughter indi- cates deeper levels of social role-playing. While the shark-cage captain and guides are firmly entrenched in the business of risky play and the creation of heroic selves, there is another layer of play involved, the play initiated by the guides, or ­service class, of getting the tourists, usually rep- resentatives of the comfortable­ ­middle- and upper-middle leisure classes, into something of a pickle. The line is a fine one. The pickle cannot be so disastrous or ­disappointing the ­experience is unsuccessful for the tour- ists but ­nevertheless must be ridiculous­ enough to provide an afternoon’s entertainment and diversion for the boat’s ­captain and crew. The seasick tourists, in this case, were performing their distress for the benefit of the hard-working crew members while at the same time the crew members were compiling ­footage that would become the ­reality-changing perfor- mance record. The levels and layers of role-playing involved in this par- ticular play were briefly­ permeated, or perhaps punctured, in the exchange between the crew member and my wife. To use the terminology of work- place studies, all notions of frontstage and backstage were dropped in a simple, tacit admission that the ocean was probably too rough that day to go out but business demanded at least an attempt at a successful out- ing. In that tacit admission, the crew member did not feel the compulsion that many service employees do to either “play dumb” or “play safe.”2 We had acknowledged the presence of the multiple men behind the mul- tiple curtains involved in creating a commercial production of risky play without malice or rancor. My only regret as of this writing is I could not have felt a bit better at the time to appreciate the pregnant pause in the performances. The adventure of shark-cage diving becomes an interesting series of increasingly alienating effects for the tourist-participant. The shark-cage­ ­diving company dutifully and efficiently performs the services ofhigh-risk­ interactive tourist attractions. The company emphasizes the real danger­ , in this case the unpredictability of the shark and the ocean, while ­simultaneously assuaging the tourist with the promise of meeting stringent safety ­credentials. The tourists participate, generally with great enthusi- asm; it should be noted the rough seas and massive seasickness outbreak are not necessarily the norm for such an attraction, otherwise, obviously, the attraction would not thrive nearly so well. The ship and video crews direct the tourists to provide closure for the DVD, the wave and the curtain call to signal the end of the show. The videographer collects highlights and efficiently disposes of any lowlights, recreating the experience as well as recreating the cast of actors as heroes (or not). The tourists then experience 42 Michael Schwartz themselves as others, as heroes, and ultimately, as a product or part of a product. “[O]nce a game is beautiful to look at its cultural value is obvi- ous,” Huinzinga (1938) tells us (48). In a sense, the videographer’s job and the company’s goal are to make the game beautiful to look at. Once this is done, the value of the game and the products derived from the game increase substantially on multiple levels. In the case of the actual, tangible product the DVD becomes, the value is immediately monetary, as well as any longer-lasting nostalgic or re-viewing value the customers may derive from the transaction.

AND THE WINNER IS ...

If shark-cage diving is something of a game, we must introduce the idea of winning. Huinzinga (1938) asks point-blank, “What is ‘winning,’ and what is ‘won’?” He goes on to note that whoever wins the game “has won esteem, obtained honour; and this honour and esteem at once accrue to the benefit of the group to which the victor belongs” (50). Through the gift of editing and videography, the tourists become winners and obtain the honor of facing the shark and living to tell the tale. They can, in turn, share this honor and regale others in their circle of friends, relatives, and associates, the groups to which the victors belong. In this sense, while I might have been denied full hero status, I could perhaps still be viewed as a winner in this particular scenario, obtaining some esteem and ­benefiting the group by providing humor and laughter, however unintentionally. The creation and maintaining of the heroic self are perhaps the most impressive attractions of all, and the shark-cage diving adventure intriguingly­ problematizes the question of who is creating and who is created­ (or who is playing and who is played). In a sense, perhaps this literal as well as figurative staging illustrates Huinzinga’s (1938) sense of “false play,” as he writes: “Civilization today is no longer played, and even where it still seems to play it is false play – I had almost said, it plays false, so that it becomes increasingly difficult to tell where play ends and ­non-play begins” (206). In another sense, however, perhaps the manufacturers and marketers­ of the shark-cage diving experience are merely presenting the art of illusion­ or the art of being in-play. Separating the players from the played becomes increas- ingly challenging and, perhaps, more than a bit ludicrous. ­Nevertheless, as Sutton-Smith hints, perhaps this ludicrousness is a vital aspect to embrace in the study of interactive play. It is in the spirit of this ludicrousness that I conclude my account of the shark-cage diving adventure. Recently, after hearing a rather tighter version­ of the story than the one here, a friend looked me in the eyes and said, “Never do that again.” The warning was unnecessary in this case. My world of play, risky or otherwise, will not in the future include sharks. I might, ­however, be convinced to go whale-watching if the seas are sufficiently placid. Homo Ludens and the Sharks 43 Notes

1. For Steiner, a person’s idea of his or her “heroic self,” which corresponds very roughly to Freud’s “ideal ego,” is vital for “sufficiently normal development.” In Steiner’s (1999) words, “the heroic self is a component of our constitutional endowment, it varies in intensity, is very often put to the test, and at times is even reinforced by very dramatic early events and by one’s capacity to overcome catastrophic anxieties” (713). See also Steiner (1999) pp. 686–718. 2. See, for example, Ashforth, Kulik, and Tomiuk, “How Service Agents Manage the Person-Role Interface,” Group & Organization Management (Feb. 2008) 33:5: “There is a diffuse literature on cognitive and behavioral defense ­mechanisms, self-serving biases, and so on in the workplace ... ranging from withholding involvement to resisting change, ‘playing dumb’ to ‘playing safe’” (10). 4 Playfully Empowering Stunt Runners and Momentary Performance

Terry Dean

It was mile twenty-four of the 2007 Richmond marathon and, dressed in my standard running shorts, shoes, and shirt, I was feeling relatively good. ­Seemingly moments later, the reality of my fatigue hit me like a ton of bricks and the bricks apparently affixed themselves to my legs as Istruggled ­ to maintain my pace for the last two miles of the race. My mind said yes, my legs said no. As this argument escalated within me, I heard someone­ singing. Soon I realized it was “Blue Suede Shoes” and it was being sung through the tempo of heavy breathing. It was a runner and he was ­coming up fast on my left. I tried to speed up but it was futile. As he began to pass, I saw him. It was Elvis, dressed in his full regalia, with polyester white jumpsuit, wig (or ­excessive hair gel, I couldn’t tell for sure), and sunglasses.­ He carried a wooden, cut- out guitar prop, and yes, he was singing “Blue Suede Shoes.” All of a sudden I realized I was audibly screaming, “NOOOOOOOO!” I had just been passed by a singing Elvis. At mile one, he might have been a humorous­ and impressive sight but this late in the race, it was, well, ­humiliating and demor- alizing. I’m not above being humiliated, and most marathons I run become demoralizing somewhere along the way but needless­ to say, this was different. At that moment my running became decidedly anti-ludic, helped in no small part by the more playful ­performance of my Elvisonian competitor.

THE ART OF THE STUNT

Running, of course, has been a form of playful performance, most ­commonly athletic, throughout most of documented human history. Spectators­ around the world turn out by the millions each year to witness the feats of ­world-class runners as well as performances of friends and relatives who compete on the same stage. Within the context of the present-day fitness boom, where participation in road races worldwide has risen to ­unprecedented levels, an entirely different type of performance has increasingly gained ­popularity. In a practice commonly referred to as stunt running, road-race ­participants don costumes and/or engage in simultaneous activities while they run, thereby greatly increasing the race’s level of difficulty. Despite the light- hearted and often humorous nature of stunt running, an examination of this Playfully Empowering 45 practice reveals a number of valuable insights on ­various aspects of ludic ­performance. In this chapter, I analyze stunt running through the ­theoretical lens of play, specifically in relation to power. In the case of road races, power is held by the institutions that organize, sanction, and enforce the rules for these events. Rules are aimed at measuring athletic performance and determining a race winner. Yet through their deeply embodied, ludic perfor- mances, stunt runners create a frame for self-empowerment, ­destabilizing the marathon’s purpose as pure athletic competition while playing on the same stage as world-class athletes who compete to win.

Photo: Chris Freeman, printkiller.com. Figure 4.1 Dennis Marsala running in a costume, including a plaid jacket, and carrying a champagne bottle in a performance as Coatman.

Stunt running is as varied as one can imagine, but there are a number of legendary practitioners whose stunts provide a glimpse into the ­diversity of these performances. Coatman has run over one hundred marathons (26.2 miles each) dressed in a heavy denim jacket, dress shirt and tie, and bright yellow socks. During each race he also wears wingtip shoes and ­carries an empty champagne bottle on top of a pizza box or, more recently, a plastic tray adorned with a champagne bottle and colorful plastic drink glasses 46 Terry Dean (Yasso 2008, 190–191; Friedman 2006, 82–87). Geta-man is named for his ­footwear, traditional Japanese wooden sandals known as getas that he wears to complement his authentic kimono (Yasso 2008, 193). Among a number of runners who juggle during races, The Joggler­ holds the world-record­ time for the marathon while ­continuously ­juggling (three hours, seven ­minutes) (Friedman 2006, 86). The Dollies­ run while costumed­ and endowed as Dolly Parton ­impersonators, while The ­Running Elvises, The Blues Brother Guy, and Kermit the Frog also race dressed as their namesakes and carrying the appropriate ­accoutrements (Friedman 2006, 86–87). Cowman­ A-Moo- Ha (a.k.a. Cowman) runs marathons in a grass skirt and a heavy helmet with large bull horns (Yasso 2008, ­193–194). Pancake Man carries a skil- let and flips pancakes throughout the race (Cart 1992). And then there is ­Pennyman, who ­consistently runs a respectable three hour and fifty minute marathon wearing a ­thirty-­two-pound suit made of 3,568 ­copper pennies (Yasso 2008, 194–195). These individuals are often scorned and dismissed by ­fellow r­unners as ­attention-seekers and publicity hounds. Such criticism may be warranted, but their performances nonetheless form an important aspect of the spectacle of contemporary road racing.

Photo courtesy Mike Cuzzacrea Figure 4.2 Mike Cuzzacrea running in a warm up suit while holding a pan and flipping a pancake in a performance as Pancake Man. Playfully Empowering 47 For a run to be perceived as a bona fide stunt run, there are two main ­factors: the difficulty of the race itself, which is primarily determined by the ­distance, and the level of difficulty added on to the race by the runner’s choice of stunt(s) (Huston 2011; Yasso 2008, 187–195). The full marathon (26.2 miles) is the classic distance for authentic stunt runs. Wearing a Ker- mit the Frog costume may not be extremely challenging for a 10K race but wearing it for a full-length marathon makes it a stunt because of the dangers of running in the costume over the entire race course for three to five hours (compromised vision, heat, chafing). Yet dressing up in a costume alone does not solely qualify one as a stunt runner; conversely, a costume is not a prereq- uisite for a stunt run. Whatever it is the runner does must add exponentially to the difficulty of the race such that it rises to the level of a recognizable stunt. For instance, joggling is extremely difficult, so a costume is not necessary for joggling to be considered stunt running. In terms of costumed stunt-running endeavors, the devil is in the details. Dressing up to look marginally like Elvis does not a stunt run make; the particulars of the costume here determine whether or not it is a stunt. For example, wearing an authentic-looking Elvis costume, including a bedazzled polyester white jumpsuit, over-sized belt, cape, wig (or the aforementioned hair gel), and sunglasses, over 26.2 miles qualifies as a stunt due to the added difficulties and dangers of complet- ing the race with all of this superfluous and performance-impairing attire. Extra points are awarded if the Elvis wears matching white boots instead of running shoes and also carries a guitar. The most extreme Elvis stunt runs involve the continuous performance of Elvis songs throughout the duration of the race. Clearly, stunt runs vary in their level of difficulty, and the actual degree to which a spectator will perceive a runner as performing a stunt is very much perspectival. However, the criteria above provide some loose defi- nitions for the types of performances that are referenced in this study. The interplay of real athletic play with an adopted characterization and theatricality, and the fleeting nature of the moving performance from the spectator’s point of view, reveal both the potential and the limitations of this sort of embodied, momentary performance. Stunt runners are partici- pating in a multi-layered mode of performance within which their athletic performances are foregrounded for spectators by self-consciously created and performed personas. The exploits of stunt runners often magnify the nature of their physical accomplishments, yet interviews with stunt runners reveal most of their performances are “playful” and fundamentally aimed at “entertaining” spectators. These performances are unique (and often puz- zling) because stunt runners construct performances that last only seconds for each spectator but still require several hours to complete en route to the finish line. I refer to this phenomenon as “momentary performance.” From the point of view of the stationary spectator positioned at a single point on the race course, the stunt runner’s real presence is only momentary, yet the spectator’s full experience of the performance requires the imagina- tion. The spectator must imagine the stunt runner performing for the entire 48 Terry Dean distance of the race in order to fully appreciate the stunt runner’s accom- plishment. Whether or not the imagined performance actually reflects the reality of the performance depends on the runner’s ability to complete the entire race as designated by race organizers, and this reality is experienced almost exclusively by stunt runners themselves even while the impact of their performances relies on creating this perception, moments at a time, in the imagination of each spectator.

INSTITUTIONALIZED RUNNING

The role of institutional power is significant to the experience of the spec- tator in this momentary performance. This audience is participating in a process common to any theatrical performance. Bennett (1997) builds on Gaylord’s notion of the double consciousness involved with both spectators and performers. Bennett suggests there are two frames involved in the audi- ence’s experience of the performance:

The outer frame contains all those cultural elements which create and inform the theatrical event. The inner frame contains the dramatic production in a particular playing space. The audience’s role is carried out within these two frames and, perhaps most importantly, at their points of intersection. It is the interactive relations between audience and stage, spectator and spectator which constitute production and reception, and which cause the inner and outer frames to converge for the creation of a particular experience. (139)

In road races, the outer frame is constructed primarily by race organiza- tions, some of which operate with multi-million-dollar budgets. For exam- ple, the New York Road Runners operate the New York Marathon, which involves over 45,000 runners who pay between $200 to $400 each to regis- ter for the race. The race’s current headlining sponsor is the Dutch multina- tional financial-services corporation ING. Race merchandise, memorabilia, and photographs form a significant part of their business to promote both the race and the race’s sponsors. Marathons receive official sanctioning and thereby authoritative credibility from USA Track & Field. These organiza- tions participate in building the outer frame, presenting the image of the race to the public, and creating certain expectations for spectators of the events to come. Since they function with such authority over the event and with a cred- ibility that is rarely challenged, race institutions have a powerfully influen- tial role in constructing the outer frame for a particular race experience. The marketing of the race, the way the race course is publicized, the presenta- tion of high profile athletes, and the promotion of the philanthropic aspects of the event are examples of activities that shape the outer frame of the Playfully Empowering 49 experience. The inner frame, of course, comes from the ludic performance created by the stunt runners, played upon the stage that has been laid out for them by the race organizers. Through the runner’s momentary performance for the spectator, a complex convergence between these two frames occurs in rapid fashion. In Bennett’s terms, the inner frame is delivered by the stunt runner, briefly and forcefully. But the spectator’s full experience of this per- formance relies more fully on the outer frame. As the spectator imagines the runner completing the entire race, the outer frame must be invoked to view the marathon in its totality and therefore fully experience the stunt runner’s performance in the moment in which the live interaction takes place. The play involved in road-racing athletic contests has strict, institution- ally enforced rules that control the competition. Since races are designed to crown a winner for the fastest athlete over the designated course, the rules, such as the precise distance of the race, the timing system, the confines of the race course, and rigid controls on the use of performance-enhancing sub- stances, create a system of fairness aimed at identifying the legitimate winner. Athletic recognition and status, as well as, in most cases, prize money that is often fairly significant, are awarded to the winner, so the rules are essential in determining who wins. However, the open nature of these contests promotes an environment that also invites behavior more akin to disorder and cre- ates a somewhat carnivalesque atmosphere. Even though the race rules are designed to reward the fastest athletes, nothing prevents people from partici- pating who have no hope of realistically competing for the victory. The vast majority of marathons allow anyone to register for the race, regardless of the level of ’athletic prowess.1 In these cases, the application of the rules allows for the consistent measurement of the relative athletic performance of all athletes who join the race. This openness in the event creates a space through which stunt runners are free to develop their performances, acts of play that fundamentally subvert a marathon’s central function as an athletic contest, because there are important aspects of the competition that are not limited by rules. Yasso (2008) describes the phenomena in this manner:

In many ways, the running world invites these sideshow antics. Unlike other sports, there are no hard-and-fast rules about what you wear. While professional football players wouldn’t be allowed on the field without a helmet, marathoners don’t even have to wear running shoes. They can run in high heels, combat boots, or fuzzy pink slippers. Heck, people have won notable marathons in bare feet. (192)

Stunt runners do, in fact, play by the rules such that they participate in each race on the same playing field with other runners and follow the basic rules set out by race organizers. But the emphasis of the stunt runner’s perfor- mance is on a more indeterminate type of play Schechner (2013) describes as “anti-structural, with the main fun being how one can get around the rules or subvert them” (92). 50 Terry Dean PLAYING WITHIN THE PLAY

In many ways, the play of stunt running falls most comfortably within ­theories that view play as distinct from everyday life or reality. As described in the Introduction to this volume, Huizinga (1938) and Caillois (1958) present this paradigm quite clearly. Yet in stunt running, the playing is ­double-layered or perhaps twice removed from reality. First, running the race is, in and of itself, ludic in nature. It is a sort of game that is institution- ally structured to provide an experience quite apart from the experience of ordinary life. At the same time, there is an additional level of play – the performance of the stunt – within the context of the play of running. The stunt runner’s double-layered performance is self-consciously signaled to the stationary spectator through the overt theatricality that sets the per- former apart from other athletic players on the race course, thus demon- strating a type of play within play that is doubly distinct from the reality of the spectator. Yet another theoretical frame through which to view stunt running is the manner in which the play is also reality. In Schechner’s (2013) words, play can be “characterized both by flow – losing oneself in play – and reflexivity – the awareness that one is playing. …” (91). Schechner’s notion of flow reflects the theory of Csikszentmihalyi (1975). Anyone who has run a marathon knows the way a runner typically loses her or himself over the course of the race. A serious objective – completing the race – is pursued that is all too real for one’s body, and the fun, playful nature of the experi- ence often fades. However, the performance of the stunt runner foregrounds a consciousness of the act of play that is occurring and heightens the con- nection of reality to the imaginative character of the play. The stunt play within the game of the race increases the level of difficulty of running, thus amplifying the flow state of the performer as well. The performance of stunt running is twice removed from reality, from the perspective of the spectator, but the play is intimately connected to reality of embodied experience for the performer that is tied to the purpose of the race as defined by the race- sanctioning institutions.

COUNTER-NARRATIVES AND OPPOSITIONAL ENCOUNTERS

Sutton-Smith (1997) describes his “rhetoric of play as power” as “the use of play as the representation of conflict and as a way to fortify the status of those who control the play and are its heroes” (10). This rhetoric applies to “competitions for superior positions in some hierarchy … or for personal control in solitary play, as in mastery and empowerment” (Sutton-Smith 1997, 29). Clearly the rhetoric of power is relevant to sporting games and athletic contests but it has broader applications for other kinds of play as well. Sutton-Smith (1997) demonstrates that a number of psychological the- ories present various play acts as “form[s] of individual power expression” Playfully Empowering 51 (74–75). In relation to children, it is theorized “the child plays because he doesn’t have power and in play is seeking empowerment as a kind of com- pensation or wish fulfillment” (Sutton-Smith 1997, 75). Stunt runners engage in just this type of play, destabilizing the marathon’s institutional purpose as athletic competition to tip the balance of the stage such that their own performances will receive recognition. This ultimately creates a counter-narrative for spectators that may be difficult to articulate but which plainly expands upon the narrative of the marathon as athletic contest. Take, for example, Coatman. What is one to make of the lined denim coat, the wingtip shoes, the pizza box or tray, and the champagne bottle? On the one hand, the spectator is bound to experience the seemingly random nature of Coatman’s costume and props as pure theatrical frivolity. On the other, since the difficulty of completing the marathon is magnified so signifi- cantly by his stunt, Coatman constructs a narrative (as described above, in large part through the imagination of the spectator) that also emphasizes his own athletic accomplishment. Even though he finishes most marathons two to three hours after the winner breaks the tape, Coatman’s unique per- formance narrative is as much athletic as it is theatrical. Regardless of the specific nature of the performance, the play of stunt runners empowers them to receive a particular type of appreciation that is connected to the level of adulation normally reserved for world-class athletes. Furthermore, some race organizers will offer stunt runners such benefits as free registration, travel money, and/or appearance fees that are also offered to elite runners. Stunt runners can be seen as enhancing the experience of spectators and therefore producing a better race for runners and spectators alike. However, some race participants resent stunt runners because of the way a stunt overshadows normal race accomplishments. In the early 1990s, when stunt running was an emerging phenomenon, some race-organizing institu- tions sought to repress stunt-runner performances, believing the stunt made a mockery of the athletic contest at hand. In 1992, the legendary director of the New York City Marathon, Fred Lebow, asserted, “We actively dis- courage them. I’m sure people love it. They love anything that’s different, especially after seeing 20,000 runners. But I think it demeans the runners. How would you feel? There is a guy running a marathon while juggling five balls and others struggling to just run at the same pace. If you want to run backward, run in a backward race” (as cited in Cart 1992). Jeff Darman, a race-organizing consultant for several marathons, expressed a similar senti- ment: “No matter how silly the race, if a client wanted me to bring in the Coat Man, I’d give up the client rather than bring in the Coat Man. I’m not prudish. I guess it’s a matter of taste. If I pay to bring people in for a race, I want the spectators to applaud them, not make fun of them” (as cited in Cart 1992). In recent years there appear to be fewer examples of this kind of overt and explicit repression of stunt-running activities. As described above, race organizers have sought to co-opt stunt runners into the overall race experience as a means to draw attention to the race and attract spectators, 52 Terry Dean which in turn attracts runners to their marathon. Having a large number of spectators provides an enticement for runners who, in choosing a mara- thon, tend to seek races during which there will be spectators cheering and encouraging them along the entire course. Yet the consternation of some normal marathoners can perhaps be understood when a runner like Coat- man acknowledges his attempt to lampoon the race: “It’s satire. It’s like seeing Saturday Night Live. Even though it’s very difficult to do, it’s also funny” (Huston 2011). Of course, road races are games in which the participants do not all have the same objective. Winning is one possible end that can be pursued. But for most runners, simply crossing the finish line of a marathon, perhaps viewed as competing against oneself, is the objective. Still others are able to enjoy running a race purely for the joy of the ludic experience. Indeed, in many ways this reflects the analysis of Suits (1978), described in the Introduction. The latter end of running road races, wherein playfulness is emphasized instead of competitiveness, is the primary focus of stunt runners, sometimes to the irritation of other runners and racing institutions. Bob Babbitt, an occasional stunt runner and the founder and editor of the endurance sports magazine Competitor, believes stunt running is driven by the runner’s desire to experience maximum pleasure from the ludic perfor- mance of the race that can be boosted through recognition from spectators: “Rather than having to sit there and think of your own thoughts, people are yelling at you. People cheer for you, and if that gets you another mile or so, if it helps get you through four and a half hours of what can be monotony, what’s wrong with that?” (Friedman 2006, 87). Yasso (2008) emphasizes the stunt runner’s desire to achieve recognition on the same scale as the lead- ing runners: “I feel for them. I really do. It’s hard to stand out in a crowd that includes elite athletes. It’s pretty easy to feel like a nameless face, espe- cially when there are thousands of runners in town for a big race. Wearing a pink bunny costume is a surefire way to get someone to take notice. It may even get them on television” (195). By participating in the race and seeking the pleasure that can result from audience recognition, the stunt runner’s end is, in essence, the joy of playing the game. Stunt runners often describe their objectives as being driven by a desire to inspire others and to provide a unique kind of entertainment for spectators. Gary Fanelli, the self-proclaimed “king of costume” who runs marathons in various costumes, describes himself as “an entertainer. I wear costumes for the people, so they can loosen up and not be stuffed shirts. It’s an uptight world, and this is one way to relax” (Cart 1992). Coatman (Dennis Marsella) claims the origins for his first performance at the Miami Marathon emerged from his desire to inspire others the way he was inspired by the image of a marathoner pushed to such an extreme that he was photographed crawling across the finish line. Coatman believed he had more potential to create an inspirational performance if his racing was more extreme, and he realized, “the most radical thing you can do in Miami is to put on a winter coat and Playfully Empowering 53 run a marathon. You should drop dead. With the heat, and the bulk, and the way the coat makes it more difficult to run” (Friedman 2006, 104). Coatman experiences pleasure when he hears the way spectators respond to him; he likes the way people cheer his name, worn on the front and back of his coat and also on the pizza box, and he enjoys the attention. But now he considers his performance an art he takes quite seriously: “I think I have a valid art, but some people have accused me of being overly promotional of myself. A lot of people don’t understand that this is art. I’m not copying Spider-man or Batman. This is art” (as cited in Friedman 2006, 107). In another interview, Coatman explained, “I consider myself a performance artist, and a marathon is like a 26.2-mile-long stage with two million spec- tators. I play to the crowd. It’s like a show” (as cited in Lisberg 2006, 24). Regardless of the stated purposes or intentions of stunt runners, their play- ful performances effectively subvert the fundamental institutional structure of marathons and in turn empower a complex counter-narrative for the experience of race spectators. While Coatman considers his performance a form of art, simple, embodied running has also been presented more self-consciously as performance art as well. From July 1 through November 16, 2008, Scottish artist Creed’s Work No. 850 was on display at the acclaimed Tate Britain gallery in London. The performance piece consisted of a diverse array of runners – differing in size, race, gender, form, and speed – sprinting across the Tate’s main gallery once every thirty seconds. Since the gallery in which the piece was presented was just eighty-six meters in length, viewers could take in the full performance of the runners as they started, dashed across the room, and completed their run when they reached the end of the space and then stepped out of view (Singh 2008). Creed created No. 850 in a manner similar to his other minimalist works, stripping away most of the elements usually connected with running in an attempt to present the act in its purest form. In so doing, he was able to construct a simple momentary performance that, unlike stunt running or road racing, did not necessarily rely on the spectator’s imagination to expand the magnitude of the experience. Creed designed the work as an exploration of life and the human spirit in its fullest expression; in ’his own words, “running fast is like the exact opposite of death: it’s an example of aliveness” (Singh 2008). Perhaps this is why the bombings at the Boston Marathon on April 15, 2013 were particularly disturbing. An event filled with aliveness, designed to test physical limits and celebrate the human spirit, ended (both figuratively and literally, near the finish line) in violence and death. At that moment, the ludic nature of race evaporated; the safety and pleasure of athletic play disappeared as the outer frame for the event was all but destroyed. The reality of violent injury and death eliminated the distinction between play and real life and brought the play to a dramatic end. If running is indeed an “example of aliveness,” perhaps stunt running is a particularly heightened form of aliveness, but the Boston bombings demonstrated just how fragile the frame for play and its intended narrative can be. 54 Terry Dean The examination of stunt running sheds light on any number of practices that might be described as multi-layered play, wherein the ludic experience is disrupted or heightened by attempts to subvert, disrupt, and/or expand the scope of the play. Any such stunt has the power to subvert institutional structures and create unique narratives, and the practice of stunt running and the theoretical frames it invokes can inform various anti-institutional ludic practices. This analysis also raises many questions about stunt running and play theory at large. For instance, stunt running is largely a gendered form of play that is practiced predominantly by men. How does gender ­figure into the equation with stunts, and why? Or, when the stunt is perceived to be mocking or satirical, does it cross over into the realm of “dark play” (Schechner 2013, 118–121)? What is the nature of the interplay between intention within play and the rules that govern the play? How long might an activity be able to function as a stunt as the practice becomes more ordinary and audience expectations are changed? To what degree can institutions cre- ate their own stunts, and what is the potential effectiveness of these stunts? Stunt running provides a lens through which these questions can be interrogated and theorized in order to fully grasp the impact of stunts and thereby challenge or promote particular stunt practices. Such explorations can expand our understanding of a variety of theories of performance and inform the choices made by those (yes, even “Elvis”) who design and create these playful performances.

Note

1. There is one significant exception to the tradition of marathons being open for all registrants. The Boston Marathon has qualifying standards to ensure only the fastest runners in each age group can earn the privilege to run in this ­historic race. Other marathons allow anyone to register, or be selected randomly to ­register, as long as deadlines are met and/or one is able to register before the participant limit is filled for a given race. 5 The Future of Family Play at Epcot John D. Newman

When I had an opportunity to write a chapter about theme-park play, I shamelessly shouted, “I’m going to Disney World!” Still, when I told my ­colleagues – and my children – that I was spending research time in Orlando, Florida, my puritanical side gnawed at me. So I soothed my conscience by focusing my study on Epcot, the most overtly educational Disney theme park. Parents might feel a similar pang of guilt when they consider investing the equivalent of a year’s college tuition in a one-week Disney vacation if they share Huizinga’s (1938) perspective that play is “an activity connected with no material interest and no profit can be gained by it” (13). Such parents may justify the cost of the family trip as an investment in their children’s education if their week in Disney World includes a day at Epcot. Just as fortifying sweetened cereals with vitamins makes them seem beneficial as well as flavorful, adding Epcot to Walt Disney World made the resort seem enriching as well as entertaining. In other words: a spoonful of medicine makes the sugar go down.

THE FAMILY THAT PLAYS TOGETHER STAYS TOGETHER

The pedagogic narratives of Epcot distinguish the park and give it an edge over non-Disney parks in Orlando, but since its opening, Epcot’s gate ­numbers have been much lower than those of Disney’s Magic Kingdom ­(Fjellman 1992, 140). In an effort to attract more families to Epcot, two dark rides were replaced with thrill rides and canonical Disney ­characters were introduced in several pavilions. However, the change in Epcot that could be emulated most readily in science museums, planetariums, aquariums,­ and historical sites is the addition of interactive elements that change the nature and quality of family play. Walt Disney recounted he was inspired to create Disneyland when he took his daughters to amusement parks on Sunday afternoons. He would sit on a bench eating peanuts, watching his daughters ride the carousel, and observing the bored expressions of the other parents (Thomas 1994, 218). Disney recalled he said to himself, “Why can’t there be a better place to take your children, where you can have fun together” (11)? 56 John D. Newman Epcot was the first Disney theme park to depart from the original ­Disneyland paradigm. It was modeled instead after the great World Fairs (Fjellman 1992, 213), like the 1964–65 New York World’s Fair, for which Disney created four major attractions. This alternate paradigm made Epcot attractions more educationally oriented than those in other Disney parks. However, the concept of play remains at the center of all Disney theme parks. The play embodied in the original Disneyland was different than what was offered at amusement parks and carnivals of the day. The type of play Disney’s Magic Kingdom offers has shifted since its 1971 opening, and the kind of play featured exclusively at Epcot when it opened in 1982 was ­different from what was offered in the Magic Kingdom. Today, the nature of play in Epcot continues to evolve toward more active engagement and away from passive observation. Caillois’s (1958) classification of four types of play illustrates that Disney offered a fundamentally different kind of play in his first theme park than what was offered in comparable venues at the time. Carnival games, scarce though not absent in Disney parks but a mainstay in most other amusement parks, embody a combination of agon or skill-based play (14) and alea or chance-based play (17). Most rides at traditional parks epitomize ilynx or thrill-seeking play (23). By contrast, Walt Disney conceived Disneyland as a series of theatrical experiences, exemplifying a type of mimicry or simulated play that casts its participants in the role of spectators (19). Walt Disney quipped he could have paid for his pre-Disneyland ­reconnaissance tour “with a few dollars from each person who told us, ‘If you don’t put in a roller-coaster or a Ferris wheel, you’ll go broke!’” (Walt Disney Productions 1979, 13). Both types of rides are classic examples of ilynx. While the original Disneyland itself has thrived without a permanent Ferris wheel, its founder and his successors succumbed to the necessity of roller-coaster-type thrill rides, though they camouflaged them as bobsleds, space rockets, and runaway mine trains. By contrast, all of the original Epcot attractions, like those in the original Disneyland, were essentially theatrical rather than thrilling. The Future World half of the original Epcot featured dark rides with ani- matronic dioramas demonstrating the advancement of transportation, the possibilities of the next century, the potentials of energy, the history of commu- nication, the exploration of oceans, the conservation of land, and the power of imagination. The presentations were usually good-humored and often playful but rarely simulated imaginary peril or invited participatory play. The national pavilions in the World Showcase half of Epcot present their pedagogic narratives via boat rides, Circlevision films, and an animatronic stage show. While Kirshenblatt-Gimblett (1998) states “tourists travel to actual destinations to experience virtual places” (9), it could be said Epcot visitors travel to virtual destinations to experience real places. Schechner’­ s (2013) description of safari tourists as “hunters-with-cameras” (290) is also apt for guests in the World Showcase who marvel and “shoot at” the The Future of Family Play at Epcot 57 meticulous, romanticized reproductions of the nations’ landmarks and architecture. The original Epcot’s presentational attractions were perhaps its greatest­ strength, in that they made it distinctive from other parks in Orlando. ­However, they were also the park’s greatest liability, in that Epcot offered little variety in the type of play it provided. Also, the kind of play the park offered afforded little opportunity for family members to actively respond to the presentations, to perform specific roles, or to interact with one another. While the Journey Into the Imagination pavilion has always featured playful, interactive experiences, comparable to those in children’s ­museums, this chapter focuses on how interactive additions to Epcot’s attractions transformed the ludic experience of park guests by facilitating family play that is more playful, according to the definitions of Caillois (1958). This reinvented play is (1) more free, allowing family members greater choice in how they engage in the ludic activities within their own family and with other family groups, (2) less certain in its outcomes and less uniform in the responses it evokes, (3) more centered in the performance of make-believe roles, and (4) less fixed in its boundaries between the actual and thevirtual­ (Caillois 1958, 9–10). I explore these dynamics in four attractions that have been introduced or reinvented since the year 2000: Mission: Space, ­Spaceship Earth, The Seas with Nemo and Friends, and the World Showcase Adventure.

MISSION: SPACE: A Family Flight of Fantasy

One of the newest attractions in Epcot, Mission: Space was completed in 2003 in partnership with NASA. The central feature of this pavilion, which replaced the Horizons attraction, is a simulated space flight to Mars, based on motion-simulator technology NASA developed for its astronaut training programs (Wright 2006, 46). There are elements of choice for families throughout the Mission: Space experience, beginning at the entrance to the pavilion. Guests are divided into two different queues: one for the “green version,” which merely vibrates the simulator, and the other for the “orange version,” which spins the ­simulator and puts significant g-forces on the riders inside. Mission: Space is one of the few Disney attractions that offers such an option. If a family splits itself between the two variations, the differing speeds of the two lines make it more likely that at least some members will linger in the post-mission ­activity area. The pre-mission area builds investment in the imagined experience by presenting a life-sized model of the living compartments of an imagined Mars spacecraft. It also offers images of real past and imagined future space pioneers, from the first man in space in 1961 to the first family in space in 2036. While Disneyland’s Tomorrowland long included simulated missions 58 John D. Newman to the Moon and, after the actual 1969 moon landing, to Mars, those ­imaginary voyages took place in a theatre-sized room with dozens of guests at a time. In contrast, Mission: Space launches individual families. Four guests are enclosed in each confined capsule and are assigned ­specific roles as Navigator, Pilot, Commander, and Engineer, based on their seating positions. As they line up to enter the simulators, family members often swap places with one another to play a different role than the one they played on a previous ride. Each crew member has two specific tasks, such as the Commander firing the first stage rocket and activating the manual landing control. The participants are prompted by a voice from Mission Control and a flashing button on the console. During the simulated flight, family members may choose to ignore the instructions to push the buttons or control the joystick, and yet one would be unlikely to wait in line for such a ludic experience and then refuse to play. While the task itself is extremely simple, consisting of hitting a lighted ­button when prompted by the mission chief, the simulation creates investment­ in the significance of the task. If the button is fired correctly, the computer reinforces the action with a message such as “landing wings deployed.” If not, the computer announces the autopilot has completed the task. The participa- tion of the riders may seem token and yet the in-role ­banter between team members builds belief in the simulated experience. While, as Huizinga (1938) asserts, there may be no “profit” in pushing the buttons, the play experi- ence absorbs “the player intensely and utterly” (13). It mirrors the experience offered by cooperative board games in which ­players work together, instead of against one another, to achieve a ­prescribed victory condition. Mission: Space is one of two World Showcase attractions (the other being Test Track, which replaced the World of Motion dark ride in 1999) that embodies ilynx. The riders are placed in imaginary perils that increase in intensity as they navigate through space debris, complete a difficult approach to the surface, steer the craft through a maze of narrow canyons, and finally hold the landing craft on a precipice. The crew members’ joysticks have no practical effect on the simulation, and yet guests manipulate them as if the suc- cess of the mission, and their very lives, depend on it. While each participant­ is free to play or not to play, almost everyone instinctively pulls back on the steering stick to prevent the craft from skidding off the cliff, then obeys the instruction “Don’t move a muscle” to prevent it from tipping over the edge. During one ride experience, I was alone in the simulator with a woman from another group after a child in her party refused to ride at the last moment and had to be taken to the post-mission area by his mother. The woman who remained was genuinely concerned the simulation would not work with two empty stations between us and she endeavored to push the buttons in the station next to hers while I did the same in front of the seat next to me. By doing so, we maintained the fictional reality. The experience is framed in the pre-ride instructions as a training ­simulation. However, once inside the capsule, it is unclear whether the The Future of Family Play at Epcot 59 ­experience is a simulated flight or an actual one. The panic in the voice of the Mission Control chief and the extremity of the perils suggests it is the latter, but the reality frame matters little. The play exists in a state of what ­Schechner (2013) identifies asmaya-lila in which the boundaries between reality and play, and even different frames of play, are constantly shifting­ (114). It also reflects flow in the performance of play, in which theboundary­ between the interior psychological self and the performed activity dissolves (Csikszentmihalyi as cited Schechner 2013, 97).

Photo: J. Newman Figure 5.1 The “Mission: Space Race” interactive family game awaits its next set of players.

After the simulator experience, family members are free to engage in a variety of activities in the post-mission area or to exit the pavilion. About a quarter of the families and groups choose to engage in the cooperative game: a simu- lation billed as Mission: Space Race. Beneath its set ­dressings, it is a multi- player video game in which up to 16 players on each side complete­ various “fixes” to the Triton and Orion rockets to accelerate their ship to Mars faster than their rivals. Cast members in the pavilion recruit players for the four positions at the front of the control area who represent crew members on board the rockets who are implementing the fixes sent by the players in the Mission Control positions. Fixes are made to spacecraft systems by 60 John D. Newman pushing the correct button sequence from an array of 15 and then launch- ing the fixes to the ship where they are implemented. Families tend to stay together on one side or the other rather than splitting and competing­ among themselves. Stations may be vacant and the game still works with an unbal- anced number of players. The game is notable in that it attempts to unite different family groups in a common game and is one of the few places in Epcot that promotes inter-family play as well as intra-family play. While the Disney Company is engaged in mass entertainment, attractions like Mission: Space help park guests maintain the illusion their experience is somehow unique and its ­outcomes more free than predetermined. Families typically avoid interaction with other families because it spoils this essential, yet paradoxical, illusion. In the Mission: Space Race game, the players up front are encouraged to call to their teammates behind them for fixes of a specific color.­ However, while the front players often call to their teammates, their prompting usually has as much practical effect as the joystick in the flight simulators. However, that is not to say there is no effect, as the stick and the calls both enhance the illusion of cooperative play. When the computer prompts Team Orion and Team Triton to offer a group cheer, the efforts vary from feeble to mildly enthusiastic. Affinity with other guests is illusory and safe, since participants from different parties do not need to look at one another and are focused either forward at the main game screen or downward at their individual consoles. The game carries guests across the threshold from parallel play to cooperative play without pushing them out of their comfort zones. Planetariums might take a cue from the Mission: Space pavilion as they design playful experiences for families. Activities may engage different­ groups in pursuit of a common objective. In a science museum setting, ­families could experience a seemingly unique experience if the curators ­cultivate dynamics illustrated in another Epcot attraction.

SPACESHIP EARTH: A Family Journey to the Future

The 180-foot geodesic sphere of Spaceship Earth, inspired by the heroic sculptures of past world fairs, has become the most identifiable icon of Epcot and arguably the entire Walt Disney World Resort. The traffic flow of the park is structured so all resort guests coming through the main entrance must walk under the great orb as they enter and exit the park. As I stood in the queue under the sphere with my wife, Jennifer, who playfully insisted I needed to bring her with me as my research assistant, she observed how few children there were around us. Families come in all types and ages in Epcot, as well as other Disney parks. During our visit, I noted in my field notes (kept discreetly in a Walt Disney World autograph book) newlyweds with bride-and-groom mouse ears and an extended family of The Future of Family Play at Epcot 61 retired adults in matching green T-shirts. Children were present, though in the minority, but we certainly weren’t the only middle-aged couple who had left their young ones behind. We boarded our two-person compartment in a train that snakes in a ­continuous chain throughout the massive globe. We passed carefully researched, meticulously reproduced, animatronic scenes that depict the evolution of Western civilization as affected by changes in communication. We twisted our way to the apex where a dome-shaped gallery shows planet Earth as it appears from space. It was logical to use the hemisphere at the top of the globe for this climatic scene, but this necessitates a long descent to the unloading area at the base. When the attraction was revamped in 2007, it added an activity for the descent that allows each pair of guests to imagine their lives in the future. On the touch screen in each compartment, we were asked several ­multiple-choice questions about our ideal future. Since there is only one screen per compartment, this prompted some playful banter between my wife and me as we argued about our future as if it would come to pass. The choices were limited to the eco-friendly and socially conscious choices; we could choose to commute by bicycle or maglev train but not by SUV or sports car. Once we agreed on our future, we saw our future selves depicted on the screen in our compartment, with our photo faces attached to ani- mated bodies. When we de-boarded the train and entered the post-ride activity zone, we could find ourselves on an animated screen at the top of the room. Families, separated into pairs in the loading area, gathered and showed each other their futuristic avatars. They often talked as if the roles they created were who they are or who they imagine they will become. The post-ride area includes single-player video games that tend to isolate individual family members, but it also offered interactive games for two or more players. My wife and I engaged in a more kinetic game in which we used brooms to shuffle energy discs to locations on a floor map of a modern city. An activity area in science museums may offer freer choices in play but it risks separating families rather than uniting them. The revised Spaceship Earth demonstrates that electronic games, which are usually played alone or with strangers, can also be played by families.

THE SEA WITH NEMO AND FRIENDS: A Family Swim

While guests may opt to enter the former Living Seas pavilion on foot or through a ride, the overwhelming majority choose to enter by “clam-mobile.” During the revision of the aquarium in 2006, the narrative of exploring the sea with oceanographers was replaced with the narrative of finding the clownfish Nemo, and the Spartan-looking “Seacabs” to SeaBase Alpha were transformed into the whimsical clam-shaped cars that snake guests past real 62 John D. Newman fish in real salt-water tanks that are interspersed with screens with animated characters. The novelty of the attraction lies neither in seeing real fish nor virtual ones but in seeing them mixed together. In 1969, Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion started wowing guests by placing holographic ghosts in guests’ “omnimover” cars. Similarly, the Nemo ride in Epcot places animated fish among real sea creatures in the final salt-water tank. The overwhelming popularity of the attraction, especially with families with smaller children, is due not only to the use of familiar characters but to the juxtaposition of the actual and the virtual, blurring the boundaries of reality and creating a playful flux state of maya-lila. Once they emerge from their clam-mobiles, families are presented with a range of options and can flow to them individually or collectively. Cast members and signs steer guests toward a second animation-based ­attraction, Turtle Talk with Crush, to the side of the ride exit. In this attraction, which replaced a traditional documentary film about oceans, the animated sea turtle on the screen talks and responds to the guests in the “human tank.” The new animation technology allows an actor/operator to respond spontaneously­ to questions from audience members and match the improvised dialogue with pre-programmed sequences that create an impressive illusion of talking to an animated character in real time. This new kind of interaction between performer and audience also encourages side conversations between family members and a collective theatrical response from all who share the space. Again, the fascination is not with the animation itself but with the playful blurring of boundaries between the actual and the virtual. Not far from the human tank is a round alcove featuring an ­enormous shark where parents can photograph their children inside the jaws of a great white. The displays, reminiscent of those in many children’s ­museums, encourage kids to seek information about sharks but the flip panels and signs in the room feel static compared with the actual and virtual sea creatures­ in the pavilion. The photo shark places parents in a competitive environment and a situation in which they are urging their active children to get into the creature and stand still. Contrast the strained family experience in the shark room with a similar adjacent alcove that contains a chamber with six circular saltwater tanks around which family members flow. Three-fourths of the circular space is enclosed, keeping children contained but allowing them to glide freely about the displays without being unduly restrained. There are colorful captions about lion fish, coral reefs, and camouflaged creatures that blend seamlessly with the aquariums of live sea creatures that serve as the collective focus. Parents and children are equally engaged and converse together as they explore this environment at their own pace. While an aquarium curator may decry the Disneyfication of the Epcot seas exhibit, the familiar characters coax families into the ludic learning environ- ment and the playful elements of the pavilion engage them in the subject.­ The Future of Family Play at Epcot 63 The Seas with Nemo and Friends is one of the largest and most visited­ aquariums in the world and its playful approaches may enhance learning rather than distracting from it. Westlake (2007) states play-based pedagogy promotes learning about a variety of subjects because it “drives learning fueled by desire and curiosity. ... Play means a higher level of engagement” (140). While aquariums need not rely on characters from ­popular media, they would benefit from incorporating play to promote joint learning expe- riences for children and their parents.

THE WORLD SHOWCASE ADVENTURE: A Family Quest

The World Showcase half of Epcot epitomizes the Disney parks’ ­obsessive attention to virtual authenticity and scenic detail. The quality of craftsmanship­ of the eleven national pavilions far exceeds the expectations of the average park guest. A challenge faced by Disney Imagineers was how to introduce more guests to the World Showcase and cultivate an appreciation of its exquisite, yet largely overlooked, architectural details. They created a treasure hunt that sends pairs of guests searching for and activating new visual features in the national pavilions (Wright 2006, 114–5). My wife and I registered for the Kim Possible World Showcase ­Adventure at a booth in Future World. While it takes two to register as a team, we noticed many pairs are followed by additional family members. We were issued a cellphone-like device with a screen that allowed us to see and hear instructions from animated characters from the Kim Possible spy adventure­ program on the Disney Channel. They told us how a super-villain had eluded them. We were assured that if we found the necessary clues in the Germany pavilion, we could ensure his capture. In “Germany,” our device sent us inside a store that sold intricately carved wooden toys. We were directed to watch a train track at the top of the ­display and push a button that brought out a toy train with a three-digit code on its boxcar. We entered the code on our keypad to release our next clue. We noticed that while we were sent to a set of cuckoo clocks to hear a musical clue, another pair of guests in the Germany quest was directed to a set of singing beer steins. In the end, we were informed the villain had avoided capture but if we activated a code in front of the clock tower, we would expose him and ensure his arrest. When we entered the code, we activated the effect. High above us in the Germany plaza, we watched as the figure of the villain in lederhosen was chased along a wooden balcony by a Bavarian maiden wielding a mallet. There was no material reward for completing the game other than the enjoyment of playing and the satisfaction of successfully completing the ludic task. The character on the little screen invited us to undertake a second mission and we accepted the challenge. 64 John D. Newman

Photo: J. Newman Figure 5.2 The villain is exposed in the World Showcase Adventure.

At the end of our adventure in the Mexico pavilion, we learned from Kim Possible that the villain we were tracking had managed to shoot his ­destructive missile out of a volcano that could be seen across the water from the patio restaurant inside the Plaza des Amigos enclosure. By standing at the elevated entrance to the night-sky plaza, we entered the code and looked at the indicated place on the rear cyclorama, where the light outline of a rocket emerged from the volcano and was shot down by our anti-missile missile. All of this was visible to us from our position but masked from the diners in the restaurant and the riders on the boats, a seemingly secret and apparently unique experience amid the maddening crowds. In a park with tens of thousands of visitors a day, it is notable a family­ can have an experience that seems to be unique. On my first visit to ­Disneyland as a child, our family discovered the almost hidden entrance to the quiet interior of Sleeping Beauty’s Castle. While the exterior of the building is iconic and viewed by every park guest, the narrow, twisted passageways in its in interior, with simple, miniature dioramas of the story, was a lightly visited hidden treasure. It felt like we had made an individual discovery, and that made our experience seem original. The World Showcase Adventure offers that same sense to thousands, one family at a time, and gives them the illusion of uniqueness in a park that entertains the masses. The Future of Family Play at Epcot 65 Since our visit, the World Showcase Adventure has been modified to ­feature the characters from Disney’s Phineas and Ferb program. In a few years, it may incorporate another set of characters, as the attraction is easy to adapt since the animated figures appear mostly on the mobile devices. In the future, those who were able to play the version with the former ­characters may feel their experience was special because it can’t be ­reproduced by others. The World Showcase Adventure is a perfect example of intra-­family play that occasionally extends to inter-family play. On our quest, we would ­occasionally see, acknowledge, and even help other teams, but the ­discomfort of talking to strangers was diminished by the fact we were pursu- ing a common­ objective. As in the Mission: Space Race game, multiple fam- ily groups face a common challenge and are therefore able to work together without invading each other’s privacy. The treasure hunts are pre-set, and yet since different teams are assigned different routes, there is a somewhat illusory sense the play is more free than guided and more individual than collective. While the means would be different, historical sites might look to family activities that encourage ludic as well as educational experiences that seem to be unique journeys of discovery in places where so many have passed before. Walt Disney World cultivates a similar dynamic in other ways. Many ­families have tuned into the Secret Mickey game in which they seek to find the mouse icon integrated into the design of attractions throughout Walt Disney World and other Disney parks. The new incarnation of Star Tours at Disney’s Hollywood Studios breaks the interstellar shuttle adventure through the Star Wars universe into five action sequences with multiple­possibilities in each phase and dozens of combinations for the ride as a whole, so each time a family experiences the journey, it appears to be unique. These seemingly new kinds of ludic experience are actually variations of one of the oldest art forms: theatre. In a typical theatre experience, the lights in the audience area are dimmed to mask the presence of others,­ who may identify with the same central character during the dramatic per- formance. This helps each spectator feel she or he is taking the journey alone. ­Nevertheless, these individual experiences occur in a common space in which different families breathe the same air and laugh and vocalize together. While this vicarious play is guided by the dramatist in a theatre and the Imagineer in a Disney park, in each case the play creates the illusion of individual experience in the midst of family and strangers.

THE FAMILY PLAY OF THE FUTURE

In Disney’s classic film Mary Poppins, Bert notes the world takes its time from Greenwich but Greenwich takes its time from Admiral Boom. In the world of family entertainment, Disney is the Admiral Boom from which 66 John D. Newman the theme-park industry takes its cues. Likewise, museums, theatres, and even schools might take a page from Disney’s Epcot as they create ­experiences that engage families in learning through play. Disney guards the secrets of its magical visual effects, such as the animated­ fish in the real aquarium inThe Seas with Nemo and Friends. However, Epcot’s family play is an open book from which schools, ­museums, and ­theatres may read and extrapolate possibilities. Educators could consider­ the cooperative gaming experience in Mission: Space as an alternative­ ­paradigm to traditional learning approaches in a science classroom. ­Museums may engage family members in game activities in groups of two or more. A ­display at an aquarium might emulate the natural flow of the Find Nemo room and avoid the stifling atmosphere of the shark alcove. A theatre com- pany might clue in its audience to subtle details in the stage set through pre- show exploration of the performance space, or could cultivate­ the audience ­members’ identification with the characters and encourage them to believe their imagined one-ness with the narrative is unique. While leaving the Test Track, I overheard a girl tell her parents she enjoyed the ride better the second time around because she knew what was going to happen. That young guest may have been the rule in the previous ­generation but is perhaps the exception today. My family members find they enjoy theme park attractions more when they don’t know exactly what’s going to happen and are enabled to play with possibilities. Families experience the theatrical illusion of the first time and the sense of uniqueness within a ­collective, yet seemingly individual, ludic experience. The introductory chapter of this volume considers Brown’s (2009) ­assertion that animal play is less about rehearsing specific skills and more about learning­ to interact effectively with others (31–32). This ­characterization of play fits the ludic experiences that Epcot facilitates. While the purpose of Epcot is ostensibly to prepare individuals to function successfully in an imagined future, its more immediate objective is to enable families to socialize, interact, and play together in a ludic present. 6 Mormons Think They Should Dance Megan Sanborn Jones

My children take dance classes at Center Stage Performing Arts Studio in Orem, Utah. It is not unlike most other large dance studios. It contains multiple rooms for classes, dance uniform guidelines, a break room with a vending machine, and framed pictures of dancers in their recital finery lining the walls. The banner outside the studio that changes for exciting ­announcements, on the other hand, is unique. When we joined the studio, the ­lettering proudly encouraged passers-by to “VOTE FOR JENNA!,” ­referencing a top-twenty finalist in the 2013 season of So You Think You Can Dance (SYTYCD) and an alumna of the studio. Jenna Johnson is not alone. Center Stage boasts six former students who perform regularly on Dancing with the Stars (DWTS) and three top-twenty finalists on SYTYCD. One does not need a degree in statistics to determine that so many ­nationally recognized ­popular dancers from a studio in a small town in Utah is wildly disproportionate.

MORMONISM AND DANCE CULTURE

As a life-long Mormon and a professionally trained dancer, I am a ­participant in the dance culture of the Church of Jesus Christ of ­Latter-Day Saints. I have performed in road shows, church-sponsored skits that feature ­singing and dancing; I have served as a choreographer for a talent show in which Utah Mormon youth auditioned to perform for Joseph Smith’s ­bicentennial ­birthday celebration; I was a directing intern at the Hill ­Cumorah Pageant, where I helped stage elaborate dance numbers. At least once a year, I am invited by local youth groups to teach them the basics of partner dancing: swing, polka, waltz. My participation in Mormon dance culture intersects with my ­fascination with dance competition reality TV. It only took a few seasons of faithful view- ing of SYTYCD to notice the heavy participation of dancers from Utah as well as the markers of Mormonism from dancers both from Utah and California.1 Donny Osmond won the DWTS mirror ball trophy in 2009, a year after SYTYCD added Salt Lake City to what looked to be a ­permanent audition rotation due to the unprecedented success of Mormon contestants like siblings 68 Megan Sanborn Jones Lacey and Benji Schwimmer, Chelsie Hightower, spouses Ryan and Ashleigh Di Lello, Witney Carson, and more. It took less time for me to realize the investment other Mormons had in SYTYCD and DWTS: ­appreciation for Mormon contestants spreads across Mormon social ­networks. The contes- tants are analyzed in Utah news media and advertised on posters like the one at Center Stage or billboards across Utah. The overrepresentation of Mormons on these shows made me wonder at the intersection of LDS doctrine, Mormon culture, and dance training that lead to the phenomenon. Why are Mormons doing so well on these shows? In 1853, Mormon prophet Brigham Young laid out a relationship between Mormons and dancing that continues today:

I had not a chance to dance when I was young, and never heard the enchanting tones of the violin, until I was eleven years of age; and then I thought I was on the high way to hell, if I suffered myself to linger and listen to it. I shall not subject my little children to such a course of unnatural training, but they shall go to the dance, study music, read novels, and do anything else that will tend to expand their frames, add fire to their spirits, improve their minds, and make them feel free and untrammeled in body and mind. (JD 2:94) Here, Young reflects on his Methodist upbringing and describes a lack of edu- cation in and moral disdain for the performing arts as “­unnatural ­training.” His support of dance, music, and theatre sprang from what he perceived­ as a lack of exposure to the arts due to religious narrow-­ ­mindedness. As prophet of the LDS Church, his encouragement for arts training for Mormon­ youth was not just a personal philosophy of recreation but a moral imperative.2 Social dancing has long been a central aspect of embodied play in the LDS Church. Approval for dance started with Church-sponsored social dances in the late nineteenth century and peaked in all-Church dance ­festivals in the 1950s to 1960s when five hundred to seven hundredteenagers­ would ­perform popular dances in stadiums filled to capacity. The festival ­phenomenon was documented in a June 29, 1959 Time magazine article that called Mormon- ism the “dancingest denomination” in America (49). Today, the LDS Church no longer sponsors annual dance festivals but ­dancing is still an integral part of Church culture. After Mitt Romney won the 2012 GOP nomination, a Slate article researched how Mormons celebrate. Its conclusion: “Lots of dancing” (Wickman 2012, par. 2). In this chapter, I discuss why Mormons do so well in dance-based ­reality TV competitions by examining how embodied play is institutionally­ ­controlled. Theories of play focus on the way in which the body can be ­imagined in a number of new ways for a variety of purposes. From Aristotle’s argument that humans are mimetic beings to Taussig’s (1992) linked ideas of mimesis and alterity, human play can be bounded by the ways in which one moves into a role that copies real life as learning model (e.g. playing Mormons Think They Should Dance 69 house), exercises imaginative realities outside of daily life (e.g. cosplay), or transforms both players and their environment into a new reality (e.g. Boal’s Theatre of the Oppressed). While each of these examples of play is unique, they all require players to take on new identities. Players’ bodies change, either through posture, spatial relationships with other people, or objects in a game, or through elaborate costuming. In the case of dancing, the body of the player is transformed technically and imaginatively. In partner dancing, whether casually in social dance or more formally in ballroom dance, the pleasure comes from following the rules of patterning that dictate movement through space. The spatial relationship­ between partners models heteronormative, gender-organized pairings that are played out with aesthetic beauty and grace. Partner dancing­ also brings with it the pleasures of an intimate physical encounter – the playful mimesis of sex – in the relative moral safety of a public venue. The long tradition of social dance in Mormon culture is marked by the tensions between the possibilities of partnership imagined in dance and the possibilities for sexual immorality that might be inspired by dance. These tensions are revealed in three overlapping sites. The first is the divine body in Mormon theology and how recreational dancing and ­doctrine are intertwined and circumscribed. The second is leisure in the Church and how a long history of carefully regulated support for dance has led to ­disproportionate opportunities for and parental interest in training for children and teens in “morally appropriate” dance forms. The third is the politics of public presence in the Mormon community and how ­support for Mormon celebrities serves ongoing public relations efforts and identity­ formation of the Church. Understanding why Mormons think they should dance reveals insights into both the power of embodied play and ­institutional strategies necessary to control it.

THE DIVINE BODY IN MORMON THEOLOGY

Christianity has long been concerned with the body and its place in doctrines of salvation. There are a variety of ways that traditional Christian theology treats issues of embodiment. For one, the body is frequently invoked as a metaphor for religion. In the New Testament, for example, Paul explains: “Just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ” (1 Corinthians 12:12). Also, the central image of Christ’s body on a cross is a dominant and recurring image across Christian religions. Rituals connected to this image, such as the Eucharist or communion, require an embodied action (the eating of the bread and the drinking of the wine/juice/water) wherein the symbol of Christ becomes part of the practitioner’s body. However, the body itself is rarely seen in Christian theology as a site of holiness. Instead, the body has been viewed for centuries as a site of impurity. 70 Megan Sanborn Jones Turner (1997) argues: “The body has been regarded as the vehicle or vessel of unruly, ungovernable, and irrational passions, desires, and emotions. The necessity to control the body (its locations, its excretions, and its ­reproduction) is an enduring theme within Western philosophy, religion, and art” (20). As such, much Christian theological energy has been spent explaining how the body fits into God’s larger plan of spiritual salvation and a disproportionate percentage of doctrine treats ways in which the body should be regulated. The development of a doctrine of embodiment in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, however, followed a different trajectory. ­Central to Mormon cosmology is the importance of bodies to earthly experience and the need to honor and respect that body as a means to achieve eternal ­salvation. For Mormons, a primary purpose of God’s plan for all ­humankind to come to earth is to receive a body. Bodies are therefore divine gifts and stepping-stones to divinity. Indeed, as stated in LDS scripture, “the spirit and body are the soul of man” (D&C 45:17).3 So while Mormons agree with other Christian religions that the body is corrupt, they differ by believing it is not something to overcome but something to redeem. True religion, as explicated in this Mormon doctrine, is based on the ­cultivation of the body rather than its repression. Jeffrey R. Holland (1998), a current member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles of the LDS Church, restated this position: “I have declared here the solemn word of revelation that the spirit and the body constitute the soul of man, and that … the body is therefore something to be kept pure and holy” (par. 20). Not only is the purified body a possibility, it is a necessary aspect of righteous living. In order to keep bodies pure, Mormon doctrine provides guidelines for healthy living. Most well known of these is “The Word of Wisdom,” a ­health-code commandment that outlines prohibited substances, ­recommends healthy food choices, and promises blessings for adherence. A companion philosophy to the Mormon doctrine of the divine body is promoted through extensive religious counsel to participate in playful activities, such as dance, which is mentioned specifically as an appropriate leisure activity that refines and trains the body. However, another doctrine controlling the body complicates the use of dance as a refining activity. The bodily issues engaged in partner dancing conflict with Mormon doctrine for healthy living, specifically the law of chastity. This commandment requires Mormons to practice chastity before marriage and complete fidelity to a spouse after marriage. For Mormon choreographer and scholar Debenham (2006), dance is particularly suspect in LDS culture because “dancing is an art of passion. In dance, the body makes visible, through discipline and sweat, our powerful, sensual, gendered selves” (206). Practicing chastity seems to fly in the face of dance styles that require physical proximity and are celebrated for their sensuality or sexuality. Even Mormon dancers can be on SYTYCD judge Mary Murphy’s “hot tamale train.” Mormon dancers confront this tension in a variety of ways. Careful Mormons Think They Should Dance 71 choreography and music selection are fundamental interventions that keep dancing “uplifting” rather than “degrading.” Another key element is the use of modest, or body-covering, costumes. Blakesley (2009) argues: “Church leaders invoked modesty to prevent women from looking like women of the world in hopes that their behavior would also remain distinctive” (28). Women who perform on dance reality TV come under a microscope on this issue as they compete in a field bound by strict costume expectations. These expectations make it difficult to look different from “women of the world.” Marie Osmond made headlines during DWTS both for her ­insistence her costumes be modest and for the fact they didn’t always entirely cover her shoulders, a contradiction that again reveals the difficulties around ­institutional control of the body. Younger contestants come under less ­scrutiny, perhaps in part because they are fit and beautiful. During the 2008 season of SYTYCD, for example, Mormon contestant Cheslie Hightower brought with her many of her own costumes she had selected to conform to ballroom fashion without revealing her belly. However, producers explained she was contractually required to wear the costumes provided for her by the show if she wanted to compete. Ultimately she did (Haymond 2008, par. 8). The LDS doctrine of the soul outlines a remarkable vision of ­embodiment that recognizes and celebrates the power of the physical body. As a result, dancing has been acceptable and encouraged in the Church since its ­inception. Church doctrines that provide guidelines for maintenance and redemption of the body, however, come into conflict with certain dance styles. To abandon dance as a primary means of cultural recreation would be to ignore both doctrinal imperative and prophetic counsel. Instead, the LDS Church took control of social dance and made it a central feature of institutionalized leisure.

LEISURE IN THE MORMON CHURCH

In 1948, the Mutual Improvement Associations (MIAs), the official organi- zations for young women and men in the Church, published an ­extensive manual, Dancing in the MIA. This guide to the dance experiences of youth was updated annually until 1971. In it, the Church listed the major ­objectives of the dance program. First, Mormon youth were encouraged to dance to promote recreation in an atmosphere that would promote ­righteousness. Second, dancing provided clean and wholesome recreation that met Church standards of morality and modesty. Third, dancing was seen to develop “high ideals of social relationships and culture” (Dancing in the MIA 1948, 5). This three-fold purpose for the dance program grew out of the doc- trine of the divine body in Mormon theology and responded to counsel given by leaders of the Church throughout its history that promote danc- ing as an important recreational activity. Brigham Young’s sermons on the 72 Megan Sanborn Jones relationship between work and play created the foundational philosophy of the ­importance of dance to the Mormon Church. Young backed his talk with action. He commissioned the construction of the Salt Lake Theatre, the largest and most attended theatre west of the Mississippi for the later part of the nineteenth century. He requested his sons and daughters be active members of the artistic community in Salt Lake, performing at the Salt Lake Theatre and participating in cultural activities. He set aside a building for a social hall, organized dances there, and danced himself with his parishioners. Just as there is no unique Mormon dancing today, dance scholars have concluded Mormon dancing in the nineteenth century was not remarkable­ in its style but in fact followed American habits. As with the rest of the ­country, most of the dancing in the early Church was in the older line style: the quadrille, cotillion, or reel. In the last quarter of the century, the ­introduction of “round dancing” to the popular dance repertoire probably caused greater consternation in Utah dance halls than in other places in the country. Round dancing referred to any dance where the men held the women close in partner positions and guided them around the room; the waltz was by far the most popular step. Bitton (1977) documents how the proximity of men and women, styles of dancing, pairing off of unmarried couples, and perceived sensuality of some of the movement had Church officials struggling to find a place for the new style that maintained the doctrinal necessity of uplifting ­recreation and moral behaviors. As with dances throughout America, however, round ­dancing quickly became the norm at Church-sponsored dances. The Church’s institutional concern over the dangers of unregulated recreational dancing points to the power of play. Even in a religion grounded in the theology of the redeemable body, there is an awareness that play has the potential not just for positive growth but also resistance of hegemony or corruption of the playful subject. Brown (2010) advocates play as a means of enacting change. He argues: “play is a catalyst” for success in all areas of life, particularly creativity and innovation (7). In other words, as one pretends to be successful, success will come. The flip side of this belief in the transformative power of play, however, is its potential to allow the player to explore, embrace, or embody transgressive acts. Schechner (2013) calls such play deep (where the risks outweigh the potential pleasures) or dark (where some players are aware of the game but others are not). Indeed, while most play research, like Brown’s, lauds the positive impact of transformative play, embedded in the theory that play can “shape the brain, open the imagination, and invigorate the soul” is the potential that play can shape the brain, open the imagination, and damage the soul. The LDS Church confronted this possibility in the mid-twentieth century by providing multiple opportunities for supervised dancing in approved Church venues and by creating curriculum to dictate the standards of the dance. Mormons Think They Should Dance 73 The curriculum in Dancing in the MIA shows dance was integrated into Sunday School lessons, complicated choreography was taught across the country, and each ecclesiastic unit was responsible for holding themed dances nearly every month and presenting dance showcases throughout the year. These showcases culminated in an annual all-Church dance festival where youth and their families traveled from across the United States to Utah in order to perform in a multi-day showcase. The most important dance of the year was the annual Green and Gold Ball, held by each local congregation as a formal celebration of the Mutual program. Institutional control over dance allowed this particular playful recreation­ to be not just a physical impulse but, more importantly, a spiritual­ refiner. As Dancing in the MIA (1948) reasons: “Dancing has a place in our program­ because we believe it to be a normal, natural expression of a ­fundamental instinct, and that it offers great possibilities for the ­development of grace, refinement, good manners, poise, fine fellowships and ­wholesome social ­contacts” (6). The 1964–1965 version of the manual, Dance Time, ­illustrates the standardization of the dance program, outlining the ­decorations the dance director should find for various themed balls. It suggests music records that could possibly replace live bands (with specific titles chosen as appropriate for each dance). It also organized when ­different lessons about dancing should be introduced to Mormon youth and what should be taught in the lesson.

Photo: L. C. Thorne. Courtesy of the Uintah County Library Regional History Center

Figure 6.1 People watch as the queens are escorted off the stage at the Uintah Stake Gold and Green Ball, circa 1947. Children line up on either side as crown bearers. 74 Megan Sanborn Jones One of the lessons in Dance Time is on “Ballroom Courtesies” and is meant to prepare twelve- and thirteen-year-old girls for “dancing fun in the future. You can have a lot more fun when you know somebody’s not going to laugh at you because you do something wrong. … You can relax and enjoy yourself” (11). The lesson plan suggests some girls wear bowties and pretend to be boys for the sake of role-playing. It covers such topics as “Cleanliness and Appropriate Dress,” “Accepting a Dance,” “Correct Dance Positions,” and “Accidents While Dancing.” The “Points to Remember” ­section includes advice like “Avoid chewing gum and … defacing furniture,” “Refrain from exhibitions … sit like a lady,” and “follow the advice on a mayonnaise lid – ‘keep cool but don’t freeze’” (11–16). The MIA’s formalized dance program was phased out along with ­all-Church sports tournaments in the mid-1970s, but dancing has not been abandoned. Smaller regions still put on dance festivals, modeled entirely after the program from the 1950s and 1960s. Local congregations ­generally have frequent dances for youth aged fourteen to eighteen. Adults still have one to two dances each year as part of their leisure time in the Church. The large annual exhibitions of the all-Church dance festivals have been replaced with all-Church festivals that are connected to particular celebrations, such as the opening of a new temple or the bicentennial birthday of Joseph Smith. Religious support for dancing from leaders of the Church has not ­diminished over the years either. My review of the literature found over one hundred refer- ences to dances and dancing in sermons by LDS apostles since 1970. Recently, for example, D. Todd Christofferson (2010), a current ­member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, spoke at a Church-wide general conference, admonish- ing: “Just as honest toil gives rest its sweetness, wholesome ­recreation is the friend and steadying companion of work. Music, literature, art, dance, drama, ­athletics – all can provide entertainment to enrich one’s life and ­further conse- crate it” (par. 14). As with Church leaders of the nineteenth century, Christoffer- son describes dancing as a playful activity that will enliven the soul if practiced appropriately, following institutional guidelines. It is no surprise Mormons approve of Mormon dancers on dance competition television shows. The heri- tage of a belief in a redeemable, divine body and the primacy of dance as an approved and encouraged activity for Mormon youth established a ­legacy that is still visible today as Mormon dance has gone commercial.

PUBLIC PRESENCE IN THE MORMON COMMUNITY

Raymond T. Grant was the artistic director of the 2000 Olympic Arts Festival­ in Salt Lake City. In an interview in The Salt Lake Tribune, he noted: “The state has six dance companies; more pianos and harps are sold in Utah than anywhere in the United States; the Mormon Tabernacle Choir has [360] members; and the oldest Steinway dealership in Utah … was started as early as 1862” (Geyer 2002, A15). Mormons Think They Should Dance 75 The Olympics may have been the first major event that put Utah and Mormons on the national stage in terms of a culture of arts and dance. Since 2001, some have proclaimed America has witnessed a “Mormon Moment,” prompted in large part by Mitt Romney’s presidential race in 2012 (Kirn 2011; Soloway 2012). Popular media have seen the series ­conclusion of HBO’s Big Love and the opening of Tony-award-winning Broadway hit The Book of Mormon: The Musical. Mormon author Stephanie Meyers’s ­Twilight franchise remains a touchstone of popular youth culture and other Mormon popular figures, from quarterback Steve Young to Killers front man Brandon Flowers, are making national news for their beliefs. The ­convergence of this public awareness of Mormonism was underscored by the LDS Church, which in 2011 launched an aggressive public relations blitz to control the Mormon image through its “I am a Mormon” campaign­ (­Goodstein 2011). The emergence of Mormon media on the national ­platform has gone ­mainstream in both quantity and quality. The representation of Mormons in reality TV media has followed a ­similar trajectory. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, casting a Mormon on a reality TV show was simply an alternative means of casting diversity;­ the ultra-conservative Mormon voice was a voice of difference. With the advent of more dancing reality TV shows, Mormons exploded onto the scene to the point it is no longer even remarkable that a disproportionate­ number of performers are Mormon. The success of Mormons in these types of shows is due both to their talent and to the larger support systems ­embedded in ­Mormon culture. In my observations, Mormons like to see Mormons ­succeed in popular ways. The doctrine of the redeemable body has created support for dancing for both men and women. As dancing has long been seen as an important aspect of recreational activity for all Mormons, there has never been a stigma about dancing in the culture. The cultural approbation is supported by both requisite­ dancing activities and numerous voluntary ones as well. The youth program in the Mormon Church includes weekly activities for all participants. These ­activities are strongly recommended and many families require attendance for their teenagers before they are allowed to participate in other social/recreational­ activities. When some form of dancing is planned, most youth participate. For example, in the eight years I worked in the youth program in my congrega- tion, we have held some kind of dance activity about once a month (attending ­concerts, learning a new dance style, attending a casual or formal dance). The result is an open acceptance of dance that leads to more dancing outside of the Church institutional structure. McMains (2006) argues that Utah, with support from the LDS Church, has one of the two most successful models for teaching youth ballroom in the United States (the other is a New York/New Jersey studio system that caters to Eastern European immigrants). “Both the Eastern European and Mormon cultures value DanceSport, result- ing in cultural messages that teach boys as well as girls that learning dance is acceptable, even desirable. This difference gives these groups a significant 76 Megan Sanborn Jones advantage over those that must fight the deeply entrenched American belief that dance is not masculine” (McMains 2006, 192–193). McMains’s observation that boys and girls alike dance in Utah reflects the predominance of ballroom dancing in the state. Utah’s K-12 core ­curriculum includes dance standards, and some children begin dancing as early as elementary school. My son, for example, participates in two dance ­festivals each year at his school. In the fall there is a fiesta where he learns different dances from Latin American countries; at the end of every year there is a school-wide showcase of dances the students have practiced for months. This elementary education leads to extensive dance education in high school, where students can sometimes take classes and participate in competition ballroom and precision dance teams. Higher education programs in the state build from there. Utah ­Valley ­University (whose ballroom team recently won the DWTS ­college ­competition) has the only ballroom dance BA program in the United States, and the University of Utah has a nationally ranked modern-dance ­program. Brigham Young University, where I teach, hosts an extensive dance ­department, six international touring dance groups, and open-enrollment social dance elective courses that boast the highest enrollment of any ­elective course at the university (Adams 2010, 82). In addition to curricular dance programs, Utah hosts a number of successful private dance studios, such as Center Stage where my children take their dance lessons. While not all of the successful commercial dancers from Utah are ­Mormon, it seems clear Mormon religious and cultural attitudes toward

Photo: Courtesy of Center Stage Performing Arts Studio.

Figure 6.2 The Center Stage Junior Ballroom Team (ages 11-14) perform at a showcase. Mormons Think They Should Dance 77 dance have created an atmosphere that allows the advanced training ­necessary for ­success on the commercial stage. Additionally, in the case of reality TV shows such as SYTYCD and DWTS, audience support plays a major role in ensuring Utah/Mormon contestants rise to the top. Though Marie Osmond (third place DWTS, 2007) may wish Mormons wouldn’t vote for Mormons just because they are Mormons and regardless of talent, it is clear Mormons block vote on most reality TV shows (Atkinson 2008). Atkinson (2008) argues in Newsweek that Mormons are in a “sweet spot” demographically. The Church is small enough that members are still excited to see one of their own on the national stage but large enough that combined voting can actually impact results. American Idol contestant ­Carmen Rassmusen recounted that Idol producer Ken Warwick

once stopped her before a results show and told her she usually did pretty well in the East Coast voting but that her “numbers just soared” when the Mountain States kicked in. “I was so happy to hear that people were voting like crazy and supporting me,” [Rassmusen] says. “Utah does a great job rallying around its people.” (2008, par. 3) This still seems to be true. In November 2013, Mormon Derek Hough won a record-setting fifth mirror ball with his celebrity partner Amber Riley on DWTS. Season ten of SYTYCD featured three Mormons in the top twenty. As reality TV shows continue to dominate the evening lineup, Mormons will continue to dominate commercial dancing on those shows. Mia Michaels, a SYTYCD choreographer and judge, suggests Mormons do so well in this field because: “they have no social life. It’s the Mormon thing: No sex, drugs, drinking. So dancing becomes a great outlet” (Seibel 2008, par. 1). While her comment may have been tongue in cheek, Michaels’s observation gets to the heart of the tensions between dancing as a refin- ing activity and its dangers as a playful enactment of sex. These tensions are ongoing and find particular visibility on dance competition shows. The impact of Mormon doctrine of the divine body, the philosophy of dancing as appropriate leisure in the Church, and Mormon desires to have a public presence all combine to bring LDS dancers into the spotlight. Mormons do well in reality TV dance competitions because Mormons think they should dance.

Notes

1. Tracking Mormon contestants on these reality shows is complicated by how to define “Mormon.” For the purposes of this paper, I identify as Mormons contestants who claim Mormonism as their current faith practice or identify Mormonism as the religion of their youth although they no longer practice. Additionally, there have been other successful contestants who are not ­Mormon 78 Megan Sanborn Jones but were trained in Utah, where they were exposed to Mormon religious and cultural forces; these latter contestants are denoted with an asterisk* in the ­following lists. Mormon contestants on SYTYCD include Lindsay Arnold, ­Witney Carson, Brittany Cherry, Ashleigh and Ryan DiLello, Randi Evans, Tad Gadduang*, Mollee Grey, Heidi Groskreutz, Chelsie Hightower, Allison Holker, Thayne Jasperson, Jenna Johnson, Sabra Johnson* (Season 3 Winner), Gevorg Manoukian*, ­Malece Miller, Benji Schwimmer (Season 2 Winner), and Lacey Schwimmer. Notable Mormon contestants and professional dancers with DWTS include: Lindsay Arnold, Witney Carson, Ashly Delgrasso-Costa, ­Chelsie High- tower, Derek Hough, Julianne Hough, Donny Osmond, Marie Osmond, and Lacey Schwimmer. 2. Throughout this chapter, I use the full name of the The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the acronym “LDS,” and the term “Mormon” ­interchangeably. I capitalize Church when referring specifically to the LDS Church. 3. The Doctrine and Covenants (D&C) is one of the four books of LDS ­scripture (the others being the Bible, The Book of Mormon, and the Pearl of Great Price). As the title suggests, the book outlines doctrines of the Church and covenant responsibilities of its members. Primarily made up of revelations to Joseph Smith, significant revelations of later prophets are also included. 7 All the Dungeon’s a Stage Exploring the Lived Experiences of ­Commercial BDSM Players

Danielle Szlawieniec-Haw

While having coffee with a colleague, I mentioned being asked to ­contribute a chapter to a book. My colleague was excited, asking me about the ­timeline, the publisher, and the book’s topic. Then, he asked me what my chapter would cover. As I explained that I would be exploring the commercial­ side of bondage, dominance/submission, and sadomasochism (commonly referred to as BDSM), I saw my colleague’s demeanor transform. He began ­questioning whether the chapter had been accepted or this was simply an idea I was pro- posing. Soon he was bemoaning contemporary academia, arguing: “anything can be studied these days.” Then the jokes started. First there was the one about “not having too much fun” during my research. Then there was the punch line: “I never would have entered a ‘real’ area of study if I knew I could just talk about sex all day and call myself an academic.” My colleague laughed at his comments, while I mustered up a weak smile. I was used to encounter- ing the assumption that I conduct play in work’s clothing and had already heard the jokes it could spawn. Like so many times before, I was left feeling my research with BDSM did not fit comfortably into the academic sphere.

DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

Cut to a few months later and I am just as out of place in the BDSM community­ . I have participated in lifestyle BDSM before but now, as a researcher look- ing at the commercial industry, I have been positioned as an outsider. That is certainly the impression I am left with after a ­professional Dominatrix (or pro-Domme) informs me there is nothing I or my research can contribute to BDSM. I feel the door to further discussions has been closed. I say nothing more. Of course, this is only one response. There are other Dommes who support academic research – mine and others’ – into BDSM. Even then, though, the base assumption seems to be I am an academic­ with no practical understanding of how BDSM works. I feel bounced around, too involved in the BDSM community to be respected as a real academic and too involved in the academic community to be unobtrusive in the BDSM sphere. This is not the first time I have been caught in a liminal space. As an academic and an actor/writer/director, my entire life seems to exist in the 80 Danielle Szlawieniec-Haw in-betweens. I think, at this point, I feel comfortable there. I now know how to embrace the paradoxes and fl uidity that are hallmarks of the liminal. In some ways, we all do this, at least at some point in our lives. Are navigating through paradoxes and liminal spaces not integral parts of human experience? They are defi nitely integral to this chapter, weaving through the lived experiences I discuss within it as well as my journey writing it.

ALL THE DUNGEON’S A STAGE

In recent years, scholars in the fi elds of psychology and sociology have explored a range of topics related to BDSM including psychological profi les of BDSM participants, exchanges of power that occur between tops and bottoms, and representations of BDSM in the media. These studies have revealed strong threads of play and theatricality running through BDSM play. Scholars have spent less time, however, interrogating the implications of these two elements, especially in the context of commercialized BDSM that involves one or more participant(s) being paid for their services. Throughout this chapter, I address this gap in the literature by exploring commercial BDSM, specifi cally the pro-Domme/male sub-dynamic, through the lens of play theory. In particular, I focus on participants’ lived experiences of engaging in commercial BDSM, including how pro-Dommes and their male subs describe BDSM and what they identify as important to their play.

ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?

First, it is important to address how BDSM fi ts into understandings of play. The BDSM I explore in this chapter meets the criteria for play laid out in the introductory chapter of this book:

• It is contained, spatially, in a dungeon. • It is governed by rules set by the community and negotiated by individual players. • It is based in players taking on specifi c roles and interacting while por- traying them. • Players choose to participate. • Players generally get pleasure from their participation.

In order to explore pro-Dommes and their long-term male clients’ lived experiences, I conducted a qualitative multi-case study based on the content analysis of archival material, specifi cally interview transcripts and blogs created by seventeen pro-Dommes and fi ve long-term, submissive male clients. All these materials were unedited and in BDSM participants’ own words. For long-term blogs, I only considered posts made between January All the Dungeon’s a Stage 81 1, 2010 and January 1, 2014. All of these participants were over the age of eighteen, had personal experience with BDSM, and were willing to speak about and reflect on these experiences.

CHAINS, WHIPS, AND HUMILIATION, OH MY!

From Fifty Shades of Grey to Sherlock, the growing use of BDSM imagery in the media is undeniable. More exposure, however, does not ­necessarily imply deeper understanding. Quoting a “lesbian masochist/slave,” Weiss (2006) notes: “Hollywood and movies, and even fiction, put this kind of glow on [BDSM], like it’s so romantic and it’s so fantasy oriented and it’s not” (237). Given the potential for misrepresentation, I offer a brief ­introduction here to the terms and structures of BDSM play. BDSM has been framed in numerous ways, including as a lifestyle, an identity, a sexuality, and even a means of “combining [together ...] ­identity and forms of sexuality” (Weiss 2006, 232). At its most basic, however, BDSM is simply a way of encapsulating the practices of bondage (BD), Dominance/ Submission (D/S), and sadomasochism (SM). Breaking down these practices, Lindemann (2012) identifies D/S as “one partner assuming control while the other ostensibly relinquishes his or her power,” and SM as “the giving and receiving of physical or psychological pain” (29). Individuals involved in BDSM may engage in some or all practices within one, two, or all three areas, depending on their interests, desires, and access to play partners. In all cases, though, erotic pleasure is gained from participating (Lindemann 2012, 29). I found BDSM being practiced within four play structures: part-time­ ­lifestyle, 24/7 lifestyle, part-time commercial, and 24/7 commercial. ­Part-time play occurs in a specific time and location but does not define the overall power dynamic between participants, while 24/7 play includes a Dom(me)/sub dynamic as a core component of the relationship (Keni 2011). The major difference between lifestyle and commercial play is that money is exchanged for BDSM services in the latter (Keni 2011). Within part-time commercial play, male subs buy sessions where BDSM practices are performed for specific, limited periods of times. For 24/7 commercial play, male slaves pay to serve pro-Dommes long term. This power dynamic remains until one or both parties terminate their master/slave agreement (freakoftheweek 2011). Within these structures, BDSM can range from light kink to edge play (practices that involve significant bodily harm and/or the risk of death if something goes wrong) (Mistress Matisse 2010). As with any other inti- mate relationship, the practices and intensity levels engaged in are fluid and negotiated by the parties involved. In fact, the pro-Dommes and male subs included in my study all referenced the importance of maintaining ethical relationships and safe play, no matter the practice or intensity level being employed. One pro-Domme explained this, stating she enjoys BDSM work 82 Danielle Szlawieniec-Haw and “there’s no reason to ruin that for a buck” (freakoftheweek 2011). This commitment to safety and ethics can be seen both in individuals’ play and throughout the larger BDSM community. While this may read as a universal statement, it actually ties into the divide between BDSM versus abuse, a topic I will address further shortly. While BDSM practices may be widely used, BDSM sub-culture is more restricted. In order to be accepted into it, individuals have to recognize and perform in accordance with the community’s unwritten codes of conduct, including maintaining safe, consensual play (Ross 2012, 234). Strangers to BDSM may find this emphasis on safety counterintuitive. Even writing this chapter, I was asked to address the “abusive” aspects of BDSM play. The BDSM community, participants, and scholars studying the field, however, have all identified BDSM occurs in consensual situations where players respect each others’ limits and the play can be stopped if necessary (Ross 2012, 232). In a personal interview, Vinyl Queen (2014) argued: “[Mixed Martial Arts] fighting is brutal but ... the two people in the octagon AGREE on the parameters that they will engage. They understand the risks and ­proceed because they enjoy what they are doing. BDSM participants enjoy their activities as well and understand the risks and rewards.” Ultimately, the goal of BDSM is to work together to create mutual pleasure. This is in direct opposition with abuse, which is not consensual and is done by one party to another (Ross 2012, 232). Certainly, there are people­ who try to disguise abuse by labelling it as BDSM, but there are also people­ who misidentify their abuse as “discipline,” “dating,” or “love.” That some individuals use these terms inaccurately does not, however, inherently change the meanings of the original terms or practices. It is also important to outline the difference that exists between, say, a sadistic act, which can occur within a variety of situations, and BDSM play, which is based in the tenants of being “safe, sane, and consensual” (Ross 2012, 232).

COMMERCIAL BDSM AND THE PLAYERS WHO ENGAGE IN IT

Having outlined some basic concepts about BDSM, I will now unpack ­commercial BDSM specifically, as it is the primary focus of this chapter. Although there are areas of the industry, such as BDSM pornography and live performances, where all participants are paid, I am only addressing ­private BDSM interactions where one party pays another to engage in the play. While I found individuals working as Dom(me)s, subs, and switches (BDSM ­participants who work as both tops and bottoms), I am focusing on ­pro-Dommes and male subs since this exchange is the most common ­interaction in the North American BDSM industry (Lindemann 2012, 22–23). While the pro-Dommes I looked at were all unique individuals, there were some common narratives I found among their work experiences. All the Dungeon’s a Stage 83 First, many of the Dommes indicated they were naturally dominant. Most began their journey with lifestyle BDSM through experimentation with a ­significant other, then moved more deeply into the BDSM lifestyle ­community and, eventually, decided to make money from the practices they were already enjoying. At this point, most of the women apprenticed with an experienced pro-Domme or worked with a dungeon to learn professional BDSM ­practices. Lindemann (2012) notes, however, there are other ways of entering the industry, including being hired straight into a House with no background in BDSM or moving from another erotic field, such as fetish modelling or exotic dancing, to commercial BDSM (54). As is common for experienced pro-Dommes, the majority of women in my research were ­freelance at the time of my study (Lindemann 2012, 57). This allowed them more control over their space, equipment, clients, services, and schedules than working for Houses did. It also allowed them greater take-home pay. It is important to note clients are paying for BDSM practices and/ or power dynamic play, not necessarily sex (Mistress Wynter 2010). There are some pro-Dommes, especially those working in Houses, who may also ­provide hand jobs, give and receive oral sex, and/or engage in ­intercourse (­Lindemann 2012, 28), but most of the pro-Dommes in my study ­categorically refused any form of sex with clients, with one flat out stating this is the realm of “kinky escort[s]” (Mistress Wynter 2010). This may sound ­counterintuitive as our society generally frames BDSM as a form of sex work, a fact that a number of the pro-Dommes included in my study found offensive. In ­actuality, however, many pro-Dommes have no ­history of sex work (­Lindemann 2012) and refuse to have mainstream sexual ­encounters with clients (Mistress Wynter 2010). In fact, the pro-Dommes I looked at more often cited arts training – with acting and writing being the most commonly reported – than previous ­sex-work experience. BDSM provided a creative outlet for pro-Dommes with an arts background while also allowing them the income level and schedule flexibility needed to pursue other career opportunities. Although cited as important for some, these perks were often not the only reason pro-Dommes were working in commercial BDSM. In fact, many of the ­pro-Dommes, even those maintaining an additional career in the arts, stated they enjoyed their BDSM work and found the ability to help and support their clients extremely rewarding. At the same time, I identified some significant differences in ways ­pro-Dommes saw lifestyle versus commercial BDSM. Money shifted the power dynamic for most, placing clients as the center of attention. All the pro-Dommes reported outlining their personal limits and expecting ­sessions to include activities they found pleasurable, but at the same time, many felt clients’ interests and growth were the focus of both sessions and ­after-care. This feeling was mirrored by the male subs I looked at, who often saw visiting­ a pro-Domme as a way to release personal desires and have an outlet­ for fetishes rather than as a means to explore mutual desire and interests. Thus, 84 Danielle Szlawieniec-Haw in commercial BDSM, the role of the Domme can shift from play partner to service provider who allows a safe, accepting space for clients to express their desires, helps them release their BDSM interests, ­encourages them to further explore these interests, maintains their privacy, and keeps their secrets. Lindemann (2012) argues these roles become central ­components of the ­pro-Domme/long-term male-sub relationship (76). This greater focus on clients’ needs could be rewarding for both Dommes and subs, but at times it also left a number of pro-Dommes I studied feeling lonely, used, and/or burnt out. In addition to altering the relationship between play partners, ­commercial play also changed some pro-Dommes’ relationship to their desires and to BDSM itself. As one Domme explained: “Asking me what kind of play I’m craving is like asking someone on one of those eight-meals-a-day cruise ships what they want to eat. How do you know what you’re hungry for when you’re already full? I can tell you my favorite foods, the stuff I’m always happy to eat. But I have no idea what kink hunger even IS at this point” (Orleans 2013). Many of the pro-Dommes in my study said that not having pressing desires of their own allowed them to give more time and attention to clients’ desires. At the same time, however, some pro-Dommes found having a constant BDSM buffet contributed to feeling disconnected or burnt out. In spite of these challenges, there were many rewards pro-Dommes found in their work, especially in the relationships they formed with their long-term­ clients. I found these long-term male subs filled a unique space within the industry and often built close relationships with the Dommes they frequented. Even online, male subs brought pro-Dommes presents, wished them happy birthday, and at times learned about their personal information. In my study, pro-Dommes identified these long-term clients as generally being middle- aged or older, married, having achieved some level of success, and holding dominant positions at work and/or home. The men also tended to maintain a stable disposable income. In fact, a Domme joked that men with stable dis- posable incomes were the only ones who could afford to be regular visitors, given commercial BDSM rates, which are commonly­ US$200+ per hour, as well as the extra money and presents that were ­generally considered a normal part of building a close, long-term ­relationship with a pro-Domme (freak- oftheweek 2011). Another Domme took a more serious approach and stated flat out: “If your first question is, ‘How much is your tribute?’ then don’t contact me” (Vinyl Queen 2010). Worried their desires could destroy their personal and professional lives, many of the men felt the cost of seeing pro- Dommes was worth it for the level of expertise they offered and their com- mitment to protecting clients’ secrets. Men in relationships also sometimes­ claimed that seeing pro-Dommes­ allowed them to release their desires with- out making a commitment to another woman. Prior to even becoming cli- ents, however, there were a number of steps subs had to undertake. All the Dungeon’s a Stage 85 THE SESSIONS

Commercial BDSM sessions are made up of many interactions including selecting clients, booking, performing sessions, and after-care. To create a clear understanding of commercial BDSM play, I share here the most ­commonly reported experiences found over the course of my study and built a general structure of sessions based on them. This structure is derived from what the majority of the pro-Dommes and male subs stated. Individual practitioners may vary in term of the structure they employ, the interactions that occur, and the rules that govern them.

Lead-Up The lead up to sessions involves formal steps outlined by the top – here, the pro-Domme. Independent Dommes generally explain on their websites­ how they wish to be approached. Initial contact is usually by phone, text, or e-mail. As pro-Dommes openly admit to being highly selective about their clients, subs often have to court them by using proper terminology, ­showing respect, demonstrating a submissive attitude, and carefully following­ all instructions. Many pro-Dommes expect subs to research them and write ­personalized e-mails or texts. Clients who send form e-mails may be ­chastised online by the pro-Dommes who receive them. If a Domme wants to move forward with a client after the initial ­communication, both parties engage in a screening and negotiation ­process. This might occur via e-mail, over the phone, or in person. During this step, pro- Dommes ensure they feel safe, check for compatible BDSM interests, decide if they want to book a session, and ask if clients have any health issues, limita- tions, and/or personal boundaries. At the same time, clients may voice special requests (e.g. a specific outfit, piece of gear, or ­punishment), except with some highly traditional pro-Dommes who believe bottoms should not have input in session structure. These Dommes tend to be the exception, though. For the most part, the male subs in my study expected some control over the practices and/or wardrobe included in the sessions. One male sub went as far as to claim the negotiation time is “the most important part of getting a good session” (Elfin n.d.). As no two sessions are ever the same, clients’ information­ is generally used to help Dommes build plea- surable, ­challenging, and safe sessions tailored to individual subs. These ­negotiations, however, reveal a core tension at the heart of commercial BDSM. This is the ­tension between the buyer/seller relationship, where power generally rests with the buyer, and the top/bottom relationship, where power in ­theory is given to the top (Lindemann 2012, 45). Thus the final element ofnegotiations ­ is ­pro-Dommes and potential subs ensur- ing they share ­compatible ­understandings of commercial BDSM power dynamics. 86 Danielle Szlawieniec-Haw The Session For those who make it to sessions, there is a great deal of preparation of the dungeon space, participants’ bodies (e.g. cleaning, waxing, growing hair, and/or bladder filling), and production elements (e.g. costumes, props, and/ or music). According to my research, these elements were used to establish­ and re-enforce the top/bottom dynamic as well as create the fantasy space of the dungeon, separating it from the stresses of everyday life. For instance, dungeons generally have no windows so the focus can remain on the ­interactions occurring during the session. While clients often prepare their bodies and purchase props or gifts, the majority of these preparations are undertaken by the pro-Dommes, who work hard to, in the words of Caillois (1958), have the play “carefully isolated from the rest of life” (6). Creating this separate space continues into the first, warm-up portion of the session. Pro-Dommes in my study often began their sessions by ordering­ male subs to strip and be collared. This metacommunication (Schechner 2013) quickly establishes both the power dynamics being played with and that play has commenced (103). The stripping and collaring­ tells male clients their submissive status, which they then embody. This submission continues as pro-Dommes start play at a low intensity and build up over the session. This build provides an opportunity to assess whether subs have accurately communicated the practices and intensity levels they enjoy, ­especially when working with new clients. The main body of sessions varies radically, though in most cases Dommes­ administer “rewards” for good behavior and “punishments” for bad ­behavior at their discretion. Deeper into sessions, pro-Dommes may layer physical, mental, and emotional elements to build more complexity and pleasure for all involved. A pro-Domme explained: “play partner[s should be] genuinely challenged but not allowed to [actually, non-performatively] fail” (Orleans 2012). To achieve this, Dommes balance their session plans with clients’ changing needs in the moment. When the ideal balance between pleasure and challenge is achieved, BDSM players can enter altered states of consciousness. Some tops labelled this “Dom(me) head,” a state in which pro-Dommes get a head rush from the pleasure they are experiencing. Subs can also encounter altered states from components of their play, including corporeal punishment, ­sensory ­deprivation, and/or physical exhaustion. One sub described ­entering a “­wonderful dream-like state” during a session (clumsypup 2013a), while another discussed “that warm, fuzzy headspace that I so dearly love” (­clumsypup 2013b). These altered states vary in length, with some ­dissipating immediately following play and others continuing for days after. As sessions end, players enter a cool-down period that allows them to stop play slowly and transition back into the everyday world. Many ­participants also engage in after-care where they check in and debrief with one another following a session. During this time, pro-Dommes and cli- ents may raise concerns, request adjustments for the future, and/or give All the Dungeon’s a Stage 87 ­compliments. The pro-Dommes and male subs I looked at identified ­after-care as an important way for players to acknowledge, appreciate, and support each other.

The Post-Session While one could assume the end of the session marks the end of the play, I suggest the BDSM experiences continue post-session in two key ways: through the remaining hold of the Domme and through social sharing. In my research, male subs reported thinking about pro-Dommes for days and feel- ing their control for periods ranging from a few hours to an extended time after sessions. Pro-Dommes may also check in following play sessions,­ allow- ing clients to further debrief if necessary. In addition, some subs ­continue to engage with their pro-Dommes online, extending the top/­bottom dynamic. A secondary set of interactions can occur online when participants share detailed accounts of their play experiences, report marks that remain from ­sessions, brag about how extreme or intense sessions were, and/or post ­photos. Pro-Dommes and male subs may share in person with other ­members of the BDSM community and/or online. Participants can ­re-enforce their positions as Dommes or subs through these exchanges and/or give and receive play-related compliments. Many players report re-experiencing­ some sensations and feelings they encountered in sessions as they shared ­stories and/or photos from them online. In these ways, the process of sharing­ ­ultimately becomes another form of play.

INTERTWINED REALITIES AND THE PARADOXES THEY SPAWN

In this section I discuss pro-Dommes’ and long-term male submissive ­clients’ lived experiences of participating in commercial BDSM play. The first finding related to this area that clearly emerged in my research was the interwoven nature of realities in BDSM. Players reported simultaneously encountering and balancing sessions’ narratives and dungeons’ quotidian spaces. ­Similarly, Dommes and subs balanced their BDSM personas with concerns about the scene, safety, and play partners. Giving an example of her thought process during sessions, one pro-Domme reported asking ­herself: “Is [my sub] OK? Is he sleeping? Bored? ... I want to touch him! I can’t! I have to ignore him!. ... How long do I leave him there?. ... He’s beg- ging to be let out? Do I? ... How about now?” (Orleans 2012). These reports of intertwined realities have interesting resonances with understandings, such as Huizinga’s (1938), that suggest play and ­reality become “a single field of action” (40). I found, however, that BDSM ­performers seemed to move through multiple realities, embracing their ­intertwining natures while maintaining tensions among them so the ­sessions’ narratives continued without consuming players. Given this, is 88 Danielle Szlawieniec-Haw a “single field of action” created or are multiple, interwoven fields simply being ­encountered in close proximity? Perhaps the most helpful ideas here are Schechner’s (2013) understanding­ of Maya-lila, which frames the real and unreal as “continuously shifting and/ or wholly permeable” (113–114), and Bailey’s (2011) concept of a “meta- phorical place where reality transitions into imagination and both co-exist” (139). These positions challenge conventional notions of the real and the fictional as two separate, clearly defined realms. At their cores, reality and fiction can be understood as constructs placed on top of experience. If the apparently fictional can touch and change us and the real can be constructed or simulated, should the two be considered stable, mutually exclusive states? I suggest not. While navigating these shifting, interwoven realities, pro-Dommes and male subs encountered series of paradoxes that became central to their lived experiences. The first relates to players’ BDSM personas (theindividuals ­ BDSM players present and identify themselves as being during sessions) versus their selves (the individuals BDSM players present and identify ­themselves as being in their everyday lives). Interestingly, BDSM participants identified themselves both as being and not being their personas. While one could argue BDSM characters are either personas or selves, I believe the experience is, once again, closer to co-existence among the self, player, and persona such that BDSM participants are simultaneously both and ­neither. Thus, as with the fictional and the real, self and persona couldconstantly ­ be in a state of redefinition, clearly demarcated in one second and sliding into one another in the next. The next paradox is the incredible strength required to be vulnerable. It is widely accepted in the BDSM community that subs demonstrate great strength in their willingness to make themselves vulnerable. As one sub stated: “When I look at another ... ‘submissive,’ I see someone who ­voluntary gives control of himself to another” (Elfin n.d.). Dommes perform equally radical acts of vulnerability and trust, including trusting subs to accurately identify their limits, allowing themselves to activate their ­aggressive, ­dominant sides, trusting they will not be judged for that, and addressing feelings that might arise from topping. The vulnerability demonstrated by BDSM players appeared, to me, to be tied to revealing a self beyond the expected societal mask. BDSM requires a commitment to radical openness. One pro-Domme stated she takes ­clients to a place where she sees them “naked, physically and emotionally” (­freakoftheweek 2011). In fact, some male subs cited pro-Dommes’ abilities to get bottoms to this level of vulnerability as a reason to see a professional over a lifestyle top. By engaging with this type of openness, players can challenge both personal and societal expectations. In fact, for many players, doing so was part of what drew them to BDSM. Another draw for the individuals included in my research was the ­relationship with the other that can be created through BDSM. This connects All the Dungeon’s a Stage 89 to a third paradox. Both pro-Dommes and male subs consistently derive high levels of personal pleasure from their scene partners’ experiences. It is not enough, however, to see a top dominating or a bottom submitting. The play partner has to be voluntarily taking or giving control, knowing this dynamic can be stopped at any point. When this occurs, participants can experience pleasure through the other, sometimes to the point that players report feeling like a single entity. The final paradox, which speaks to the heart of BDSM play, is that ­pleasure, for some players, can be taken from the giving and receiving of consensual humiliation and/or pain. To the layperson, this may sound like BDSM participants simply experience pain and/or humiliation as pleasure. My analysis suggests, however, that participants who engage with these BDSM practices experience pain, discomfort, and/or suffering as well as pleasure (or knew they were inflicting pain, discomfort, and/or suffering as well as pleasure). For example, a sub explained that, during a session, “the pain continued, and the pleasure in the pain” (Etienne 2010). In some cases, these two aspects are be experienced simultaneously, while in others, the pleasure follows. Not all experiences of pain and humiliation, however, are created equal. Most of the BDSM players I studied identified a major divide between ­giving and receiving pain, humiliation, top/bottom power dynamics, and/ or ­worship in the context of consensual BDSM play and encountering these ­situations in everyday life. In BDSM, these situations were deemed ­pleasurable for those who practiced them. Everyday pain or humiliation, however, was not for most subs and many Dommes included in my study. For example, a sub who ended up locked out of a lifestyle Domme’s apartment while undertaking puppy play recounted being extremely ­embarrassed. Despite enjoying humiliation within BDSM play, the sub did not find this situation pleasurable as it was not safe or controlled. In fact, he removed as much of his outfit as possible so others would not see his puppy gear and said he would never want to repeat the experience (clumsypup 2013c). Further, the power exchanges enacted in BDSM are generally not mirrored or found pleasurable when individuals encounter these imbalances in daily life. Thus I believe the pleasure of BDSM is fundamentally tied to the play occurring in a controlled setting where consensual participants are voluntarily and fully committing themselves to the experience.

MOVING FORWARD

There are a number of significant similarities between BDSM and theatre / performance, especially when it comes to participants’ lived experiences. In fact, as I conducted this study, I was amazed by the resonances I found with an interview-based study I had done with actors, looking at their lived experiences of representing human suffering, distress, and/or violence. The 90 Danielle Szlawieniec-Haw overlaps included encountering intertwined realities and the paradoxes that emerge from them. There were also overlaps between how the actors and pro-Dommes described the costs and rewards of their work. Given these overlaps, I believe a more extensive study is needed to further delve into the lived experiences of commercial BDSM participants, including the costs and rewards professional BDSM players encounter in their work; any per- sonal and interpersonal forms of attention and care players use to maintain their health and wellness; and areas for improvement in structural attention and care available in the industry. I am in no way suggesting academics or any other members of society should “help” BDSM workers or “fix” the industry. Rather, I believe research into health and wellness in the BDSM industry should be conducted as it has been in other professions, and this research should be made available to interested dungeons and freelance BDSM professionals. Beyond this research, other potential topics to further explore in rela- tion to BDSM play include the role of gender, the challenging/reinforcing of gender norms, the role of race, and the socio-economic positioning of commercial BDSM. To move forward, though, I think it is important to note the divide that often exists between academic research and BDSM practice. I believe this divide could tie into the simultaneous social eroticization and stigmatization of BDSM practices, culture, and lifestyle. In my opinion, it is vital for academics to recognize BDSM is generally an integral part of prac- titioners’ lives and to truly hear and respect their lived experiences. Maybe then liminal spaces that allow for open exchanges based on mutual compas- sion and respect can be constructed and/or strengthened. 8 Cheering is Tied to Eating Consumption and Excess in Immersive, Role-specific Dinner Theatre Spaces

Drew Chappell

We move through the constructed castle space, lingering at the armorer’s stall and the horse stables. As we enter the arena, where we will spend the rest of our afternoon, any pretense of recreating the European High ­Middle Ages disappears. Rock and roll lighting and concert-size speakers loom above the stadium, couples wearing cardboard crowns clutch each other as they find their seats, children switch on plastic light-up “swords.” Protective netting hangs between the crowd and the playing space. We don’t know what to expect but, in contrast to the armorer’s stall outside, where swords are ground by hand, it appears this space is not intended to contain anything like an authentic experience. We look around the arena – we’ve been assigned to the Red Knight’s ­section and many of our fellow guests have red banners to wave in support of his exploits – and notice the jarring juxtaposition of modern-day dress with medieval benches and pageantry. Then the “serving wenches” arrive, bearing notepads on which to take our drink orders. …

WELCOME TO DINNER: Here’s Who You Will Play Tonight

The burgeoning interactive dinner-theatre industry in the U.S. includes numerous sites at which patrons engage in a storyline while eating as part of an evening’s entertainment. These for-profit enterprises, such as ­Medieval Times and numerous murder-mystery dinners, build upon the ­traditional ­dinner-theatre formula of feeding audiences while ­simultaneously ­presenting a show. They push the element of immersion further by ­hailing patrons as ­characters within narratives specific to con- structed or rented ­environments. One key aspect of these environmen- tal experiences is the audience’s ­sovereignty, which includes such aspects of audience choice as fluid ­movement, “partial-attention listening,” and “socializing while ­watching” (Conner as cited in Brown 2013, 55). To this list of choices, in these ­immersive dinner-theatre spaces, we can add drinking and dining, which literally put part of the show experience in the audience’s hands. In immersive dinner theatre, whether integral to the 92 Drew Chappell plot of the show or part of a parallel experience of eating, food serves a threefold purpose:

• It marks the enxvironment in which the narrative takes place. • It indicates the role(s) of the audience within that space. • It helps sell tickets for the performance.

This chapter analyzes the effects of the embodiment/consumption strategy employed by these theatres, paying particular attention to food’s role in the pleasure, seduction, and enculturating functions of interactive dinner theatre. I studied these performances by employing participant observation at three such shows, two in the Los Angeles area (Pirate’s Dinner Adventure, Medieval Times) and one in Las Vegas (Tony ‘n’ Tina’s Wedding). I attended each show as a paying customer; my wife accompanied me to the two Los Angeles area shows while the Las Vegas show I attended on my own. As a patron/participant, I was in the same position as the rest of the audience – that is, I played a role alongside the others at my table and contributed to the evening’s entertainment while consuming the food (served either buffet style or by costumed wait staff). Following my attendance at Tony ‘n’ Tina’s Wedding, I conducted semi-structured interviews in March 2012 with two performers from the show about their experiences with interaction and food service in order to weave their understandings of these elements into my study. My goal was to understand the relationships between eating, narra- tive, and the roles/identities of both cast and audience.

THE SHOWS: WHAT’S THE STORY(LINE) HERE?

In this section, I briefl y explore how the three shows I attended employed dif- ferent storytelling strategies, tones, and “food foci,” yet shared commonalities in structures and strategies.

TONY ‘N’ TINA’S WEDDING: WELCOME TO THE FAMILY

This show, currently performed in Las Vegas, New York, and Red Bank, New Jersey, tells the story of two young Italian-American adults who marry surrounded by their family members and friends (both actors and audience members). The space for this show resembles a wedding reception hall. It is long and narrow with tables set up facing a small, thrust-stage space where the “formal” portions of the show (the ceremony, toasts, etc.) take place. When the actors are not involved in a ceremony in the main-stage space, they visit the tables, eating and chatting with the audience. This is where the major- ity of the narrative occurs. Audience members encounter different storylines (primarily having to do with family squabbles) based on where they are seated. Cheering is Tied to Eating 93 This was the only show I attended that did not have servers wait- ing on the audience. We went to a separate room to pick up our food, ­buffet style, and pitchers of drinks remained on the table throughout the performance.

Medieval Times: A Taste of Game of Thrones

This production, which was developed in the U.S. in 1983 (the first “castle” was built in Majorca, Spain) and currently runs in the Los Angeles area, Dallas, Chicago, Atlanta, Toronto, Orlando, Baltimore, Myrtle Beach, and Lyndhurst, New Jersey, bills itself as a “dinner and tournament.” The action takes place in a large arena-style space within “the King’s castle.” Toward one end is a “royal box” where the King and Princess interact. The primary storyline of the show involves the celebration of a peace accord between “our” kingdom (“we,” the audience, being “nobles” of our land) and the kingdom of Leone, represented at the event by the Green Knight. To celebrate the peace, the King of “our” land has ordered a feast/ tournament involving six knights, identified by different colored heraldic shields and banners. Each section of the audience is affiliated with a spe- cific knight; we cheer for him (always him; there were no female knights present). Serving wenches bring patrons food to eat throughout the show. The meal is served “medieval style,” on pewter plates and bowls from which we eat with our fingers, as we watch the tournament, during which political intrigue, a kidnapping, and magic will threaten the fragile peace between kingdoms.

Pirate’s Dinner Adventure: Where’s My Bottle of Rum?

Performing in the Los Angeles area and Orlando, this show begins in a gathering hall with a small stage, representing the “governor’s mansion.” When pirates attack the mansion, the audience is “Shanghaied,” along with a princess and a “gypsy girl,” and brought in groups to the main perfor- mance space, a large pirate ship set with seating in a thrust configuration. As the audience dines, the story of a mutiny on board the pirate ship slowly unfolds, culminating with the rescue of the audience and other civilian cap- tives by the king’s army (assisted by children from the audience who don red coats and point prop weapons at the pirates). This show includes singing and acrobatics, and audience members frequently are asked to directly take part in the action on stage. Servers dressed as pirates bring patrons their meals and drinks. It is unclear who these servers are meant to be within the narrative; ostensibly, the patrons are captives and yet they are being served by their captors. 94 Drew Chappell FOOD’S FUNCTION WITHIN PERFORMANCE: Eating Makes Everything More Fun!

Taylor (2003) describes the theatricality and social significance of­ eating, cooking, and sharing meals as part of a cultural practice she calls “the ­repertoire”: “The repertoire, whether in terms of verbal or nonverbal ­expression, transmits live, embodied actions. As such, traditions are stored in the body, through various mnemonic methods, and transmitted ‘live’ in the here and now to a live audience” (26). To Taylor, the codes and actions ­associated with meal-sharing – use of utensils, patterning of conversation,­ or the sharing of a common drink pitcher, for example – participate in ­establishing and maintaining the social structures and expectations of the culture doing the eating. The codes and actions also build community through the experience of creating a “meal story” together. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett (1999) specifically connects food preparation and consumption with performance in her analysis of staged and ­informal food experiences. She articulates three components of this gustatory ­performance: doing, behaving, and showing. “When doing and behaving are displayed, when they are shown, when participants are invited to ­exercise ­discernment, evaluation, and appreciation, food events move toward the theatrical and, more specifically, toward the spectacular” (2). So if, as ­Kirshenblatt-­Gimblett posits, food consumption is itself a performance, then there are ­essentially two shows running parallel to each other during dinner theatre: the more ­formal scripted and staged piece, and the table show of ­consuming, ­evaluating, appreciating, and interacting. This stands in contrast to performances in which food is seen, but not consumed, by the audience, a forced desire/separation discussed by Rowell (1997) in her study of still lifes: “Because the drive or pulsation of desire, in order to be sustained, must be unsatisfied, the objects desired (or the climax of the story) are ever distant or deferred” (9–10). In the environment/role-specific spaces I studied, food fulfilled the doing and behaving functions Kirshenblatt-Gimblett outlines. Dining involved multiple elements: requesting and receiving food, pouring drinks, manipu- lating utensils (or picking up food with our fingers), paying attention to balance of food on our plates, keeping our faces clean, deciding when to converse with our tablemates, etc. There was a great deal more noise from the audience than in a traditional stage piece, from food service, manipula- tion, and consumption of food as well as from conversation. In this way, we were often more engaged with the narrative, as being active tended to keep us focused on the events of the story, especially when food occupied a central role, as in Tony ‘n’ Tina’s Wedding. As Alison1, a Tony ‘n’ Tina’s performer relates: “There is something undeniably tangible and thus ‘real’ about the shared food which seems to further the audiences’ willingness to believe they are at a wedding.” Conversely, eating sometimes distracted us from the story, a complete realization of food’s disappearing of the actor Cheering is Tied to Eating 95 that Iball (1999) terms the “melting moment” (74). For example, my wife occasionally asked me: “What just happened [in the show]? I was paying attention to my food!” In such instances, the “foodie gaze” that Iball (1999) describes, where food “gouges out a place for itself in and as performance” (80), is transferred from the stage to the audience’s immediate location, the table and the plate. As paying customers to the shows we saw – and I note here that, interestingly, we were always in role as “guests” or “captive crew” i.e. non-paying characters – we expected and received a certain level of both service and comfort, no matter what was going on in the show. Based on advertising, ticket prices, and our experience with restaurants, we assumed, for example, that:

• We would be getting food of a certain price-point/quality. • The food would arrive in a timely manner. • We could request more food and drink if desired. • The events of the show would not disrupt our eating. • Dinner would likely be followed by dessert. • We would not need to prepare or clean up after our meal.

These elements of service/comfort cast the shows in a certain light; they helped to defi ne what could happen to us and, often, in the show itself. At Medieval Times, for example, our meal was served before the jousting and extended fi ght sequences were played for us; it was assumed these fi ght sequences would be better enjoyed after we had been fed.

PERFORMANCES OF EXCESS AND WASTE: ARE YOU (NOT) GOING TO EAT THAT?

In his literary analysis of medieval feasting, Bakhtin (1984) describes the connections between eating and power: “Man’s encounter with the world in the act of eating is joyful, triumphant; he triumphs over the world, devours it without being devoured himself. The limits between man and the world are erased, to man’s advantage” (281). Yet in this medieval system, feasting depended on collaborative labor to reap a harvest:

If food is separated from work and conceived as part of a private way of life, then nothing remains of the old images: man’s encounter with the world and tasting the world, the open mouth, the relation of food and speech, the gay truth. Nothing is left but a series of artifi cial, meaningless metaphors. (Bakhtin 1984, 281–282) When attending these shows, I noticed a disconnect between the scope/ stakes of the feast as it functioned within the performed narrative and my 96 Drew Chappell experience of the food as a paying customer. I had not worked to ­harvest or prepare the food, for example; I had no personal relationship to the ­characters of the show (even though the shows often assumed I did); I would not be affected by the events of the narrative after I left the theatre­ space, shades here of Huizinga’s separation of play and real life. Still, I would remember the experience and the pleasure of attending the show years later. As Bakhtin points out, the idea of feasting was reduced to a series of metaphors,­ set up and reinscribed in certain ways by the content of the shows. My two main concerns in terms of the food were to satisfy my ­hunger and make sure I got my money’s worth. Bakhtin (1984) also comments on the relationship between bodily ­processes and the totality of life:

All these convexities and orifices have a common characteristic; it is within them that the confines between bodies and between the body and the world are overcome: there is an interchange and an ­interorientation. This is why the main events in the life of the ­grotesque body, the acts of the bodily drama, take place in this sphere. (317)

As mentioned, the events represented in the shows I watched constituted various elements of a human drama. They dealt with marriage, war and peace, villainy and heroism. In a way, it seemed appropriate to be eating as we watched these dramas unfolding. There was something about the food that suggested the raised stakes and communal concerns inherent in the shows. As Jessica, a performer from Tony ‘N’ Tina, puts it, “The food ­punctuates the flow of the story and helps the audience to‘get into character­ .’ The ­dinner hour also gives the audience more time to become less formal and more comfortable with the actors and with their own role as friends and family.” Roach (1996) identifies the display and performance of excess and waste as central to societies’ demonstration of wealth and power:

Human cultures somehow must cope with the profuse excesses ­produced by nature and reproduced by their own increasingly fecund manipulations of it. Their strategies for coping with this superabun- dance include such forms as potlatch, feasting, ritualized warfare, and sacrifice – performing the waste of excess objects, produce, and human life. (123)

Extending from Roach’s analysis, I theorize here that having too much is sometimes just enough to secure one’s place in the social, cultural, or global hierarchy. How many times, for example, have American parents ­admonished their children that kids elsewhere don’t have enough to eat? In the U.S., this focus on excess is especially prominent in our attitude toward food. News reports highlight a rise in childhood obesity over the past thirty Cheering is Tied to Eating 97 years and American First Lady Michelle Obama has made this issue her personal cause, launching her Let’s Move! Campaign (Let’s Move 2014). As adults, we are often doubly excessive. We consume too much food and then spend/waste additional time and money working off the food at a gym or in programs that teach us how not to over-consume by selling us ­lower-caloric, smaller-portioned meals! Here, our indulgence (food play) stays with us, remaining in our bodies and demanding we do work to “pay” for the ­pleasure of consumption. The concepts of excess and waste were common in the shows I watched. As audience members/patrons, we had little control over the kinds of food or the portions we were served. We wasted foods we did not care for, or ­portions too large for us to eat that we could not bring home. Significant alcohol consumption was all around us. Each performance space had a cash bar that audience members patronized before the show started, and alcohol­ kept flowing all the way through Medieval Times and Pirate’s ­Dinner Adventure. This was, of course, part of a strategy to charge guests additional money for non-included beverages by creating a festive atmosphere where drinking seemed natural.

FOOD AS CELEBRATION: What’s the Excuse to Party?

Whether at a wedding, a tournament, or a “last meal” for pirates’ captives,­ eating was framed as part of a celebration in each performance. By treating food and consumption in this fashion, the writers and performers resituated­ dining from daily activity to what Goffman (1976) termed ­ceremony: a social arrangement that contains and reflects doctrines or sets of beliefs and values about the world that are performed as a “gathering” (1). ­Ceremonies provide bracketed-off spaces in which participants engage in ritualized behaviors, often enacting roles in order to achieve a group objective. In most ceremonies, these behaviors have been rehearsed and are well ­understood by all involved, but in the interactive shows I attended, audiences did not ­necessarily understand their roles. Rather they learned the “rules of ­engagement” for the fictional ceremonies as the shows progressed. As Jessica from Tony ‘n’ Tina, which throws its audience members into the middle of a wedding and reception, relates: “Our show doesn’t ask the audi- ence members to be anyone besides themselves, but we do ask that they treat us like friends and family and allow us to do the same with them. Some people will take it further and we often get, ‘Hey! You might not remember me, but I’m Uncle Louie from the Bronx’ and we will roll with them on it.” Such col- laboratively improvised moments point to the connections audience members might make between their own lives (or the lives of characters they have seen in movies, TV shows, etc.) and the lives of the celebrating characters they are watching. As Alison puts it: “[E]veryone either knows a Guido or at the very least they’ve seen Jersey Shore so there’s nothing too foreign going on.” 98 Drew Chappell In Medieval Times, the entry of the audience into the tournament/eating area was preceded by a number of announcements by the Lord Chancellor, who served as a sort of Master of Ceremonies during the show. In order to get the crowd excited for the doors to open, the Chancellor asked everyone to make noise, and suggested: “Cheering is closely tied to eating.” This direc- tive produced the desired effect, as hungry patrons cheered and the doors opened to us. The ease with which the Chancellor got audience members to cheer was probably not surprising. The promise of food delighted us, and cheering for “our King” seemed ethically sound and even appropriate. Once inside the tournament space, the Princess informed us the King had ordered the “finest food in all the kingdom” to be served to us as lords and ladies in attendance. The King was celebrating a peace accord, we learned, and we would all share in the bounty (Roach’s performance of excess). Interestingly, our dinner/show in the castle space coincided with other mile- stones certain individual audience members were celebrating: birthdays, anniversaries, start of college, etc. The Chancellor read aloud a list of these names and celebrations early on in the show, and we applauded those who were mentioned. One couple was attending the show on their honeymoon, prompting the Chancellor to ask them: “Why are you here?” This conflation of fictional ceremony with true-life achievements was fascinating to me, and it was one of many times I felt the incongruity between the outside present world and the past world the show attempted to create. Huizinga’s and Caillois’s dividing line between play and real life was permeable here, with the outside impacting the decision to play (celebrating an achievement) and the playing community playing (a small) role in the real-world celebrations. Unlike the peaceful atmosphere of Medieval Times, at Pirate’s Dinner Adventure the crew told us we were being served our “very last meal” before the hardships of our new lives as pirates. This was one of the only refer- ences to the food during that show; in fact, the food had very little relation to the events we watched. In contrast to all of the characters in Tony ‘n’ Tina’s Wedding and the King and Princess in Medieval Times, none of the Pirate’s characters consumed food with us. Yet the ceremony of “turning us into pirates” continued occasionally throughout the show as the pirate crew encouraged us to raise our glasses and chant: “Drink! Drink! Drink!” There was also a moment when all the children in the audience were called to the stage to take a “pirate oath,” which I describe in detail later. In general, it felt incongruous being served and eating while we were prisoners of the pirates. In this case, dining created a patron/worker bound- ary between audience and performers that was distinct from the physical boundary of the stage space. This physical boundary was crossed over by cast and audience alike, both bodily and through referencing people in the audience. At one moment, for example, the pirate captain’s assistant pointed out a boisterous woman in the audience and commented: “Look at her! ‘I had a Mai Tai, and I feel great!’” Throughout the show, as the pirates and especially the gypsy girl performed dances, swordfights, and acrobatic Cheering is Tied to Eating 99 feats, I thought of how inactive and even gluttonous I was being compared to those I had paid to entertain me, even though I was supposedly under their control and could look forward to a hard and dangerous new life as a pirate. I asked myself: Who is “playing” and who is “working” here? Does sitting and eating constitute play? Does improvising moments of dialogue and strutting around in a pirate costume constitute “work”? The boundar- ies seemed quite permeable.

FOOD AS CUTURAL AFFILIATION/DIVISION

Tony & Tina: You’re Italian-American Now! In two of the shows, food became a marker of cultural affiliation and/or ­division. At Tony ‘n’ Tina’s Wedding, for example, the food served at the reception was Italian fare, a fact that Tina’s mother (divorced from Tina’s father) reminded us (her tablemates) of frequently. As we ate (and enjoyed) our chicken, it became evident something was bothering the mother ­character. After some time, she complained she had given the caterers her recipe but they had not followed it appropriately: “This is not my recipe!” she fumed. As the meal progressed, she was counseled to let this issue go and she put a brave face on her evening. Unfortunately, little things continued to remind Tina’s mother of the food’s (constructed) lack of cultural authenticity. In particular, Tony’s father’s new girlfriend drifted over frequently and shared her (inebriated) opinions on the evening and the food. When she shared with Tina’s mother how much she enjoyed the chicken, Tina’s mom shot back: “You’re not Italian!­ You can’t even pronounce it [the name of the dish] right!” This was a manifestation of the ongoing sense of cultural intrusion where the Italian-American fam- ily was mixing with non-Italians. Nor was the Irish priest who performed the ceremony immune to this commentary and exclusion. As the evening progressed, he became more and more “intoxicated” (at one point greeting wedding guests with a large, unnoticed dab of cake frosting on his nose) and his behavior was subsequently labeled by Tina’s family as “inappropriate” for a priest. The underlying attitude seemed to be: “He’s Irish, what are you going to do?” The most jarring moment of cultural division I felt in Tony ‘n’ Tina was when the (in-narrative) reception-hall owner sat down at our table to eat the food “he had ordered” with us. Dissatisfied with a small dinner roll he had been served as one of the last people through the buffet line, he stood up at our table, brandished the roll, and shouted to the caterers: “This isn’t a Mexican wedding! We can make bigger food!” Our table erupted in laughter­ . I, silent, was taken aback. Up until now, ethnic jokes had been targeted at specific characters, as exemplars of their particular cultural affiliation. This particular slight was directed at all Mexicans and Mexican-Americans, it 100 Drew Chappell rested in class superiority, and supposedly inferior food was at the center­ of the “joke.” Yet I did not challenge the character or intervene in any way. To do so would have been to violate the rules of play that had been ­established for the evening, spoiling the party and killing the laughter, much like ­challenging a stand-up comic who made an insulting reference, and I did not feel comfortable taking on that role. What made the cultural affiliation/division especially interesting in Tony ‘n’ Tina was that we were all essentially in role as Italian-American wedding guests. Jessica indicates: “Our whole show is about stereotypes and we defi- nitely play up that New York and Italian stereotype. … Each character will either exemplify their stereotype or completely break it.” As I looked around the performance space, I noticed the audience included members of many ethnic groups, including Latino/a patrons. I wondered how they reacted when faced with the ethnic slur made by the reception-hall owner. Were they be expected to remain in character, employing a kind of ­theatrical/cultural double consciousness derived from that described by DuBois (1999), joining in laughter at the expense of their own cultural identity? How did this show train individuals to laugh at themselves through engaging them in play? How far would the narrative and/or dialogue need to go before a patron felt compelled to challenge it?

Medieval Times: The King Commands You to Party! At Medieval Times, food’s relationship to cultural affiliation involved ­evoking a fantastical medieval period rather than a specific cultural or ­ethnic identity. We ate our food with our fingers from pewter dishware as we would have in the European Middle Ages2. Unlearning present-day table manners in favor of the messier practices of long ago was somewhat ­difficult. I found myself reaching for silverware that was, of course, not present. The Chancellor also cautioned us in a serious announcement not to bang our pewter dishware, as the loud, metallic noises could frighten the horses in the show and endanger the riders (this was, interestingly, in a show that included highly amplified speech and sound effects). In this production, we were guests of the King and he had provided everything for us; we were often reminded we were privileged to be in his castle celebrating with him and the Princess.

Pirate’s Dinner Adventure: Have You Been Working on Your “Argh?” The creation of a fantastical past identity was also evident in Pirate’s ­Dinner Adventure, where (after being Shanghaied), the children in the audience were called before the pirate captain and sworn in as pirates. At this moment, the young people were cast as affiliate villain characters of the piece. The pirate captain remarked they were “all drunk,” which his assistant affirmed, Cheering is Tied to Eating 101 remarking “they’ve had too much rum cake.” As part of their oath (which they were expected to repeat willingly), along with defending the pirate crew and serving their captain, the children intoned: “I will eat all my vegetables.” This promise references the long U.S. tradition of forcing children to eat food that is not of interest to them because it is good for them. (This moves from a playful endeavor in very early childhood, when adults feed children with a spoon, to a chore as children age.) I admit I ask my own daughter to at least eat part of her vegetable serving at each meal. Yet this promise refer- ences power struggles over food, along with making jokes about underage drinking during an oath that is clearly for adults’ amusement at the expense of the children.

FOOD TOWARD PEACE: If We’re Eating, We’re Not Arguing

Food also played a role in forging peace in the shows when characters shared meals. In Tony ‘n’ Tina’s Wedding, this peace was both between and within feuding families. The wedding was a crucible for old argu- ments. When Tina’s brother looked over at our table, where several of us were sticking with water, he commented: “How can you sit next to my mom without drinking?” Yet at the end of the reception/show, all char- acters, even those with grudges against each other, had danced together several times, and everyone walked away happy and full. Interestingly, although alcohol furthers the in-world peace of the Tony ‘n’ Tina char- acters, Jessica indicated she and other performers have experienced moments where inebriated audience members/wedding guests disrupt the real-world peace of the show, behaving inappropriately by touching or propositioning cast members. In Medieval Times, the scope of conflict was larger. We were celebrating a peace accord with our longtime enemy, the Kingdom of Leone. At the begin- ning of the show, we joined the King and Chancellor in a toast: “To honor, to glory, to chivalry, to peace!” As lords and ladies of the realm, our back- story was one of sacrifice and triumph. We had lost loved ones at war, we had given our crops and coin to sustain the realm in its time of trouble, and now we were gathered to enjoy the peace. The toast encompassed this entire timeline, from glory and honor (associated with war) through to the new peace. Yet, of course, we (as customers) had gone through no such sacrifices for peace. Our only contribution was the payment we made to the corpora- tion running the show. In many ways this was an unearned feast, and yet the audience seemed more comfortable with a peace accord (the proverbial happy ending) than a last feast before going off to war. Later in the show, our kingdom was betrayed and attacked by the Green Knight of Leone, who took it upon himself to reopen the old wounds between the two countries and violate the peace accord. Although our King com- manded the knight to give up his attack, reminding him that the King was the 102 Drew Chappell liege of the realm, the Green Knight spat back: “Kings! Weary old men who no longer have the stomach for war. Decaying in comfort, they seek peace and remember not the glories of battle.” I took special note of the phrase “stom- ach for war,” which recalled Bakhtin’s connections between bodily processes and life dramas. In a way, I thought, the Green Knight had a point. What were we doing, enjoying all this food, when there were real confl icts raging all over the world? What wars, philosophical and moral, should we be engaging in rather than sitting in a pretend castle, watching young men ride around on horses and play at being knights? Where, indeed, were our “stomachs?”

IMPLICATIONS: WHAT ARE WE CONSUMING BESIDES FOOD?

When attending these interactive dinner-theatre experiences, our assigned roles as participants infl uence our interpretations of and responses to the performances. Even when we were loosely defi ned as captives/pirates/ soldiers in Pirate’s Dinner Adventure, for example, our spectatorship compelled the swashbuckling and acrobatic display (the in-narrative naval authorities could not ignore such a large-scale kidnapping!) and our in-role rescue provided the show’s climax. Yet beyond these constructed societies in action, we played other roles as well: paying patron, diner, served, etc. These roles complicate the doing and behaving described by Kirshenblatt-Gimblett. I watch – and eat – not as myself but as a version of myself, cheering for a man I have never met playing a knight, or suffering through ethnic jokes in role as some- one who (presumably) would fi nd them funny. I feel a sense of back-and- forth between individual and communal identity, in regard to the food I am consuming: “Food is in some ways ‘unspeakable’ because, as a feast for the eyes and nose and taste buds, it is a highly individual experience – we can- not know quite whether others are having the same experience” (Iball 1999, 79). Iball’s observation highlights the tensions between play as individual and communal experience. Are others deriving pleasure from the food and from the show in the same way I am? How far does my group membership extend? The liminality of self-as-not-self engaged in play serves to discipline and enculturate the players (recall “play as teaching tool” from the introduc- tion) through re-performance and redefi nition of what is valued by the cor- porate entities that write and perform the shows. These values might include:

• Family strongly linked to ethnic identity; rejection and mockery of those who do not fi t in (Tony ‘n’ Tina’s Wedding). • Centrality of competition, privilege of nobility (Medieval Times). • Clear defi nitions of good and evil, need for rescue, dominance of strong male characters and patriarchy (Pirate’s Dinner Adventure).

Resisting or rejecting these values requires one to reject himself or herself as a character within the show, and often reject the show’s narrative, in part Cheering is Tied to Eating 103 or whole. Physically leaving the show, for example, would mean opening oneself to ridicule by the performers and possibly abandoning a hot meal one paid (substantially) for. However, in subtle ways, the shows offer the performers and audience members the opportunity to confront these values. Alison relates: “On a personal level, I am an Italian woman so the show to me is about the role an Italian woman is expected to play throughout her life. A bride is expected to act in a particular way, as is a mother, a nun, a lover, etc., and there are serious consequences if a person ventures outside the limitations their role in the family demands.” Perhaps, then, this subtle social critique might lead to realization and normalization after the show is over? Audiences or performers might leave thinking: “At least my family (or government) is not that dysfunctional?” How might this limit the audience’s desire for social or political action? Interestingly, though the three performances were all priced similarly, Tony ‘n’ Tina felt different to me, more intimate, more immediate. The divi- sion between the actors and audience members was almost absent; we talked continually with the cast at our tables, and we ate the same food together. As Jessica points out: “People love this show because it is so different than anything else out there. They have the choice to get as much out of the show as they want. They can get up and dance, eat dinner, poke fun at the actors, take pictures, laugh and thoroughly enjoy themselves in the avenue they prefer.” In addition, as Alison relates: “In Tony ‘n’ Tina’s, if you don’t participate, you don’t get the entire story. You have to talk with the char- acters to establish who everyone is, how they [are] related to one another and what’s going on between them all.” I felt more a part of the action in this show than the others, which made its uncomfortable moments harder to avoid and, if avoidance was not an option, to deal with. Such moments took away from the fun of the experience for me because they were so close at hand and hence unescapable, as opposed to the mockery of the Mai- Tai-drinking woman in Pirate’s Dinner Adventure. Each show calls for a certain moral and ethical positioning and response from its participants as it re-performs excess. Even at a basic level, eating while watching others perform seems excessive to me – shades of Roman feasts – yet the scope of these immersive dinner-theatre performances and the commitment of the performers take that excess a step further. At times, the layers and elements of performance – trick riding, acrobatics, robotic ­lighting, singing, dancing, sword-fighting, jousting, falconry – became so overwhelming, my viewing experience suffered. What fascinates and ­troubles me is that the (seemingly middle to upper class U.S.) audiences I sat with seemed to expect this level of entertainment; in this country we have reached a point where such excess is a baseline. Along with the excess comes waste: waste of food prepared but not eaten, waste of electric- ity for the hyper-­produced effects, waste of acting talent on stereotypical roles. There are dots to connect here, I think, between play and pleasure, excess and waste, identity, ethics, morality, and power, following Roach’s 104 Drew Chappell (1996) arguments regarding performances of excess and waste as steeped in ­displays of ­dominance and superiority. I wonder for whom these shows are being performed. If it is we the audience who benefit fromconsuming ­ such representations, are we not also necessarily complicit in playful excess as we construct multiple ­identities – Italian-American, mythic European, and contemporary U.S. – and play expected roles in these constructed spaces/ experiences? Although the easy narratives and abundant food served at these for-profit immersive dinner theatres may be seductive, we should not ignore the displays of superiority and privilege presented along with the food within a global context, particularly­ as they are attached to cultural belonging. We must keep our critical faculties intact even as we are waited on and treated as if we deserve the privilege we are paying for.

Notes

1. All participants’ real names have been replaced by pseudonyms throughout this chapter. 2. For more on medieval cooking and etiquette, see Henisch’s (2009) The Medieval Cook. 9 Becoming Batman Cosplay, Performance, and Ludic ­Transformation at Comic-Con

Kane Anderson

I always wanted to be a superhero. But I never seriously thought I could be one, even as an actor who is no stranger to identity play and entering into fantastic realities. After all, superheroes, with their idealized bodies and miraculous abilities, stand apart from the material realities of my life. They are fantasies born from artwork and CGI imaging. They are looked at, never the lookers. But after the first year of my ethnographic study of costumed attendees at comic-book conventions left me with some unsatisfactory data, I felt the call to be something more than a witness. Donning my playful red bodysuit and gold lamé cape, I became a superhero.

COSTUMED COMIC-CON

In my dual consciousness of researcher and DC Comics character ­Captain Marvel, I attracted unexpected amounts of attention from fans ­wanting ­pictures with me in heroic poses and journalists hoping to deploy my image as representative of the convention experience. I became an ­auto-­ethnographer, playing the researcher role as much as I played Marvel,­ a superhero whose secret identity is a boy investigative reporter who transforms into a ­powerful adult by saying the well-known magic word “Shazam!” Perhaps­ my ­surprisingly tight-fitting costume lacked the actual magic of the­ character’s comic-book appearances, but I discovered a different kind of transmuta- tion. By playing a character in costume, I gained insider access not only to the community I sought to study but to the body of that character. Cer- tainly this was but an approximation based on imagination and a twisting of the rules separating fantasy and reality. Play served as the object and subject of my research, a ludic process that is as much transportational as ­transformational. And though I never quite felt ready to fly, for a few brief days a year, the costume helped me close the distance between work and play, as well as reality and fiction. At comic-book conventions like San Diego’s Comic-Con International, the superhero and her or his admirers share the sidewalks as the barriers between fantasy and corporeal reality blur. Here, at the largest convention celebrating the popular arts, some attendees take their fandom so seriously they don capes 106 Kane Anderson and cowls in playful acts of becoming their favorite ­characters from comic books and video games. At “cons,” these costumed players (“­cosplayers”) shed their mundane secret identities in favor of the bodies belonging to mighty, mythical creatures, powerful heroes, and dark-hearted villains. Broadly defined, costumed play refers to the performance practice of adopting the appearance of fictional characters from popular culture. This play takes the form of an idiosyncratic expression of a fan’s appreciation for a character, thereby creating a persona hybridized from self and the char- acter. Comic-Con includes cosplayers dressed as mainstream superheroes, obscure animé characters, Star Trek officers, Doctor Who impersonators, and beyond. Significantly, cons reveal there exists no monolithic fandom; instead, concentric and overlapping circles of interests and practices consti- tute fandom as process of continual construction and dismantling. Even in the supposed fan haven of Comic-Con, exuberant performances of fandom such as those from cosplayers challenge the pernicious condemnation of those mainstream eyes viewing fandom as backwardly obsessed with pop culture. But even in the larger con, cosplayers represent at best ten percent of the total attendees. Though most cosplayers enjoy a fleeting and surpris- ingly contingent sense of celebrity at these cons, these ludic transformations reveal an ongoing battle for social equality between fandom and the main- stream that exists outside of the con. The following snapshot of my five-year ethnographic study of Comic-Con attendees intervenes in fan practices like cosplay by highlighting how play may subvert the hierarchical structures of the material world through fantasy. If we consider that fans, especially cosplayers who externalize their passion through embodiment, possess a “dubious” reputation in relation to the larger mainstream,1 the creation of a space where fandom runs amok without apol- ogy is necessarily a political act. Cosplay constitutes ephemeral performances for one weekend a year at Comic-Con, but such ephemerality paradoxically stems exclusively from materiality. Furthermore, cosplaying at cons challenges the efficacy of some definitions of play, with consequences and outcomes that exist after cosplayers abandon their ephemeral personas and depart what Jenkins (1992) calls the “weekend-only” worlds of fandom (277). Some cosplayers abandon their everyday identities to become specific reproductions of characters (e.g. Batman from comics like Batman: War on Crime). Others bring to life their own analogues of Batman, such as the cosplayer I identify as Steampunk Batman, whose character design cobbles together a Batman version using style and technology from the Victorian era. Both of these costumed performers articulate their creations with care- fully crafted details. Each Batman cosplayer accompanies a similarly styled version of the supervillain Poison Ivy, using their portrayals to essentially represent alternative fictional worlds. Lamerichs (2011) envisions cosplay as “a form of fan appropriation that transforms, performs, and actualizes an existing story in close connection to the fan’s own identity” (1.2). She engages Judith Butler’s (1990) work on gender as an expression of certain Becoming Batman 107 codified behaviors; however, within that focus, Lamerichs looks chiefly at the small subversions of identity seemingly allowed in Butler’s specific artic- ulation of performativity. Surprisingly then, Lamerichs argues: “the activ- ity [of cosplay] itself has no clear political agenda” (5.1). I break with her on this point. Play is always political, especially in how ludic acts always constitute transformative acts. Play, as I use it here, corresponds to the con- scious and temporary reformation of body and identity through theatrical means. Because ludic behaviors such as these rely on materiality to actualize fans’ experiences with fictional worlds, the transformation of fan bodies also transforms the atmosphere of Comic-Con itself.

A BRAVE NEW WORLD: Fantasy within Comic-Con

With materialization of fantastic spaces and characters from sci-fi,­fantasy , and superhero genres, the theatrical reorientation of the San Diego Convention­ Center celebrates what Duncan and Smith (1999) call “fully realized fan- dom” (182). As locations where fans externalize their fandom, cons become crowded, bustling places for fans to meet, share interests, ­conduct business deals, make purchases, and even take on the bodies of the characters they enjoy. Beyond comic-book publishers, large ­Hollywood film studios and video-game producers now also fill the halls of the­ convention center. Indeed, Comic-Con now articulates the specific langue and parole of fandom materi- ally, offering all takers free samples (“swag”) and ­burying fans in a multi- media blitz of cartoons, comics, and video screens. The sensory­ avalanche marks the borders between the normative world beyond the immediate area and the fantastic spilling out from the con. ­Additionally, Comic-Con operates on the scale of the carnivalesque as “an occasion for festive transgression, ­limited only by human ­imagination or stamina (­whichever exhausts itself first)” (Roach 1996, 243). Like those ­carousing at the Mardi Gras Roach (1996) describes in Cities of the Dead, some of Comic-Con’s costumed attendees use masks and costumes to distort,­ hide, and revise their bodies in theatrical acts of becoming specificcharacters ­ from fictional worlds. Though all of these sights and sounds help ­combine elements of fantasy and reality, the cosplayer, by corporealizing the ­fictional as a tangible encounter, contrib- utes most directly to the carnival-like ­atmosphere of Comic-Con. The San Diego Convention Center transforms into a symbolic space for experiencing the corporealization of fantastic environments into what Schechner (1977) might call “not real, but not-not-real.” Schechner’s ­paradigm of performance attempts to envision the actor as both himself and the character simultaneously “not me, but not-not-me” (41). The ­special effects of film studios and the flashing screens of video-game producers alone do not affect attendees and facilitate their feelings of operating in a new alternative reality. Rather, the corporealization of living, breathing entities capable of interaction serves to help cement the fantastic by ­forcing 108 Kane Anderson audience members to encounter fictional characters wherever they go in the convention. In evaluating the dichotomy between the real and the fictional in ­contemporary theory, Fischer-Lichte (2008) envisions such dichotomous­ pairings of real and fictional shatter the normative rules used toregulate ­ behavior and induce a “state of crisis” that destabilizes perception (95). Cosplaying upends the constructed hierarchies that police fan behavior­ as somehow overly extreme, as something to be looked down upon, by ­allowing these costumed attendees/participants to contribute to the real/not real atmosphere at Comic-Con. More significantly, thenormative ­ behavior shattered by cosplayers represents a denial of the stability of the physical body as a stable marker of identity. Instead, the cosplayer’s chosen ­character persona of someone like Steampunk Batman becomes a marker of ­identity understandable through the narratives of the character he (or she, in the case of genre-switched “crossplay”) becomes. Ultimately, cosplayers ­represent all fans, already abjected by unfair stereotypes of their fandom, as they defi- antly write these characters and their narratives onto their own bodies to exercise their deviation from the expectations of normative dress and behav- ior handed down by the mainstream. In transforming themselves into versions of Batman, cosplayers enjoy the validating gaze of other attendees, providing them with an ­opportunity to meet a “hero” in return. Burns (1972) asserts that defying conventions of dress and behavior constitutes a theatricality understood as on a continuum­ of socially condoned “eccentricity” to behavior labeled as “deviant” by the larger social group (28). A cosplayer garbed as Batman disrupts the extremes of these binaries. In becoming his own version of Batman, the costumed player steps away from his mundane persona and indulges in the more accepted, even lauded, eccentricity of that extreme costuming. ­Non-costumed ­spectators seek out interaction with Batman given flesh, pointing to the cultural currency generated by cosplaying. Within con, such participants in costume enjoy a conditional sense of celebrity. I conducted informal semi-structured interviews with several of these participants in 2010 to determine how they feel when interacting with non-costumed attendees and they revealed most of them understood their identity play somewhat in relation to responsibility. They saw themselves as contributing to the narratives of the fictional worlds of their costumed identities – that is, they saw themselves as parts of the characters’ stories. The gaze of non- costumed spectators reinforces their performances by granting an approval of behavior rarely accepted by the mainstream beyond the con.

COSPLAY FOR CHANGE

This relationship between the mainstream and the marginalized is not always seen as beneficial. Scholars like Shepard (2011) argue play can challenge“­ the core working of capitalist social arrangements” (3), but “without a Becoming Batman 109 connection to a full organizing schema,” play cannot contribute “to strate- gies which help create power” (260).2 With almost all cosplayers portraying characters licensed by large corporations, it is difficult to argue cosplaying significantly reorients economic structures surrounding an existing story or character owned by a corporation. Even though cosplayers and other fans of particular cultural properties celebrate these objects fervently, the ­lucrative popularity of characters like Batman or the Terminator suggests those on the mainstream enjoy and buy into these products as well. While all popular culture involves some degree of wish fulfillment and escape from everyday life, the value of the popular arts like those celebrated at Comic-Con­ comes in part from their ability to help audiences “entertain alternate framings” (Jenkins 2006, 238). In this way, cosplayers deviate from other enthusiasts by corporealizing these characters as a means of rehearsing a greater accep- tance of their conspicuous fan passions. Consider this in conjunction with how carnival introduces “flexibility into otherwise ritual structures” (Schechner 1985, 102). Although Comic- Con creates a carnival-like atmosphere fit for celebration and subversion, the utility of such play as performance possesses surprising limits. The popu- larity of Comic-Con now undermines its original intent as a meeting place for similarly minded fans to practice their fandom in a safe space away from the judgmental eye of the mainstream. As more entities such as network television shows and mainstream video games have crept into Comic-Con, the demographics of attendees have shifted to include far more than just fans devoted to comic books and related products. Over the last ten years, Comic-Con has experienced significant shifts in what is understood as geek culture. One can no longer assume the attendees share any vested interest in comics at all. Though “comic” still dominates the name, the diversity of popular arts presented at Comic-Con attracts even those with no experience reading comics whatsoever. A cosplayer dressed as Batman may only possess interest in the character’s film appearances and might not be caught dead reading comic books. So assumptions that cons represent safe and stable environments for cosplay and other highly visible fan practices are falla- cious. The explosion in attendance and diversity at Comic-Con challenges the definition of the word “fan.” Some attendees come for the show more than fan interests. Within the audiences of gawkers, there exist detractors who aim specifically to dis- dain Comic-Con “freaks” – fans who think they can live up to fantasti- cal characters. Roach (1996) describes Mardi Gras in Cites of the Dead wherein the transformative experience seems to unite the entire community; by contrast, many attend Comic-Con to seek out and judge those prac- ticing deviant theatricality. Comic-Con attracts some critics of costumed participants who illustrate the cultural distance between cosplayers and the mainstream and who hold up cosplayers as evident of the extreme fanati- cism of fans. Often the mainstream news media frame fandom negatively by selectively deploying stories of Comic-Con cosplayers wearing their notable 110 Kane Anderson costumes (Salkowitz 2012, 57). While addressing the problem of the grow- ing ­overcrowding at Comic-Con, LA Times writer Boucher (2008) still found space to pair his article “Comic-Con is Bursting at the Seams” with a decidedly unflattering picture of a cosplayer dressed in a poorly fitting Captain ­America costume. The picture’s caption defines cosplayers in the extremes of deviance (“the wannabes who indulge in cosplay and dress up”) versus the acceptable eccentrics (“the ones who are dedicated but don’t take it too seriously”). Boucher identifies the latter as “great fun” (n.p.). There- fore cosplaying is as much about behavior as appearance. Those cosplayers who aim to actually play the characters, as opposed to those who simply wear costumes, invoke stronger reactions. Fictional representations of fans do little to dispel these feelings. Though the popular television show The Big Bang Theory features self-professed geek characters, much of the comedy comes from witnessing how out of touch those characters are with the mainstream, particularly in relation to the characters’ exuberant fandom. In an episode from the seventh season, “The Convention Conundrum” (Cendrowski 2014), the pressure to obtain Comic-Con tickets drives one character to run off in tears. Of course, ­casting fans as out of step with reality is part and parcel of the comedic styling of the show. However, when viewed in conjunction with how Comic- Con’s cosplayers continue to face denigration for their extreme and physical articulations of their fandom, the comedy takes on a darker connotation of a majority laughing at a minority. If fans at Comic-Con enact their fandom through performing behaviors like cosplaying or buying collectibles, they serve as audience and actors simultaneously. However, as the demographics of attendance include fewer cosplayers and more mainstream audience members, the acceptance of cosplay suffers. Broussard’s (2009) work asserts: “Con is not marketed as a tourist event open for the general public to come and watch the ­performance. Such tourist events often draw a sharp line between performer and audience, and no such division exists at a Con” (24). This is potentially true for the smaller cons Broussard discusses, but Comic-Con is certainly a ­tourist draw thanks to articles like Boucher’s. With the tourist draw comes the tourist gaze. Defined by Urry (1996) as how tourists look with the expectation of finding difference between cultures (128), this mode of seeing corresponds to assumptions casting Comic-Con as an alien environment filled with ­people of questionable status. Urry’s interrogation of social conditions and the tourist gaze reveals: “Part of what is involved in tourism is the purchase of a particular social experience” (120). So who owns the social experience of Comic-Con? As stated, no universal­ fandom exists, yet the shift from a closed celebration of ­comic-book ­properties to a mass-marketed social event that routinely sells 150,000 ­tickets means the demographic of gazers shifts along with the attendees. If fandom remains a marginalized group, those cosplayers who externalize their fandom vividly stand out as emblematic of that group. Becoming Batman 111 As performance, cosplay attempts to use this visuality politically. It oper- ates as a ludic experience that argues for the validity of a cosplayer’s point of view and particular readings of popular-culture properties. More so, it fills space with fantasy, staking a claim on the validity of even the most exu- berant fan practices. When Lunning (2011) asserts “cosplaying starts with a desire to find community for the abject individual” (84), it becomes clear cosplay operates as means of carving out a space for a community of abject fans. Perhaps ironically, the growing popularity of Comic-Con as a weekend vacation from reality now reimposes that abjection. Recall that costumed participants tend to attract photographers excited by their costumed perso- nas. Such attention temporarily inverts the mainstream hierarchies that tend to cast fans as grossly deviant. But not all photographers actually want to celebrate cosplayers. Many spectators surreptitiously diminish cosplayers with their gazes even while the costumed performers enjoy the attention. In 2011, I conducted informal semi-structured interviews with non-costumed attendees and found that ten percent later post their photographs online so as to mock those cosplayers.

COSPLAY AND THE BODY: Pursuing the Impossible

Critics of cosplay at Comic-Con include those who attack costumed attend- ees for their externalized fandom and those who fetishize the cosplayer’s body as consumable like the fictional characters these actors play. For the latter, the corporeal body serves to delineate between untouchable fantasy and material reality. Fetish and fandom seemingly go hand in hand. They both concern material practices of using an external object (or subject- turned-object) to engage with one’s inner life, and both receive considerable judgment from the hegemonic mainstream looking for proof of deviance and disruption in how relationships with these objects are actualized. Perhaps­ for that reason, the uninitiated associate cosplay with sexual practices like bondage and discipline, masochism and sadomasochism, or other kinky behaviors. In conducting research and presenting at conferences, I continu- ally encounter clichéd stereotypes related to fandom supposedly transferring every ounce of their normative sexual desires onto objects of fiction. Defin- ing fetish in Lacanian terms, McClintock (1995) describes “the displace- ment onto an object (or person) of the contradictions that the individual cannot resolve at a personal level” so these issues “are lived with profound intensity in the imagination and the flesh” (184). Like Lunning’s view of the otaku cosplayer seeking to fullfill objet petit a (84), superhero cosplayers chase superhero bodies, the “real” somehow out of reach but somehow also close enough to imagine. Combining these perspectives, cosplay as fetish seems like a way of working out an ontological dysfunction. This is problematic for two reasons. First, it presumes an emotional or psychological lack in the costumed player, as if she somehow cannot 112 Kane Anderson separate the actual from the imaginary. Second, it imposes the salacious mediation of that lack by tying deep sexual desire to the objects of the fan’s veneration. Some fans engage in extreme fetishization of certain entertain- ment/pop culture properties and artifacts. These few cases stand in for much of comic-book fandom and probably account for anxieties over cosplayers donning costumes for sexualized role play. If superhero cosplayers fetishize anything, they fetishize the impossible. They deny the sexualization of the characters as they “body-ize” them because the characters come from two- dimensional environments on a page that never fully comes into being with any cosplayer’s performance. The myth of cosplay as sexual practice seems ingrained. Most American cosplay operates only in institutional environments like those at comic or animé conventions explicitly framed for such play. Costumed playing out- side these environments (e.g. sexualized acts with and within superhero[ine] costumes) better corresponds to costumed role-playing as a means toward separating the cosplaying at Comic-Con from fetishized kink. This is not the same as separating cosplay from sexual imagery or sexualized performance, however. According to Han (2012), a “cosplay idol” whose cosplaying, cos- tume designing, and character-modeling attract a cult following, cosplayers often garner unfair labels as fans of kinky sexual practices. In reaction to those assumptions of kink, however, she asserts that because so many extant superheroine characters reflect an objectification of women, the costumes tend to showcase women’s bodies either by revealing flesh or by covering their bodies in materials that are “more than just skin tight.” Seeking to materialize their hyperbolic sexual fantasies, the constructors and spectators from whom this gaze derives seem to directly influence female cosplayers, creating a double standard for them. Although a few of my respondents noted they try to avoid undesirable female characters when cosplaying, oth- ers like Han try to reclaim these sexualized heroines. Han presented a panel at Comic-Con 2012 on “The Sociology of Cosplay.” Not a sociologist by training, her talk primarily addressed prac- tical issues of cosplay, including how to handle those audience members who read her costumed body as a “stripper” or “easy.” Han favors bringing explicitly sexualized characters to our corporeal world and intentionally challenges her objectifiers to get past what Lunning derides as “the sex, violence, action and the dorky adolescent male humor typical of American comic genres” (72). Han chooses to look at the empowerment in the sexy characters she plays, acknowledging the artifice present in her portrayals since she often needs “the tape, the butt lifts, the corsets – hey, a lot of engi- neering” to construct her costumes. In embodying Batman’s often overtly sexualized love interest and antagonist Catwoman, she embraces the char- acter’s sexual attractions. Certainly there exists some validity in arguments that she still makes herself an object by becoming these characters. The problems with this only emerge when others try to enact that same process on Han because of how she chooses to embody these fictional Becoming Batman 113 creations. After years of cosplaying, Han still faces frustrating ­interactions with those who cannot separate her from the characters she becomes. ­Mimicking a confused and condescending attendee, she coos, “Oooh, look, it’s an Asian Catwoman. That’s soooo hot.” Loath as I am to acknowledge any arguments like the tired and insulting accusation “she must want that kind of attention if she dresses like that,” Han’s portrayals, impressive in their recreation of details in characters’ appearances and her commitment to moving as the characters, in my view embrace the over-sexualization ­present in their original representations. What audiences really confront in her ­portrayals is not sexualization via cosplay; rather, the attendees who comment in this way tokenize, exoticize, and objectify female cosplayers because they expect to see only their idealized characters represented with as much faithfulness as possible. Separated from the issue of biases against fan behaviors, the corporeal body’s inability to live up to the ideal of the fiction becomes a focal point for criticism. Such attacks have become somewhat institutionalized. In his blog on mamapop.com, Avant (2011) brags that the “personal highlight” of his ­Comic-Con visit included “taking pictures of people in ridiculous costumes­ who didn’t really seem to be enjoying themselves” (1). Avant’s search for ­costumed performers to denigrate introduced the ­unexpected ­auto-­ethnographic ­component to my project when mamapop.com­ ­published a picture of me in Avant’s blog “Comic-Con 2011: A ­Collection of Sad ­Cosplayers.” ­Without my knowledge or consent, this ­photographer posted pictures online of me dressed as Disney’s Mr. ­Incredible ­specifically to­ lambaste my performance as a cosplayer. He caught me ­unflatteringly hunched over and ­reaching into my bag of surveys. The ­picture’s ­caption (“Mr. ­Incredible searches for ­something – hope, perhaps – in his Incredi-manpurse”)­ turns my por- trayal into a joke by calling out the ­failure in recreating the ­idealized image of a superhero body. Avant saw my bag full of surveys and clipboards as ­weakening my ­performance. ­Admittedly, my physical body does not equate to the ­impossible superhero body, ­particularly one that only exists in the animated form. Discovering­ this picture­ of me cosplaying included among several other criticized cosplayers demonstrated the tenuous and ­conditional acceptance of cosplayers who theatrically mix reality and ­fiction at Comic- Con. Gawking spectators like Avant cast cosplayers as circus freaks whose deviance makes them prime targets for exploitation. Can even a temporary safe environment for fans exist if the ­condemning gaze of the mainstream always threatens to intrude at Comic-Con? When Chabon (2008) argues the failure to live up to the perfect ­bodies of ­superheroes will cause some cosplayers to “find themselves prey to forces, implacable as gravity, of tawdriness, gimcrackery, and unwitting self-­ridicule” (17–18), he and Avant mistakenly assume cosplayers seek to portray perfect reproductions of their chosen characters. All cosplayers write themselves physically upon themselves in homage to the characters they enjoy, but faithful representations are not always the goal. Gn (2011) 114 Kane Anderson asks if a cosplayer functions as a mimetic act when he notes that unlike ­theatre ­performers, who tend to stay faithful to textual narratives, cosplay- ers in fact care more about “­‘likeness’ and aesthetics of the imitation” (589). Weighed in conjunction with Lamerichs defining cosplay as the actualiza- tion of specific stories, Gn’s argument helps frame detractors like Avant as ­fundamentally misunderstanding the utility of cosplay as a practice of fans, particularly in how cosplay transforms the atmosphere of Comic-Con. Rather than failing to perfectly reproduce impossible bodies that exist only fiction, costumed ­players consciously remake themselves in homage to cor- porealities that cannot operate in our material plane. The bodies of the char- acters that cosplayers approximate are ideals, more concepts than reality. Assumptions that Comic-Con’s costumed attendees intend to only repro- duce realistic versions of their chosen characters neglect to recognize there are no truly faithful, unmediated actualizations of these characters. Artifici- ality remains at the core of those fictional bodies born in animated films and comic books. This means cosplayers can never do more than approximate their intended forms. Gn (2011) surmises as much in his examination of cosplay based on animé and manga. He locates a kind of queer simula- tion, noting cartoon bodies with gender synthesized in performance are not indicative of anatomical sex; rather, the “playful art” of cartoons separates bodies from the realm of living subjects (585). This fallacious association between the animated or drawn body and material bodies invokes far more than just gender. As mimetic representation, corporealizing fictional bodies fails; their referent possesses no actual materiality. The playful art of cos- tumed play constitutes a hybrid of reality and fantasy that somewhat upsets the stark divide between the two for Comic-Con’s attendees. Comic-Con cosplayers step outside the boundaries of conventional ­corporeality. In doing so, they actualize their favored fictions. Ultimately, these cosplayers’ transformations markedly alter the environment at Comic- Con, both visually and kinesthetically. When I asked non-costumed ­attendees of Comic-Con 2011 about the amount of cosplayers performing at the con, respondents believed as many as thirty percent of the attendees­ wore cos- tumes. Interviews with cosplayers over five years and my own ­life-in-tights experiences reveal a more realistic range is five to ten percent at best. This discrepancy indicates attendees see cosplayers as a larger part of the atmo- sphere at Comic-Con. But if cosplaying contributes so vividly to the Comic-Con ­experience, why then do few visitors choose to attend in costume? The people I ­interviewed most often identified factors like the skills needed to construct costumes as well as the cost of materials as deterring cosplaying. Very few selected “­emotional discomfort” as their reason, but a handful of informants wrote they were “too shy” or cosplay seemed “really embarrassing.” Their ­reluctance to admit feeling emotional discomfort indicates other attendees may share the same feelings but remain hesitant to admit to that particular phrasing and its connotation of vulnerability. Considering the associations Becoming Batman 115 to cosplaying I laid out previously, it is not difficult to­understand some might elect to engage with cosplay as spectators rather than participants. Even with the masks and costumes that obscure personal identity, ­cosplaying seems like a risky behavior, particularly as a cosplayer’s performance might find life on the Internet long after the con ends. Still, interacting with the cosplayers in attendance encourages those costume-curious visitors to enjoy the playfulness by proxy. Even though they avoid cosplaying, the interactions­ with fictional characters given life allow them to experience a character and his or her world without becoming characters themselves. The transformational nature of cosplay works on the cosplayer, his or her audience, and the physical atmosphere at the con. The ­juxtaposition between cosplayers and non-cosplayers at Comic-Con helps illustrate the potential value in constructing identities. Packer (2010) recognizes ­individuals made anxious by everyday life may find a reprieve in thefantasy ­ of ­transformation, just as how mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent can suddenly transform into the powerful, confident Superman (232). My interviews and surveys with non-costumed attendees suggest the personal transformations of cosplayers facilitate a similar internal change vis-à-vis those performers. As fantasy somewhat imposes over reality at Comic-Con, thanks in part to fictional characters walking in the material world, new possibilities become recognizable.

CONCLUSIONS ON (COS)PLAYFUL TRANSFORMATION

As a political project, cosplay physicalizes an alternative social hierarchy in which fans attempt to renegotiate their places in social hierarchies. In doing so, they point to the potential for ludic transformation as a means of rehearsing a departure from marginalization. Bukatman’s (2003) research on “supermen” in the twentieth century speculates: “If the nineteenth cen- tury dreamed of cinema, then the twentieth was dreaming of morphing” (133). Based on cosplayers at Comic-Con and the reactions to them, I theo- rize the twenty-first century begins to realize morphing, transformation, and a plasticity of the body, revealing anxieties about the stability of bodies as way of constructing identities and social hierarchies in America. Like the superhero body itself, the superhero cosplayer’s body should be viewed not as a terminal end point to which we may assign failure or success but as a body always in transformation, always in the becoming, rather than the being. Thus cosplay declares participants’ value systems,­ perhaps otherwise­ marginalized by the mainstream, maintain equal validity­ , despite their small voice in the larger populace. As popular fictional ­characters brought to life, cosplayers temporarily redefine their places in the­hierarchies of the outside world through enjoying the freestyle masquerade of ­Comic-Con’s ­carnival-like atmosphere. Although these ludic interventions remain ­confined to that“weekend-only world” of such conspicuous fan practices, 116 Kane Anderson the growing mainstream appreciation for Comic-Con, even with the preva- lent devaluing of cosplayers, points to the provisional success of cosplay as one marker of social change.

Notes

1. See Jenkins (1992), Lewis (1992), Fingeroth (2004), among many others. 2. Given that Comic-Con continues to wrestle with its own organizational ­identity as a haven for performing fandom and a mass-marketing machine gentrified by Hollywood studios drawing in a larger, mixed crowd, I cannot suitably separate­ one from the other. All of the cosplayers I studied adopted the personae of ­characters owned by large media corporations and contributed to the ­ongoing success of these characters as lucrative icons with purchases of memorabilia and other material objects. In this sense, the organizing schema of which Shepard (2011) speaks makes little direct impact on Comic-Con’s larger capitalist ­structures. 10 Plaza Indonesia Performing Modernity in a Shopping Mall Jennifer Goodlander

On a balmy day in Jakarta, the busy capital city of Indonesia, I took a taxi to a nearby shopping mall. On the way there the driver weaved in and out of the dense traffic as we passed by grand hotels, cramped buildings, and busy warung (food stalls). As the taxi approached the large bank of glass doors forming the entrance and offering a glimpse of the opulence inside, a man in a uniform and cap, looking much like a quintessential New York bellboy, waved us to a stop. The driver, obviously familiar with this routine, opened the trunk so the guard could inspect inside before waving us to continue. I paid and exited the taxi only to find I needed to walk through a metal ­detector and open my purse for inspection by a second guard. Finally I made my way into the inside of the glitzy shopping mall. Air conditioning greeted me as I pushed open the doors and walked inside. I felt dwarfed by the high ceilings, grand columns, and highly polished marble floors. In three different directions shops beckoned me to come take a peek at their purses, clothes, shoes, and jewelry. I resisted the temptation and made my way past a luscious restaurant with a grand piano surrounded by escalators to the other floors. The serious-looking waiters did not glance my way as they served scones and tea to well-dressed customers. I was given a panoramic view of the many shops and shoppers as I rode the escalator to the second floor, where I finally found the shoe store I was seeking. Inside the store, amongst sequined high heels and leather boots, I was delighted to find a pair of black sandals in my size. I paid for them and happily strolled around past other shops, swinging my bag and debating whether I wanted to eat a scone right then or wait and have pizza for lunch. Where was I? Wasn’t I supposed to be doing field research in Indonesia? The answer was simple. I was not in “Indonesia” any more. I was in Plaza Indonesia.

PLAZA INDONESIA

Plaza Indonesia is Indonesia’s first and largest shopping mall. This ­multi-level complex contains local and international shops, restaurants, and ­entertainment such as a fitness club and movie theater. Even though I was in Indonesia while at the shopping mall, I might have been anywhere. 118 Jennifer Goodlander I could imagine myself back in New York City at the Palisades Parkway or in Michigan at Rivertown Crossings, both impressive shopping destinations. The built environment of the mall is partially responsible for this illusion, but even more important were the people working, shopping, and hanging out within the environment of the mall. Other than myself, almost all of the other shoppers in the mall were Indonesian, judging by appearance and ­language, “playing” at being at the shopping mall through their actions, poise, attitudes, and gestures that, taken together, communicated the role of global consumers. As Bial (2004) notes, “We play to escape, to step out of everyday existence, if only for a moment and to observe a different set of rules. We play to explore, to learn about ourselves and the world around us” (115). The stage for the shoppers’ performance was not just Jakarta but the world. Plaza Indonesia does not simply attempt to bring the world to the ­consumer. Rather its allure is it allows shoppers to play out fantasies of modernity connecting them to a global marketplace. In this chapter I ­examine Indonesia’s expressed goal of becoming “modern” and how the shopping mall is part of that ambition. I draw from the framework of play and the theories of Goffman in order to apply the language of theatre to analyze the environment of the mall as a playful space that fosters a global performance of modernity. I argue Plaza Indonesia plays a crucial role in creating and maintaining a uniquely Indonesian performance that allows people, through play, to have agency as “actors” rather than just consumers within a global marketplace.

MODERNITY AND THE MALL: A Global Stage

Unlike most U.S. American malls, which have been envisioned as stages for nostalgia (Goss 1993) and built to create a local sense of ­community in ­suburban sprawl (Dyer 2003), Plaza Indonesia consciously stages a ­performance embodying progress and modernity. The first president of ­Indonesia, Kusno Sosrodihardjo, better known as Sukarno, believed that in order to be taken seriously as an independent nation, Indonesia had to participate in politics and production at a global level. Sukarno wanted to “demonstrate to the outside world that an independent Indonesia would be a peaceful and secure state interested in the welfare of its citizens” (Adams 2002, 298–299). Sukarno’s notion of modernity functioned hand in hand with the desire to be global. For example, Indonesia hosted ­international conferences and sport competitions that served as platforms for Indonesia­ to assert its place on the world stage and to be taken seriously as an independent­ and powerful nation. Sukarno used these single events as opportunities to inspire and exhibit development within the country. The capital city of Jakarta served as the cornerstone of Sukarno’s vision of modernity. He imagined a city that would be considered one of the great Plaza Indonesia 119 international cities of the world, like Paris or New York, and to that end he commissioned and built highways, monuments, schools, and shopping complexes. This development continued after Sukarno’s presidency, making Jakarta the twelfth-largest city in the world. Plaza Indonesia, Indonesia’s oldest and still very popular shopping mall, opened in 1990. It has over two hundred shops and restaurants and a large entertainment expansion called Entertainment X’nter, or Ex for short, which opened in 2003. The Plaza ­targets “specific, sophisticated, and elegant” shoppers who return on a ­regular basis (The Jakarta Post 2008). Manager M. Sjohirin comments: “support from high-end customers has been one of the essential factors enabling us to become a world class shopping center” (The Jakarta Post 2008). Plaza Indonesia and its customers reflect Sukarno’s vision for an international Indonesia with Jakarta at its helm. In order to understand how Plaza Indonesia, together with the people shopping and working there, help constitute modernity, it is important to consider definitions of modernity. Giddens offers a useful explanation that explains connections between the idea of “modern” and “nation” that cer- tainly informed Sukarno:

At its simplest, modernity is a shorthand term for a modern ­society or industrial civilization. Portrayed in more detail, it is ­associated with (1) a certain set of attitudes towards the world, the idea of the world as open to transformation by human intervention; (2) a ­complex of economic institutions, especially industrial production and a market­ economy; (3) a certain range of political institutions, including­ the nation-state and mass democracy. Largely as a result of these ­characteristics, modernity is vastly more dynamic than any previous­ type of social order. It is society – more technically, a complex of ­institutions – which unlike any proceeding culture lives in the future rather than the past. (1991, 94)

In my analysis, I focus on how Giddens’ first point – that reality can be transformed by human intervention or intention – provides a platform for realizing other features of modernity. Within this process the mall provides­ the kind of environment suggested by Du Gay et. al. (1997) in which ­corporations and state interests produce a dialogue with the consumer or, in this case, shopper. Globalization and modernity twist together as overlapping and ­somewhat dependent. Later Giddens (1998) writes: “One of the distinctive features of modernity, in fact, is an increasing interconnection between the two ‘extremes’ of extensionality and intentionality: globalizing influences on one hand and personalizing dispositions of the other” (1). How does the mall interact within processes of globalization and modernization as these two are related? Gullen (2001) writes: “Intuitively, globalization is a process fueled by, and resulting in, increasing cross-border flows of goods, services, 120 Jennifer Goodlander money, people, information, and culture” (236). As a civilizing force, he notes globalization promises “boundless prosperity and consumer joy” (235). The mall contains these same promises because it strives to affect economy, politics, human rights, and culture. Plaza Indonesia is a dynamic stage for globalized modernity. The main section has four levels of shopping, with another level above that connects to Ex. There are two lower levels that connect to more levels of ­underground parking. The stores are divided so each level specializes in a particular kind or genre of store. The basement has an international supermarket, several drugstores, office supplies, and many restaurants spread out like a giant food court. This is the level where I saw the most foreigners. On the first and second levels above ground there are high-end international stores such as Versace and Cartier. The third floor has gifts and souvenirs from regional shops like Batik Keris, which specializes in expensive shirts, dresses, and handkerchiefs. The third floor also has several hair and nail salons and stores selling makeup and athletic apparel. The fourth and fifth floors,leading­ to Ex, are a mix of restaurants, electronics, and other trinkets. In 2009, the third floor opened an area especially for kids and families called Miniapolis. This “park” has places for kids to create art and play games together, with shops specializing in clothes, furniture, and toys for children. There even is a child-sized train zigzagging through the area that children and adults can ride for a small fee. Parents are encouraged to stay and spend time with their children but they can also drop the kids off and go shopping­ in other parts of the mall without the little ones in tow. ­Amelia Gozali, project manager for Miniapolis, says the goal of this area is “to promote­ together- ness during the weekends, because on normal weekdays, parents and children don’t normally get to spend enough time together” (Figge 2009). Miniapolis demonstrates the main activity in Plaza ­Indonesia should be understood not as shopping and buying things but rather as being seen and participating in global modernity. Unlike night or day ­markets around Indonesia where people go primarily to shop, people in Plaza ­Indonesia engage in a different way because the mall functions like a stage. The mall reinforces the idea that “First, national [Indonesian] culture is invariably associated with the mod- ern whereas regional cultures are ­associated with the traditional; second, as culture is seen as intrinsic to national development, it is modern Indonesian culture that is held to be appropriate of cultural development” (Hough 1999, 236). The mall, but even more so people’s performances or play in the mall, are “acts” of modernity.

PLAY AND PERFORMANCE IN THE MALL

Much of the scholarship on American malls focuses on the geography of the mall and the social effects that geography has on the people using that environment. The role of the “actor” in creating meaning is often ignored. Plaza Indonesia 121 I wish to examine how the people in the mall function as actors through ideas of play and performance. Goffman argues people’s social selves are ­performances. Identities are crafted for and because of interactions with other people, who might be understood as a kind of audience. Goffman (1959) defines performance and front as follows:

I have been using the term “performance” to refer to all activity of an individual which occurs during a period marked by his continuous­ ­presence before a particular set of observers. It will be convenient to label as “front” that part of the individual’s performance which ­regularly functions in general and fixed fashion to define the situation for those who observe the performance. Front, then, is the expressive­ equipment of a standard kind intentionally or unwittingly employed by the individual during his performance. (22)

The parts of a front are “setting” and “personal.” Goffman (1959) explains: “A setting tends to stay put, geographically speaking, so that those who would use a particular setting as part of their performance cannot begin their act until they have brought themselves to the appropriate place” (22). Personal front is broken down into two parts, “appearance” and “manner.” Appearances are the different stimuli that indicate a person’s social status while manner sets the parameters of how a person expects to interact. It is expected there should be an agreement among setting, appearance, and manner. The mall provides a setting for Americans to act out a nostalgic idea of community and for Indonesians to perform a global modernity. I am not arguing Americans would not have community without the mall or ­Indonesians require a mall to be modern but that the mall provides a ­publically accessible setting for these performances. The notion of play allows the shopper to conceptualize his or her activity­ within a global context. The shopper connects with a world ­outside the boundaries of Indonesian society and culture through a pleasurable ­activity in a pleasurable space. I am not proposing there is some inadequacy in ­Indonesia that must be overcome but rather the mall serves as a vital ­component to a certain facet of modern Indonesian identity. As Sutton-Smith­ (1997) argues:

Given that there is nothing more characteristic of human achievement than the creation of illusionary cultural and theoretical worlds, as in music, dance, literature, and science, then children’s and gamblers’ full participation in such play worlds can be seen not as a defect, or ­compensation for inadequacy, but rather as participation in a major central preoccupation of humankind. (54)

It is this idea of “full participation” that I find especially salient. Shoppers are playing in that they are trying on something else; they are fully occupied in a 122 Jennifer Goodlander “world” – the shopping mall. Performance, or the language of theatre, pro- vides a way to investigate how the rhetoric of play, that is, “how play is placed in context within broader value systems” (Sutton- Smith 1997, 8), functions. The analysis of social performance requires what Goffman (1959) calls the “dramaturgical approach” in which the researcher will “describe the techniques of impression management employed in a given establishment, the principal problem of impression management in the establishment, and the identity and interrelationships of the several performance teams which operate in the establishment” (240). I use Goffman’s vocabulary as a ­framework for my analysis of people I observed at Plaza Indonesia to explore the different ways they are “performing modernity.”

Photo: Jennifer Goodlander

Figure 10.1 The main floor of Plaza Indonesia has a large café.

NEEDING AN AUDIENCE: Chatting at a Café

It is the middle of the afternoon but the little café is busy with customers sit- ting and drinking coffee or splitting one of its many rich desserts with friends. The café is located in the central part of the mall, and like many of the mall’s other food establishments, it spills out into the surrounding corridors.­ An area near the café has large, colorful attractions like mechanical horses or cars children can ride for a coin. Shoppers enjoy a variety of global or Indonesian­ Plaza Indonesia 123 foods as a meal or snack. Coffee, tea, and juices are ­popular ­beverages, as they are throughout Indonesia, but ­shoppers can also get a Coca-Cola™, beer, Starbucks™ coffee, or other international beverage. Even so, it is not what the shoppers consume that marks the ­restaurants in the mall as global or modern but rather how the café provides a place where shoppers can see and be seen by others wandering through this part of the mall. The way people in the café act and dress speaks to the roles they play. At one table sits a woman who looks to be in her mid-thirties, with long, black hair, tight, stylish jeans, and a fashionable red blouse, drinking tea and ­chatting with her companion. Her friend, a woman of about the same age with short hair and glasses, wears tan pedal-pushers and a Kelly green T-shirt. They both wear astonishingly high-heeled sandals and have ­impeccable pedicures. A large stroller full of toys is lodged between them. But wait – the stroller is empty and neither woman holds a child. Where is the baby? Right at that moment, a small toddler, about eighteen months, comes barreling past me. The little girl is dressed in a bright pink dress with shiny white Mary Jane shoes. The child is not alone. Following close behind is another woman carefully watching the baby’s every move. The third woman is not the baby’s mother; her uniform, resembling hospital scrubs, clearly marks her as the baby’s nanny. In the situation I described, the women sitting at the table have a carefully­ crafted appearance of modernity that equates material prosperity with ­freedom. It is a Thursday afternoon, yet they are able to sit and leisurely drink tea and chat. Their fashionable clothes complement their carefree manner. Even though they are engaged in animated conversation, they are performing for the public as they sometimes look around with a smile toward other guests in and around the café. Neither of them glances at the baby or nanny. I only knew for certain the baby belonged to one of these two women when the nanny carried the baby over to get a snack from the stroller. Wealth is a performative front, displayed in their clothes, nanny, and activity, which grants these women their freedom. They could sit and chat at home but isn’t it much better to do it at the mall where there is an audience? The nanny’s baggy, drab uniform sets her apart as a domestic helper and provides a stark contrast to the two women laughing and talking. Almost all of the small children I saw at the mall were being carried or trailed after by similarly dressed young women. The nanny, in white sneakers, has shoes for comfort rather than style because she is not there to be seen but to allow the child freedom to wander about and the women freedom from having to mind the baby. The baby is not yet two years old but dances and twirls in her frilly frock. She teases and frustrates her nanny by walking toward the rides and crossing underneath a barrier the nanny has to climb over in order to follow. The nanny does not look around to see who is watching or if any friends might be at the mall; she must keep her eyes on the baby. The nanny has to perform the role of dutiful child-minder in case either of the two women should glance her way. 124 Jennifer Goodlander LACKING AN AUDIENCE: Lunching Alone

After wandering from the bottom floor to the top floor, zigzagging my way on escalators, stairs, and elevators, I decided it was time to find something to eat. In one of the mall’s newer areas, in a kind of sky bridge over to Ex, I discovered a large arcade called “Amazing World.” This area was labeled an “urban food court,” and promised “a very unique thematic concept that presents three stunning world histories through the dramatic locations of Mesa Verde-Grand Canyon, the Great of Astec-Pyramid of the Sun Mexico [sic], and Machu Pichu-Peru” all in one location (Plaza Indonesia Directory 2011). After careful consideration, I chose to have my late lunch at a res- taurant called Pizza e Birra. This restaurant, like so many others­ in the mall, had no real walls separating it from the main plaza area. Instead it used tile floors, old wood, and chalkboards with clever sayings and menu items to create an atmosphere of European old-world charm. I sat in a cozy booth at the back, although many of the other guests in the restaurant seemed to prefer the tables in the center. It is not typical to be at the mall in Indonesia without someone else – without an audience. The hostess asked if anyone would be joining me and I smiled and said, “Tidak, saya sendiri” to explain I was alone. She nodded and handed me a menu. The server came to my table and also asked if I was waiting for a friend; he was sympathetic when I told him it was just me. Throughout my meal (a tasty pizza with pepperoni made from beef and mushrooms accompanied by a beer) the server came over to talk to me about why I was in Indonesia and why I was alone. He expressed concern that my family was not traveling with me and I did not have any friends. During my time wandering at the mall, this was not an uncommon response every time I went somewhere to eat. Hostesses and servers were always surprised and sad to learn I was by myself. At one restaurant, a group of businessmen sitting at an adjacent table started talking to me about my single status because they could not believe I would go somewhere like Plaza Indonesia alone to shop and eat. When I explained I was in Indonesia to do research on performance in Bali and I was in Jakarta for a few days on holiday, one man commented I surely would have a better time if I had brought my family or friends along. Another man insinuated my family was not doing a very good job of taking care of me if they let me go places like the mall without anyone. The men’s concern regarding my solitude was not in response to my gender. I found in my experience while in Indonesia that it was considered odd for people of either gender to travel alone on holiday. Discomfort regarding solo travel functions as a kind of social control in that an audience is an important check on a performance (Goffman 1959, 172–173). Often a performer will drop his or her role and act differently if no audience is present. I traveled alone and therefore did not have a conve- nient audience to ensure my behavior was suitable to the setting. In contrast, almost all of the other shoppers I observed at Plaza Indonesia traveled with at least one other person; there was always an audience for the performance. Plaza Indonesia 125 PERFORMING NOT SHOPPING

A man wearing dark trousers, leather loafers, and a yellow shirt looks into a store selling music and electronics. Through the window case he can see a variety of CDs, DVDs, cameras and other items for sale. He stands there for several minutes, carefully looking at each item in the window. Finally, with a small nod of his head he wanders away from the shop without having ever gone inside. The man with the yellow shirt continues to wander around the mall, looking at many of the items for sale, but he never goes inside the shops to select something to buy. He always stands and looks through the windows.

Photo: Jennifer Goodlander

Figure 10.2 A man with a yellow shirt looks into an electronics store.

As I walked around the mall I noticed that even though there were many people there, few of them went into the stores to make a purchase. When I bought my sandals, I was the only customer in the store. The man in the yellow shirt, like many of the other people I observed in the mall, did not come to shop, but through his presence and actions he inserted himself into the global modernity of the shopping mall. Unlike the women in the café, the man did not demonstrate material wealth; rather he engaged with the mall like a tourist, looking but not touching. He played at shopping as he 126 Jennifer Goodlander looked at electronics, fancy food, clothes, and many other international consumer goods. His actions reflected Rabin’s (2009, 135) description of “another way.” The man acted out a role or character that was distinct from his ­everyday life. But who is the audience for these performances? How does the ­environment of the mall frame these interactions even if the person is alone? As the man stood looking at the display through the window, his image reflected back. Even though he was not shopping with a friend, his ­reflectioncreated an audience. Like a Brechtian verfremdungseffekt, he was made aware of the performance. The man was able to watch himself ­looking at the items in the window and therefore insert himself into the world ­represented by the items in the shop.

TRADITIONAL PERFORMANCE/MODERN SETTING

Plaza Indonesia frames traditional elements of Indonesian society as vital parts of Indonesian international modernity. Since the country’s beginning, Indonesia has understood Indonesian culture as world culture (Lindsay and Liem 2012, 10–11) and performances in the mall demonstrate how tradi- tion functions and becomes part of that modernity. For example, Rampak bedug is a Javanese Muslim folk dance that combines movement and drum- ming. During the month of Ramadan, an important Muslim holiday, the dance was featured, together with an a capella group singing contemporary music on a bill called “Sounds of Ramadan.” The group performed on the main floor of the Ex extension, which has a stage in the center of the lowest level that can be seen from all the levels above it. During the performance the mall was very busy. There were many ­special events and dinners for breaking fast at the mall during Ramadan season. The audience did not sit still to watch the performance but was in ­constant motion, walking, talking, and eating. The performance was one of many ways the mall marked global modernity as Indonesian. Dances such as rampak bedug provide important markers of regional identity within this global con- text. The Indonesian government encourages the use of dress and performing arts through sponsoring schools, festivals, and contests because these local traditions are a way to celebrate the diversity of Indonesia ­without threat- ening political power. In the context of the mall, traditional ­performance functions as part of modern identity and as a counterpoint to modernity. Traditional markers, such as the performance and other ­architectural ele- ments, appear around the shopping center but none of the customers are in traditional dress. Just like “Sounds of Ramadan,” tradition and modernity are mixed together, making both “modern.” Goffman (1959) explains:

A status, a position, a social place is not a material thing, to be ­possessed and then displayed; it is a pattern of appropriate conduct, Plaza Indonesia 127 coherent, embellished, and well-articulated. Performed with ease or clumsiness, awareness or not, guile or in good faith, it is none the less something that must be enacted and portrayed, something that must be realized. (75)

Tradition, whether expressed through performances, clothes, or objects, is regulated to a “thing” while modernity is an ongoing process explored through play.

TAKING THE PERFORMANCE OFF STAGE

The mall produces a certain kind of character; it is a ludic space filled with possibility. It is the people in the mall, however, who bring agency to the interactions. Goffman (1959) explains how the setting works in relationship to the performance:

A correctly staged and performed scene leads the audience to impute a self to a performed character, but this imputation – this self – is a ­product of a scene that comes off, and is not the cause of it. The self, then, as a performed character, is not an organic thing that has a spe- cific location, whose fundamental fate is to be born, to mature, and to die; it is a dramatic effect arising diffusely from the scene that is presented, and the characteristic issue, the crucial concern, is whether it will be credited or discredited. (252–253)

Sukarno envisioned a modern Indonesia and therefore created spaces for his people to enact those identities. Even as spaces in the mall blend ­tradition and modernity, Indonesia has crafted these elements together into contem- porary identities. What happens outside the mall? Goffman (1959) concludes the actors “must terminate their performance when they leave [the space]” (22). Here I disagree. Perhaps the performance only occurs in the mall but given a public­ place to practice this performance, I argue the performers can thus take the performance with them. They are like actors who retain characteristics of the role they play on stage even when the play is over; the role has a life outside of a specific setting. As Heidemann and Hewitt (2009) describe, play is a place where “They try on a variety of roles and behaviors” as part of forming a self outside of the play (xiii). Indonesians can thus become part of a global modernity. 11 Britpicking as Cultural Policing in Fanfiction Erin Horáková

iamcode:

mycaterpie:

twelfthcloctcr:

dustychica:

annyoung89:

Raise your hand if you have watched so much British television that is has actually changed your speech patterns.

I’ve not the slightest idea how you’ve come round to that idea.

Exactly. I haven’t the foggiest idea of how you’ve come to that conclusion.

What in the bloody hell are you blabbering on bout you twat?

Behold, people that have never been within 50 feet of anyone even remotely British.

Figure 11.1 From(Source: Ninjash’ worldsenough)s blog: http://ninjash8.tumblr.com/post/84128786983/ iamcode-mycaterpie-twelfthcloctcr via Here, there, not quite everywhere... Apr 28 197789

I love Doctor Who so much I’ve written enough fanfiction for it to beat out the word count of Bleak House. And yet it’s with inestimable weariness that I turn on an episode I must have seen a score of times. I skip to the start of Part II because I know that’s where the two characters I need to write have a conversation. I listen closely for cadence and word choice. To do a decent job writing a character, I not only have to be able to hear his voice saying the lines of dialogue I’ve assigned him, I have to make sure the reader hears it. Convey- ing the character in prose, without the actor to help things along, demands intensification. He must sound more like himself than he ever did on screen. When I finish writing the scene, I e-mail it to my girlfriend who, like the ­characters I’m trying to write, has an RP accent. By the end of her lunch break it’s been shunted back to me, digitally dripping red ink. I am assured in no uncertain terms that the characters I’ve been trying to write would never, ever, on pain of death, “go to the store.” “They may be aliens,” she huffs, “but they’re still English!” Britpicking as Cultural Policing in Fanfiction 129 INTRODUCTION

As the editors discuss in the introductory chapter, this volume gives space to and considers several theoretical understandings of why people play, what play is, and what play does. It further investigates play’s ­relationship to the infrastructure and systems of power that condition its ­possibility and nature. In this chapter, I define the ambivalent sense in which we can ­consider ­fanfiction a form of play. To do this, we have to work out fanfiction’­ s ­relationship to the theories of play the introduction to this volume glosses. I then touch on fanfiction-as-play’s relationship to digital, commercial, and cultural institutions such as online platforms, the gift economy, and ­nationalistic identities. Because that’s a vast, complex, and vexed question, I couple my brief overview with a more detailed examination of a single aspect of the interplay between fanfiction and institutions: the phenomenon of nationalistic language-policing, Britpicking, and its derivatives.

FANFICTION AS PLAY

Are reading and writing fanfiction, by their nature, fun? Are theseactivities­ necessarily play? Freud (1907) would say all writing is daydreaming, and thus a form of play, but in non-fanfictional contexts, we do not ­understand literary activity to be a barrel of laughs. Indeed, accepting that all writing­ is play seriously threatens our attempt to establish any definition of the ­concept. Writing is often work, paid or unpaid. We sometimes view artists­ as ­craftspeople who may or may not enjoy the mechanical exercises of ­art-making or the works they produce. Alternatively, the tortured writer who is compelled to create because her or his genius or the art demand an outlet, because s/he craves personal or social expression, or even because s/he must earn something (money, recognition, love) by means of creating art, is “old meme.” So is the difficult literary work that challenges rather than unequivocally pleases the reader. Very few people have ever found Joyce’s Ulysses fun, and those who have are all bastards. Yet people do write and read for pleasure, and fanfiction in particular can be classed as a leisure activity, given that it is disconnected from economic remuneration. ­Considering literary production, we cannot make an absolute distinction between work and play. Fanfiction is a case that can be valuably read, per- haps also ­experienced, as either or both. As Omasta and Chappell discuss in this volume’s introduction, Sutton-Smith­ “identifies no less than seven (somewhat) distinct ‘rhetorics’ surrounding play, including fate, identity, the imaginary, power, progress, the self, and frivolity” (14). The frivolity rhetoric suggests play serves no purpose whatsoever, while the progress rhetoric offers a theory of ­developmental play that inculcates task-related and broader social skills in players. The frivolity­ rhetoric might initially seem compatible with fanfiction, as­fanfiction is – often, though not 130 Erin Horáková always – writing that is not ­commercially profitable. The progress rhetoric might seem equally compatible with the quite old canard that fanfiction writ- ing might serve as acceptable “training wheels” for ­budding writers (Howey, 2014). Both these views fail to capture the whole scope of the fanfiction ­phenomenon, however. Participating in fandom can certainly develop a writer’s social, organizational, and writing skills, and prepare her for “real” work and “real” writing, but this theorization has never sat easily with me. Unless you allow monetary impact to be the sole guarantor of value – a ­distinction that runs afoul of, for example, second-wave feminist discussions about the value of housewives’/women’s work – what about the work of fandom is not real work? Only the most hardcore originality fetishists would declare fanfiction a priori unreal and/or poor because it is not entirely originary. Such fetishism has been thoroughly debunked by Gilbert and Gubar (1979), Hayles (2005), and by the critical success of books like The Hours (1998), Foe (1986), and The Song of Achilles (2011), not to mention earlier forbear- ers like The Aeneid (~29 BCE). Those who accept the basic admissibility of ­transformative work but contend that, by its nature, fanfiction cannot be high-quality writing have a similarly difficult case to make. Fanfiction’s quality ranges widely, but critics would have trouble making convincing arguments that fanfiction­ is never, and can never be, good. The burden of establishing believable, ­sharable quality standards and showing how ­sometimes very competent work fails to meet them would certainly be on said critics. Perhaps, then, fanfiction might be unreal because it has not passed a ­gate-keeper or been officially published? Making such a distinction would, however, ignore the many examples of curation in fanfiction practice such as recs lists (organized lists of fanfic the compiler[s] recommend) and the work of zine editors (editors of fanzines, fan-made magazines and ­anthologies). Claims that a work’s legitimacy is linked to its “official” publication are ­predicated on a limited understanding of publication contexts, both ­historically and in the increasingly Internet-based information future—an understanding with a short time horizon. To be clear, I think viewing the play component of fanfiction via a ­development rhetoric or a related teaching-tool rhetoric is in part correct and helpful, but I think it is also insufficient. Producing and, to a lesser extent, consuming fanfiction, and doing related fannish organizational work, does make people “the active creators of their activity [and] allows them to try out new roles, relationships, and skills in a low-risk environment” (Lobman & O’Neill 2011, ix). However, Lobman and O’Neill’s argument that art of any kind puts us at very limited emotional risk is itself debatable due to the unstable divide between real and unreal work. Fanfiction writers engage in a process of social/communal interaction and art-making. Their peers make judgments about them based on the quality and content of their work. Britpicking as Cultural Policing in Fanfiction 131 ­Livejournal and other platform communities and the dispersed fandom­ are real, if digital, social environments. To the extent that it is risky to expose yourself with creative work, sometimes to expose aspects of your ­sexuality in explicit fiction, and to be judged as a friend, co-worker, organizer, and ­cultural producer, fandom is risky. Sutton-Smith also postulates a rhetoric of play as identity formation, which seems more applicable to fanfiction. As Russ points out (1985),fanfiction­ has long been bound up in female and queer identity ­politics. Tumblr, for ­better or worse the Home of Fandom at the moment (Baker­ -Whitelaw 2014a), is an often-parodied hotbed of identity formation and identity politics­ (Read 2012). In part this represents a continuation of pre-existing fannish ­traditions and in part it may also be due to the adolescent mean age of Tumblr’s fannish user- base, the ferment of finding or coming into oneself that can accompany adoles- cence, and the cultural norms that have consequently­ evolved on the platform. More universally, the sheer nature of what fanfiction is asserts the power of every reader to be an author. And not just any author but an author autho- rized to deal with and in powerful canonical texts or expensive media fran- chises that, in their legitimate incarnations, are often far more ­accessible to privileged creators (Baker-Whitelaw 2014b). Fanfiction can thus befigured ­ as a kind of performative utterance à la Austin (1962) or, more ­simply, as a transformation of oneself from passive recipient to active interpreter­ and giver. Making art and friends, taking up responsibilities, starting projects, and joining clubs are associated with self-discovery and identity formation, and if we cannot comfortably draw a line between real fiction and unreal fanfiction, then neither can we deny fanfiction and these associated activities real weight.

THE STAKES OF THE GAME: Some Notes on Fanfiction’s Implications for Gender, Sexuality, Race, and Economies

If we credit fanfiction with this presence in the world of the real, then we are obligated to consider fanfiction-as-play’s relationship toinstitutions.­ ­Critics such as obsession_inc (2009) and Kirrily Robert (2010), who ­establish a division between active/transformational/female-dominated and passive/affirmational/male-dominated forms of fandom, believe fanfic- tion’s ­textual play represents a seizure of agency. Is this perhaps too naive or too valorizing?­ Fanfiction seems to undermine the brand by offering up free, perhaps critical or contrary content. Yet doesn’t fanfiction simultane- ously build the brand, drumming up enthusiasm for the product and related goods? Given its ability to show, say, sexual relationships a program never will, or to continue writing in the world of a finished novel, is fanfiction merely a supplement for the possibilities the narrative could not explore for artistic or commercial reasons? Does its existence allow creators to have their cake and eat it too? 132 Erin Horáková Fans have accused programs like Sherlock and Supernatural of “­queerbaiting” (Bridges, 2013): enticing a queer and/or queer-friendly fanbase­ by hinting at queer relationships they have no intention of bringing to fruition in an effort to gain and play on these fans’ loyalty without losing commercial support or their more mainstream, casual audience. Queer or Person of Color/ PoC “fanbait” characters (Canton Everett Delaware III or Vastra and Jenny from Steven Moffat’s Doctor Who) (2009-present) seem, by virtue of their hinted-at but not foregrounded narratives, to demand and often provoke a great deal of fanfic. Does this sort of portrayal andfannish­ uptake save writers of popular franchises the trouble of having to include queer or PoC characters as foregrounded, central subjects? In these circumstances,­ writing such charac- ters is not necessarily a social-justice statement on the creators’ part or simply a component of their artistic project. It can be a quite calculated, even cynical economic decision. Worse, it can palpably and insultingly feel like one. If complicity in drumming up the brand seems like a pretty passé thing to worry about when our lives are always already inescapably bound up in the machinery of late capitalism, how can we answer the more unnerving­ ­criticisms of the radical genre-fiction blogger Requires Hate (2013), who points out that erotic fanfiction’s discourse of consent sometimes jars with the larger progressive conversation about consent? Worse, Requires Hate believes ­fanfiction fetishizes objectification and situations of dubious­consent, and ultimately participates in rape culture. As Russ says, ­practitioners of fanfiction have often identified fanfiction practices and communities with ­social-justice aims. This is a damning accusation of hypocrisy. One could make a subtle argument about fanfiction’s ability to claim and resist these dis- courses via a female-led praxis that does not shy from them, but that would not make Requires Hate’s observation less valid or the situation less vexed. The fandom doctrine of Live and Let Live, or Your Kink Is Not My Kink But Your Kink Is Okay (Fanlore 2012a), and the fetishization of artistic liberty and self-discovery common in the valorization of fandom, do not really take responsibility for the possible effects of fanfiction. If fandom has strong progressive currents, we also cannot deny or erase that it also hosts a complex, ambivalent working through of issues surrounding sexuality­ . If this work is real, it can have real consequences. Fanfiction may very well do harm as well as good. In a way, fanfiction is hosting a rearguard action in the never-truly-won Andrea Dworkin (1981) pornography wars, with all their complexity, and pretending it’s never heard of trenches. More ­generally, when are the erotic politics and tropes of fanfiction functioning as ­reifications of oft-criticized romance-novel tropes, tropes fanfiction’s pro- gressive advocates would deride in an actual romance novel? As the introduction’s summation of Banks’s work suggested: “[i]f play and reality share the same rules, perhaps they are not separate spheres at all. Is there, then, a boundary between play and the ‘real world’? If we are always playing, are we ever playing?” (12). In terms of our discussion­ about ­“practice for writing” and “writing,” anecdotal ­evidence would have it that Britpicking as Cultural Policing in Fanfiction 133 many of the people in fandom are ­academics and ­administrators. The very existence of the “acafan” (Hills, 2002) or academic who identifies as a fan and participates in fan culture, and of sufficient and sufficiently skillful vol- unteers to organize and code the many ­fanfiction archives, including the massive Archive of Our Own (Ao3), suggest these demographics’ strong presence. Fandom consists of a lot of women organizing­ things, analyzing texts, setting up and maintaining systems, and writing, reading, editing, analyzing, and discussing content. It thus seems likely this fannish activity pretty much mirrors these womens’ professional lives, present or future. Fandom could be seen as never playing, as making work into play, or as the mechanical play of industrial equipment. Goriunova’s (2012) work on creativity platforms like Livejournal uses an autonomist Marxist framework to make salient criticisms about the ways in which online gift economies such as fandom are always already co-opted by late capitalism. The ways in which what looks like free, ­unstructured, even ­anti-establishment play contributes to the real economy and is a part of the economic life of their players. The introduction also brings up ­Kucklich’s ­playbor, “the immersion and participation in such productive­ play spaces,” and cites Lobman and O’Neill’s (2011) claim: “in their ­everyday lives, ­children perform who they are becoming. Children perform as ­conversationalists by taking turns babbling and become speakers; they perform as readers by ­pretending to read, as they become readers” (x). This school of thought – which I discussed earlier and which I believe is applicable to fanfiction in part, though not in whole – sees play as children’s “rehearsal for life” and holds that they play at and practice the skills they will need in the future. They play because they are not yet capable of working. But could such restrictions also be externally imposed on people ready to work? In the current recession economy, jobs for graduates are scarce and women suffer disproportionately (McVeigh and Helm 2012). This exacerbates pre-existing conditions of female under-employment. In this context, does fandom serve as a substitute for remunerative labor for women, especially­ underemployed young women? Due to these relationships between fandom, gender, and labor, do recessions cause changes in fandom activity? Given the nature of the subject, it is impossible to quantify ­observations or to do solid population studies. “LJ death” – the abandonment of ­content and community-heavy Livejournal as the “home of fandom” that has occurred within the past two or three years (Romano 2012) – and the surging­ ­popularity of Tumblr among expatriates and newcomers to ­fandom alike are deeply connected to factors such as Livejournal’s long battle to shake fandom and make itself respectable and marketable and its ­ever-increasing datedness. Fandom is also more broadly recognized than it once was and is thus less of a niche, investment-heavy activity. As fandom comes to appeal more to casual participants, the prominence of casual forms of fannish engagement might increase. The rise of Tumblr and fannish reblogging, for example, is indisputable. Yet even with these complicating factors, LJ death 134 Erin Horáková might still lead us to believe that the difficulty of imagining a world in which young women’s organizational and creative contributions are valued makes it correspondingly difficult for such women to deeply engage with fandom, and has caused fandom to shift to less investment and organization-heavy models. The Livejournal community moderator becomes, perhaps, the ­fandom consumer/content-sharer of Tumblr. Jamison (2013) says: “I find the public shaming and humiliation of (mostly) women by other (mostly) women for wanting to benefit financially from their own creative labor to be deeply upsetting. From my perspective as a scholar of women writers and women’s history, I see this trend playing into a long tradition of shaming women for wanting compensation for work that social norms dictate should be done only out of love.” This situates fandom within the broader DIY conversation surrounding the Etsy Ghetto Effect (Mosle 2009). Goriunova (2012) takes a dim outlook on our opportunities for breaking away from the hold of late capitalism and escaping its ability to monetize all aspects of life, including seemingly non-economic sites of digital labor and play like fanfiction. She thinks these opportunities are fundamentally ­controlled by the conditions of capitalism and are correspondingly fun- damentally limited. Later I discuss why I do not entirely echo this grim conclusion. Fanfiction must be understood in terms of the institutions – digital, ­commercial, and cultural – that enable it and within which it is enacted. Its digital conditions include the demographics and capabili- ties of ­fanfiction platforms likeAo3, fanfiction.net, Tumblr, Livejournal, forums, etc. These platforms exercise a kind of environmental determin- ism, enabling ­different forms of community and communication and thus giving rise to different conversations and different kinds of fan- works. Fanfiction’s commercial ­conditions include, for the most part, the fannish gift economy, set against the backdrop of the broader cultural context of late capitalism. In cultural terms, we have discussed fanfic- tion’s unique relationship to discourses of gender and sexuality, and we are about to talk about how fanfictionrecapitulates ­ or plays out wider geopolitical-cultural tensions.

THE U.K. WRITING AMERICA, AMERICA WRITING THE U.K.

Let’s look at a discrete example of the ways institutional forces condition fanfiction production: fanfiction’s unique ways of dealing with national/­ cultural tensions between two countries within the developed world. This is a challenge fiction proper must also navigate, but the communities and art practices of fanfiction enable (force?) fanfiction to handle it differently than commercial fiction does. I choose these countries to keep it simple because post-colonial criticism brings with it a wealth of complicating Britpicking as Cultural Policing in Fanfiction 135 dimensions, rather than because the intersections of fandom, nationality, and race are not important issues worth exploring in their own right. To quote the introduction, “many [ludic sites] establish objectives for ­players (Parlett’s and Suits’s ‘ends’)” (23). So how does one “win” at fanfic? You might win by producing work you or others believe to be of high ­quality and/or by producing popular work. Ao3 lets readers sort work by the number of kudos, comments, and hits it has received. You might also win by producing accurate work. Accuracy contributes to both ­aforementioned win conditions, and can in and of itself serve as an ­objective to attain. A work might be accurate to the spirit, details, ­characters, or ­language of the source-text. Even a wildly divergent, inno- vative work of ­fanfictionwould, by virtue of being fanfiction, still be expected to attain a certain kind of accuracy. This would be a hallmark of its success as fanfiction. The popularity of U.K. media such as Harry Potter, Sherlock, and ­Doctor Who in America and that of American media such as Star Trek and ­Supernatural in the U.K. leads fanwriters from both countries to attempt to write about life in, the experience of being from, or simply the language of the other. Results may vary. Rather than cataloging a series of imperfect translations, I would like to explore the nature of the errors introduced, and through this to illuminate an aspect of the connection between ­fanfiction and larger institutional structures. These errors can yield surprising insights, revealing differences between both countries’ broader quotidian practices, worldviews, and readings of a given fannish text. Britpicking, the practice of making a text suitably British-sounding, is a common fandom term (Fanlore 2014a). While Britpicking is an affectionate, self-deprecating play on nitpicking, it is immediately linguistically obvious­ that its inverses, American-picking, Ameri-picking, and Yank-wanking, are merely awkward, still-unsettled echoes of the real concern. Neologisims can be coined and become popular to meet linguistic needs (Cabré 1999). We can thus see that fandom needed Britpicking more than it needed the reverse configuration or any alternative linguistic alignment. I would like to suggest this gives us a glimpse of a cultural power imbalance between these nations that persists even in the face of American-led globalization. So what does it mean to make a text suitably British- or ­American-­sounding, to thoroughly, systematically subsume your narrative voice and sense of national identity as a craft practice or in adherence to social expectation while, crucially, remaining in your own language?1 This potential issue arose relatively early in fannish history. An English fan wrote perhaps the ­earliest hand-circulated Star Trek slash (Fanlore 2014b), or same-sex romantic ­fanfiction, and cross-Atlantic zine traffic led to this interesting letter to the editor of a fanzine called The LOC Connection in 1991:

Speaking of dialogue, this is another barrier when reading English K/S [A/N: slash about a relationship between the characters Kirk and 136 Erin Horáková Spock]. It seems to me that American fan writers make an effort to try to write dialogue with verisimilitude when they are working with ­English characters such as Bodie and Doyle [from “The Professionals”].­ They may not always be successful, but they do try. English K/S writers don’t make the slightest effort to write American dialogue for Kirk or McCoy. It isn’t just a matter of English slang. Americans have different sentence structures and different rhythms of speech as well as the more obvious differences in vocabulary. (Fanlore 2012b)

Character dialogue, current fannish consensus says, should sound as though a character might have said it, regardless of the identity of the writer. However, picking does not stop at dialogue, it also encompasses cultural ­practices. How likely is Doctor Who’s Rose Tyler to have a coffee machine? What is a council estate? Fanfiction writers consistently use terms that match the nationality of the source text in a fic’s prose as well as in its dialogue. This became stan- dard practice by at least 2003, and seems to have been worked into its current form and broadly popularized on the Harry Potter archive Fiction- Alley. Regardless of the origin of the writer, as Fanlore (2014a) has it, “an ­American [character takes] his flashlight out to investigate the loud noise from the garbage cans in the backyard; a British character [takes] his torch out to investigate the loud noise from the dustbins in the back garden.” Sometimes a writer will also adhere to national spelling differences, spelling words like color with or without the letter “u” as appropriate. These choices provide consistency and prevent the reader from being jolted out of the world of a fic’s POV character. Mendlesohn’s (2014) observation that the U.K. and the U.S. have only effectually shared a publishing market for anything other than literary fic- tion for a few decades might influence the timing and degree of Britpicking’s wide adoption by fandom. It is worth noting that when publishing compa- nies did bring English series like Harry Potter to the U.S. market, they chose to do the opposite of Britpicking: to change the spellings, terms, and idioms used by British speakers into their American equivalents so the audience was not put off or confused (The Harry Potter Lexicon 2001–2005). While U.K. and U.S. readers can only buy, off the shelf, versions of Harry Potter books that have been customized for their own countries, fics each only exist in one form. There is no market divide, and thus fic cannot orga- nize its cultural information in the same way. And fic cultures can also rise up around foreign-source texts. Non-native fandoms might perceive this other- ness as part of the text’s identity and charm, as the exchange in Figure 11.1 at the start of this chapter might indicate. Despite, or even because of, the fact the practice of Britpicking is so uni- versal in fandom at the moment, it is useful to bear in mind that this stylistic Britpicking as Cultural Policing in Fanfiction 137 tic is not the only possible writing choice; it is actually at odds with how professional publishing handles the same issues, it is located in a historical context, and it is not devoid of ideological content. Without explicitly mak- ing such an argument, privileging the reader’s immersive experience sup- ports a somewhat Romantic, anti-Modernist view of reading. The practice also implicitly connects the point of view, even in a third-person narrative, with the people being observed, raising some epistemological questions about the detachment of that third-person voice.

THE SPECIAL LOVE/HATE RELATIONSHIP

This is hardly the first time someone has commented on the awkwardness of Anglo-American literary relations. Henry James aspired to “write in such a way that it would be impossible to an outsider to say whether I am at a given moment an American writing about England or an Englishman writ- ing about America” (1888). But this dream of indeterminacy has become, and was perhaps even for James, impossible. Weisbuch (1986) notes the enmity that characterizes the “special relationship.” Although he talks about attitudes that prevailed until the turn of the twentieth century, it should be noted this climate of opinion did not evaporate overnight. In 2014, the purview of the Man Booker prize was expanded to include all novels written in English, not just those published in the U.K. “In ­America, literary prizes are greeted with the same enthusiasm as a low Steelers draft choice. Not so in the British Isles, where the $98,000 Man Booker Fiction Prize can even push Amy Winehouse off the front page – at least for a day” (Hoover 2008). Anglo-American tension lives in the deep, post-Empire panic about opening the prize to American writers, who will apparently dominate, The Guardian warned, “not through excellence […] but simply through an economic super-power exerting its own literary tastes” (Hensher 2013). Across the pond, U.S.-led globalization may have given rise to an ­American literary arrogance that Fromm (1941) would describe as proof of a concomitant sense of post-colonial inferiority. Writers on both sides of the ocean experience simultaneous arrogance and cultural cringe (­Phillips 1950). This is a relational quality, predicated on a perceived familial ­relationship between the countries. As Chesterton (1911) says of Dickens’s at times ­vitriolic American Notes:

Even as late as the time of Dickens’s first visit to the United States, we English still felt America as a colony; an insolent, offensive, and even unintelligible colony sometimes, but still a colony; a part of our civili- sation, a limb of our life. And America itself, as I have said, under all its bounce and independence, really regarded us as a mother country. This being the case it was possible for us to quarrel, like kinsmen. 138 Erin Horáková No one gets on your nerves like family. The tension embedded in questions of transatlantic translation can lead to a full-on Yank-wank.

ENFORCING THE RULES OF THE GAME

The distinctions between help offered and help asked for, between being helped and being policed, and between being constructively criticized and being flamed blur in this debate, and yet I feel an attempt at a theoretical discussion of the context of Britpicking is more appropriate than a demand to treat every interaction on the basis of its particularity. Let’s turn to praxis and examine the ideology in play, as per Marx’s (1845–6) definition: the assumptions we make without realizing we are making them. From Ameri-picking livejournal community Drop the U (mallory_x 2009) comes this question:

I’ve heard some Americans use “England” when referring to Wales, or Britain as a whole, but how common is this misunderstanding? Have most people heard of Cardiff, and would they have any idea where it actually is? What are the possible (if any) stereotypes and/or precon- ceptions that my American characters may hold about the city, the country and the people?

A quite high percentage of randomly selected Americans might very well have no idea Wales exists. Both Americans and the British share a miscon- ception that Americans know more about the specifics of Great Britain than they generally do, and vice versa. Both parties perhaps overestimate the international importance of their own geography and mores. A British question on the same community about what Americans call “Onion Bhajis at their average Indian takeout” (fluffybkitty 2009) rests on a whole tower of assumptions: there are many Indian immigrants in the U.S., that these immigrants are widely geographically dispersed, and that the constitutional makeup, historical paths followed by, and current social situation of these immigrant communities in both countries are substantially identical. They are not. We have no “average Indian takeout” as a Londoner would recognize it, not even in magical New York. As the fifth Doctor never said in “The King’s Demons” (1983), you may disguise your “take away” as a “take out,” but you can never disguise your intent. From Britpickery (which, as it says on the tin, is a Livejournal commu- nity dedicated to making fanfiction sound appropriately British), we get a particularly tall order when an American wants to know, among other ques- tions, essentially the entire British experience of World War II and “[a]ny particular differences in American and British views on military/patriotism/ honour.” Given such assumptions that huge bodies of knowledge can be con- densed into a discrete, communicable answer, the countries’ shared language Britpicking as Cultural Policing in Fanfiction 139 seems almost a trick, a mask. Would Americans or the British believe they could understand the historical or present experience of Russianness in the way they seem to believe the gap between them can be bridged by adding or dropping a “u”? And unfortunately no preparation, no community, however helpful, can match the effortless, brief description of breakfast at a café in Hounslow after a rough flight that features in AJ Hall’s BBC Sherlock fic, “The Affair of the Asphyxiated Acafan” (2010). There is, perhaps, also something inimi- table about the local specificity the Lancastrian Hall shows in the ensuing clipped discussion of “a Yorkshireman’s refusal to admit to excellence in anything originating from the other side of the Pennines,” even in Hall’s choice to stage a scene in this shoddy, little-known corner of London. (My partner lived in Hounslow for some years, and I have earned the right to fondly despise it.) These are details predicated on questions no one would or could think to ask. While I do think it necessary to examine these translation practices within the context of a theoretical framework, I will admit the differences between cross-Atlantic “distant” writing (perhaps akin to Franco Moretti’s distant reading [2000]) and writing where the setting and/or the text’s nation of ori- gin are well known to the author would have to be analyzed intensively on a case-by-case basis before one could dare risking general statements as to the varying effects these different subject positions produce. Certainly one can write an excellent Professionals fic despite never having left Arkansas, but I would suggest the questions no one could think to ask are possible lacunae in even a dedicated writer’s craft.

TITLE WORK: What We Think We Own, What We Think We Know

The matter of questions we cannot think to ask raises the issue of how we “pick” for the Other. Doctor Who’s Time Lords are “British aliens” and are Britpicked hard accordingly. Jareth from Labyrinth, played by an English actor, is also a relatively modern “English” man, for Britpicking purposes. What about aliens who happen to have American accents? How and why are we invested in policing their cultural nationality? Let’s turn back to that 1991 Star Trek grouse. Right before talking about dialogue, the writer says:

In regard to characterization, however, I think that English restraint serves them best when they are portraying Vulcans. Spock really is often like an Englishman, but Kirk is not. Sometimes seeing a stiff, proper and formal Kirk bothers me when I read English K/S. In Ameri- can K/S conflict often happens between the characters because Spock prefers to be indirect and restrained while Kirk prefers to be more 140 Erin Horáková direct and frank. In English K/S both the characters are indirect and restrained.

The American audience misses Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry’s attempt to write a “space-age Captain Horatio Hornblower” (Roddenberry 1964) by virtue of being comparatively unfamiliar with that very British source text. Kirk, like Hornblower, is notably both conscious of and capable of a naval formality appropriate to his station. His emotional arc in the 1966 episode “The Naked Time” and his ability to overcome the effects of the intoxicating, inhibition-lowering Psi-2000 agent, are predicated on this quality. Kirk’s declaration of love for the ship in this episode is strik- ingly reminiscent of Hornblower’s insistence that nothing matters but the Hotspur (Forester 1962). English fanfiction writers of the period readily observed and recapitu- lated the parallels between Kirk and Hornblower, while American fanfic- tion writers heard an “American” (actually Canadian) actor speak and made assumptions. They read a contemporary American cultural background onto a character who at times displays quite different influences. Kirk is also from the future, and thus seems to come from a materially different culture on that front alone. Thus to what extent could contemporary American culture-picking ever be accurate? What we have here is an English novel series adapted into an American television show, written into fanfic by an English audience, and then commented on by an American reader. Star Trek is an American text, but the commenter I quoted perhaps evinces a too-eager desire to claim an exclusionary ownership and knowledge of it, to privilege her or his reading and cultural framework as “the correct one.” The commenter also makes a mistake in assuming all English people share reticence as a part of their cultural identity. In fact, that reticence is a performance of class and regional identity for a relatively small percentage of British people (Kavanagh 2010). This single image of Britishness can- not stand as synecdoche for the diverse United Kingdom. Likewise, there are a thousand Americas, and Americans have ever but slenderly known the diversity within the supposed monolith of the American cultural experi- ence. As Britpicking opens up quotidian vistas of alterity, it also reveals a disturbing singularity in our impressions of each other, a singularity that collapses regional and class differences into an idealized and uniform Brit- ain and America. In some ways the Britpicking process reveals the fallacy of believing we understand one another culturally in any way simply because we speak English. Fanfiction is not written or read in a vacuum. It carries the baggage asso- ciated with its source texts, its readers’ and creators’ cultural identities, and the traditions of fandom and fannish writing. The online context into which fanfiction brings this baggage is itself conditioned by structures such as plat- forms. The communities that arise on these platforms can collectively create and enforce normative practices such as Britpicking, which are predicated Britpicking as Cultural Policing in Fanfiction 141 on a perhaps fallacious belief that you fully own and know your cultural heritage and can adequately compensate for the lack of such knowledge when depicting the Other, that the Other is knowable. Thinking of fanfiction as a kind of free creative play, detached from the constraints of publishing conditions, economic consequences, or the ramifications of sexual politics, misunderstands the practice. Yet the space fanfiction provides practitioners to examine and play nationality might itself be useful and liberating. Fanfiction is and is not play, and both of these states are equally impor- tant to understanding it. Where fanfiction is play, it falls within the bounds of the nuanced theoretical understanding of the term that incorporates playbor, play as rehearsal, and play as identity formation. As the meme says, “The Internet is Serious Business.” But even as the meme is ironic, we acknowledge the extent to which fanfiction cannot and should not be boiled down to the point where all that is left is its structural undergirding. This renders it safe for theory but simultaneously does violence to its materiality and particularity. In so doing, we collapse what Goriunova might call fanfic- tion’s moments of rupture, the points where it breaks free from the predes- tined possibilities of late capitalism. Consider the truly astounding ability fanfiction offers its participants – and almost anyone can join those ranks – to organize, write, and share their work, to interpolate and express agency over the stratified realms of high culture and mass-media production. If we are to attend, as I suggested earlier, to fanfiction as an art practice in its own right, as a means of working through and against power structures, we need to attend as much to fanfiction’s poetics, its play, as to its structural and theoretical underpinnings.

Note

1. Nadja Rehberger explored the different but related process of writing fanfiction in a language not your own (typically English) in her paper “Fandom terminol- ogy in Anglophone and German speaking media fandom.” 12 Dramatic Manipulations Conflict, Empathy, and Identity in World of Warcraft

Kimi Johnson

It is early evening, though the sun is high above our heads in the game world. I am with four guild members on a knoll, waiting to gain entrance to a ­dungeon. I have been to this dungeon several times before; it’s a quick run and we’re all familiar with the routine. We all arrive at the swirling maelstrom­ that represents the entrance to the dungeon. We are in the ­Caverns of Time, a storyline that transports our party back into the pre-history of the game. We arrive at the moment of the blight outbreak that turned the residents of Strathlome into plague-ridden zombies. Chromie, our gnomish guide to the dungeon door, explains that because the races that comprise the Horde withered away this point in history, she has cast a Human Illusion spell on the entire party. I’m used to the camera bobbing along behind my muscular, teal-skinned orc, so the small, shapely brunette human at the center of my screen creates a sense of unreality within this already fantastic world. Our task is simple: we must witness the beginning of Prince Arthas’s descent into madness and help him cull “the infected” from the population of a town named Strathlome. The mechanics of the fight are quite straightforward. Waves of newly ­created undead creatures attack us as we make our way through the town. The five of us mow our way through the waves with ease, so I am free to pay closer attention to the first third of the dungeon, the third that contains only infected humans. The game designers have staged a cut-scene drama: Arthas has demanded the knight Uther the Lightbringer cull the city. Uther refuses to kill his fellow men and women, so Arthas takes up the sword himself. As our happy band hacks, slashes, and blasts its way through the waves of ­zombies, we see as-of-yet untransformed humans pleading for their lives. Some attempt to escape, though Arthas kills them before they reach the town wall. This scene should evoke pity and anger, yet I feel none. I wait for the cut scene to end so my group can get down to business. Our party is a practiced squad and has no trouble defeating its foes. As such, we have plenty of spare time on our hands between waves of enemies. Some of us attempt to kill the humans who have yet to turn into zombies, without luck – the designers have prevented us from harming recognizably human players. We’re killing the enemies too quickly; this dungeon was intended for lower-level characters than we. We pass the time in voice chat. Dramatic Manipulations 143 Ventrilo, a gamer-specific VOIP service, provides a chat space for the party. While tracking down stray undead minions, we start talking about dinner preparations and the events of our workdays. It’s obvious our task does not require our full attention and the plight of the former-humans we kill does not arouse our sympathy. We finish the dungeon in twenty-four minutes flat, not our best time, but certainly not our worst. The loot isn’t really worth it.

WORLD OF WARCRAFT

World of Warcraft, or WoW, is a genre-defining Massively Multiplayer Online (MMO) role-playing game that has become the single most-played game of its genre in the eight years since its launch. With over twelve ­million players at the height of its popularity, WoW is arguably one of the world’s largest intentional communities. As a space in which players devise and build ­imaginary characters and perform together in these roles in fictional­ ­scenarios, it is also one of the world’s largest forms of participatory­ ­theatre. The freedom of choice within games like WoW – choice over everything from racial identity to where to play on any given day – offers the potential­ for expressive and uninhibited play. However, the reality of virtual ­experience has exposed the pitfalls of online living. Despite the often malicious pranks (“trolling”) and troublemaking that occur in the digital realm, I believe ­virtual play and performance offer a space for scholars to think critically about how this particular genre of popular culture attempts to shape the act of virtual play into a meaningful and nuanced experience within a fully realized narrative landscape. In particular, I emphasize the detrimental role of heavy-handed dramaturgical manipulation on the player’s ability to immerse within the game world. I rely on single-site autoethnographic research to describe my ­experiences of how WoW functions as a game, as a meaning-maker, and as a social space. My seven-year tenure as an active and dedicated WoW player has ­provided me with insight into the game’s development, history, lore, and functional details. Since 2009, I have taken extensive notes on my ­interactions with both the other players and the automated characters who complete the landscape­ of the game. I combine these journal entries with the ethnographic analyses of other scholars who study WoW in order to form a nuanced view of game operations and player motivations. In writing and coding my field notes, I look for moments in the game where I experienced levels of discomfort that removed me from full immersion in narrative, often moments of extreme violence or trauma. My field notes consist of both my own autoethnographic entries, screenshots of text chats, or meta-diegetic narrative segments. In addition to these notes, I have also assembled an archive of materials comprised of fan-generated game videos (machinima), fan-site forums (online boards for open discussion), guild website forum posts (online boards for member-only discussion), and WoWwiki entries. 144 Kimi Johnson These artifacts allow me to expand on details that are not always readily available or recognizable during active questing in the virtual space. This chapter utilizes Sherif’s (1961) concept of conflict theory toanalyze­ my experiences in WoW. The core of my argument rests on Man, Play and Games, Caillois’s (1958) expansion of Huizinga’s (1938) theorization of play in Homo Ludens. I discuss Caillois’s definition of play alongside the actual- ity of productive play within the digital space. I also employ Sherif­ ’s defini- tion of conflict theory and the Robbers Cave experiments to­ further expand how the playful environment of the game can influence the virtual inhabit- ants’ attitudes toward in-game actions and alter/mask their ­reflections so true empathy becomes an emotional impossibility.

WORLD OF WARCRAFT MEETS CONFLICT THEORY

WoW offers an immersive experience that mimics the intertwined social, economic, and narrative systems of our physical realities. Players negotiate the virtual world in semi-customizable avatarial bodies and engage with the environment and one another on several levels including participation in an interactive storyline, building character through the accumulation of game experience, crafting items and trading in the world economy, and membership in a guild community, the locus of almost all player interaction. WoW places the player within a pre-industrial, feudal world populated with Gnomes, Elves, Orcs, and Trolls in a two-faction structure divided between races – a more accurate term would be species – of recognizably white bod- ied and non-white bodied figures. These factions battle against both one another and greater enemies who threaten the stability of the world in the perpetual war that defines this game. WoW is an expansive sandbox world set in real time. The term ­sandbox in this case refers to a style of game design that allows the player the ­relative freedom of picking and choosing his or her activities without adher- ing to the strict linear narrative found in the single-player or ­action-based ­role-playing genres. Players can choose to enter a battleground or spend all of their time wandering the wilderness of the gameworld at almost any time they choose, and most players split their time between a variety of activities. This design encourages players to log into the game on a regular basis, as it will ­provide some form of fun for whatever mood they may hap- pen to be in. (For example,­ I spent many happy hours mindlessly fishing in-game while watching movies or chatting with friends.) However, play- ing through at least a portion of the game’s narrative remains the most efficient way to gain experience and in-game currency. Each character plays through a personal story that shifts depending on its race, class, location, and the individual choices of its player. Non-player characters deliver this story in ­fragments throughout the leveling process so each individual game participant will receive a fractured and biased understanding of the world’s Dramatic Manipulations 145 history and his or her place in it. As a player, I became invested in my main ­character’s ­storyline, gaining an appreciation for the militant ways of my race and ­faction, a hatred for enemy faction players, and respect for the lethal qualities of end-game bosses. The narrative structure of WoW is riddled with recognizable homages to Western history, both as a part of the game’s complex pre-history and as a part of its “present day.” These references to physical world histories (The Trail of Tears, Roman bloodsport, the colonization of what is now the Americas, and the Trans-Atlantic slave trade are a few) are not the central focus of the game. Rather, these moments of recognition serve to support the ­Tolkienesque fantasy world and provide the player with physical-world examples from which to build an understanding of the Warcraft universe. Recent studies have shown “fantasy, unlike challenge and activity, is not powerful enough to keep the player motivated and engaged” beyond the introductory stages of playing a game (Asgari and Kaufman 2004). ­Fantasy only serves to draw the player into the world. A game’s staying power comes from the emotional intensity of the fantasy it provides and the connections a player forms with his or her peers in and around that space. “Computer games that involve fantasies such as war, destruction, and competition seem to be more compelling than games with less emotional fantasies” (Asgari and Kaufman 2004). I posit that WoW mimics realist conflict theory for this very reason. There is very little more engaging than a desire to defeat, conquer, and rub your enemies’ noses in their failures. The promise of ­competitive violence without permanent consequence proves to be both ­tantalizing and addictive. While questing and leveling are necessary and somewhat ­entertaining components of the game, a player’s true competitive spirit shines when in open combat with other players. Warcraft’s developers use the pre-history of the game to create a ­central conflict with familiar colonial roots. The reasons for this choice remain unclear as designers rarely talk about the motivations behind their choices. It may be the designers wanted to grant players the opportunity to draw comparisons between our (Western) colonial past and its aftermath. It may be they wanted players to be able to follow the gist of the story, even if they did not bother to read all of the textual quest explanations (where a great deal of meta-diegetic information is distributed) or watch all of the cinematic sequences. The narrative is obviously meant to inspire pas- sion and vitriol regardless of what side you choose to fight on. My expe- riences in the game have been from the standpoint of a Horde character. As a result, my biases are somewhat evident in my explanations of game lore. As I have played the game and studied its fictive histories (through WoW novels and the amazingly detailed WoWwiki, a user-generated online encyclopedia of game faces, places, and lore), I have discovered the world’s history has guided every action I have taken in the game, whether I was aware of it or not. WoWwiki explains the source of the conflict (as related by Horde non-player characters) stems from the Alliance’s enslavement of 146 Kimi Johnson the Orcs and their subsequent quest for freedom. Game lore teaches the player that Thrall, the Orcish leader of the Horde, is a former Alliance slave who led his people to freedom in a mass rebellion. The Orcs sailed from the Eastern Kingdoms to a new continent, Kalimdor, which had rougher ­terrain. ­Eventually, ­Alliance forces came under attack from a new enemy and invaded Kalimdor for its resources and its peoples, relaunching the war that predates the first WoW release. This pervasive conflict is the underlying motivation for every action the player performs in the game. The designers lay the foundation for this con- flict. From the moment the game boots and the character-creation screen loads, the game’s creators throw the player into this race-based war zone. In order for the player to enter the game world, he or she must create an avatar and the first step of creating an avatar is choosing a faction. Before the November 2012 game expansion, faction choice came before choice of sex, race, or class, though faction choice does narrow the possibilities of race choice by fifty percent. The implication is the choice of faction – ­essentially the choice of a side in the ongoing war that defines the game – dictates who the player is and what she or he can do in the game. It also dictates whom the player should hate. It is a simple matter to draw a side-by-side comparison between the ­eternally warring Warcraft universe and Sherif’s descriptions of the Robbers­ Cave experiments from over a half century ago. Sherif’s now famous ­experiment pitted two small groups of Boy Scouts against one another in the ­wilderness, fostered rivalries between them, and then forced the groups together in an attempt to integrate the factions (McNeil 1962). While flawed, this well-known study successfully managed to isolate the ­participants, encourage hostilities, and integrate the boys into one coopera- tive group in the short span of three weeks. WoW uses similar techniques on a vastly different timeline and scale to create similar outcomes. However, Warcraft takes things a step further. Rather than ending on the high note of group unification, the game’s developers continually shuffle the player from ­friction phase to integration phase in order to keep the game feeling dynamic and fresh. Players therefore never settle into a steady pattern of hatred or empathy. The game begins its new players’ training by introducing them first to a starting area that contains low-level characters of only one race and ­relatively few threats. This is the equivalent of Sherif’s induction phase. In these early levels, the player learns of the plight of his or her people, ­performs menial tasks to become acclimated to game maneuvers and ­fighting styles, and receives basic goods to aid him or her in a journey toward ­heroism. At level ten, the player can safely venture into the world and begin to interact with players and artificially controlled (AI) non-player characters (NPCs) of other races. Approximately the first twenty levels of the game concentrate on player acclimation and gradually expand the player’s ­knowledge of how skill trees work, where map points and flight Dramatic Manipulations 147 paths are located, and how to earn gold through a profession. Around level twenty, players may begin to venture into non-faction areas of the world map and encounter seemingly unfamiliar races, many of whom will attempt to attack/kill the player on sight. These encounters are similar to Sherif’s friction phase. Until this point, NPCs have fed the player a meta-diegetic narrative that details points in both their race’s and their faction’s history that explain the perpetual war that drives WoW’s narratives. Even if a player has not paid attention to the narratives, he or she has had plenty of time to observe the war-like atmosphere and participate in gathering supplies for the front or eradicating small colonies of savage beasts that distract from his or her faction’s preparations for battle. Level twenty introduces players to the frontlines through the use of Player versus Player (PvP) combat in formal battlegrounds. These environments center on the struggle for resources for the front, often set up as variations of Capture the Flag or King of the Hill. These battlegrounds teach the player to recognize enemy players by silhouette and to target/attack on sight. PvP activity hones attack response time and serves to create incredible animosity between the factions, so much so that many players will continue to attack one another after the battle ends. The majority of the original WoW game, affectionately nicknamed Vanilla WoW, concentrated on battlegrounds and faction friction, though players and guilds always strove to reach the same end-game material (the defeat of Ragnaros, a powerful fire-elemental boss). The first expansion, titled The Burning Crusade, intensified this friction by expanding PvP arena battles into an electronic sport with valuable in-game prizes. It was not until the release of the second game expansion, Wrath of the Lich King, that play- ers saw WoW’s designers move toward Sherif’s ­integration phase. This move is half-hearted at best. Players are able to team up briefly with players of the other faction in a massive, partially automated battle­ sequence against the armies of the Lich King, undead, frozen zombie ­creatures known as the Scourge. The presence of a superordinate goal – defeating the Lich King – does little to bring factions together as guilds still gain access to endgame­ material through guild cooperative action. Faction integration is limited at best. Players can fight together and die together only in very specific quests, which are at least partially controlled by the game-makers through cine- matic cut scenes. The instructional first chapters of WoW go to great lengths to help the player define his/her character’s identity within the virtual space as heroic, beleaguered, violent, and vengeful. Subsequent chapters reinforce these impressions while occasionally asking the player to team with others in order to defeat a greater evil before returning to a more expected routine of faction conflict. However, there are moments in the game where the ­designers attempt to make an end run around the faction divisions that drive most action. In some instances, they transform the player’s avatar into that 148 Kimi Johnson of another faction through spells and disguises. These transformations are often unnecessary, and I have frequently questioned why the game designers provided opportunities to dress up as the enemy. One possible answer is the game’s creators wanted to open space for a more nuanced ­understanding of the world’s history and lore, a literal in-game walking in the other’s shoes. In practice, these quests and activities tend to feel heavy-handed and forced. Often these quests are so short there is no time for the player to immerse in the motivations of a new character. Even in longer quests, there is little room for genuine empathy or critical engagement. Attempts to create a space for players to feel a genuine connection to their actions or to the often-tragic history of the game world generally do not succeed. The high-level ­dungeon quest entitled The Culling of Strathlome, which I described in the anecdote­ at the beginning of this chapter, serves as an example of such a failure.

THE CULLING OF STRATHLOME

My experiences during The Culling of Strathlome serve as an example of what happens when the game designers attempt to force players out of the moral turpitude that pervades this particular game space. The W­ arcraft ­franchise relies on killing (beasts, people, and monsters) as its primary method of ­gaining wealth, honor, and prestige with very little room to reflect on the ethics of players’ actions. Strathlome appears to be an attempt to open up such a space for reflection. It is one of a series of dungeons in the Caverns of Time. While each of these dungeons serves as a short historical­ re-­enactment of an important part of WoW’s pre-history, the dungeon attempts to ­provoke feelings of regret, guilt, and remorse and a nostalgia for a mythically ­peaceful past. The Culling of Strathlome and its sister dungeons in the Caverns of Time mark a departure from the usual hack-and-slash­ instructions of most WoW dungeons. These instances attempt to move beyond play as frivolity and force the players to confront the results of their own brutal actions as a part of the play process. The designers’ dramaturgical choices are problematic in this situation. The beginning of the quest introduces us to Arthas, Uther, and a few ­nameless Paladins. We witness, but do not take part in, the argument between the two. This witnessing is involuntary; as it is a cinematic cut scene, players do not even have the ability to control their borrowed bodies­ or the ­direction of their gaze. Once fighting begins in earnest, Arthas makes infrequent ­appearances to shout about cleansing the city but does not help with the act. As a result, the re-enactment of this tragic and historic ­in-game event takes place on two different levels: through Arthas’s and Uther’s mechanical and automated dialogue and through the violence of the players. This division gives the players the impression they are merely a mechanism of the game, though one could argue the players may empathize with their assumed ­characters’ helplessness during this pivotal moment in Warcraft history. Dramatic Manipulations 149 For most players, however, the cinematic sequence is a moment to grab a drink or use the bathroom, assuming they have not hit the escape key to end the mini-movie prematurely. In my experience, players have little investment in the outcome of the culling as it is an event that has already happened and cannot be altered. The Culling of Strathlome, then, is an example of a failure to create empathy for anything beyond a brief moment of helplessness. While heavy-handed and largely ineffective, Strathlome serves as a ­mirror that reflects the horror of the character’s task – the wholesale slaughter of ­ill-fated town citizens – back to the player performing the action. While the cries of the villagers and the ruthless determination of Arthas are meant to evoke empathy, their failure to do so awakened my critical senses more than their success would have. My inability to pity those my player group would kill points to the fact that the player is never fully immersed within the character­ his or her avatar represents. There is an arguably necessary ­distance between my actions as a person and my actions as a character in WoW that creates a barrier between my feelings as a player and the ­motivations of my char- acter. Video games like WoW are “action- and goal-simulations of embod- ied ­experience” (Gee 2008), and the process of internalizing my ­character’s motivations allows me to get into character enough to explain my character’s often violent actions throughout the virtual world. My character has its own, discrete identity I must slip into in order to justify my in-game decisions. Despite this understanding, however, the players exist in the liminal­ space between the character they control and the player that controls the avatar.

VIRTUAL WAR AND CREATIVE PLAY

My inability to emotionally engage with what should have been a terrifying situation in Strathlome marks how detrimental attempts at forced empathy can be in MMOs. As a player, my most memorable and immersive experi- ences in the game are those that encouraged my curiosity. As a sandbox game, WoW affords free exploration of its vast world map. In seven years of play, I spent countless hours attempting to climb mountains or swim oceans in order to see what was on the other side. As a result, I found many of the myriad hidden “Easter eggs” (inside jokes or hidden surprises) nestled within this extensive landscape. A lost troll hut or crumbling tower ruin aroused more empathy and desire to explore the game’s available online history than any narrated quest line. While these areas are usually the rem- nants of developer experimentation and often very difficult to access, they have remained a part of the map and have been carried through multiple expansions and revisions of the virtual landscape. WoW’s designers seem to have understood a player’s curiosity and creativity can be the driving force behind their play. By building these remote and unused locations and mak- ing them accessible, the game’s creators have built in a space for players to evolve as invested and empathetic participants. 150 Kimi Johnson Huizinga (1938) argued: “Ever since words existed for fighting and ­playing, men have been wont to call war a game” (89). However, we might consider the inverse is also true; game players have often referred to their struggles as war. It seems appropriate, then, that WoW and similar games eliminate oblique references to conflict and simply place the player in the midst of a battle zone with clearly defined enemies. However, the­ purpose behind this design decision remains unclear. The Blizzard ­Corporation is relatively closed; its public relations department declines to work with researchers who seek to study the game environment. Information on the game’s development comes from the few interviews developers grant at gam- ing conferences (such as Blizzard’s own BlizzCon) and from the ­promotional materials that accompany each expansion release. As a result, the developers have yet to reveal the purpose behind the violent binary that drives the war of the game. I argue this binary provides an initial impetus for investment. The game gives each new player a race, a faction, and an identity that allow for emotional and temporal investment in the fictional world. Within min- utes of first logging on, new players understand, without direct explanation, their task is to fight for the survival of their people. This lack of explanation, however, leaves room for the player to read against the tropes of the game’s race war. With other central skirmishes and the presence­ of greater evils in need of vanquishing, the Horde/Alliance binary often disappears­ in the larger environment of the game, though it remains ever present in the highly organized battleground areas. Caillois (1958) describes play as free, separate, uncertain, unproductive, regulated, and fictive. However, both Huizinga and Caillois wrote their foundational texts on play long before virtual games became both popular pastimes and alternate lifestyles. It is unlikely either anticipated the blended fictive/real worlds of MMOs would become long-running play sessions that stretch months or years at a time and would include fully developed social, economic, and narrative components. As a player, I have invested more into moments of self-motivated and largely unproductive playful ­discovery than in moments of regulated dramaturgy. The tightly controlled spaces of the dungeon or the quest often make absolute immersion impossible.­ Guided play therefore becomes a space of production, one in which the player ­measures her or his successes in terms of statistical improvement, economic­ advancement, and potential for self-improvement. Kucklich (2009) has called the immersion and participation in such productive play spaces play- bor, a term that references the masking of labor within the ideology of play, disguising “the process of self-expropriation as self-­expression” (1). Under such control, play becomes much less about exploration and much more a digital keeping up with the Joneses. In fact, in later stages of character devel- opment, a player’s ability to play well is defined as much by their earning potential and armor set than by their dedication to playing the game. As players participate in such activities such as The Culling of Strath- lome or in free exploration, they are also operating on a secondary level Dramatic Manipulations 151 of constant economic activity. Players continually search for newer, more efficient ways to playfully labor at in-game professions in order to keep their player current and prepared for battle. As I intimated in my ­explanation of guild conversations about game history, players interact with one another on a social level while continuing to “work” at character development. This level of productivity creates profit in myriad ways – money for ­Blizzard Corp., goods/gold for players, and social capital within the guild unit – and ensures the player must log in regularly to perform chores in order to have the capital to participate in high-level game content. Such actions also strip play of its innocence in many ways, mechanizing and making more efficient the playful act so it resembles too closely the physical world from which many players seek escape. It becomes increasingly difficult to distinguish between moments of play, consumption, production, labor, and life. Yee (2007) has questioned the point of playing a game that requires the commitment­ and work ethic of a part-time or full-time job. The game becomes a system to be governed like anything else. Rey explains that Marcuse­ “warned against this appropriation of play a half-century ago” (2012). He viewed play as a space apart from our workaday reality, whereas virtual play becomes yet another reality in which the player must keep up with a never-ending to-do list and stressful interpersonal encounters. I question whether such ­mundane tasks will prevent players from engaging critically with the game world and ­narrative, and what such a failure may mean for the player as performer in the digital space. 13 Afterword Who Are You?

Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. “Who are you?” said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “I – I hardly know, sir, just at present – at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.” —Lewis Carroll Alice in Wonderland

As she plays her way through Wonderland, Lewis Carroll’s Alice becomes confused about her own identity. She changes – or, as she argues, is changed, an important difference – as a result of her interactions with hatters, hares, and queens. Has Alice changed, though? Do her ludic encounters ­genuinely and substantively alter who she is? This question raises a number of ­challenging questions about essentialism, ontology, and identity that we cannot fully address here, but if for the sake of argument we grant her an essence – a personality, a soul, or whatever else we might wish to call that which defines us as ourselves – then we can ask if that essence is changed when we play and, if so, who is doing the changing. In this concluding chapter, we return to the schools of thought from the introduction that consider relationships between play and “real life” as well as those regarding the purposes of play, with a particular emphasis on the ques- tion of how play and identity intersect. Recall that three of the four schools of thought we introduced saw some relationship between play and the “real world.” One holds that play imitates and provides opportunities to learn about the “real,” one conversely holds that “real life” is constituted and shaped by play, and a third contends that there is no distinction between the domains of play and reality at all – that play and life are one and the same. Similarly, when considering the purposes of play, three perspectives support the view that ludic acts have real-world implications. One view suggests play is an instrument of progress, one that play serves to teach us about ourselves and others, and one that play instills in us a need to ­pursue victory and the quali- ties of a “winner.” If, following these theoretical underpinnings,­ we postulate that play likely informs our identities (as we do in the following section), we must return to the question of who structures played-through experiences. Afterword 153 WHO IS BEHIND THE CURTAIN? Institutions as Play-Makers

As we have seen throughout this volume, just as Dorothy is initially unaware the “great and powerful” force ruling Oz is in fact nothing more than a “­humbug” hiding behind a curtain, the forces that structure played-through­ experiences are often similarly alienated from players themselves. ­Nevertheless, these ruling forces engage players in what Taylor (2003) terms vital acts of transfer: “transmitting social knowledge, memory, and a sense of identity through reiterated, or what Richard Schechner has called ‘twice behaved’ behavior” (2–3). By engaging with the structures and environments of games and pursuing the objectives games call for, players may be tempted to buy into the ideas put forth by games and their makers, thus enjoying themselves as they are (re)enculturated. The played-through experiences that institutions create utilize Taylor’s (2003) “scenarios”: “sketch[es] or outline[s] of the plot of a play, giving particulars of the scenes, situations, etc.” (28); they create familiar patterns we use to think through our relationships to the world. Taylor theorizes that scenarios are ideologically laden, noting their “framework[s] allow for occlusions; by positioning our perspective, [they] promotes certain views while helping to disappear others” (28). Indeed, if an institution wants to indoctrinate people into particular mindsets, engaging them in play may be a more effective, if insidious, way of doing so than providing information directly. As Giroux and Simon (1988) note in their analysis of the work of Colin Mercer: “... consent is articulated not only through the structuring of semantically organized meanings and messages, but also through the pleasures invoked in the mechanisms and structuring principles of popular forms.” Giroux and Simon argue practices like these allow players to take pleasure in narratives and performances, even if they know, “rationally and politically, [that they] are ‘wrong’” (36). Such is the power of pleasurable activity.

Hooray for Hollywood!: Influences of Mass Media Gardner (2004) discusses how Jay Winsten has worked to “bring about large-scale changes in public attitudes and behaviors” through television and feature films by partnering with media providers to embed pro-social messages in their fictional creative works. Winsten successfully swayed ­public opinion on matters such as drunk driving, for example, by ­including scenes in which characters selected a designated driver (Gardner 2004, ­127–128). Gardner notes that creating change through initiatives like ­Winsten’s requires the successful completion of a series of steps. People must first be made aware there is a problem, secondly be presented with options for change, and thirdly be motivated to pursue those options. Once people try new behaviors, they must then receive sufficient support and reinforcement 154 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell to continue those behaviors (Gardner 2004, 129). The formats of television and film “permit compelling and dramatic representations of the desired (and the risky) behaviors. Because the characters in the media ­presentations are ­lifelike and appealing, they are likely to resonate with the audience” (Gardner 2004, 130, emphasis in original). Chappell (2010) calls this ­phenomenon relational embodiment, in which “participants identify with, and build empathy for, characters they follow through a story” (8). Through this relational embodiment, we learn what to do and what not to do in real life. We try our decisions against characters’ choices, asking ourselves ques- tions like: “Would I have done the same thing? Would that decision have yielded the same result in my own society?” If played-through stories have the power to suggest to players both how things are and how they should be, then how might we analyze the ­stories present in various sites of play? What are the objectives, for players and game-makers, within the games we play? And in a larger sense, who ­structures play worlds, roles, and narratives for people of all ages? As Alice might ask: “Who has laid the table for tea?” Alice might be surprised to learn our play is often structured by “­multimillionaires who live far away” (Brown 2009, 63) and these tycoons are not always interested in preventing drunk driving. One of our central theses drawn from the case studies presented throughout this book relates to how play is often constructed and defined by commercial or institutional ideolo- gies. Recall our two stories of people at play from the introduction: an adult playing a computer game and a young girl pretending to be a dragon during recess. While the influences of corporate interests (e.g. the game’s producers, distributors, and advertisers) are clearer in the first story, we see subtle forces at work even in the child’s schoolyard play. Our individual understandings of what a dragon is are shaped by the myriad dragons we have encountered in film, television, novels, comic books, and other such sources of fictional narra- tives. What might commercial interests gain, for example, from framing drag- ons as dangerous and/or evil creatures (e.g. The Hobbit, Game of Thrones) or as friendly, misunderstood beasts (e.g. How to Train Your Dragon or Jackie’s magical friend Puff)? If we consider these stories metaphorically or as allego- ries wherein dragons represent Others – people different from ourselves in terms of gender, race, class, sexual ­orientation, or other characteristics – what do we learn about Others? How does this inform our understanding of what these Others supposedly want and how we ought to interact with them? Many science fiction and fantasynarratives­ deploy these understanding-the-Other tropes, among them Harry ­Potter, Star Trek, X-Men, Lilo & Stitch and Frozen. Yet authors and ­publishers treat Other­ness in a variety of ways. We must pay close attention to how ­commercial and corporate interests tell/sell stories and structure play experiences. We need to consider what play-makers want for and from their players. Certainly many such entities seek to profit financially by bringing peoples’ minds and pocketbooks back to play again and again, but is money their Afterword 155 sole stimulus? How else do institutions benefit from structuring play in spe- cific, seductive fashions? How do their interests reflect, refract, or ignore society’s attitudes, values, and beliefs?

Toys for All Ages: Synergy & Commodification Brown (2009) notes that in early childhood, children often have many opportunities for unstructured creative play, but that

as they grow, kids are taught out of this imaginative approach to play, at first by parents ... or by pervasive media marketing. Later, kids get toys that come straight out of hit movies or TV shows, toys that come with a preset collection of ideas about who the characters are and how children should play with the toys. This kind of preformed script can rob the child of the ability to create his own story. Instead he is mimicking the expressions and lines that he is expected to say. (104)

Through this manufacturing, corporate interests structure both the nar- ratives children consume and the artifacts based on these narratives with which children play. Du Gay et. al. (1997) note this begins

an ongoing cycle of commodification – where producers make new products or different versions of old products as a result of consumers’­ activities – and appropriation – where consumers make those ­products meaningful, sometimes making them achieve a new ‘­register’ of ­meaning that affects production in some way. In this sense, the ­meanings that products come to have are constructed in this process of dialogue – albeit rarely an equal one in terms of power relations – between production and consumption. (103, emphasis in original) Kapur (2005) expands on this idea to include multiple producers and goods in what she calls a “consumption web” in which various media overlap­ and advertise each other (148–9), a concept often referred to in corporate lan- guage as synergy. Through these convergences, one ­narrative can be explored in multiple manifestations, with children attracted to one manifestation­ because of assumed prior knowledge of the other. Kapur (2005) links these marketing strategies to the commodification ofchildhood ­ itself: “What we are witnessing is not something drastically new but a radicalization of pro- cesses inherent in capitalist expansion, which through an incessant invention of new knowledge and technologies deconstructs essences and turns them into commodities” (16). Adult play is also part of this web; corporations employ synergy to encourage adult players to play in multimodal ways, pur- chasing, for example, a Marvel Heroes comic book series, tickets to its asso- ciated film(s), action figures, board games, T-shirts, mugs, and so on. 156 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell Institutions’ control over and interventions into our play may also limit our potential for experiential learning. Consider how adults often intervene when children engage in rough and tumble play. They “see the potential for small hurts ... and force the wrestlers to stop. ... By doing so, [they] stop kids from learning on their own and from each other” (Brown 2009, 190). Might this also ring true for adult players? Do manufactured environments stop us from getting “hurt” – seeing what we don’t want to see – thereby preventing us from truly learning about the world and the consequences of our actions or theirs?

“I’M GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!”: Tourism and Play

As several of the chapters in this volume have illustrated, play activities often invite individuals to become tourists, experiencing various past or ­contemporary societies from the perspective of Western, middle-class ­travelers. Whether this tourism is accomplished through actual or ­virtual travel, the experience is similar; the tourist observes artifacts and ­rituals framed ­specifically for display. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett (1998) warns us that we must not lose sight of the constructed nature of such experiences:­ “­Tourists travel to actual destinations to experience virtual places” (9). To further ­complicate matters, such “virtual places” may actually be ­simulacra (­Baudrillard 1981) referencing actual or imagined places, both past and ­present. On the Las Vegas strip, for example, visitors can “travel” from Paris to Egypt to New York to Rome in a matter of minutes, ­literally ­traveling between simulated environments. Although tourists may not expect authen- ticity in Las Vegas and usually do not travel there for ­educational purposes, those same tourists might treat a visit to a natural-­history museum quite differently. Here they are much more likely to expect to learn something, but the idea that such displays are usually accurate or authentic is dubious at best, even in these non-profit destinations. Tourism encompasses more than a simple journey to a destination. Schechner (2013) points to the role of commodification and dominance in travel, noting tourism “allows the tourist to purchase the other, the past, the exotic, the sexy, the exciting … whatever is up for grabs. And if ‘purchase’ means to buy with money, it also means to get a hold on, to grasp firmly, to be in charge” (292). Part of the playfulness, the pleasure, in tourism is that the tourist/player can temporarily use the destination, the people, the knowledge, but can then end the journey, returning home to familiar sur- roundings, which in many cases the tourist considers superior to those of the destination she or he has visited. In this way, the pleasure the player/tourist derives from learning about other cultures stems from mastering factual knowledge of those cultures’ histories and practices. Through tourism, she encounters and assimilates objects, events, major figures, daily life, and geographic locations by looking. Afterword 157 The tourist takes on the role of an explorer, an eyewitness, a researcher, and the tour, game, display, or show asks her to consider the pleasure of these roles, to enjoy the act of differentiating herself from others and increasing her knowledge about cultures different from her own. These cultural encounters with the Other raise a host of ethical ­considerations regarding who is allowed to visit and/or represent whom, and for what purposes, but they also have the potential to generate intercultural­ understanding and dialogue. Donelan (2010) notes:

Turner calls for “global cultural understanding,” seeing theatre as a vital means for the “intercultural transmission” of diverse human ­experiences. He regards the “enactment and performance of the culturally­ transmit- ted experiences of others” as the basis for ­imaginative understanding and “transcultural” communication. (22)

How might this play out in contemporary society? If “children who engage in more role play are better able to consider the perspective of others” ­(Harris quoted in Mages 2010, 46), how might this be reflected in ­adulthood and across multiple social groups? Could play hold a key to understanding others? In one study, when students were asked to describe portraying characters from cultures different from their own, one participant said she became aware of “another way”: “By acting out characters from different cultures, ethnicities, and religions, I have an idea of what another way might be like. Knowing this will help me meet new people and make friends” (Rabin 2009, 135). As reported here, students were able to engage in Taussig’s twin pro- cesses of mimesis and alterity, putting themselves in the place of another while retaining their own identities. These findings seem promising, but are they overly optimistic? Given play elements such as choosing teams, “trash talk” (derogatory or boastful language used within competitive frames), tell- ing cruel jokes, and playing pranks, we can see pleasurable embodiment can be as fickle as Wonderland’s Queen of Hearts, a friend one minute and an enemy the next. How, then, can play be used in both liberatory and limiting capacities? How are commercial interests involved in defining this end result for multiple kinds of players?

YES, THIS IS RESEARCH: Performance as a Lens to Study Play

While play remains a slippery subject, impossible to fully define or nail down, analyzing acts of play, players, and ludic spaces through the lens of performance spotlights important considerations that could be overlooked by other theoretical lenses. As the chapters in this volume have illustrated, playful experiences situate players as performers – actors/characters – with 158 Matt Omasta and Drew Chappell particular histories and ideologies who are living through experiences in quasi-fictional dramatic worlds. These roles may affect players’ attitudes, values, and beliefs beyond the official end of the played-through experience. Indeed, because they are physically embodying another character (Chappell 2010), moving, speaking, and pursuing objectives as that character, they layer the character’s identity on their entire bodies. The lens of performance recognizes play never truly ends. We are always performing in daily life, even when we think we are beyond the supposed boundaries of a played-through experience or performing as another. We are always live, always playing a version of ourselves, always playing at understanding the world around us. Interventions into this performative process, then, must take into account the multiple layers of experience the players are experiencing. ­Schechner’s (2013) seven frames for play – structure; process; experience; function;­ ­evolutionary, species, and individual development of play; ideology;­ and frame – may be helpful here. Disruption within any of these frames could constitute a break with the play modality and allow gaps and slippages­ to occur that cause players to question their relationship with both ­in-­narrative roles and their own lived experiences. As researchers, these gaps and ­slippages are of great interest to us, and placing ourselves into the ­contexts in which they occur, whether as observers or players, is of great value in understanding­ how the play experiences function across a number­ of ­environmental and audience contexts. Playing board, card, or video games, watching cartoons with young people, and visiting popular culture ­conventions are, we believe, legitimate and valuable modes of research that reveal deep and abiding ­lessons about ourselves in/and society. As Caillois (1958) notes: “These ­preferred and widely diffused games reflect, on the one hand, the tendencies, tastes, and ways of thought that are prevalent, while, at the same time, in educating and training the players in these very virtues or eccentricities, they subtly confirm them in their habits and preferences” (82–83). This ­observation prompts Schechner (2013) to posit “a society is the games it plays” (94).

ROLL AGAIN: Future Research

As each chapter in this volume has revealed, institutions present players with ideologically laden roles that they may adopt, adapt, or resist. While we sought breadth in this book, including studies on multiple continents in both virtual and traditional contexts, we believe research into play will benefit from additional similar studies that apply theories from multiple lenses and methodologies to institutionally structured settings. What might we learn, for example, from making similar inquiries into rodeos and other animal-centered ludic performance events? How do team sports affect both players and fans? What would a study of driving-as-play reveal about the many institutions involved in manufacturing the cars so many of us rely Afterword 159 on and the experience of getting between points itself? What about smaller moments of play we are not aware of? And play modalities that have yet to be invented? How do and will these played-through experiences affect us and will they influence our answer to the question: “Who are you?” Because play is an everyday occurrence, its scope is wide and its depth immense. In an increasingly globalized world, we are finding more and new ways to play and to play together. These chapters, we hope, have opened the door by demonstrating various ways of looking at, analyzing, and reframing play across a variety of contexts. Yet the field of play studies is young and full of potential. We invite and encourage scholars to follow us as we, like Alice, continue to find things curiouser and curiouser. This page intentionally left blank Editors

Matt Omasta is Director of Theatre Education & Applied Theatre at Utah State University where he teaches courses in educational drama; theatre­ for young audiences; applied theatre; and theatre history, literature,­ ­theory, and criticism. His articles have been published in journals­ ­including Research in Drama Education: The Journal of Applied ­Theatre & ­Performance, Youth Theatre Journal, The International Journal of Education­ and the Arts, Teaching Theatre, and Theatre for Young ­Audiences Today. Drew Chappell is an interdisciplinary researcher with interests in ­play-­oriented performance and popular culture, arts-based methodologies,­ the legacy of imperialism, and new play development and dramaturgy. His edited volume­ Children Under Construction: Critical Essays on Play as ­Curriculum was published by Peter Lang. Drew teaches theatre at Chapman University and California State University Fullerton. He holds an MFA from the ­University of Texas at Austin and a PhD from Arizona State University. This page intentionally left blank Contributors

Kane Anderson holds a PhD in Theatre Studies from UC Santa ­Barbara (2013) and an MFA in Theatre Performance from Arizona State University­ (2007). His research interrogates how popular culture ­provides ­Americans with a shared language that enables a process of political ­self-fashioning. His research on superheroes and performance appears in the International­ Journal of Comics Art and Icons of the American Comic Book ­(ABC-CLIO, 2013). He is also an accomplished stage and ­voice-over actor. Terry Dean is Associate Professor of Theatre and Director of the School of Theatre and Dance at James Madison University. In addition to his teach- ing and administrative work, Terry remains active as a director, particu- larly focusing on new work. His articles, reviews, and editorial work have appeared in Theatre Journal, Theatre Topics, The Dictionary of Modern American Philosophers 1860–1960, and The Oxford Critical and Cul- tural History of Modernist Magazines. Jennifer Goodlander is an Assistant Professor at Indiana University. She has presented and published her research on Southeast Asian ­performance, especially puppetry, focusing on intersections of gender, tradition, ­material culture, and national identity. She is currently completing a book manuscript tentatively called Women in the Shadows: Gender, Puppets, and the Power of Tradition in Bali. Erin Horáková is a PhD student in the English department at Queen Mary, University of London. She is writing her thesis on charm, in the sense of artifacts, affects, and literary effects, and how the concept of charm developed and shifted over the centuries. Her broader research interests include fanfiction studies, genre literature, feminist and queer theory, ­psychoanalysis, historical criticism, and Victorian literature. Kimi Johnson is an independent scholar in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She received her PhD in Theatre Historiography from the University of ­Minnesota and holds an MA in Theatre Studies from Florida State ­University. Her research focuses on the formation and performance of racial subjectivity in immersive virtual worlds and the role of game design in shaping digital citizenship. 164 Contributors John D. Newman is Director of the Noorda Theatre Center for Children and Youth at Utah Valley University where he teaches courses in ­theatre for children and youth; playwriting; and creative drama. He is co-author of the book Tell Your Story: The Plays and Playwriting of Sandra Fenichel Asher and author of the play The Secret School. His articles have appeared in Teaching Theatre, Incite/Insight, Theatre for Young Audiences Today, and Stage of the Art. Megan Sanborn Jones is Associate Professor of Theatre at Brigham Young University. Her 2009 Routledge book Performing American Identity in Anti-Mormon Melodrama was the winner of the Smith-Pettit Best First Book Award at the Mormon History Association. Other ­publications include work in Theatre Journal, Theatre Topics, Theatre History ­Studies, Ecumenica, and more. She and her husband, Dr. Glen Jones, are the happy parents of Cohen (eight) and Eden (five). Michael Schwartz is Assistant Professor in the Theater and Dance ­Department of Indiana University of Pennsylvania, where he teaches ­theatre history, playwriting, improvisation, and dramaturgy. Michael has written two books: Broadway and Corporate Capitalism: The Rise of the Professional- Managerial Class 1900–1920 (2009) and Class ­Divisions on the Broad- way Stage: The Staging and Taming of the I.W.W. (2014). Dani Snyder-Young is Associate Professor of Theatre Arts at Illinois ­Wesleyan University, where she runs the BA Theatre Arts program. Her research focuses on applied theatre. She is the author of Theatre of Good Intentions: Challenges and Hopes for Theatre and Social Change (2013, Palgrave Macmillan), which examines theatre’s limits in making social change. She has published recently in RiDE: The Journal of Applied ­Theatre Research, Theatre Research International, Qualitative Inquiry, and Youth Theatre Journal. Danielle I. Szawieniec-Haw is a PhD candidate at York University, where she conducted a world-first study into actors’ lived experiences of and health and wellness while performing roles that include ­representations of human suffering, distress, and/or violence. Danielle’s other areas of study include pornography, erotic entertainment, and new-media popular ­entertainments. Her articles have been published in Popular ­Entertainment Studies and Canadian Theatre Review and she sits on IFTR-FIRT’s Popular Entertainments working group. References

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abuse 82 characters: in performance 25, actors 23, 38–41, 62, 89–103, 107, 27–8, 50, 96, 98–9, 101, 127, 139; 110–111, 139–140 development of 24, 151; Live Action advertising 35, 38, 68, 95, 154–55 Role Play (LARP) 9, 23, 24, 26, 30, Alice (Lewis Carroll character) 6, 15, 31, 126, 157–58; non-player (NPCs) 17, 152, 154, 159 95, 106, 144–45; player 8, 16, 21, alterity 68, 140, 157 29, 100, 108–116, 147–49 appropriation 106, 151, 155 cheering 15, 52, 98, 102–103 archives 19, 80, 133, 136, 143 childhood 6, 16, 96, 101, 155 art: academic discipline of 2, 18, 22, 70, children 1, 5–7, 10–12, 16–17, 26, 74, 83; performance 53; visual 10; 51, 55, 60–3, 67–9, 76, 93, 96, 98, 114, 120 100–101, 120–23, 133, 155–57 attire see costumes Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day attitudes 7, 11, 28, 76, 85, 96, 99, Saints 20, 67–78 118–119, 137, 144, 153, 155, 158 class (socioeconomic) 14, 19, 26, audiences 15–16, 20, 38, 40, 44, 47–54, 28, 41, 100, 103, 140, 144, 146, 56, 62, 65–6, 77, 91–104, 108–115, 154, 156 121–27, 132, 140, 154, 158 Coatman 45, 51–3 authenticity 46–7, 63, 91, 99, 156 cognition 11–12, 39 avatars 1, 19, 61, 144–49 comic relief 30, 33, 39–40 Comic-Con 105–116 BDSM 20, 79–90, 111 commercial interests 2, 16, 34, 74, beliefs 11, 72, 74–6, 97, 141, 155, 158 76–7, 79–87, 90, 129–133, 135, Blizzard Corporation 150–51 154, 157 blogs 80, 113, 128, 132–33 competition 1, 13, 15, 25, 27–8, Boal, A. 7, 69 30–31, 37, 44–5, 49–52, 62, bodies 22, 26–7, 29, 50, 61, 68–72, 67–8, 71, 74, 76–7, 102, 118, 74–5, 86, 94, 96–7, 105–08, 111–15, 145, 157 144, 158 consequences 5, 7, 103, 106, 132, bondage see BDSM 141, 156 brain 12, 29, 72 consumers 33, 36, 39, 118–120, 126, Brecht, B. 38, 126 134, 155 britpicking 128–141 corporations 2–3, 15–17, 109, “bronies” see My Little Pony 119, 154–55; see also Blizzard Corporation Caillois, R. 3, 5, 7–8, 14, 50, 56–7, 86, cosplay 8, 16, 20, 105–116 98, 144, 150, 158 costumes 7, 20, 24, 29, 44, 46–7, canon 16, 55, 131 51–2, 69, 71, 92, 105–115, 123, 127; capitalism 132–34, 141 see also cosplay carnival (Bakhtinian) 49, 107, 109, 115 creativity 12, 15, 21, 72, 83, 133–34, case studies 3, 18, 22, 80, 154 149, 153 178 Index culture 13, 18, 25, 36, 71, 90, 94, frames/framing 1–3, 11, 17–18, 20, 22, 96, 109–110, 119–120, 126, 140, 28, 31, 45, 48–50, 53–4, 58–9, 68, 156–57; dance 67, 75; fan 133; fic 81, 83, 88, 97, 109, 112, 114, 118, 136; high 141; Indonesian 120–121, 126, 133, 139–140, 153, 157–58 126; Mormon 67–70, 75; popular frivolity 9–10, 51, 129, 148 26, 31, 75, 106, 109, 111–112, 143, future 5, 9, 12, 16, 42, 56–7, 60–1, 158; rape 132; youth 75 65–6, 74, 87, 119, 130, 133, 158 customers see consumers games 7, 11, 13–15, 25, 33, 42, 50, 52, dance 20, 67–78, 98, 101, 103, 121, 56, 69, 93, 120, 131, 138, 153–54; 123, 126 board 13, 58, 155, 158; card 158; death 29, 30, 53, 81, 127–28, 147 carnival 56; computer/video 4–5, 21, development: cultural 11–13, 70, 73, 59, 61, 106–107, 109, 142–151, 154, 118–119, 120; human 5, 10, 37 158; cooperative 59–60, 63, 65–6; dialogue 28–30, 39, 62, 99–100, 128, LARP 9, 20, 22–32, 72, 157; of 135–36, 148 chance 8; role-playing see role play discipline 28, 70, 82, 86, 111 geek 26, 109–110 Disney 2, 20, 33, 55–6, 60–6, 113, 156 gender 22, 25–31, 54, 90, 114, 124, 131 Doctor Who (television series) 106, globalization 119–120, 135, 137 128, 132, 135–36, 139 Goffman, I. 97, 118, 121–22 domination see BDSM government 2–3, 103, 126 dominatrix 20, 79; see also BDSM double consciousness 48, 100 Harry Potter (book and movie series) 4, 135–36, 154 economics 36, 38, 90, 109, 119–120, health 70, 90 129, 131–34, 137, 141, 144, 150–51 hegemony 7, 16, 25–6, 29, 31, 72, 111 education: academic discipline of 2, 5, heroism see identity 76; acts of learning 26, 55–6, 65 Homo Ludens (book) 3, 144 embodiment 5–6, 9, 12,16, 23, 25, Huizinga, J. 3–4, 8, 10, 23, 33, 34, 36, 27, 29, 33, 45, 47, 50, 53, 56, 58, 50, 58, 87, 96, 98, 144, 150 68–72, 86, 92, 94, 106, 112, 118, 149, 154, 157–58 identification 66 Epcot (theme park) 20, 55–66 identity: construction of 6, 8, 69, 131, ethics 36, 81–2, 98, 103, 148, 157 141; heroic 20, 28–30; masculine ethnography 18, 105–106, 113, 143 25; personal 2, 81, 100, 102–103, everyday life see “real life” 105–108, 115, 121, 129, 136, 140, evolution see development 142–43, 150, 152–53 ideology 2, 6, 15, 137–38, 154, 158 family 13, 55–66, 73, 75, 92, 96–7, 99, internet 19, 34–38, 85, 115, 130, 101–103, 120, 124, 138 141, 143 fan 16, 21, 105–116, 143, 158 interviews 19, 24, 30, 47, 53, 80, 89, fanbaiting 132 92, 108, 111, 114–115, 150 fandom 105–116, 130–141 fanfiction 128–141 kink 81, 83–84, 112, 132; see also fantasy 8–12, 16, 22–3, 25–6, 29, 57, BDSM 81, 86, 105–107, 111, 114–115, 145 fetish 83, 111–112, 130, 132 learning see education fic see fanfiction leisure activities see play field notes 19, 22, 24, 60, 143 liminality 9, 79, 80, 90, 102, 149 filming 20, 34, 37–42, 125 live action role play (LARP) see games flow state 9, 50, 59 Livejournal 131, 133–34, 138 food 70, 84, 92, 94–104, 120, ludic: performance 49, 52, 158; 122–24, 126 otherwise see play Index 179 marathons 18, 20, 44–54 race: identity marker 90, 131, 135, 154; marketing see advertising in World of Warcraft 144–47, 150; Marx, K. 19, 38, 133, 138 road see marathon masculinity see identity “real world” 5, 8–9, 18, 22–3, 26–8, masochism see BDSM 38, 50, 86–7, 89, 126, 132, 135, mastery 11, 14, 50 140, 150 maya-lila 3, 38, 59, 62, 88 recreation see play metacommunication 5, 86 rehearsal 5–6, 12, 133, 141 metanarratives see narratives representation 14, 25, 31, 50, 75, 80, mimesis 5, 56, 68–9, 114, 157 104, 110, 113–114, 154 MMO (massively multiplayer online) researcher bias see subject position 143, 149, 150 risk 11–12, 14, 36, 38, 41–2, 61, 72, modernity 117–127 81–2, 115, 130–31, 154 Mormon see Church of Jesus Christ of ritual 30, 69, 96–7, 109, 156 Latter Day Saints role play 9, 20, 22–3, 112, 157 My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic roles: prescribed to players 2–3, 6, 9, (television series) 16 15–16, 20, 26–8, 34, 38–41, 58, 74, 80, 84, 90, 92, 100, 102, 112, 118, narratives: 13, 15–17, 20–21, 53–54, 124, 126–7, 158; in real life see “real 56, 87, 91–104, 108, 114, 140–51; life”; in games 1, 4–5, 9, 13, 23, 31, 153–56; counter- 50–51, 53 143, 144, 154; in life 1, 7, 11–13, non-profit 2, 23, 156 17, 29, 68, 95–8, 103–104, 123, 130, nostalgia 118, 148 157; see also games, LARP objectives 8–9, 13, 15, 52, 65, 97, 135, sadism see BDSM 153–54, 158 scenarios 2, 8, 11, 15–16, 42, 143, 153 observation (research method) 2, 19, Schechner, R. 2–3, 49–50, 56, 59, 72, 31, 75–7, 92, 102, 136 88, 107, 153, 156, 158 school see education Pancake Man 46 sex: act of 69, 77, 79, 83; anatomical or pedagogy see education identity marker 114, 135, 146 play: animal 66; creative 8, 141, simulacra 156 149, 155; dark 54; definitions of 2, simulation 12–13, 58, 149 3, 106; liberatory see social justice; sites 3–7, 10, 13, 15–20, 25, 33, 55, 65, purposes of 9–15; purposelessness of 69, 91, 134–35, 143, 154 see frivolity; rhetorics of 9, 10, 14, skills: development of see education 50, 122, 131; schools of Smith, J. 67, 74 thought regarding 4–9; risky 33, 36, social justice 132 41; transformative 6–7, 10, 34, society see culture 72, 107 Star Trek (television series) 106, “playbor” 133, 141 135–36, 139–140, 154 Plaza Indonesia 117–127 strategies: in games/performances 14, pleasure 4, 23, 25, 52–3, 69, 80–2, 86, 20, 92; in life 6, 11, 69, 96, 155 89, 92, 96–7, 102–103, 129, 153, stunt-running 44–54 156–57 subject position 18, 24, 139, 145 politics 69, 118, 120, 131–32, 141 superheroes 8, 53, 105–116 profit 3–4, 10, 55, 58, 91, 104, 130, Sutton-Smith, B. 9, 14, 33–34, 40, 42, 151, 154, 156 50, 121, 129, 131 progress see development psychology 2, 5, 80 theatre: academic discipline of 16, 34, punishment see discipline 65, 118, 122; building 66, 72; dinner 1, 20, 91–104; performance of 1, 7, queer-baiting 132 24, 65, 89, 114, 143, 157 180 Index tourism 20, 33, 35–42, 56, 110, 125, victory 13–15, 42, 49, 52, 58, 152 156–57 virtual 1, 3, 5, 12, 18, 20, 56–7, 62–3, transformation see development 143–44, 147, 149–151, 156, 158 travel 51, 56, 73, 124, 156; see also tourism winning see victory Wizard of Oz (characters from) 1, 153 values 11, 14, 22, 25–6, 97, 102–103, World of Warcraft (video game) 19, 21, 155, 158 142–150