Searching for Homeric Fandom in Greek Tragedy

Lynn Kozak McGill University [email protected]

Abstract

This article proposes an application of fan studies, and particularly a refined model of Suzanne Scott’s “fanboy auteur,” to reconsider Homeric creative response, with a spe- cial focus on the parodos of Euripides’s Iphigenia in Aulis.

Keywords fandom – reception – epic – tragedy – affect

Fan studies, and particularly the model of the fanboy auteur, can offer a new framework for thinking about Classical receptions of the Homeric poems and for Classical receptions more generally.* Fan studies combines several distinct issues that we wrestle with in Classics and Classical reception, including audi- ence response, intertextuality, metapoetics, authorship, and affect. While the means of production and cultural contexts of contemporary fandoms around twentieth- and twenty-first-century transmedia texts vastly diverge from those of the Athenian tragedians,1 a fan studies approach can still illuminate modes of engagement between authors and audiences around established texts like the Homeric epics. The term “fans” assumes some sort of an affective community (cf. Wilson 2016: 1.2): fans as individuals are emotionally invested in those things (includ- ing, but not limited to, storyworlds, characters, actors, auteurs, and texts) that

* Many thanks to Jonathan Ready and Christos Tsagalis, to my anonymous reviewers for their bibliographic and conceptual suggestions, and to audiences at Greek Drama V at UBC in July 2017, who gave valuable feedback, particularly George Kovacs, whose work on Aristophanes as a Euripides fan dovetails with this work. Thanks also to Alex Martalogu for his close eye and his help with formatting. All translations are my own. 1 Willis fights against a specific historicity to fandom, seeing it instead (as I do) as a “heuristic lens to open up new approaches to Classical, medieval, and early modern texts” (2016: 1.7).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi:10.1163/24688487_00201004Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access searching for homeric fandom in greek tragedy 119 they are fans of, and they may share that investment within a “fandom,” or fan community.2 These fans actively engage with their object-texts, from the act of formally or informally acknowledging a community around them to pro- ducing analytical or creative responses to them. Fan studies describes fans as either “affirmational” or “transformational”: “affirmational fans play within a source text’s boundaries by analyzing, illustrating, collecting, cosplaying, etc.,” as opposed to transformational fans, who “use the source text to introduce their own ideas, relationships, even characters” (Busse 2013: 82).3 I will show that these two modes exist along a spectrum, while I focus primarily on the transformational fan and the creative impulse that expands on or critiques existing storyworlds. While in the contemporary context these fans, and their creative work, often represent marginalized sub-communities that have fewer options for authoritative or mainstream cultural production,4 they might also include Suzanne Scott’s so-called fanboy auteur (2013a), which stands as a compelling analogue to the Athenian playwright. As the term suggests, the fanboy auteur occupies both a fan space and an auteur space—their fan role placing them within and making them beholden to a broader fan commu- nity, while their auteur role gives them producing authority, to such an extent that they might even transform canon. The fanboy auteur’s creative output also spans transformational and affirmational responses to source material. These features, particularly when combined in what I call an “intraditional” fanboy auteur, or someone working within a tradition that they are a fan of, make for an alluring model of affective creative response. To situate this model’s usefulness in analyzing fifth-century tragic responses to Homer, I will first look at fan studies and the historical possibilities of fandoms with an eye towards how they might fit the Ancient Greek world. Then I will focus on and refine Scott’s model of the fanboy auteur, before moving on to an examina- tion of Euripides’s possible Homeric fannishness in the parodos of Iphigenia in Aulis.

2 See Jenkins 2006 for distinctions between “fannish behaviour” and “identifying as a fan.” 3 Busse here discusses a distinction originally posed by Ofan writer obsession_inc 2009. 4 Bacon-Smith refers to women’s fan fiction as a “crime” and as a “subversive act” (1992: 3). Look- ing at archontic literature “produced by postcolonial, feminist, and ethnic American writers,” Derecho draws attention to fan fiction (as archontic literature) serving “as political, social, and cultural critique” (2006: 70).

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Fan Studies

Fan studies emerged in a specific historical context as a response to changing dynamics in media culture: the majority of early fan studies looked specifically at fans, fan communities, and fan fiction.5 These three components represent more generally the three primary strands of fan studies: being a fan as a marker of individual identity; fandom as a unifying thread for community; and, finally, fandom as a productive site for new creative material by aforemen- tioned “transformative” fans, contrasted to “affirmative” fans, who tend to “col- lect, view, and play, to discuss, analyze, and critique” (Hellekson and Busse 2014: 4). Fan studies initially resided comfortably in this twentieth-century context and its attendant cultural, commercial, and consumptive media constraints. Those constraints have changed drastically in the half-century since fans first sat down in front of their televisions to watch Star Trek in its original broadcasts. Digital platforms now allow for much more idiosyncratic viewing practices as well as for a much wider range of social opportunities for fans, including the easy sharing of fans’ creative work like fanvids, fanfic, and fan art. The internet also allows commercial and creative producers of media to aug- ment their storytelling transmedially through online games, feeds, and other paratexts within the “convergence culture” that Henry Jenkins discusses (2009). This culture blurs the lines not only between primary and secondary texts but also between producers and audiences: “Within convergence culture, everyone’s a participant—although participants may have different degrees of status and influence” (Jenkins 2009: 132). I will discuss this fluidity of status later in greater depth, particularly in relation to fanboy auteurs, who often pur- posefully skirt the line between producer and consumer. But a similar dynamic exists in a work like E.L. James’s New York Times best-seller Fifty Shades of Grey, which started as a piece of fan fiction responding to Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight trilogy: many scholars cite its success as a clear mark of fan culture’s contempo- rary prominence (Hellekson and Busse 2014: 5; cf. Busse 2015: 110–115; De Kosnik 2015: 116–125). We can say the same of Comiccon’s ascending significance for the film industry or of the fact that our summer blockbusters now are almost entirely superhero movies. Fandom has come out of the margins and into the mainstream, exerting vast influence over the way that media is produced and consumed. Fan studies has followed, with work expanding outwards into our

5 For a more in-depth history of fan studies, starting from the seventeenth century to the present day and encompassing fandoms that include music-based fandoms and sports-based fandoms, see Duffett 2013: 5–17.

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Fandom and Historicity

We have yet to define fandom itself, and how we define it closely intertwines with questions of historicity and cultural context. Definitions of what consti- tutes fandom run from the very broad to the very narrow, corresponding to historic eras and their types of texts. At its broadest, Matt Hills understands fandom as the site “of a cultural struggle over meaning and affect” (2002: xi). With this open definition, fandom easily accommodates archaic Greek poetry, as Karen Hellekson and Kristina Busse suggest: “If we think of [fan- dom] as a form of collective storytelling, then the Iliad and the Odyssey might be tagged as the earliest versions of fan fiction” (2014: 6). Stacey Lantagne also sees fandom in the epic tradition: “Virgil’s Aeneid was essentially a piece of Iliad fan fiction, focusing on a secondary character from that story” (2015: 267).6 But the majority of those working in fan studies define fandom more nar- rowly, as emerging from discrete historic moments.7 Hellekson and Busse say that, if we consider fan fiction “as a response to specific written texts,” we can date its inception to the Middle Ages (2014: 6). But “a response to specific writ- ten texts” could certainly apply to the Classical period, given tragedy’s, and especially comedy’s, strong drive towards textual reference. George Kovacs’s work on Aristophanes as a Euripides fan perhaps most strongly demonstrates this idea: he considers Aristophanes’s numerous creative engagements with the tragedian’s work and with the now-lost Telephus in particular (2017). Aristo- phanes’s Frogs also represents fannish behavior towards Euripides, starting with Dionysus’s exchange with Heracles, where he reminisces about reading the tragedian’s Andromeda during a naval battle: “And when I was on the ship,

6 Farley takes issue with this idea through system theory in her article because “Aeneas’s extraordinary qualities are due more to nationalism than to Vergil’s self-inert fantasies, what- ever they may have been. This underlines the differences between Vergil’s system and a fan writer’s” (2016: 3.1). 7 For a full range of periods where scholars see the start of fan activity, see Derecho 2006: 62–63.

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access 122 kozak a sudden desire came on, while I was reading the Andromeda, and struck my heart—you can’t know how much” (καὶ δῆτ’ ἐπὶ τῆς νεὼς ἀναγιγνώσκοντί μοι / τὴν Ἀνδρομέδαν πρὸς ἐμαυτὸν ἐξαίφνης πόθος / τὴν καρδίαν ἐπάταξε πῶς οἴει σφόδρα, Ar. Ra. 52–55). Then Dionysus tries harder to make Heracles understand, find- ing an analogy to get his point across: “Did you ever get a sudden craving for bean soup? … Because that same kind of desire for Euripides devours me now” (ἤδη ποτ’ ἐπεθύμησας ἐξαίφνης ἔτνους;… τοιουτοσὶ τοίνυν με δαρδάπτει πόθος Εὐρι- πίδου, Ar. Ra. 62, 66). Dionysos, hungering for Euripides, expresses textual affect as audience desire.8 By the fourth century, we have Plato and Aristotle writing textual criticism, often specifically around affect (cf. Plat. Ion 535b–536c, Arist. Poet.), followed by legions of scholiasts in the Hellenistic era. All this suggests that “limiting” fandom to specific written texts actually allows us to broaden our notion of fandom considerably. Balaka Basu places the birth of fan-fiction in the Early Modern Period, see- ing widespread publication as a determining factor for creating fandom (2016). Basu follows others in evaluating Milton and Shakespeare as fan authors, with a focus on Sir Philip Sidney’s “fan-fiction” of Virgil.9 But Basu allows that the picture can be more complicated: “we often hear that early modern textual practices were so different from our own that the comparison is unfair; after all, the Renaissance predates copyright and intellectual property law as we know them today” (2016: 1.1). That returns us to Hellekson and Busse: “if the term is understood to include a legal component, then fan fiction could not have existed before the development of authorial copyright” (2014: 6). Mered- ith McCardle sees these two eras as linked (2003: 438):

The practice (of expanding narratives) grew increasingly common, per- haps coming to a head in the Elizabethan era, where borrowing of plot, character and setting was a common practice. For nearly 200 years, the tradition of borrowing from predecessor works continued unchecked by modern notions of copyright law and fair use, but the practice was bound to change in 1710 when England enacted the very first copyright law in history. … The Statute of Anne … showed some resemblance to modern copyright law in that it protected only new creative works and only for a limited duration.

8 See Moorton 1987: 434 on this desire as parallel to Perseus’s love for Andromeda. 9 Other scholars place women’s responses to Sir Philip Sydney as the start of fan fiction. See Simonova 2012; cf. Derecho 2006.

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While ancient Greeks had nothing like contemporary copyright law, they had every interest in attributing authorship, from their earliest literature. Archaic poets like Hesiod and Sappho assert their own authorship through author-personae in their work (cf. Hes. Theog. 22–35; Sapph. fr. 1):10 and the advent of writing might account for Theognis’s sphragis (“seal”) upon his work, where “the very act of publishing them in writing may in itself give one claim to a kind of possession of the texts” (Pratt 1995: 181). Even with the oral epics, attribution was important: “Homer” might not have been a single “Homer,” but audiences still attributed epics to him as a single author and refused attribu- tion to poems deemed not good enough. Glenn Most, referring to the epics called Nostoi, or “the Returns” explains this process: “Since they could not bear the competition with Homer, they were condemned to virtual extinc- tion” (1990: 44). Even more compelling is how the group called the “Home- ridae” claimed exclusive rights for Homeric recitation, the composition of proems, and the keeping of biographical facts (Allen 1907: 135–143). In the fifth-century, the Homeridae were a Chian genos, an extended family claim- ing Homer as a common ancestor: but they also seemed to own and peri- odically reference or release previously unheard Homeric verses, as Isocrates (10.65) and Plato (Phaedrus 252b) suggest (Allen 1907: 135; cf. Sealey 1957: 316). T.W. Allen also talks about the Homeridae having “at some period lost their copyright, their acting rights, in Homer,” before the time of Pindar (1907: 139). This Homeric tradition fits into Hellekson and Busse’s next argument for his- torically placing fan cultures (2014: 6):

If the term requires an actual community of fans who share an interest, then Sherlock Holmes would easily qualify as the first fandom, with fan- written Holmes pastiches serving as the beginnings of fan fiction.

Homer did not have Holmesians, but beyond the formal Homeridae, there are those called Homerikoi (“Homeric critics,” cf. Arist. Metaph. 1093a26), or Philhomeroi (“Homer-lovers”). These are not formal groups but individuals who closely resemble modern fans: Allen calls the Homerikoi “private per- sons, people interested in Homer, students like Theagenes, Stesimbrotus or Metrodorus” (1907: 136; cf. Wise 2000: 34–36). “Interested in” hardly elicits the kind of enthusiasm that we relate to contemporary fans, but perhaps

10 These authorships were also contested: for Hesiod, see Paus. 9.31.4–5.

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access 124 kozak philhomeros does:11 Alexander the Great was apparently philhomeros (Strabo Geog. 13.1.27),12 as was Cassander (Ath. Deip. 14.620b). Sophocles (Ath. Deip. 8.347e) was Homerikotatos, or “the most Homeric” (Ath. Deip. 7.277e); Long- inus also applies this term to Herodotus, Stesichorus, Archilochus, and Plato ([Long.] De subl. 13.3). Dio Chrysostom also proclaims himself a “Homer-lover” (19.9).13 Finally, groups of actors in Alexandria, known as the Homeristai, the- atrically enacted Homeric scenes (Ath. Deip.14.620b), in performances that “continued under the [Roman] Empire in increasing popularity” (Zeitlin 2007: 210).14 These identifications suggest that Homer definitely did have “fans,” but who constitutes the fan community, if there even is a fan community, still ran- kles with contemporary fandom, which generally consists of “marginalized subcultures”—those who do not have clear cultural authority. Ahuvia Kahane’s work on Homeric fandom tries to move beyond famous fans, suggesting the possibility of what he calls “everyday objects” as engaging with the Iliad (2016). He (perhaps contentiously) includes among these the famous “Nestor’s Cup,” which has one of the earliest known Greek inscriptions (2016: 7.4–12). Dating to the late eighth century B.C.E. and found in 1954 in Pithekoussai on the island of Ischia, the cup says “Nestor’s cup [I am], good for drinking. / Whoever drinks from this cup, him, instantly / the desire of beautifully crowned Aphrodite will seize” (CEG 454; trans. Kahane, modifying Faraone). If we accept Kahane’s analysis, which follows Christopher Faraone’s (1996), the maker, owner, or com- missioner of Nestor’s cup has a sense of humor about his own status in compar-

11 For a discussion of the parallel term phileuripides (“Euripides-lover”) as “fan,” see Scharf- fenberger 2012. 12 For a longer discussion of Alexander’s Homer-loving and its impact on Greek identity for- mation in the Roman Empire, see Zeitlin 2007: esp. 201–203, 206. 13 This possible self-declaration earns points in fan studies circles. Harrington and Bielby claim that a fan must self-identify as a fan to truly be a fan: “One can do fan activity with- out being a fan, and vice versa. Fanship is not merely about activity; it involves parallel processes of activity and identity” (1995: 86–87). 14 Cf. Lada-Richards’s discussion (2002: 72) of Homeric mimesis in Greek tragedy: “Merging with their masks and characters the actors now ensure that, for as long as the performance lasts, they become the they incarnate: they do not play at being Antigone or Oedi- pus; they are Antigone or Oedipus. Their skill in imitation (mimesis) makes the heroes present for the sake of the audience.” For an even more fannish mode of mimesis, we might turn to the rhetorical practice of prosōpopoeia, “a kind of impersonation or creative mimetism, which involved the composition of imaginary speeches or scenes in keeping with the presumed character of long-vanished figures of both history and myth” (Zeitlin 2007: 208).

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access searching for homeric fandom in greek tragedy 125 ison with that of the hero Nestor, and we might also think about how the cup provides another way of consuming the Iliad. Faraone sees the cup’s inscription as a (1996: 78)

sophisticated joke that either plays on a humorous comparison between Nestor’s enormous drinking vessel in the Iliad and the humble clay cup which bears the inscription, or toys in rather subtle ways with the reader’s generic expectations about proprietary inscriptions or conditional curses.

Whether or not we consider Nestor’s Cup “humble,” Kahane convincingly argues that this cup, along with the Kamyros monument (IG XII 1.737), another small inscription dating to the early sixth century B.C.E., are “far removed from monumental canonical texts, yet clearly not obliterated by the canon, and clearly dependent on essential textual poaching and a dialectical relation to canon” (2016: 7.13). Froma Zeitlin draws attention to Alexandrian and Roman analogues to these minor monuments, like the Homeric bowls with their depictions of sequential Homeric scenes, often accompanied by epic quotations (2007: 209–210), or the Iliac tablets, “representing in miniature a number of scenes from the Trojan cycles inscribed with extensive quotations” (210n31).15 Zeitlin also finds a wide range of what we can call fannish behavior in literary examples, pointing to Philostratus’s Heroicus: the vinegrower’s interaction with the Iliadic hero Prote- silaus demonstrates an “intimacy” with Homeric figures “shared by all strata of society, the humble and the lofty” (2007: 215; cf. 256). These “local, everyday” responses to Homer suggest a spectrum that exists across time and space in the ancient world, and they range, to some extent, across status levels. While these examples might not represent “marginalized sub-cultures” as current fandoms can, they certainly complete a picture of broad-ranging fannish responses, from formal groups devoted to Homer’s works (contra Keen 2016: 6.2) as well as from poets and writers whose works become canon in their own right and, finally, from “local, everyday” fans. Abigail Derecho’s model of “archontic literature,” a term taken from Jacques Derrida, can help frame this wide range of fans, and explain their attraction to a source text like the Iliad. Derecho sees archontic literature as “composed of

15 While Squire’s 2011 analysis of the Iliadic tablets does not engage with fan studies, he discusses them in such a way that might easily bring fan studies to mind, in their “miniatur- izing zeal” for Homer (8), their ludic qualities (24), and their ability to “exploit authorship” (302). Petrain (2014) likewise describes the Tabulae as a “project of literary appropriation” (164).

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access 126 kozak texts that are archival in nature and that are impelled by the same archontic principle: that tendency toward enlargement and accretion that all archives possess” (2006: 64). Derecho’s view of archontic literature paints an ideal- ized utopia of unexplored potentialities and endless creativity within a non- hierarchical structure, and so she emphasizes the appeal of such literature to those who are socially marginalized (2006: 67):

As a genre, archontic literature has had lasting appeal for subordinated groups seeking adequate means of expression. Although writers have used archontic literature to critique patriarchy, xenophobia, and racism at least since the fifth century BCE, when ancient Greeks produced polit- ically motivated retellings of ancient myths like Euripides’Medea, I begin my history of archontic literature as a medium of political and social protest in the seventeenth century, when the first original prose fiction by a woman in the English language was published.

The content of Euripides’s work may constitute fan fiction, but Derecho’s impulse is to move quickly past Euripides himself, hardly a member of a “subor- dinate culture.” This is where Scott’s model of the “fanboy auteur” (a term that Jenkins also takes up) can be helpful, since these are figures who have cultural authority as producers while maintaining an identity as and with fans.

The Fanboy Auteur

Scott discusses fanboy auteurs specifically within a late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century transmedia film and television context, defining the fan- boy auteur as (2013b: 44)

a creator/figurehead of a transmedia franchise who attempts to navi- gate and break the conventional boundaries between producers and con- sumers. Fanboy auteurs are relatable because of their fan credentials, which are narrativized and (self) promoted as an integral part of their appeal as a transmedia interpreter for audiences. Some anecdotally sug- gest that their rise to professional/creator status is a product of their fan identity, while others frame their conflicted identity as another fan as aug- menting their ability to understand what fans want …

While this definition places the fanboy auteur into a market-driven consumer culture, I fix on the notion that some of these auteurs “suggest that their rise to

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access searching for homeric fandom in greek tragedy 127 professional/creative status is a product of their fan identity.” Jenkins, respond- ing to Scott’s piece, also emphasizes this aspect of the fanboy auteur (2013: 57):

For many fans, the author represents something else—not a divine cre- ator whom they worship or adore (or whose fire they seek to steal)—but rather a role model whose path they seek to follow. … The fanboy auteur represents the dungeon master made good, the guy who used to play with action figures and now gets to manipulate big budget special effects. … Such fantasies about authorship are more apt to fuel the next phase of participatory culture than to crush it.

This model of the fanboy auteur implies generational aspiration, looking back- wards to move forwards, and nostalgic modes for remaking, a model that is entirely relevant not only to contemporary franchises but also to the ancient Greek world. I am specifically interested in the “fanboy auteur” who takes cre- ative control within the same storyworld that he was a fan of, essentially taking the place of the original auteur within the franchise.16 Scott’s work on fanboy auteurs takes these figures into account, but she does not clearly delineate them. For the sake of this article’s argument, I will refer to those who work within a franchise that they were a fan of as “intraditional” fanboy auteurs.17 J.J. Abrams is a fanboy auteur, but he is only an intraditional fanboy auteur for the Star Wars franchise, not for the Star Trek franchise,18 which he was never a

16 This phenomenon is rarely discussed. Scott raises the question but does not answer it and speaks only of replacement within a continuous narrative (2013b: 51): “this essay doesn’t address instances in which one fan boy auteur is replaced by another, such as the case with Steven Moffat supplanting Russel T. Davies as the lead writer and executive producer of in 2009. Davies and Moffat both qualify as ‘fanboy auteurs,’ but their distinct authorial identities and visions for Doctor Who raise a number of interesting questions about what happens when multiple fanboy auteurs become associated with one fran- chise, and how those multiple authorial visions might be navigated and reconciled by fans.” 17 While this term is my own, see Morimoto 2017: 3; Fathallah 2017: esp. 50–55 for discussions of television showrunners who count themselves as fans of the franchises that they work within, including (, NBC 2013–2015) and Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss (Sherlock, BBC 2010–present). 18 Abrams was explicitly not a fan of Star Trek when he rebooted the franchise in 2009 (quoted in Rose 2009): “Star Trek always felt like a silly, campy thing. I remember appreci- ating it, but feeling like I didn’t get it. I felt it didn’t give me a way in.” In another interview, Abrams went further (quoted in Enik 2013): “I never liked StarTrek when I was a kid. Grow- ing up, I thought, honestly, I couldn’t get into it. My friends loved it. I would try, I would

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access 128 kozak fan of. Whether or not the fanboy auteur is a part of the fan community that he is working within makes a difference as to whether or not he feels beholden to them in his approach to the material. Scott defines fanboy auteurs along gender lines, seeing them as ideally sit- uated between the passive feminized world of “fanboys” and the paternalistic, masculine world of the “auteur.” At the same time, Scott sees fanboy auteurs pri- marily associating with, and working within, affirmational rather than transfor- mational fandoms, suggesting the difference in affirmational fandom’s closer ties to masculinity. Affirmational fans are focused on decoding authorial intent more than on transformative work, making the circle between the affirmational fan and the fanboy auteur closed and, in Scott’s view, ultimately constricting for new creation, as fanboys emerge from affirmational fandoms that then reiter- ate the same ideologies in their own creations (2013a: esp. 441–442). Scott’s model is, however, too rigid and does not take into account the wide spectrum of fanboy auteur production, which ranges from affirmational remakes and sequels to truly transformative works within existing franchise storyworlds.19 I would like to give two extended examples of contemporary intraditional fanboy auteurs to illustrate this range before moving on to their potential ancient Greek counterparts.20

J.J. Abrams and Star Wars

First, even those works that on the surface may seem affirmational, or primar- ily produced to appeal to an affirmational fanbase, can have transformative elements that affect their integration into canon. J.J. Abrams’s contributions to the Star Wars franchise illustrate this. Abrams has long defined himself as a “fanboy,” particularly of the sci-fi genre that he grew up in, which included not only the original Star Wars trilogy (1977–1983), but also ’s sci-fi films, like Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) and E.T. (1982), which Abrams pays homage to in his own Super 8 (2011). While Abrams was not a Star Trek fan (“I was never a Star Trek fan. The only reason why I was intrigued was,

watch episodes but it always felt too philosophical to me.” Finally, Abrams explained (quoted in Orange 2016): “I was never a Star Trek fan. The only reason why I was intrigued was, I thought, this was a way to find a way to love it the way my friends loved it.” 19 Morimoto adds the notion of affective economies in evaluating fanboy auteur production, particularly in the case of Fuller’s Hannibal (2017). 20 See Pearson 2007 for a discussion of the similarities in fannish affect between high-culture and pop-culture “fans.”

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I thought, this was a way to find a way to love it the way my friends loved it” [quoted in Orange 2016]), he places himself firmly within Star Wars fandom (quoted in Bernstein 2016):21

I’m incredibly grateful to the audience that George gathered. It was a lot of pressure, and is for anyone who’s working on the Star Wars movies, to do something that works for those fans. Like you say, they are very pas- sionate and obsessive, but it made the experience immeasurably more fun knowing those fans were so involved. And I’m one of them.

While Abrams defines himself as a fan here, the same article quickly differen- tiates him from any attendant pejorative connotations of that self-definition: “Abrams isn’t just a geek. … What elevates Abrams above the geek herd is his ability to imbue massive genre projects with intimate character moments” (Bernstein 2016). The tension in these quotations perfectly matches that within the term “fanboy auteur”: creating relatability to the fanboy and distance from the auteur, placing him both within and above the fandom he works within. Abrams’s StarWars:The Force Awakens (2015) was wildly successful both crit- ically (92% fresh on RottenTomatoes) and in terms of box office ($2.066 billion worldwide).22 But for some critics and fans, the story, which largely followed the same narrative structure as George Lucas’s original Star Wars (1977), was too repetitive (Robinson 2015):

Some narrative elements have been moved around and reimagined, but the spine of the story, and most of its nervous system, are intact from the origin story we all remember. This is an alternate-universe version of A New Hope that just happens to be set in the same universe.

This criticizes Abrams’s fanboy auteur contribution as too affirmational; that in not doing enough to transform the franchise, The Force Awakens hardly counts as new material. It is, in other words, “a rip-off,”23 which, ironically, throws the kind of shade on the project normally reserved for past approaches to fan

21 As Scott points out in her consideration of other fanboy auteur marketing strategies, Abrams’s fan-status was relentlessly marketed by the Star Wars franchise as an “asset” to appeal to fans (2013a). For an example of this, see Burton 2013. 22 https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/star_wars_episode_vii_the_force_awakens/. 23 Abrams himself imagines a fan saying, “Oh, it’s a complete rip-off!” in McMillan 2016. For a convincing video essay on The Force Awakens’s “rip-offs” of StarWars, see Gallagher 2016.

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access 130 kozak fiction, understanding such literature primarily as either appropriative or de- rivative, or both (Fiegel and Roth 2014: 1098).24 At the same time, both Abrams’s defense of his own work as well as more positive critical reviews brought attention to the transformations thatTheForce Awakens did bring to the Star Wars universe, particularly in the diversity of its new protagonists. In the Los Angeles Times, Rebecca Keegan draws attention to the film’s new characters who are played by women or people of color, includ- ing Daisy Ridley’s Rey, John Boyega’s , Oscar Isaac’s Poe Dameron, Lupita Nyongo’o’s Maz Kanata, and Gwendoline Christie’s (2015):

While director J.J. Abrams’ Star Wars: The Force Awakens has satisfied many fans of the series by returning to the exuberant spirit of Lucas’ early films, the latest movie also creates clever, funny, courageous new charac- ters who reflect our diverse, modern world.

Abrams himself emphasizes what these new characters can mean within a familiar storyworld (quoted in McMillan 2016):

What was important for me was introducing brand new characters using relationships that were embracing the history that we know to tell a story that is new—to go backwards to go forwards.

This exact dynamic happens in one notable scene where Han Solo (Harrison Ford) and Chewbacca (Peter Mayhew/Joonas Suotamo) come onto the Millen- nium Falcon to find Rey, Finn, and the droid BB-8 hiding in its cargo hold. One of the first things that Han Solo asks them is, “Where’s the pilot?” to which Rey responds, “I’m the pilot!” and Han Solo asks again, “You???” for Rey to answer, “No, it’s true. We’re the only ones on board.” In this quick exchange, Rey chal- lenges Han Solo’s gender biases and asserts herself as his natural successor as a pilot (the pilot of the Millennium Falcon, no less). As the exchange continues, with Han Solo asking Rey where she got the ship from (she’s sure to say, “I stole it,” also aligning herself with Han Solo as a rogue), he finally reveals who he is: “Well, you tell ’em that Han Solo just stole back the Millennium Falcon, for good.” Rey’s and Finn’s response is priceless, and places them among the series’ fans:

24 For “derivative” as criticism of another fanboy auteur’s work, namely Zack Snyder’s Sucker Punch (2011), see Scott 2013a: 454. It is worth noting here that Zeitlin in talking about cre- ative responses to Homer sees them as “appropriating Homer for their own designs” (2007: 202).

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REY: This is the Millennium Falcon? You’re Han Solo! SOLO: I used to be. FINN: Han Solo? The Rebellion General? REY: No, the smuggler … FINN: Wasn’t he a war hero? REY (to SOLO): This is the ship that made the Kessel run in 14 parsecs! SOLO: Twelve!!! (under breath) Fourteen. … Hey some moof-milker put a compressor on the ignition line. REY: Unkar Plutt did—I thought it was a mistake too, puts too … HAN and REY: … much stress on the hyperdrive.

As the scene plays out, Rey continues to demonstrate her affinity with Han Solo, with her claim to being a thief and identifying him as a smuggler and with their shared mechanical knowledge.This challenges both his and the audience’s gen- der biases and critically re-frames Han Solo’s first interaction with Princess Leia ( Fischer) in Star Wars (1977). At the same time, Finn and Rey join the audience as fans, naming what they know about the character Han Solo and his ship and allowing superfans the pleasure of knowing that Rey has forgotten the Millennium Falcon’s real time for the Kessel Run, making them better “fans” than her. The scene illustrates Abrams’s desire to connect with both life-long Star Wars fans as well as those who might be coming to the franchise for the first time. Throughout The Force Awakens, Abrams, as a fanboy auteur, reworks a source text (the original StarWars) in a way that both appeals to affirmational fans and also transforms elements of an existing franchise.

Bryan Fuller and Hannibal

These same kinds of casting and character changes can also be seen in what is arguably a much more transformative work by a fanboy auteur: Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal (NBC, 2013–2015). Bryan Fuller claims his own long-standing fandom credentials from his relationship to the Star Trek franchise,25 while his own

25 Fuller fits easily into Scott’s model of the fanboy auteur’s self-narrating how he has emerged as a producer through his being a fan (2013b: 44), which also fits with Jenkins’s rejoinder about the positive potential of fandom in such narratives (2013: 57). Fuller says (quoted in Prudom 2015), “I’m a fan who had my come true. I was somebody who was a ‘Star Trek’ obsessive, so much so that I wrote ‘Star Trek’ spec scripts and I got invited in to pitch and I sold stories and I sold scripts and then I was on staff, so I’m still connected

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access 132 kozak shows, often quirky and quickly cancelled—including (FOX, 2004) and (ABC, 2007–2009)—create the “Fullerverse,” with its own fanbase. Still, Hannibal arguably pushed Bryan Fuller’s fanboy auteurship to another level through his own fannish approach to his source material and his extremely active engagement with its fans (see Morimoto 2018). Bryan Fuller is nearly unique among fanboy auteurs in that he does not just identify himself as a fan of his source materials26—’s novels (1981), which he speaks of as “the bible,”27 Silence of the Lambs (1988), Hannibal (1999), and (2006)—but also identifies Hannibal as fan fiction. As with Star Wars: The Force Awakens, an element of this fan fiction approach is in its transformational casting, which is color-blind and includes several characters from the novels swapping genders or changing how they are portrayed (Corrigan 2015):

Whereas Manhunter [Michael Mann’s 1989 film based on Red Dragon] features an entirely white cast made up of mostly men, Fuller gave fans their very first black Jack Crawford [], their very first black Reba [Rutina Weasley], and even stirred the pot with some gen- der swapping, with characters like Freddie (Freddy) Lounds [Lara Jean Chorostecki], and Alana (Alan) Bloom [], two people previously played by men.

But Hannibal goes far beyond just diverse casting to challenge, subvert, and expand Thomas Harris’s storyworld. Rather than remaking a familiar plot with new characters, as Abrams does, Fuller takes an underdeveloped relation- ship from Red Dragon—that between FBI profiler and impris- oned psychologist-serial killer —and expands it over thirty- nine episodes as an intense, often homoerotic, exploration of intimacy in male friendships. The homoerotic subtext between its two ostensibly straight leads,

to that person who first drove through the arches of the Paramount lot and had a dream come true, so I realize everybody is one event away from achieving a dream, and I’m happy to share it.” 26 Fuller discusses being a fan of the books and curious about the Will Graham character in particular in Radish 2013. See also Fuller’s comments in VanDerWerff 2013. 27 Fuller says (quoted in Giroux 2013), “I went back to the novels. For me, Red Dragon was the bible. There are scenes in the pilot that are lifted right out of the book and are very loyal to what Thomas Harris wrote. You know, the voices he created in his novel I wanted to make sure that we were being true to …”

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Will Graham () and Hannibal Lecter (), echoes the impulses of the subversive genre of fan fiction known as slash. Women are the primary writers of slash and usually use the genre to pair straight male char- acters (though sometimes female characters) into homosexual relationships, essentially queering a source text’s storyworld. Bryan Fuller, an openly gay man, embraces this mode with Hannibal, though he is careful always to skirt the line between producer and consumer, between writer and fan, in how he formulates his stories and his characters (quoted in Scarano 2014):

I’d say that the homoeroticism is more me just cackling in the editing room, as opposed to something that the characters are genuinely feeling when they’re in the room with one another. Will Graham is a heterosex- ual character, and Hannibal Lecter is the devil and would probably be able to eroticize everything from his perspective because he’s in awe of the human condition. Of course, that’s not to say that they’re going to be falling into bed—I’ll leave that to the online community. They’re doing what we’re doing with the show, because the show for me is very much fan fiction of these characters that I adore. So that’s why I’m very respectful and appreciative of fan fiction and fan art that positions these characters in ways you wouldn’t see them on the show.

Fuller sees himself as a fan writing fan fiction, with his own fans that are also writing fan fiction, in a beautiful update of Socrates’s magnetic chain of inspi- ration from Plato’s Ion (533c–535a). For both himself and his fans, Fuller under- stands the potential of fan fiction for filling in gaps, exploring under-seen cor- ners, and allowing source text relationships to bloom into new places (quoted in Scarano 2014):28

With Red Dragon, there was so much that never made it to the screen, all the intricacies of the intimacy betweenWill Graham and Hannibal Lecter. I was always attracted to that. That line where Hannibal essentially says, “You caught me because you’re crazy just like I am.” I thought, Well, that’s the series.

28 We might compare this creative impulse to “supplement or correct” to how Zeitlin de- scribes the relationship of the new sophists, crestfallen at Palamedes’s omission from the Iliad (2007: 250).

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Fuller’s identification with his fans along with Hannibal’s serial format also allowed Hannibal to build on community or collective story-telling. If Fuller’s comments speak to his own limits in fulfilling Hannibal fans’ (“fannibals”) desire to see Will and Hannibal romantically involved (this desire for a roman- tic pairing between fictional characters is known as “shipping,” and the fan term for this particular pairing is most commonly “Hannigram”), he and Hannibal’s production team interacted across social media platforms with fannibals far beyond most showrunners. This includes NBC’s setting up a Hannibal tumblr page, acknowledging the platform’s centrality in fan fiction and fan art com- munities, and Bryan Fuller and the rest of the cast’s active engagement with fans over twitter.29 Bryan Fuller’s twitter interactions with fans have affected Hannibal, from small gestures like naming a dog “Applesauce,” per audience request,30 to indulging fans’ “Hannigram” hopes in a thousand ways. Consider reporter Freddie Lounds (Lara Jean Chorostecki) referring to Hannibal and Will as “murder husbands” in the episode “And the Woman Clothed With the Sun,”31 bringing what had been a fan designation for the “shipped” relation- ship between the two men into the show itself.32 This not only represents fannish behavior onscreen in the source text but also adds the possibility that Hannigram is canon. Bryan Fuller often and enthusiastically confirms Hanni- gram as canon through twitter exchanges with fans, such as in his response to @GrianneOhmsfor1 (see page 135).33 This twitter exchange raises the contradictions in the intraditional fan- boy auteur’s position, particularly in relation to canon. While Bryan Fuller maintains his auteur authority here, with fans asking for his confirmation of what is “canon,” Fuller’s confirmation of Hannigram as canon can be read as a controversial fan statement, since Hannigram never existed in Harris’s source novels and can be argued never to have been consummated truly even within Hannibal. On the same tweet’s thread, many fans reject Hannigram as canon or question whether it serves the story well (Romano 2015). Fuller him- self, as we have seen, had shown hesitance regarding the pairing in the past,

29 For a fuller discussion of Hannibal’s interaction with fans, see McCracken and Faucette 2015; cf. Brinker 2015. 30 @RebsParks requested that one of Will’s dogs be named Applesauce in an April 7, 2013 tweet, to which Bryan Fuller positively responded. On the April 11, 2014 episode of the show, “Yakimono,” Alana Bloom introduces her new dog as “Applesauce.” For a discussion of this in the context of fan interaction, see LondonFog 2016. 31 Hannibal, season three, episode 9, aired August 1, 2015. 32 For an extended discussion of this moment, see Torrey 2015. 33 https://twitter.com/bryanfuller/status/774690761325576192.

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and in his analysis of a scene where () suggests that Hannibal might be “in love” with Will Graham, he asks if it was really authentic to the characters (quoted in Dibdin 2015):34

I guess I had been fooling myself about how obvious that element of the story was. Maybe I had been reacting to feedback in the Twitter- verse, where there was a lot of Hannigram wish fulfilment. I hoped that it wouldn’t be interpreted as pandering to the hardcore Hannigram fanbase, and that it was felt to be an authentic, logical extension of everything we’d been doing thus far.

This brings the intraditional fanboy auteur’s complicated relationship to canon into sharp focus and what it means that he must balance his roles as producer

34 Hannibal, season 3, episode 12 “The Number of the Beast is 666,” aired August 22, 2015.

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access 136 kozak and fan within his own broader fan community. With Hannigram, Fuller has worked with that fan community to form a new canon: this complements his more straightforward auteur desires to have a lasting impact on the storyworld and characters of Harris’s novels, as he has also said that he “would love the legacy of the show to be Mads Mikkelsen’s portrayal of Hannibal Lecter being the definitive one” (quoted in Bryant 2015).

The Ancient Intraditional Fanboy Auteur?

These examples of J.J. Abrams’s and Bryan Fuller’s work within existing fran- chises demonstrate that intraditional fanboy auteurs work across affirmational and transformational modes with varying levels of engagement with their fan- bases. While they retain an auteur authority, it remains in tension with their own sense of fidelity or fannishness to their source material as well as with their own place within that source material’s fan community and how or if that community expands to embrace the auteur’s contributions. The intradi- tional fanboy auteur is not simply interested in intertextuality, or metapoetics, or their audience’s competence: the fanboy auteur wants to connect with other fans around the texts that they love, while reconfiguring, remaking, or adding to those same texts. Similarly, tragedians’ responses to the Iliad encompass both the affective relationship of the producer with the epic as well as the producer/consumer’s relationship with a fanbase that they are simultaneously a part of and trying to contribute to. Euripides’s Iphigenia in Aulis can demonstrate this model’s use- fulness. Scholars have primarily discussed Iphigenia in Aulis along three clear lines: first, its own problematic transmission history and contested author- ship; second, its heavy investment in intertextuality with both the Iliad and with Aeschylus’s Agamemnon; finally, its contemporary production context and audience. Understanding Iphigenia in Aulis as a product of intraditional fanboy auteurship easily and elegantly combines these disparate elements. Focusing on the parodos, I hope to show how fandom can re-frame existing discussions around the play.

Euripides Philhomeros?

No interviews with Euripides have survived where he comes out and proclaims himself a fan of the Iliad: it is easier to see his productive fannish responses to Neophron (whose Medea he “rework[s]” [Michelini 1989: 128]), or to Aeschylus

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(cf. Torrance 2013: 14–63).35 But perhaps the strongest extant case for his Iliadic fandom comes in the parodos of his Iphigenia in Aulis, produced posthumously in 404B.C.E. I will return to whether Euripides wrote the parodos later—for now, I assume he did. The plot itself is the most Iliadic of Euripides’s extant works with all the action set in the Greek camp at Aulis before they depart to fight the Trojan War. As Zeitlin says (1995: 179–180; cf. Lange 2002: 261–262):

Iphigenia in Aulis … stands midway in the saga of the Trojan War, between the events that led up to the mustering of the Greek expedition and the actual war inTroy and its aftermath in the fortunes of the House of Atreus. By this route it arrives not only at a déjà vu of epic and tragedy in current dramatic time but a more up-to-date version of collective action in the idea of Panhellenic unity, now codified in public discourse and art since the Persian Wars.

The “déjà vu of epic and tragedy” that Zeitlin refers to here is Iphigenia in Aulis’s heavy intertextuality with both the Iliad, the Cypria, and earlier tragedies about the House of Atreus, most notably Aeschylus’s Agamemnon (cf. Stockert 1982: 22), which depicts (albeit in a diegetic flashback) Iphigenia’s sacrifice in its par- odos (Ag. 192–247). In terms of epic intertextuality, Euripides sets the action of his play well before the narrative events of the Iliad but in a way that responds both to the Iliad’s characters and to epic conventions. This is particularly true in the parodos,36 where the chorus of Chalcidean women, who have travelled to Aulis just to see the fleet, give a catalogue of the heroes and ships there (Zeitlin 1995: 186; cf. Hose 1991: 160):

As many have noted, the parodos is saturated throughout by Homeric lan- guage, with direct allusion to the epic tradition—the Iliad as well as the lost Cypria, the cyclic poem that contained the actual story of Iphigenia. The viewing of the chorus bears a resemblance in a sense to the famous teichoskopia on the walls of Troy in Iliad 3, when Helen identified the Greek heroes on the plain before her to Priam and the other Trojan elders, while the catalogue of ships recalls more directly its counterpart in Iliad 2 (and possibly also a similar catalogue in the Cypria).

35 Many critics see Euripides’s responses to Aeschylus as what Gray 2003 would call “anti- fannish”: cf. Torrance 2013: 14–15n5. 36 For Homeric language in the parodos, see Garner 1990: 173; Torrance 2013: 84n80.

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While Zeitlin identifies Iphigenia in Aulis’s textual parallels with the Iliad here, Euripides is conspicuously absent, as is his audience. Yet as Ismene Lada-Richards argues, “there is much to be gained by a more sustained and comprehensive ‘reading’ of inspired creativity as an internal dimension of Greek Drama” (2002: 91). Robert Lamberton also notes the creative impulse in “the dramatists,” excluding them from a study on Homeric readers in a way that clearly delineates between affirmational and transformational responses to the epics (1992: ix, emphasis added):

No essay is found here … on the dramatists … not because the contribu- tion of those readers of Homer was unimportant in the evolution of the understanding of the epics but because it was of a different nature from the contributions of interpreters who offered their acts of interpretation as ends in themselves (ends subordinated, of course, to the larger goal of the understanding of Homer) and not as a function of the creation of new works of literature.

Euripides makes choices to engage with the Iliad, to engage with the catalogue as a form, and, perhaps most significantly, to frame both within a fandom. Throughout the parodos, the Chalcidean women who make up the chorus show signs of fannish affect in response to the Greek fleet, from how far they have travelled to see it (IA 164–173) to the fact that they want to see the crowd of ships and horses and men so badly that they are blushing with shame (IA 187–191), mirroring Abrams’s and Fuller’s import of representations of fannish behavior into their own works. These first lines depict the chorus as an affective commu- nity who want to share together in the experience of seeing and naming their favorite heroes from the Iliad and other epics (cf. Zeitlin 1995: 182–184). Repre- senting this kind of affective community in the Athenian tragic playing space appeals to two audiences simultaneously, as the term “déjà vu” implies:37 first, the tragic audience (cf. Zeitlin 1995: 177), who might be fans of the spectacle most inherent in the choral performance; second, epic fans who love the Iliad (and, potentially, the Cypria) (cf. Jouan 1966: 295). If we see Euripides as an intraditional fanboy auteur, the chorus becomes a fan avatar within the play, encompassing both transformational and affirma- tional modes of the fanboy auteur’s engagement with the source text. They essentially serve the same function as Rey with Han Solo that we saw earlier in

37 And more, if we accept Zeitlin’s arguments about Euripides’s responses to contemporary visual artists.

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Abrams’s work, as internal fans of an older element of the tradition that the fan- boy auteur has come to work within.38 If I dare to push this parallel a bit further, we can even see the fannish tendency towards attention to detail embedded in both: Rey incorrectly declares the Millennium Falcon to have made the Kessel run in 14 parsecs, and Han Solo must correct her with the real time of 12 parsecs; the Chalcidean women frequently count the ships and often assign the “wrong” numbers to each leader’s fleet.39 Each instance shouts out to the “real” fans in the audience who might catch the errors, compared to these in-text naïve avatars (cf. Hose 1991: 154, 161). In the case of the Chalcidean women, this might demonstrate an affirmational mode of engaging with Homer’s Iliad along with its affirmational fans, who “privilege ‘correct’ authorial interpretations” (Scott 2013a: 442). This appeal to affirmational fans continues as Euripides’s fan-chorus shows curiosity with marginal figures of the Iliad’s catalogue, details only the most devoted Iliadic fans might remember.40 These include Gouneus (IA 278–280), a hero who appears at Iliad 2.748–755 and then never shows up again in the epic,41 and Nireus, a very minor figure in the Iliad who appears here in the IA, echoing the Iliad’s assertion that he is “the most beautiful Achaian” (κάλλιστον Ἀχαιῶν, IA 205; Il. 2.673) (Torrance 2013: 84). The chorus’s inclusion of other, more culturally persistent heroes like Diomedes (199–200) and the Aiantes (192–194) also contributes to this affirmational mode, with which the catalogue form finds a natural affinity.The affirmational, after all, offers “rules established

38 The cross-gender representation of both is interesting and might be worth further inves- tigation: does the fanboy auteur displace his own “feminized” fannish-ness onto a female character in order to assert more strongly his own masculine auteurship? For gender and fanboy auteurs, see Scott 2013a. 39 Contra Allen 1901: 348: “We cannot suppose that Euripides made these alterations designedly. The numerals have no literary value in themselves, and it does not seem likely that patriotism or antiquarian zeal had made the size of the contingents a living question.” See the same page for a full account of the differences in ship counts between the Iliad and Iphigenia in Aulis. The parodos’s number of Athenian ships is higher than that of Homer, which might also appeal to a specifically Athenian Homeric fandom. See Gibert 2011: 399. Jouan suggests that these changes demonstrate the Cypria’s influence (1966: 295–297). 40 Cf. Jenkins’s discussion of marginalized characters in Star Trek as the subject of fan fiction (1992: 215). 41 Torrance asks, “Why include this obscure figure, when many other options were avail- able, if not to indicate a purposeful intertextual connection with the Iliad?” (2013: 84). We could tentatively argue that Euripides is appealing to the Iliad fans, those who will share his obscure knowledge of the epic, while also displaying a fan-creator desire to “fill in the blanks” through expansion on that minor figure.

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access 140 kozak on how the characters are and how the universe works” (obsession_inc 2009), just as a catalogue can collapse time, essentially giving a full view of the story- world, at the same time that it creates narrative paradigms for that storyworld (Sammons 2010: 195). In these ways, the parodos achieves resonance with affir- mational fans while asserting the authority of the intraditional fanboy auteur both as a “good” fan as well as a contributing creator to an existing storyworld tradition. Yet the parodos also reflects transformational aspirations primarily through two elements that we have already seen in our contemporary examples of intra- ditional fanboy auteur work: re-gendering a character or character type within a familiar form and creating or adding emotional affect or relationship to the source text. As we saw in both The Force Awakens and in Hannibal, the narrating voice for the catalogue of heroes (and, if we accept the second half of the parodos, the catalogue of ships) gender-swaps from epic’s presumably masculine voice to the represented female voice of these Chalcidean women. The disparate his- torical contexts of these texts ensure that such gender-swaps have divergent significances, but both serve to challenge or subvert audience and fan expec- tation. While gender inclusion and diversity in contemporary North American Anglo television and film production responds both to commercial concerns about audience expansion as well as socio-political concerns about representa- tion, what can we say about the Greek tragic context, where all the playwrights and actors, and possibly even all the audience, were male? Most contemporary scholars working on Iphigenia in Aulis see this shift, and some of the details that come along with it, in terms of the chorus’s narrative style, as “eroticizing” (Zeitlin 1995: 183; cf. Michelakis 2006: 42; Rabinowitz 2013: 202) or, we might say, adding an affective element to the relationship between the women and the objects of their gaze. Unlike the “neutral” Homeric narra- tor,42 these women actively desire to see what they are seeing. They have, after all, come all the way to Aulis “to see the Achaian army and the ship-speeding oars of the demigods” (Ἀχαιῶν στρατιὰν ὡς ἐσιδοίμαν / Ἀχαιῶν τε πλάτας ναυ- σιπόρους / ἡμιθέων, IA 171–173). More, as they start the parodos’s section on the heroes, the women’s desire intensifies, and that desire is framed within a feminine discourse of shame: “my cheeks blush, with fresh-blooming shame, because I want to see the shields and the tents of the armor-clad Danaans, and the crowd of horses” (φοινίσσουσα παρῇδ’ ἐμὰν / αἰσχύνᾳ νεοθαλεῖ / ἀσπίδος ἔρυμα καὶ κλισίας / ὁπλοφόρους Δαναῶν θέλουσ’/ ἵππων τ’ ὄχλον ἰδέσθαι, IA 187–191). In

42 Scodel calls the Homeric narrator’s catalogue “purely descriptive” (1997: 77).

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access searching for homeric fandom in greek tragedy 141 other words, these women are fans, and fans in a different way than the Home- ric narrator is of his narrative subjects. Lada-Richards picks up on the chorus’s ability to channel affect, “weakening the barrier between stage and auditorium through the integrative force of song and dance,” and the tragic audience’s sen- sitivity to such affect (81):

the sensibilities of classical audiences are such that a fundamental and successful channel of communication between the author, performer, and their addresses is sustained through the transfusion of emotion, the identity of shared feelings, which can be so widespread as to transcend the limits of private penthos and become a ‘common grief for the entire citizen-body.’

As the chorus turns to the ships themselves, this affect intensifies: “And then I came to the number of ships, a sight beyond even the gods’ description, (a sight) to fill my woman’s vision, a honeyed pleasure” (ναῶν δ’ εἰς ἀριθμὸν ἤλυθον / καὶ θέαν ἀθέσφατον,/ τὰν γυναικεῖον ὄψιν ὀμμάτων / ὡς πλήσαιμι, μέλινον ἁδονάν, IA 231–234). Compare this to how the Homeric narrator expresses “his” being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of ships to report (Il. 2.488–492):

πληθὺν δ’ οὐκ ἂν ἐγὼ μυθήσομαι οὐδ’ ὀνομήνω, οὐδ’ εἴ μοι δέκα μὲν γλῶσσαι, δέκα δὲ στόματ’ εἶεν, φωνὴ δ’ ἄρρηκτος, χάλκεον δέ μοι ἦτορ ἐνείη, εἰ μὴ Ὀλυμπιάδες Μοῦσαι Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο θυγατέρες μνησαίαθ’ ὅσοι ὑπὸ Ἴλιον ἦλθον·

I could not tell you about that crowd, nor name them not if I had ten tongues, and ten mouths, and an unbreakable voice and in me a bronze heart, unless the Olympian Muses, daughters of aegis-bearing Zeus remembered as many as who came beneath Ilion.

Euripides one-ups the Homeric narrator by making his catalogue not just beyond mortals without divine help but beyond the gods themselves (ἀθέσφα- τον) (Ford 2013: 10–12). More significantly, Euripides adds a clearer affect than the Homeric voice ever admits, framing the fleet’s sight not only in terms of pleasure but also in terms of appetite and taste.43 This emphasis on desire and

43 Cf. Scodel 1997: 186, who sees in “the entire parodos … a strong affective engagement of

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access 142 kozak consumption strongly argues for an implied fandom, not just of the fleet within the play but also of the catalogue form itself (cf. Lange 2002: 261–262)—the thing that can hardly be spoken even by a god. While this difference between the choral parodos and the Iliad’s introduc- tion to its Catalogue of Ships centers on affect, other clues give us more of a sense of community, and so possibly suggest Iliadic fandom.44 The first obvi- ous difference is moving from the single Homeric narrator to the chorus of Iphigenia at Aulis: the chorus necessarily suggests a community that responds together to knowledge and action. But we also see this sense of community present in how these disparate narrative voices talk about their knowledge and what and how they are narrating. When the Iliadic narrator gets overwhelmed and calls on the gods to speak, “he” clearly states: “We have only heard of their fame, and never seen it at all” (ἡμεῖς δὲ κλέος οἶον ἀκούομεν οὐδέ τι ἴδμεν, Il. 2.486). “He” contrasts this with the Muses: “You are goddesses and are present and know everything” (ὑμεῖς γὰρ θεαί ἐστε πάρεστέ τε ἴστέ τε πάντα, Il. 2.485). The Chalcidean women too, throughout the parodos, speak to their reliance on others for knowledge. When they first declare why they have come to Aulis to see the fleet, they describe them thus: “whom, in the thousand ships fair- haired Menelaus and noble Agamemnon, our husbands told us, lead to get Helen back” (οὓς ἐπὶ Τροίαν / ἐλάταις χιλιόναυσιν / τὸν ξανθὸν Μενέλαόν θ’/ ἁμέ- τεροι πόσεις / ἐνέπουσ’ Ἀγαμέμνονά τ’ εὐπατρίδαν / στέλλειν ἐπὶ τὰν Ἑλέναν, IA 173–178). While the fact that the women have heard about the fleet from their husbands subordinates their own knowledge to those men, this knowledge is significantly not divine but something discussed at home between husband and wife.The same point comes again in the final lines of the parodos, when the women say, “So there I saw the ship-fleet, the army whose gathering I’d heard about at home, and saved the memory of” (ἐνθάδ’ οἷον εἰδόμαν / νάιον πόρευμα, /45 τὰ δὲ κατ’ οἴκους κλύουσα συγκλήτου/ μνήμην σῴζομαι στρατεύματος, IA 299– 302).46 Again the women talk of having heard about the fleet at home—here unspecified who at home might have told them—implying that there is a com- munity of “fans” discussing the gathering fleet. The fact that the women then

the viewer (visual intensity, pleasure in seeing).” Cf. this hunger with Vitruvius’s view of Homer as “feeding thousands of men” (7 praef. 9). 44 “Many a time the theatrical reality constructed by Drama as a genre appears to defy con- finement to the dramatic space and to ‘spill over’ into the world of the extra-dramatic, real-life polis” (Lada-Richards 2002: 73). 45 See Stockert 1982. 46 See Zeitlin 1995: 196n38 for alternate translations and a discussion of the textual problems with this line.

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access searching for homeric fandom in greek tragedy 143 move from that secondary knowledge—“having heard” (κλύουσα)—to direct knowledge—“seeing” (εἰδόμαν; cf. 192, 210, 218)—while narrating the fleet to the audience suggests again a variation on that Platonic chain of inspiration (Ion 533d–e): a thing told, a thing seen, a thing told again. And that pattern repeats in our understanding of Euripides as an intraditional fanboy auteur, who has heard the Iliad (and perhaps the Cypria) and who now turns to sharing his own creative experience of that storyworld. The parodos of Iphigenia at Aulis suggests two of the elements of fandom that make it distinct within reception forms: affect and community. Within that mode, Euripides seems to claim himself a Homeric fan and to understand his audience, or at least part of his audience, as also being fans. This intradi- tional fanboy auteurship belies an ambition on Euripides’s part to contribute to that Homeric fandom but also leaves him vulnerable to it. This vulnerability emerges most clearly in some of the debates around the parodos’s authorship, and how critics—closest to affirmational fans—accept or reject it as “genuine” (Jouan 1966: 293):

More, lines 231–302 indicate conflict with the Iliad’s Catalogue of Ships, in their poor vocabulary and style, in the weakness of their versification, and in the failures of the metric responsio.47

Here, François Jouan sums up the belief that Iphigenia’s catalogue is simply not Iliadic enough in aesthetic terms. Jouan claims that the “most likely hypothesis” that explains these differences is that “Euripides himself did not have the last word on this chorus. It was completed by a less capable poet (maybe Euripi- des the Younger?), and, more, it has been transmitted to us in a damaged form” (1966: 293–294). With Iphigenia at Aulis’s posthumous production date, critics suggest the intervention of a second intraditional fanboy auteur. This idea presents significant possibilities in searching for a larger Home- ric fandom. Sean Gurd’s work on Iphigenia at Aulis points towards this kind of community, particularly in his analysis of Augustus Boeckh’s commentary on the play (2005: esp. 86–88). Boeckh, like Jouan, saw Euripides the Younger, like other family members of deceased authors, as an editor of Iphigenia at Aulis after Euripides’s death. But rather than focus on the Younger’s poetic inferiority, Boeckh focuses on the expansive and responsive qualities of his work. Perhaps Iphigenia at Aulis’s irregular prologue, for instance, shows the Younger’s response to Aristophanes’s criticism of Euripides’s prologues at Frogs

47 For a focus on the parodos’s problems from line 277 onward, see Stockert 1982.

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1309 (Boeckh 1808: 218). We might compare this to Euripides’s editing his own Hippolytus Kalyptomenos in reaction to audience response and producing the extant Hippolytus Stephanephoros (Gibert 1997; McDermott 2000: 239–241). More, Boeckh sees theYounger Euripides’s increased Homeric influences in the parodos’s Catalogue of Ships, likening the Younger to Sophocles as philhome- ros (1808: 236) and emphasizing the Younger’s work on an edition of the Iliad (226).48 Through Boeckh’s analysis, Euripides the Younger emerges as the con- summate intraditional fanboy auteur, a poeta imprimis criticus (“critical poet”) (236), working in both affirmational and transformative modes while respond- ing to the fan community that he works within. The beauty of how Boeckh reads this younger Euripides is that, as Gurd says (2005: 87, emphasis in origi- nal),

in Boeckh’s discussion of Euripides Minor, the portrait emerges of a re- viser who bears some striking resemblances to Boeckh himself. … Boeckh admits the he is himself a poetical critic. … This is particularly interesting because it establishes a line of similarity between ancient and modern keepers of Euripides’ text.

So we find from Euripides to Euripides the Younger to Augustus Boeckh a fan- dom connection, one that resolves around creative response to the Homeric tradition.

Conclusion

Fandom offers a strong theoretical lens for approaching Classical reception in that it simultaneously encompasses issues of authorship, affect, and commu- nity. The parodos of Iphigenia in Aulis, whether written solely by Euripides or emended by Euripides the Younger, suggests an intraditional fanboy auteur’s responsive work to Homeric epic (cf. Lange 2002: 254). In it we have a rep- resentation of fans in the chorus of Chalcidean women who operate as an affective community full of desire to see finally the Homeric heroes that they

48 Cf. Suda (epsilon 3694 Adler): Εὐριπίδης, τραγικός, τοῦ προτέρου ἀδελφιδοῦς, ὡς Διονύσιος ἐν τοῖς χρονικοῖς. ἔγραψε δὲ Ὁμηρικὴν ἔκδοσιν, εἰ μὴ ἄρα ἑτέρου ἐστί. δράματα αὐτοῦ ταῦτα· Ὀρέστης, Μήδεια, Πολυξένη. (Euripides, tragedian, nephew of the earlier, according to Dionysios’s chronicles, wrote a Homeric treatise/translation, unless it is someone else’s. He wrote these plays: Orestes, Medea, Polyxena.)

Downloaded from Brill.com09/28/2021 10:21:34PM via free access searching for homeric fandom in greek tragedy 145 have heard about. These fans demonstrate both affirmational and transforma- tional elements of fan fiction response to the Iliad, referencing the catalogue form and catalogue details from Iliad 2 while also transforming both (cf. Hose 1991: 160). This fan representation reflects the work of the intraditional fanboy- auteur himself: an Iliad fan who hopes to connect to his own community of Homeric fans, at the same time he challenges, expands, and contributes to the Iliad’s storyworld.

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