by dudeigotsablog

Monster?: form, presentation, and function

Monster-ness is everywhere, but in what capacity? For the sake of my sanity, I’ll argue that there are three ways that monster-ness can manifest in a narrative: the noun Monster, a monstrous character, or a thing which functions as a monster without necessarily being one. It may not make sense, but lets see how we go.

Monster (n): this is the most common feature of mythological stories and filmic creature features. Their provenance is dubious but often, they are the product of the supernatural and the natural; a thing born and condemned to exist in the border between humankind and that which lies beyond it. These are the creatures which live in the woods or on the fringes of human civilization and present an imminent threat to humans. see: Medusa in the myth of Perseus, Gill-man in The Creature from the Black Lagoon, Freddy from A Nightmare on Elm Street, the titular character in Candyman.

Monstrous (adj.): a character, animal, or element behaves in a manner or is presented in the manner of a monster but is not necessarily one. A human such as Hannibal Lecter enacts monstrous things and is undefinable according to the psychology of the texts, but is, as we understand, a human being. The massive “nuclear monsters” of 1950s sci-fi films feature massive animals such as the ants in Them! which have been modified through technological advances but wreak havoc on the human population. They are framed and ultimately destroyed as monsters but were ultimately human experiments. see: Hannibal Lecter in the Hannibal series, Hannibal (film and novel), Red Dragon (film and novel), and The Silence of the Lambs (film and novel).

Functional Monster (???): This is where things get muddy. In the film Alien, the Xenomorph is merely an alien creature, but it functions within the narrative as a monster (n). Although it is developed in the far reaches of space, it is born of the union between human flesh and an alien facehugger. It is an extraterrestrial life-form, but is a product of the known human world and the unknown expanse of space. It is and is not a monster. It is the immediate threat to the lives of our human characters (with some competition from “the company” and its inside man). The radiation of the reactor disaster in HBO’s Chernobyl, particularly episode two, “Please Remain Calm,” features a framing and understanding of radiation exposure as the significant, stalking threat to the three divers, and to the population of the Exclusion Zone. Invisible though it may be, it is the menace stalking the divers in the damp darkness. see: Alien, Larry Talbot in The Wolf-Man, Mrs. Voorhees in Friday the 13th, Michael Myers in the Halloween series.

Now, a character may operate in the narrative as one or more of these categories. Frankenstein’s Creature behaves in the function of a monster for much of the novel. Frankenstein’s perspective on the story portrays him as such and the Creature engages in thoroughly monstrous behavior including the murder of a child. As the Creature is born of the known human world and the unknown world of death, he can also be interpreted as a Monster. Hannibal Lecter, however, depending on the source, despite his well-known monstrous habits, does not always serve the function of the narrative’s primary monster. Although he is effectively the “boss” monster against which all the narrative’s other hunted serial killers pale in comparison, he does not feature as the monster which needs to be subdued and slain in The Silence of the Lambs nor Red Dragon. There, he is not the primary obstacle nor the primary threat, but an ever-present secondary one.

Griffin in The Invisible Man (1933 or 2020) is a man behaving monstrously and acting as the film’s primary, stalking antagonist, but he is always simply a man who has weaponized invisibility. In the Bride of Frankenstein, the Bride may be born of the same union of life and death as her intended (and effectively, her half-brother), the Creature, but never commits the heinous acts which he does. She may be a Monster, but performs no monstrous acts nor is she the narrative’s functional monster. Depending on the film, Godzilla may be a Monster due to his provenance and behave monstrously due to his propensity for destruction, but does not function as the narrative’s monster instead, acting as a protector of Japan against another foe such as King Ghidora or Mechagodzilla. In slasher films such as Halloween and Friday the 13th, the hulking killers are men, but they behave monstrously and function as the narrative’s monster.

The frame-work of this argument focuses primarily on fiction but monster-making is not limited to the realm of the fantastic. News and reporting utilize similar tactics and framing to construct Monsters out of the monstrous and construct functional monsters of the known facts. The effect is the same. A monster is constructed out of their deeds and actions while a narrative is pieced together to explain why and how it occurred. All the while, the audience is being convinced that the individual in question, is a Monster. But functionality and monstrosity do not equal a Monster. In real world, they can be the closest thing to Monsters that humanity has to offer or dangerous propaganda constructions.

by dudeigotsablog

(Personal) Uniforms

In 2015, Matilda Kahl went viral as a woman who chose to wear a uniform on a daily basis to assert for herself “an important daily reminder that frankly, I’m in control.” She recognizes that the concept of a uniform is not new and identifies that a demographic has been using this: “they call it a suit.” At the Black Girls Rock! special in 2012, Janelle Monàe, purveyor of all sartorial black and white things, stated that she “wear[s] [her] uniform to honor” her working class parents who all wore work uniforms. Per the Oxford English Dictionary, a uniform can be “a distinctive dress of uniform cut, materials, and colour worn by all the members of a particular naval, military, or other force to which it is recognized as properly belonging and peculiar” or “a distinctive uniform dress worn by the members of any civilian body or association of persons.” Although by definition, the uniform is emblematic of an association with and to something, these two separate individuals have co-opted the concept to also serve the self.

The first thing that retail taught me was the finer points of dressing in head to toe black. It was not the full, embroidered jumpsuit of my employer but a uniform nonetheless. Over my heart, a tag permanently sat. Above the peeling, plastic label that displayed my name sat that of my faceless employer, emblazoned in permanent, specialized lettering. It was a prefix to my own name. A manager once told me that we were to wear all black “so we didn’t distract the clients and customers.” We were meant to be part of the furniture. The employee is a shade that serves; a useful, void. Uniforms as a concept remind me more of erasure than of choice and control. Uniforms are dictated to the group, not necessarily chosen by the individual. Enter Monàe and Kahl.

A suit, saddle shoes, and high pompadour were Monàe’s uniform in her early career and she rarely strayed. When she did stray as she often does now, the color palette still tends to fall within the limits of black, white, and shades of red in public. The effect is striking and vivid. In the highly photographed and shared way that 21st century life is lived, it serves as identifiable branding. Kahl does something similar for the workplace by sourcing approximately 2 weeks’ worth of the exact same outfit. Kahl’s IG avi photo is one of never changing work accessory: her specially made neck bow. It serves as identifiable and personal branding. The obscuring effect of the uniform has been rendered personal through choice and limits.

The conscious removal of choices in a space like one’s closet can introduce a sense of control while outwardly projecting the idea of cohesion, personal style, and yes branding. Whenever I’m getting dressed for a situation that leads me to circular thinking, coming up with increasingly more complex excuses to withdraw and/or panic attacks, I fall back on my formula. Like Kohl, I use clothes to assert a sense of control not just as an outward signifier but an internal one. I have chosen to wear this secondhand, forest green duster not just because it is work appropriate, but because it makes me feel good. I love it. With it, my outfit feels complete. It is long enough to protect me from the office chill but odd enough that it never feels boring. My personal uniform has become anything that makes me feel confident enough to swallow my anxiety long enough to go outside. My brain may not be comfortable, but at least I feel comfortable in my clothes. I wouldn’t necessarily say that I have a uniform (yet) but I do have a viable outfit formula. For me, a personal proto-uniform is less about branding and more anxiety management tool. I like clothes. They afford the chance to craft an outward identity for myself instead of settling for the one society will inevitably prescribe for me. But for the sake of getting to work promptly and leaving the house at all, fewer sartorial options sounds great.