Southampton Journal of Postgraduate Humanities Issue 1 (2023)

Foreword by the Editor

While working as Assistant Editor of the Southampton Journal of Undergraduate History in 2021-22, I received enquiries from postgraduate students studying other Humanities courses asking if they could be a part of the journal. From that interest, the Southampton Journal of Postgraduate Humanities was created, and it is my absolute pleasure to be able to present the first edition.

This journal is a collaboration between seven different departments from the School of Humanities: Archaeology, English, Film Studies, History, Languages Cultures & Linguistics, Music, and Philosophy. We received 25 submissions and narrowing them down to the published articles was very difficult. These papers reflect the rich diversity of the School of Humanities, with topics ranging from the Elizabethan stage to Taiwanese cinema, prehistoric seas to language acquisition. They feature different perspectives, writing styles, and referencing systems, and together demonstrate the collective academic strength of Southampton’s Humanities students

I am incredibly grateful to the student markers who helped select the published articles: Annabel Chapman, Wei Chen, Wenzhao Gao, Katherine Masters, Megan Sheridan, Catrin Ward, and Emily Wright. Extra thanks go to the assistant editors, Lydia Boniface, Cara Duttaroy, and Sydnie O’Hara, for their invaluable contributions and effort throughout. The journal would not be complete without all your time and dedication, which has created a friendly sense of community amongst postgraduate Humanities students.

Many thanks also go to Dr. Eleanor Quince, for all her help in launching a brand-new journal, and to the wider School of Humanities for their encouragement. Personal thanks must also go to Will Clarke and Rosalind Baxter, for supporting me throughout the process

Thank you to all the students who submitted articles, even if they did not make it into the final journal. I’m very grateful to have received such high interest and so many submissions for a first issue, and you can all be very proud of the work you have produced.

Finally, a huge thank you to you, the readers! All the students have worked very hard on the journal, and we really hope you enjoy it.

Imogen Tozer Editor-in-Chief, 2022-2023

Understanding Prehistoric Maritime Activity Using Computational Modelling: The Late Bronze Age as a Case Study

Cal T. Pols

Abstract: Computational approaches have become widespread in archaeology and provide powerful tools to better understand our past. New developments in computer modelling techniques have improved our understanding of maritime landscapes and activities such as seafaring. This article presents the great utility of such approaches to deliver a nuanced understanding of maritime activity in the Late Bronze Age (LBA). New research was also completed that combined environmental (wind), human (time), and vessel performance to visualise seafaring routes in the Aegean during the LBA.

1. Introduction

Computational modelling has enabled archaeologists to theorise, investigate, and visualise human activity in the past. These applications, such as using Geographic Information Systems (GIS), have typically provided tools and analysis for terrestrial activity (Wheatley and Gillings, 2002; Conolly and Lake, 2006). More recently, computational approaches have been developed for use in understanding maritime landscapes and activities. Sophisticated models of maritime space and connectivity enable archaeologists to better understand what prehistoric seafarers may have experienced when engaging in maritime activities. These models can also visualise and quantify spatio-temporal patterns across maritime space that enables a more nuanced understanding of prehistoric seafaring.

Presented here is an evaluation of such approaches with a specific case study examining seafaring connectivity in the Late Bronze Age (LBA) Aegean. The LBA in the Aegean is a period roughly dating between c. 17000 – 900 BC (Iacono et al., 2022: 371). Previous modelling in the Aegean has tended to focus on earlier periods and on a more localised scale. This article presents new research and an approach that accounts for both human (time) and environmental (wind) factors and their impact on LBA seafaring on a broader, regional scale.

2. Computational Approaches in Maritime Modelling

Unlike terrestrial landscapes, upon which past human activities can leave their marks, the sea itself bears no trace of past activity on the surface (Berg, 2007: 389). The sea does not have the physical ‘cultural landscape’ that often provides information about routes, connectivity, and travel as in terrestrial landscapes (Van de Noort, 2011: 98). An important step in understanding ancient landscapes, as well as seascapes, is through visualisation from which recreating connectivity can be attempted

(Parker, 2001: 32). In the maritime landscape, it must be the seafarer’s perspective that we attempt to understand and reconstruct (Parker, 2001: 32).

Computational modelling offers ways of investigating seafaring in the past by estimating potential connectivity and experiences of maritime space. Sophisticated models can account for both environmental conditions, such as wind and currents, as well as human considerations such as time and energy (Leidwanger, 2013; Alberti, 2018; Safadi and Sturt, 2019). The visualisation of maritime connectivity and space, especially in a spatio-temporal approach, allows useful insights about the existing patterns in the archaeology to be extracted.

2.1 Maritime Space

Prehistoric seafaring was a complex activity and thus attempting to understand it is a challenging task (Berg, 2007). One reason for this is that our modern conceptions of space typically operate within a Cartesian paradigm, where space is absolute and is measured by distance. In the past, however, maritime space was likely not perceived in quantitative distances but rather through qualitatively experienced factors such as time and energy (Safadi and Sturt, 2019: 2).

Computational modelling from Safadi and Sturt (2019) visualised how cognitive and experiential maritime space is closely linked with time in relation to seafaring. Using cartograms, they were able to show how maritime space can stretch and compress based on the journey time of seafaring activities from different locations in the eastern Mediterranean during the Bronze Age (Figure 1) (Safadi and Sturt, 2019: 6-7). This approach adds texture and complexity to maritime space that often is depicted as a single, flat colour.

2.2 Maritime Connectivity

Conceptualising maritime space as the combination of distance and time (Mlekuž, 2014) also enables archaeologists to better understand maritime connectivity. By combining these approaches, accounting for a textured maritime space and human costs, potential seafaring connectivity can be visualised. Using computational modelling, Safadi (2018) was able to visualise the cost of maritime connection in the Bronze Age Eastern Mediterranean (Figure 2). Analysing these patterns can lead to new insights into the distribution of material culture that may have been spread through maritime activity. Computational modelling by Leidwanger (2013) also assessed potential maritime connectivity using both human (time) and environmental factors (wind). Accounting for averaged wind conditions

Figure 1 - Distortions of maritime space-time visualised for departure points in the Eastern Mediterranean Bronze Age (Safadi and Sturt, 2019: 9).

and the potential vessel performance of a Roman ship, Leidwanger (2013: 3304-3306) modelled sailing time from departure points in the eastern Aegean (Figure 3).

Figure 2 - Potential maritime connectivity visualised based on the cost of travel (Safadi, 2018: 293).

2.3 Maritime Modelling of the Bronze Age Aegean

Earlier attempts to model maritime connectivity in the Bronze Age Aegean relied mainly on geographical distances (Jarriel, 2018: 56). While these may still provide useful insights and ways of thinking about the archaeological record, newer methods can provide more nuanced understandings. For example, Jarriel (2017, 2018) used GIS cost surfaces to model maritime connectivity in the Cyclades islands during the Early Bronze Age (EBA). This modelling incorporated environmental, archaeological, and technological considerations to estimate travel time from departure points in the central Cyclades (Jarriel, 2018: 52). Jarriel’s modelling used wind data and performance estimates of early BA vessels without sails in different conditions (Figure 4) (Jarriel, 2018: 59-61). One important element of this modelling was the temporal aspect: by modelling maritime connectivity across different months of the year, we can begin to understand the maritime activities of the past at a more nuanced, ‘higher resolution’ level.

A similar computational approach was undertaken by Thompson-Webb (2017), who modelled voyage time for rowed longships and sailed Minoan craft of the EBA from various sites in the southern Aegean. Thompson-Webb’s modelling, based on Leidwanger’s work (2013), examined the impact of the physical maritime environment conditions of networks of the early Bronze Age and how these

Figure 3 – Modelling of sailing time in the eastern Aegean; (left) Halikarnassos as departure point and (right) departure from Rhodes (Leidwanger, 2013: 3306).

changed over time as vessel performance developed from rowed to sailed craft (Thompson-Webb, 2017: 55-59).

Thus far, previous modelling approaches in the Aegean have been more localised and focused mainly on the Early Bronze Age. Taking a similar methodological approach to the prior modelling and applying principles established by Leidwanger (2013), Safadi and Sturt (2019), Alberti (2018), and Jarriel (2018), modelling was completed focusing on the LBA on a more regional scale. To do so, first the maritime context on the LBA in the Aegean must be understood and explored.

Figure 4 - Path distance modelling in the Cyclades of EBA (non-sailed) watercraft account for monthly changes in wind conditions (Jarriel, 2018: 65).

3. The Late Bronze Age Aegean

3.1 Prehistoric Context

The Aegean provides some of the earliest evidence of maritime crossings in the Mediterranean. Obsidian flakes originating on the island of Melos have been found on the Greek mainland and have been estimated in date to be c. 11,000 BC (Robb and Farr, 2005: 25; Dawson, 2013: 35). Similar evidence comes from lithic assemblages on the Ionian Islands, all of which through periods of lower sea-levels remained separate from the mainland (Galanidou and Bailey, 2020: 313). More generally, the wide-scale settling of islands in the Mediterranean and the coastal spread of stylistically consistent pottery during the Neolithic indicates the maritime capabilities present in the region (Robb and Farr, 2005; Ammerman, 2010; Farr, 2010). This shows not only the skills, knowledge, and technical capacity necessary for maritime crossings but also indicates the social processes involved (Farr, 2006, 2010).

3.2 A Maritime Bronze Age

The Late Bronze Age is a period that dates to c. 1700-900BC in the European Mediterranean (Iacono et al., 2022: 371). During this period, encounters between different groups and regions developed into a maritime network of relationships (Iacono et al., 2022: 372). The ‘Palatial Period’, starting around 1400 BC, saw the emergence of several ‘palace-based states’ such as Mycenae, Tiryns, Pylos, Thebes, and Messenia (Tartaron, 2017: 14). This period had an increase in shared material culture and development of communication in the ‘Mycenaean world’ (Tartaron, 2017: 17, 2018). For example, the considerable wealth accumulated at the central sites of Mycenae and Pylos indicates important contacts with Minoan Crete (Shelton, 2012: 141). At the same time, the Eastern Mediterranean became ‘increasingly interconnected by maritime networks’ (Tartaron, 2017: 20). These maritime networks involved Crete and Cyprus as well as the more distant eastern Mediterranean and Egypt (Iacono et al., 2022: 380).

Grave artefacts from mainland burials include precious materials such as metals, gemstones, and imported objects (Iacono et al., 2022: 379). These have been interpreted as evidence of a socioeconomic and political system in the LBA that was, at least in part, facilitated by maritime connections (Iacono et al., 2022: 379). Examples of materials that must have been acquired from outside the Aegean, as they do not naturally occur there, include lapis lazuli, ivory, and copper. The origins of these are likely Afghanistan, Egypt/Levant, and Cyprus respectively (Burns, 2012: 291). Alongside the potential economic element, there is also a likelihood of socio-political influences on maritime connections. The act of maritime movement itself as well as the acquisition of foreign objects may be activities that accrue prestige and status (Broodbank, 2000: 290; Van de Noort, 2011; Burns, 2012: 292).

3.3 Watercraft

There are less than 400 depictions of ships surviving from the Bronze Age in the Mediterranean (spanning c. 2,000 years) and their use to infer ship characteristics is challenging due to their difference in stylistic and artistic conventions (Tartaron, 2018: 37). Early iconographic evidence of watercraft in the Aegean appears only in the third millennium BC with the depictions of ‘longships’ on Cycladic frying pans (Wachsmann, 1998: 70-73). Minoan seals dating to the 2nd millennium BC also depict similar vessels, although the use of these depictions to estimate vessel characteristics is understandably debated (Whitewright, 2018: 29).

Additional depictions of Minoan watercraft appear in the Miniature Fresco in the ‘West House’ on Akrotiri (Thera) (Wachsmann, 1998: 86). Supplementing this iconography with shipwreck evidence, such as the Cape Gelidonya (Bass, 1967) and Uluburun wrecks (Pulak, 1998), reconstructing the characteristics of these vessels has been attempted. However, the performance of prehistoric (LBA) watercraft is a much-debated topic and one that likely does not have any definitive answers. The performance of watercraft is a combination of environmental conditions (winds, currents, visibility), human considerations (time, experience, skills, knowledge), and technical capabilities of the vessel (rig, hull shape, size) (Whitewright, 2011; Tartaron, 2017: 81-82).

4. Methodology

4.1 TRANSIT Toolbox

The methodology of this modelling was undertaken by using a toolbox in ArcGIS Pro created by Alberti (2018). The TRANSIT toolbox calculates the time it takes to sail from a specified input location based on three key variables: wind speed, wind direction, and a horizontal factor (Alberti, 2018: 511).

The horizontal factor is an estimate of how the ‘cost’ of movement increases or decreases based on the alignment to a flow, in this case, the wind direction (Alberti, 2018: 512). This is very important for the estimation of potential sailing routes, as it determines how well a vessel can perform in relation to the wind. The values used for the horizontal factor were taken from the estimated performance of ancient vessels with a square rig (Whitewright, 2011; Alberti, 2018: 515). While many complicated factors combine to determine how well a sailing vessel can perform, the three variables that underlie this model can be considered the most fundamental for sailing in ideal conditions.

As illustrated above, the passage of time was a key factor in prehistoric seafaring. As such, the theoretical approach underpinning this modelling is Least Cost Analysis (LCA). LCA assumes that humans act in ways to reduce the ‘cost’ of an action, such as the movement between two locations

(White and Surface-Evans, 2012: 2; White, 2015: 407). Taking time as the primary ‘cost’ of seafaring, potential sailing routes were estimated by calculating the ‘Least-Cost Path’ (LCP) between specified locations. An LCP is the path of least accumulated cost between an origin and destination (Wheatley and Gillings, 2002: 137-144; Connolly and Lake, 2006: 252-255; Herzog, 2020: 333-346). In terms of modelling seafaring, the LCP is the quickest sailing route between two given locations.

4.2 Data and Workflow

The wind data used for the modelling was hourly gridded reanalysis ERA5 U and V wind component data from the Copernicus Climate Change Service (Hersbach et al., 2018). Time slices at 9.00am were taken from every other day for four different months (January, April, July, and October) over a five-year period (2017-2021). These months were selected as they are the second month of each season in order to act as a rough estimate for that season. These time slices were then averaged together to create a monthly average and was completed for five years’ worth of wind data. Modern wind data was used based on Murray’s (1987) conclusion about the comparability of ancient and modern wind conditions (see also McGrail, 2001: 89). Figure 5 outlines the overall workflow followed using ArcGIS Pro. Calculating wind direction in degrees and wind speed (magnitude) was completed using formulae from Safadi (2018: 258-259).

Origin and destination locations were then selected (Figure 6). The aim was to not reconstruct specific voyages per se, but rather to illustrate the potential maritime connectivity between different regions in the Aegean (Table 1). Out of the eight total locations, four were selected as the origin locations for the modelling; Kalamianos, Romanou, Heraklion, and Limen Tepe. Different origin locations had to be used due to the anisotropic nature of the modelling (Wheatley and Gillings, 2002: 137; White and Surface-Evans, 2012: 3). These origin locations were chosen to visualise how the maritime connectivity and sailing time changes from the different regions and bearings of sail, i.e. sailing east to west, north to south, and vice versa.

Table 1

Chosen Locations Region

Kalamianos Attica

Thorikos Attica

Tiryns Peloponnese (East)

Romanou Peloponnese (West)

Pefkakia Thessaly (North)

Heraklion Crete

Ialyssos Rhodes (Dodecanese Islands)

Limen Tepe Anatolia (West Turkey/ East Aegean)

Sites used in the modelling and the regions they represent (Source: Author).

Figure 5 – Overall workflow in ArcGIS Pro followed in order to process wind data (Source: Author).

Figure 6 – Map of the Aegean showing the sample sites used in the modelling (Source: Author).

5. Results

Figure 7 – Maps showing sailing time and LCPs using Kalamianos as the origin of departure

(Source: Author).

(Source: Author).

Figure 8 – Maps showing sailing time and LCPs using Romanou as the origin of departure

(Source: Author).

Figure 9 – Maps showing sailing time and LCPs using Heraklion as the origin of departure

6. Results

6.1 Overview

The modelling produced a series of 16 maps, 4 maps for each origin location run for the 4 months (Figures 7-10). Black lines are the generated LCPs: the quickest route between selected locations. Due to the resolution of the wind data (10km), the exact location of the LCP is likely not precisely accurate. Instead, it is better to see the LCPs as areas within which a vessel may sail and to look at the overall patterns and changes of the routes (coastal versus open water). Red lines are 1 day contours: sailing between two red lines corresponds to 1 day (24hrs). The background colour represents time in days of sail, where light blue is the fastest to purple/pink which represents the maximum time for that month. Each of the origin locations will be examined in turn below.

6.2 Kalamianos

January is the quickest month to sail, with the central Aegean, most of the Cyclades, and even east to the Turkish coast being reachable with 0.5 days of sail. In January, within one day sailing can reach from the northern Aegean, southeast corner of Crete, and across to Turkey. There are longer sailing times in July and October, particularly when sailing north towards the Bosporus. In general, routes are more coastal in January and October while the routes in April and July are more open water. There is an interesting route in April sailing to Pefkakia in the north, which goes southeast into the Cyclades before turning and bearing NE until reaching the Turkish coast and sailing up to approach from the north.

6.3 Romanou

January is the fastest month to sail, particularly sailing east; within one day the Aegean could be crossed and reach the Turkish coast. The quickest sailing in April is westward, towards Italy, a pattern repeated in October. July shows the quickest sailing is in a southward direction towards Crete and beyond. Again, sailing north in July and October is much slower than January and April. LCP routes tend to be more coastal in January, July, and October although there are exceptions. In April, routes east (Ialyssos and Limen Tepe) pass through the Cyclades.1 There is an interesting route in July to Ialyssos which sails south around the south of Crete.

1 Note: there is an error in the LCP route from Romanou to Kalamianos in April, which sails over the Isthmus.

6.4 Heraklion

January again is the fastest month to sail the Aegean in: within 1 day of sailing a majority of the central Aegean can be reached. It is however much slower to sail west in January. July and October have longer sailing times, with very slow progress west in July and north in October. In all the months, there is faster sailing south or east (as far as Rhodes in January, April, and July). Routes in January appear more direct, sailing north into central Aegean, compared to October where routes are typically coastal. An interesting approach to Greek mainland sites (Thorikos, Kalamianos, and Tiryns) is taken in April, which starts by reaching the Turkish coast near Limen Tepe before crossing west and maintaining a coastal approach. All the routes in July start with a northeast bearing, some even reaching the Turkish coast, before crossing west to the Greek mainland.

6.5 Limen Tepe

As a change, October is the quickest month to sail in departing from Limen Tepe: within 0.5 days it is possible to reach the Greek mainland (for example Thorikos), within 1 day Crete (Heraklion) can be reached, and nearly as far west as Romanou. July also has relatively quick access to the Greek mainland and Crete, which are both in 1 day of sail. It is much slower to sail south during January. LCP routes are more coastal in January and October, April is a mix of both coastal and open water, and July shows more direct/open water routes. There is an interesting change in the route sailing to Ialyssos: in January and April, routes cross west to the Greek mainland before bearing southeast, while in July and October the route follows the Turkish coast.

7. Discussion

Computational modelling can be seen as a part of a wider attempt to understand the past. As has long been recognised, maritime landscapes are complex and multi-layered landscapes (Westerdahl, 1992; Parker, 2001). Conceptualising this landscape as separate entities (sea, islands, and coastscapes) rather than an interconnected whole can limit our understanding of maritime activities (Berg, 2007: 389).

This modelling has attempted to consider both environmental and human considerations involved in prehistoric seafaring for the LBA Aegean. It can be seen as a baseline, upon which the modelling can become increasingly sophisticated. For example, by layering cost surfaces such as calculations of fetch, currents, and political associates, the model starts to become more nuanced and, potentially, more accurate. Once this is established, it would be interesting to compare these LCPs to known shipwreck locations.

Naturally, there are methodological limitations, assumptions, and simplifications inherent within any model (Leidwanger, 2013: 3303). This model does not account for currents or wave height, and diurnal wind patterns. Moreover, it was run estimate time of purely sail-driven vessels with a square sail. While LBA vessels were likely square-rigged, depictions in iconography also show them in conjunction with oars and rowing, which the model does not account for (Wachsmann, 1998; Wedde, 2000).

Humans also do not necessarily act in a ‘least cost’ way – there was likely a variety of complex reasons a particular route may be chosen. For example, commercial interests, political affiliations, or ritual passages and stops may have played a role in route selection. Moreover, calculated risk -taking is a part of any seafaring activity (Adams, 2001: 293). This may mean that people would sail in riskier or sub-optimum conditions because the benefits or rewards of the voyage were worth the increased cost. Although strict phenomenologists provide a justified critique of computer-based approaches, these methods can still provide useful tools and ways of thinking about the past (Sturt, 2006; Lilley, 2012). Both the strengths and weaknesses of computer modelling need to be recognised, as well as integrating these approaches within the wider corpus of archaeological approaches for them to reach their maximum potential.

8. Conclusion

This article has highlighted the valuable role of computational approaches in understanding maritime activities in the past. Using the Late Bronze Age as its case study, it has shown how modelling of seafaring can provide nuanced understandings of maritime space and potential connectivity. New modelling was attempted for the LBA Aegean which aimed to account for both human and environmental factors relating to seafaring. It visualised and quantified how potential seafaring and connectivity can change greatly over time and space. These spatio-temporal insights into prehistoric seafaring are important steps to understanding the rich maritime experiences from the past.

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Incorporating the Digital World into Museums: The Victoria and Albert Museum as a Case Study for Success

Libby Davis

Abstract: The incorporation of digital platforms into museums is an essential way for institutions to maintain cultural relevance. This article examines the approaches of digital incorporation, using the Victoria and Albert Museum (V&A) as a case study to recommend digital approaches to museums considering utilising digital platforms. It identifies three approaches: social media, online exhibitions, and digitally inspired exhibitions. The article explores the success of these methods, using empirical data from the V&A’s past exhibitions to highlight and compare the most successful approaches. These will then be compared to present a strategy recommendation for museums looking to incorporate the digital sphere into their own institutions. It finds that the inclusion of digitally popular topics into museum exhibitions may be the most successful and pragmatically achievable method for digital incorporation in museums.

Introduction

The modern world is ‘growing up digital’ (Flanagin and Metzger, 2008, p. 6.). Digital interest in culture grew through the pandemic, with content creation under the hashtag ‘museums’ on social media platform TikTok growing by 200% (Styles, 2021). The importance of the evolving digital world is undeniable. Museums have an opportunity to understand and utilise this to evolve alongside the 21st century, whilst engaging with an ever important and increasingly digitally engaged younger demographic (Figure 1) – an audience which museums have statistically struggled to attract (Statista, 2020)

Figure 1: Table from Ofcom report: ‘Average time spent online across computers, tablets and smartphones, per UK adult visitor per day (hours: minutes)’

18-24 year olds in the UK are spending an average of 5 hours and 6 minutes online per day, more than any other age group. (Ofcom, 2022, p. 5).

This paper explores the approaches museums can use to incorporate this digital world. These methods have been individually discussed in scholarly research, and this paper primarily uses the

Victoria and Albert Museum (V&A) in London as a case study. Throughout history, the V&A has been one of the first museums to engage with new forms of media, as outlined by French and Runyard who highlight the V&A’s quick understanding of changing media in the 1970s (2011, p. 12.). The V&A continues to be at the forefront of utilising media and is a notable example of having used three key media approaches to incorporate the digital world: posting on social media platforms, hosting online exhibitions, and curating exhibitions inspired by the digital sphere. As an example of a museum using all three approaches, we can compare the methods with one another to establish the most successful way of incorporating the digital world.

To standardise judgement of these approaches, this paper applies a set of criteria, drawn from the mission of the V&A. Two of their key missions are expanding their international reach and the provision of a learning experience (V&A, no date). A final mission of museums in general is continued interest in the museum and, as a solely digital presence contributes little revenue to a museum, it is essential for continued maintenance and collection of their exhibits.

As a result, the criteria against which this study judges the approaches are as follows:

Criteria One: Engagement with a wider audience

Criteria Two: Opportunity for a learning experience

Criteria Three: Encouragement of continued interest in a museum, ideally resulting in revenue.

This paper suggests that when these approaches are compared, social media and online exhibitions are most successful when working in conjunction, and digitally inspired exhibitions can be successful as a stand-alone method.

Social Media

One method of incorporating the digital world into museums is by utilising one of the most popular digital platforms: social media. 16-24-year-olds globally are spending on average over 3 hours per day on social media platforms (Digital Information World, 2018). As has been discussed and supported by a wide range of researchers (Fletcher and Lee, 2012; Kist, 2020), it is a huge digital platform for museums to successfully utilise and the V&A have enthusiastically engaged with it. This article will focus on two content sites used by the V&A and are generally acknowledged as two of the most popular for 16-25-year-olds: TikTok and Instagram (Statista, 2022). TikTok and Instagram are platforms for short and engaging videos, with TikTok videos limited to 3 minutes and Instagram ‘Reels’ limited to 90 seconds. Algorithms show the videos to anyone, regardless of whether they are subscribed to the channel, creating the potential for a wide-ranging audience.

The view counts of the V&A’s videos speak to their success. A recent TikTok making use of a trending sound and video style on their account currently has 26.6 million views (Vamuseum, 2022), and an Instagram reel of Harry Styles’ jumper on display at the museum has 466,000 views (Vamuseum, 2022). This social media involvement clearly demonstrates criteria one, with high engagement levels across a wide audience. It is an excellent opportunity to present some aspects of museums to a young audience and engage with their interests. The museum presents itself through short videos that cater to the style of the platform. The V&A has achieved engagement success by using trending topics, but the videos are only a few seconds long, with information limited to a video of an object on display, without any further textual information or learning opportunities. This fails to fully demonstrate criteria two, as it is a platform that can only teach briefly in a limited way. Additionally, there is little evidence that these short videos encourage further interest within museums. Whilst 26 million people viewed the aforementioned TikTok (Vamuseum, 2022), the V&A account has only 74,300 followers (Vamuseum, 2022) which is 0.27% of the number that viewed the video. As a result, we cannot assert that the V&A’s social presence successfully achieves criteria three.

The V&A’s use of social media suggests that, while it is an important part of the digital sphere and a useful tool to engage a wider and younger audience, using social media alone does not provide the opportunity for in-depth learning experiences or further interest in museums. It may instead be a jumping-off point, useful for surface-level engagement with a wider audience and provision of small amounts of information.

Online and digital exhibitions

Making exhibitions available online is another way of incorporating digital media into museums, and such digitalization was especially prevalent during the Covid-19 pandemic when museums were required to close to the public. Research has been conducted into this method, giving credence to the success of online exhibitions in general (King, 2021; Burke, 2020).

The use of online exhibitions within the V&A can be seen through their ‘Curious Alice’ reality experience, which enabled visitors to download a digital landscape of the exhibition and interact with recreations of Alice in Wonderland at home (V&A, 2021). The exhibition’s immersion in virtual reality created an extensive opportunity for audiences to consume information about the world of Alice in Wonderland and learn from it, fulfilling criteria two. The V&A took this further by having an in-person exhibit alongside their digital exhibition (V&A, 2021). In doing this, the V&A successfully hit criteria three, providing the opportunity to take the digital exhibition further in visiting the museum for a nextlevel experience of the exhibition, thus encouraging further interest with the museum and the possibility for future investment.

As a result, when examined as an exhibition in its own right, ‘Curious Alice’ is successful in criteria two and three, as a digital exhibit providing online learning experiences and having connections with the in-person exhibit, potentially encouraging visitors to engage with the museum further. However, the exhibition is set on the V&A’s website, which is not innately engaging a wider audience and may primarily be accessible to those already familiar with the museum. To tackle this, the V&A utilised their social media presence to make this online exhibition meet criteria one in engaging with a wider audience. The V&A went ‘live’ on TikTok ahead of the launch of their ‘Curious Alice’ exhibition (Styles, 2021). They hired a TikTok influencer to engage in ‘influencer marketing’, an industry worth $10 billion in 2020 which uses the fan following of a popular social media creator to successfully promote a product (Haenlein et al, 2020, p. 5.). In this case, the V&A built on the aforementioned success of their TikTok account along with a content creator with 600,000 followers (Hannah Lowther, TikTok) to promote their new exhibition. This promoted their digital exhibition among a social media audience likely already familiar with the V&A’s account. This combination of digital approaches resulted in 84,000 engagements with ‘Alice’ exhibition-based social media content and 78,000 people viewing the exhibition online (V&A, 2022, p. 17.). The in-person exhibition was the most visited of 2021, as seen in Figure 2

Alice: Curiouser and Curiouser was the most visited exhibition, with second place taken by an exhibition that ran for longer, eliminating the concern for unbalanced running lengths in numerical visitor data. (V&A, 2022 )

While a direct correlation between use of social media and visitor engagement cannot be asserted, other exhibitions did not incorporate the same digital aspects, so it is fair to say that the overall digital aspect of the exhibition contributed in some level to its success, considering the difference in visitor numbers. However, a cohesive use of digital approaches was required to achieve this success. Successful achievement of all three criteria came by utilising social media alongside online exhibitions.

Figure 2: Table of exhibition visitor numbers at the V&A 2021-2022.

Combining digital with reality: A digital inspiration

A final way that the digital world can be incorporated into museums is through the influence of the digital sphere, rather than the direct use of digital platforms. The concept of using popular culture to attract a different demographic has been briefly discussed by Golding (2013), who aligns the appeal of popular culture and youth in museums.

The V&A has used this approach with their new exhibition ‘Hallyu! The Korean Wave’, an exhibition on the increasing popularity of Korean culture (V&A, 2022). The K-culture phenomenon has been primarily influenced by the ability for a worldwide audience to access Korean culture on social media (Jin, 2016, p. vii.). Korean culture is now one of the most popular topics in the digital world. The V&A’s curation of an exhibition based on a topic so digitally popular is a different way of incorporating the power of the digital world into their museum. As this is an in-person museum, immediately criteria two is met, as people experience the exhibition in person and are provided with extensive information on the topic. Furthermore, there is a clear opportunity to succeed in criteria three. This exhibition draws people to the museum, spiking their interest, whilst also increasing revenue for the museum by charging £20 for entrance (V&A, 2022). This is the most expensive of their exhibitions, most of which are free whilst others average around £15. (V&A, 2022). This likely feeds into a desire for knowledge of Korean culture and its general popularity. The Korean pop-music (K-Pop) industry possesses a huge consumer market, with the average K-Pop fan spending up to $1,422 on merchandise per year (Meicheng, 2021). The V&A have capitalised on this, charging a little more for entry, knowing that fans will be willing spend more in order to see displays such as the outfit worn by one member of the K-Pop boyband BTS worn during a show (Vamuseum, 2022).

Criteria One is met in an alternative way, as by directly curating a museum of interest to the digital sphere they are engaging a digital audience. ‘Curious Alice’ as a museum is not of direct interest to a digital audience, so more work was needed to promote it through social media. However, ‘Hallyu’ directly appeals to an audience of digital consumers and is likely to encourage a wide range of visitors. As this is an exhibition still in progress, we are yet to see the visitor numbers, but the positive discussion across digital platforms, including Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar, (Vogue, 2022; Harper’s Bazaar, 2022) neither of whom commented on ‘Curious Alice’, suggests there is a clear interest across the digital world.

If the exhibition is as successful as evidence suggests, this digital inspiration for in-person exhibits could be the most fruitful way for museums to incorporate the evolving digital world, hitting all three criteria in one approach. However, museums may be wary of waiting until confirmed visitor numbers for this exhibition are released in Spring 2023, to see evidence of the success of this approach.

Conclusion

What we can establish is that within the V&A the most successful form of digital incorporation is likely digital inspired in-person exhibitions, as these meet all of the success criteria with one method. Social media and online exhibitions do not reach all three success criteria alone, but the combination of the two can make the incorporation of digital media platforms successful.

It is challenging given the brevity of this article to establish whether these incorporations of the digital world in the V&A can apply to other museums. However, it could be said that smaller museums, perhaps with fewer resources to invest in all three approaches to digital incorporation, could focus on one method of digital incorporation: curating exhibitions that could appeal to a digital market, such as the V&A’s ‘Hallyu’ exhibition. This is perhaps the most beneficial means as it is the most likely to meet all of the success criteria and uses only one approach. However, more research into this topic should be conducted before museums consider committing to this approach, especially as the final outcome of the V&A’s exhibition is yet to be seen, and the effect of this method on smaller museums has currently not been widely researched.

Bibliography

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The Submerged Prehistoric Record of the Adriatic Sea and its Significance for Debates in Upper Palaeolithic Research

Samuele Ongaro

Abstract: One of the largest palaeolandscapes in Europe, now lost to sea-level rise, was the Great Adriatic Plain, which at its maximum extent during the Last Glacial Maximum (LGM) covered almost half of the Adriatic Sea. This vast grassland area, crossed by numerous rivers, would have provided an attractive environment to humans, who would have moved through and settled in this landscape. Nevertheless, very few submerged prehistoric sites dated to the Palaeolithic have been found, although indirect evidence suggesting a use of this landscape by humans abounds. Therefore, this article will discuss two relevant issues of Upper Palaeolithic Research which not only could be solved by looking at evidence underwater, but also indicate the potential for Palaeolithic submerged sites to be present in the area. The first will be the Uluzzian Debate, which sees scholars interpreting this transitional industry found in Italy and Greece as the evidence for a Homo sapiens coastal migration route and early occupation of these areas. The second issue will be the use of the Adriatic region as a refugium for human populations during the LGM, which would explain the considerable evidence for contacts between different populations across the basin.

1. Introduction

The field of submerged prehistory has recently witnessed a considerable increase in interest, given the potential of underwater sites to answer questions concerning various themes, such as human dispersals and maritime adaptations (Bailey et al 2020: 20-21). Nevertheless, the Palaeolithic, compared to more recent periods, has only seen limited involvement in this trend. Yet, numerous studies have highlighted the existence of submerged Palaeolithic sites and the potential of undiscovered ones. In fact, human settlement would have focused on coastal and lowland areas n ow underwater, where a more temperate climate compared to the drier continental interior would have been present together with an abundance of aquatic resources, especially near estuaries and rivers (Cohen et al 2012; Bynoe 2018). In Europe in particular, there are vast areas that at times of lower sea-level would have provided hominins with both links between isolated regions and habitats to settle (figure 1). Among these, the Great Adriatic Plain has produced very limited evidence, but can offer considerable insights on two important issues of Upper Palaeolithic research, namely the early dispersal of Homo sapiens into Europe, and human occupation of Last Glacial Maximum (LGM) refugia. Therefore, this article will analyse the potential for the submerged Adriatic Palaeolithic record to answer these questions, arguing for the decisive significance of this submerged landscape. Despite the lack of sites, the discussion will follow a theoretical and speculative approach based on indirect evidence, also demonstrating the need for further underwater investigations.

2. Paleogeographic Context

Since the discussion will focus on a landscape that does not exist anymore, it is important to understand how the Great Adriatic plain would have looked in the upper Palaeolithic. The main factor to take into account is sea-level: this has been fluctuating in correlation with the glacial-interglacial cycle for the last 2.5 million years, and it is affected not only by the amount of water in the oceans

eustatic sea-level

but also by the land uplift following ice sheets’ weight release

glacial isostatic adjustment – and by tectonic activity (Bailey & Flemming 2008: 2153-2159). However, reconstructing sea-level in this period of time is not straightforward. In fact, due to a lack of bathymetric data, problematic dating, and inaccessibility and inadequate preservation of suitable deposits, accurate geophysical models of sea-level evolution in the Mediterranean are only available since 20 kya (Benjamin et al 2017: 39). For the Adriatic, the picture is relatively less problematic only because of the presence of sea-level indicators like speleothems from the karstic coast of Croatia (Benjamin et al 2017: 40), and marine terraces from Apulia (De Giosa et al 2019). Thus, it has been deduced that sealevel was about 60 metres lower around 50 kya, until it reached -80 metres at 29 kya and a lowstand of

Figure 11: Emerged areas during the LGM around Europe: 1) Doggerland, English Channel and Bristol Channel, 2) France Atlantic Coast, 3) Portugal Atlantic Coast, 4) Catalunya and Valencia Coast, 5) Gulf of Lion, 6) Great Adriatic/Po Plain (the focus of this article), 7) Northern Black Sea Coast and Sea of Azov, 8) Other areas, 9) Northern European Ice sheets, 10) Mountain glaciers, 11) Rivers and lakes (image from Peresani et al 2021: 130).

-120 to -140 metres at 21kya (figure 2) (Benjamin et al 2017: 40). From a paleogeographic point of view, the region was abundant with waterbodies, from the large fluvial valleys flowing through the former plain, to the system of lakes off the coast of Croatia and in the pre-alpine area (Peresani et al 2021: 133-134). Moreover, at least during the LGM, the environment seems to have been characterised by herbs and shrub-dominated steppes, swamps and marshes, and open boreal forests, with trees developing mainly on the alpine border and along rivers (figure 3) – similarly to the modern-day steppemountain border in the Altai region (Peresani et al 2021: 135-136). This picture of a ‘productive parkland steppe’ would be confirmed by the pre-LGM pollen record from Istria, which shows the presence of maple, alder, pine and larch along steppe taxa (Miracle 2007: 44-45), and also by the LGM one from the Adriatic Sea, indicating an herb-dominated grassland mixed with pine and oak (Antonioli et al 2017: 364). Therefore, now that a concrete image of the Great Adriatic Plain has been painted, it is possible to also imagine humans moving around and exploiting this vivid landscape.

Figure 12: Indicative paleogeographic map of the Great Adriatic/Po plain region during the LGM: 1) Glaciers, 2) Lakes, 3) & 4) Rivers’ megafans, 5) Upper proximal megafan belt, 6) Po River floodplain, 7) Po River delta, 8) stable surfaces supporting deeply weathered soils and loess, 9) DEM (image from Peresani et al 2021: 131).

3. A Marine Route into Europe?

The first issue that will be discussed is the possibility of a coastal dispersal into Europe by Homo sapiens around 45 kya, and the role of submerged landscapes in the Adriatic. Throughout the years it has become obvious that humans must have used coastal corridors for a quick dispersal into Asia and the Americas, and sea crossings must have been involved to reach places like Australia possibly earlier than 50 kya (Sturt et al 2018: 669-675). Yet, some scholars have doubted that similar coastal routes were used to reach Europe, as accessing the dry ‘island-poor Levant’ would not have required any maritime adaptation, meaning that populations crossing into Western Eurasia would have taken more time to generate a marine-oriented lifestyle (Broodbank 2013: 112-113). Thus, a continental route hypothesis is usually favoured, with humans moving from the Levant into Anatolia and then across the land-bridge available through the Bosphorus and Dardanelles, as well as by crossing north of the Black Sea, quickly spreading into the whole continent through the Danube corridor (Broodbank 2013: 113; Gamble 2013: 264). Traditionally, this dispersal event was associated with the Aurignacian, yet this technocomplex seems to have appeared 5,000 years earlier in Europe than in the Levant, as the site of Geißenklösterle in Germany dates to 43 kya (Gamble 2013: 262). Besides, the oldest evidence for Homo sapiens in the continent at Bacho Kiro Cave in Bulgaria, dating between 47 and 45 kya, lacks any association with Aurignacian tools (Hublin et al 2020). Therefore, it might be argued that, in order to

Figure 13: 3D schematic representation of the ecoclimatic gradients of the Altai region (Russia) which provide an analogue for the Great Adriatic/Po plain area (image from Peresani et al 2021: 136).

find any trace of a marine route into Europe, dispersals associated with Mediterranean technocomplexes predating the Aurignacian in the region must be investigated.

3.1. The Uluzzian Debate

The main evidence for a coastal dispersal into Europe comes from a route starting in Greece and continuing along the Adriatic towards Italy, which is associated with the Uluzzian industry (Papagianni 2009: 130). This technocomplex is mainly found on the Italian peninsula, as testified by sites like Grotta del Cavallo in Apulia and Grotta Fumane in Northern Italy (figure 4) dated respectively to 44.3-43 kya and 44.8-43.9 kya (Moroni et al 2013: 29), but it has also been detected in Greece. In fact, at Klisoura Cave in the North-Eastern Peloponnese, a transitional assemblage (figure 5) dated around 40 kya has been found in a deposit between a Mousterian and Aurignacian layer bearing no similarities with either of these assemblages, but yielding arched back blades and splintered pieces that are typical of the Uluzzian (Papagianni 2009: 125). However, it has been argued that the industry of Klisoura is much more blade-oriented than the standard Italian Uluzzian (Papagianni 2009: 130-131), which, based on the lowermost levels of Grotta Fumane, has been defined more as a flake industry, with typo-technological elements in common with the Mousterian (Peresani et al 2016: 51). Nevertheless, other scholars have asserted that there are considerable differences between the Mousterian and the Uluzzian, which especially at Grotta del Cavallo (figure 6) is focused on small blades’ production (Moroni et al 2018: 8-17), while it is also true that even at Fumane innovations –namely the arched backed and splintered implements – are more evident in the upper layers (Peresani et al 2016: 52). The problem with the Uluzzian-Mousterian association is that this would imply that the industry was manufactured by Neanderthals, rather than migrating Sapiens Besides, underpinning the possibility of an Uluzzian coastal route along the Adriatic is also the fact that typical Uluzzian tools appear only sporadically in North-Western Greece and are absent in the Balkans (Papagianni 2009: 131). However, if the Uluzzian appearance really reflects a coastal migration, it is not surprising that evidence has not been found along the supposed Adriatic route, given that the coast at that time would now lie submerged, making the known sites only a pale reflection of what was happening closer to the sea.

Furthermore, the association of the technocomplex with Homo sapiens is confirmed by the human molars found in the Uluzzian levels at Grotta del Cavallo (Moroni et al 2018: 17-19). Moreover, evidence from shell-beads might also contribute in favour of the coastal-Uluzzian model. In fact, based on the assumption that symbolic artefacts might provide a plausible indicator for ethnic groups – as their meaning would have to be transmitted from one generation to another – Vanhaeren and d’Errico (2006) have established clusters of sites with similar bead types, and one of these incorporates assemblages from Greece and Italy as they share particular Mediterranean shells. Although this study was conducted on Aurignacian sites, a similar situation of shared shell-beads is witnessed in the

Legend:

1. Grotta Rio Secco

2. Grotta Fumane and Grotta Ghiacciaia

3. Riparo Tagliente

4. Riparo Broion

5. Grotta La Fabbrica

6. Grotta Fossellone

7. Grotta Castelcivita

8. Grotta La Cala

9. Grotta del Cavallo, Grotta Bernardini, and Grotta Uluzzo

Figure 15: The ‘Transitional’ industry of Klisoura Cave (Greece), possibly belonging to the Uluzzian technocomplex

compare with figure 6 (image from Moroni et al 2013: 38).

Figure 16: The Uluzzian industry from Grotta del Cavallo (Italy) – compare with figure 5 (image from Moroni et al 2013: 31).

4. An Adriatic Refugium

Another relevant issue, this time more academically recognised, is one of glacial refugia, and the possibility that the Great Adriatic Plain constituted a refuge zone around 20 kya. In fact, during the LGM, while the climate was increasingly turning colder and drier around Europe, the area surrounding the Mediterranean offered relatively improved conditions: in Italy, pollen records and charcoal indicate the survival of various tree-species in Sicily, Liguria, and Tuscany, including oak, elm, and birch (Broodbank 2013: 120). Besides, while the Alpine ice-caps isolated Italy from the rest of Europe, genetic data suggests that an event known as ‘Villabruna replacement’, in which gene-flow from the Near East entered the Italian gene pool, happened at the end of the LGM, as early as 19 kya (Aneli et al 2021: 1418-1419). Such gene-transmission could have happened only through the Great Adriatic Plain, which linked the Balkans and the rest of South-Eastern Europe with Italy. Moreover, contacts between different sides of the Adriatic are attested also by the use of Apennine lithic raw materials both along the Eastern Alps and in Croatia (Peresani et al 2021: 147-151). Thus, it might be argued that the region was occupied to an extent which allowed considerable connections – which are required especially for such a marked genetic event – making the Adriatic a lost glacial refugium.

Nevertheless, there are debates on the nature of this submerged landscape: various scholars have described the Great Adriatic Plain as a highly productive array of lowland, estuarine, and coastal environments, rich in game, water and other resources (Miracle 2007: 41-42). However, Mussi, using the Po valley as an analog, has argued that the region was a cold wind-swept steppe, where the boggy and gravelly landscape would not have sustained resources for human occupation (2001: 309-313). Yet, if Istria is used as a model for the Great Adriatic Plain, quite the opposite is demonstrated: faunal remains from various caves dated to multiple periods around the LGM show not only the strong, constant presence of grassland species like horse and red deer, but also the permanent existence of open and dense vegetation areas, the former associated with hare and aurochs, the latter with boar and roe deer (Miracle 2007). What is even more interesting is the pattern of human presence, as, while during the LGM occupation is scarce all along the Istrian and Dalmatian coast, both before and after the area sees an increase in sites, which has been interpreted as an ‘optical illusion’ reflecting the shift of human presence to and from the plain during the harshest period (Miracle 2007; Broodbank 2013: 132). Finally, that the former coastline was visited is also demonstrated by perforated marine shells typical of t he lower Adriatic found at sites along the Apennines and in Northern Italy (Peresani et al 2021: 151). Therefore, it is clear that the area must have been occupied even during the LGM, when it was used as a refugium from harsher conditions on the edges of the Adriatic.

5. The Role of Submerged Prehistory

Taking everything into account, it is now evident that there are some missing pieces in the issues described above, which hinder a complete and correct interpretation of the European Upper Palaeolithic. The focus of these debates around the Adriatic region might suggest that the evidence needed is located on areas now submerged, yet, the state of submerged Palaeolithic archaeology in the basin does not look promising. Overall, there is a severe lack of sites, as only two localities – both along the Croatian coast

have yielded relevant archaeological material (figure 7). While one comprises only a single Mousterian tool, the other, Kaštel Štafilić-Resnik, has yielded several Mousterian cores and side scrapers (figure 8), and possibly some Upper Palaeolithic tools (Rossi et al 2020: 354). However, not enough information is available to determine whether these finds could be linked to a ‘transitional’ assemblage – and thus if they could be relevant to the Uluzzian debate. In fact, as already suggested above, the only way to confirm the correlation of this technocomplex with a coastal dispersal event from Greece into Italy is to find evidence of this route, which would have run along the lower plains of the Adriatic, now lying underwater. Besides, the fact that the Adriatic is the missing element in the Uluzzian model is confirmed by new sites being discovered in North-Eastern Italy (Peresani et al 2019), at the edge of the supposed dispersal route. Instead, the debate surrounding the role of the Great Adriatic Plain as an LGM refugium seems more settled towards a positive connotation of this landscape, although the area is a complete blank in terms of submerged Palaeolithic sites, which raises some doubts regarding the interpretation proposed in this article. Nevertheless, the lack of evidence should not be seen as proof for the region’s inhospitality – especially when all the indirect indicators presented above demonstrate the contrary – but rather as a sign of the poor state of research in the Adriatic: sufficient attention to submerged prehistory in the Adriatic has only been witnessed in the past decade (Rossi et al 2020: 348). Therefore, it is clear that more work should be conducted to find the evidence needed to gain a further insight into both the debates discussed here.

Figure 17: Map of submerged prehistoric sites in the Adriatic (they are all located in Croatia): two palaeolithic sites are known, Kaštel Štafilić-Resnik (marked on the map) and a single Mousterian tool found off the island of Pag (image from Rossi et al 2020: 349).

Figure 18: Mousterian tools from Kaštel Štafilić-Resnik, including a core and two flakes (image from Rossi et al 2020: 355).

6. Conclusion

In summary, it has been demonstrated that the submerged Adriatic landscape has a significant role in debates which are crucial for Upper Palaeolithic research. On one hand, the possibility of a Homo sapiens’ coastal dispersal into Europe from Greece to Italy is associated with the Uluzzian hypothesis, which requires the lower plains of the Adriatic as a route, and thus can only be confirmed by submerged sites located along this corridor. On the other, since it has been established that the region was a human refugium during the LGM, it holds the potential to reveal several submerged Palaeolithic sites. Therefore, there is a need to further investigate the area and to finally rediscover a lost part of the Upper Palaeolithic record, opening a new chapter for submerged prehistory.

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Speaking to the Present, from the Past: History as a Dramatic Tool on the Elizabethan Stage

Catrin Ward

Abstract: This article explores the argument set forth by the Elizabethan poet Sir Philip Sidney (155486) that theatre genres are constrained by being merged together. Sidney argued that the creation of plays such as tragic-comedies are unnatural as all plays only fall into one set genre. By analysing Elizabethan ‘history plays’, this article argues that Sidney’s claim is flawed, in particular for ‘history plays’ which incorporate other genres to augment a play’s didactic purpose. Using Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Greene as examples, this article argues that so-called Elizabethan ‘history plays’ are not simply recounting history, that the genre’s definition is too broad, and that they do not lose sight of the other genres that exist within them. History merges with other genres, creating a unique dramatic and political effect. The audience stand to gain valuable lessons from the past and leave performances with a greater awareness of the present: they are reminded by tragedy not to repeat history and by comedy to emulate history. The plays comment on anxieties and issues affecting the present audience, giving the play scope in the present. ‘History plays’ revoke Sidney’s claim and revel in genre-bending, which resulted in the innovative and effective power of Elizabethan history plays possessed, as they used history as a sub-genre to create awe-inspiring and inspirational plays.

‘All their plays be neither right tragedies nor right comedies, mingling kings and clowns, not because the matter so carries it, but thrust in the clown by head and shoulders to play a part in majestical matters, with neither decency nor discretion; so as neither the admiration and commiseration, nor the right sportfulness, is by their mongrel tragi-comedy obtained.’1

As quoted above, Sir Philip Sidney (1554-86) argued that play genres are constrained by being merged together, and proclaimed that blending genres is unnatural because all plays essentially have only one set genre. However, it is precisely this contrariety, what Sidney saw as a breach of decorum, that Elizabethan playwrights relished in: the mixing of theatrical genres. This is especially clear in early modern plays which incorporated history. So-called ‘history plays’ did not simply recount history – and this definition is too broad and forces us to lose sight of other genres that exist within them. In these plays, history merged with other genres, and created a unique dramatic and even political effect. Contemporary audiences were able to gain valuable lessons from the past and leave the playhouse more aware of their present, having been reminded by tragedy not to repeat history, and by comedy to emulate

1 Sir Philip Sidney, The Defence of Poetry in The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Volume B (The Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Century), 10th edition, ed. Stephen Greenblatt et al, (New York and London: W. W. Norton & Company, 2018), p. 180.

history. History was mixed with genres to augment a playwright’s message, as they commented on anxieties and issues that affected contemporary audiences and giving the play meaning. In this way, history was more of a subgenre to other genres that existed within the play. This article will argue that Sidney’s claim regarding ‘history plays’ is flawed, and by analysing the use of history in William Shakespeare’s Henry VI Part II and Richard III, Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus and Robert Greene’s Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, the article highlights that playwrights incorporated other genres to augment a play’s didactic purpose.

When Shakespeare’s First Folio was first published in 1623, it was originally titled Mr William Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories, Tragedies and categorised history as its own genre. Many of the plays within this work were categorised within genres that they would not be considered to register under today, including Richard III and the infamous King Lear which were both labelled as ‘histories’ but are now predominantly considered as tragedies. Many scholars have debated this issue, with Peter Berek highlighting that ‘genre seems especially powerful in the 1623 folio… even though the headings of individual plays are sometimes at odds with their placement in the printed book’.2 Meanwhile, Jeremy Ribner simply claims that the labels were ‘useless, for the term 'history' was applied to almost anything’.3 The instability of labelling a Shakespearean ‘history play’ not only suggests that it cannot easily be defined by a single genre, as Sidney would likely claim, but that history can be interpreted and used differently. Regarding Shakespeare’s labelling, Lawrence Dawson wrote that ‘there is nothing inevitable about the distinction’ whilst also noting that ‘Shakespeare’s contemporaries were capable of cutting up the pie differently’.4 ‘History’ as a genre thus simply belonged to Shakespeare’s folio, as Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, a tragedy that recounts the history of a real person, is more accurately labelled a ‘tragical history.’5 Similarly, Robert Greene’s Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay recounts a true story, incorporates light-hearted comedy and romance, and so is aptly labelled an ‘honourable history’.6 The different labelling demonstrates that history was incorporated in any genre and was shaped and blended differently to however the playwright desired.

The use of history better emphasised what message a playwright was conveying within their play. Irving Ribner notes how a playwrights’ purpose when writing ‘history plays’ ‘was not to present

2 Peter Berek, ‘Genres, Early Modern Theatrical Title Pages, and the Authority of Print’ in The Book of the Play: Playwrights, Stationers, and Readers in Early Modern England, ed. Marta Straznicky (Massachusetts: University of Massachusetts Press, 2006) p.159.

3 Irving Ribner, ‘The English History Play in the age of Shakespeare’, 1st ed (London: Routledge, 1965) p.6.

4 Shakespeare’s Dramatic Genres, p.14.

5 Christopher Marlowe, ‘Doctor Faustus (A Text)’ in The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Volume B (The Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Century), 10th edition, ed. Stephen Greenblatt et al (New York and London: W. W. Norton & Company, 2018) p.680.

6 Robert Greene, ‘Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay’, English Renaissance Drama: A Norton Anthology, ed., by David Bevington et al (New York & London: W. W. Norton, 2002), p. 134.

truth about the past for its own sake; [but] to use the past for didactic purposes, and writers of history… altered their material freely in order better to achieve their didactic aims’. 7 In Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, history was incorporated with both tragedy and comedy to teach audiences about the dangers of revoking religion. As we witness the true story of an overly ambitious Faustus sell his soul to necromancy, Marlowe makes it clear that damnation and hell is inevitable to anyone who chooses to revoke God, dramatizing what many Elizabethans feared would happen to them. Martha Tuck Rozett asserts that ‘for the Elizabethans, the haunting fear that they were living a life predetermined to end in damnation a fear of becoming the evil selves of their most terrible imaginings made Faustus' life a tragic reflection of what their own could be’.8 The play’s Good and Bad Angels serve as visible symbols on stage of the two choices facing Faustus, as well as the audience:

‘Good Angel: Sweet Faustus, think of heaven, and of heavenly things. Bad Angel: No Faustus, think of honour and wealth’.9

When presented with the two choices, for the audience the right choice is evident, but Faustus’s desire for knowledge is stronger than his want to repent and he chooses to ‘despair in God, and trust in Belzebub’, consequently embarking on a tragic journey he cannot return from.10

In Doctor Faustus, tragedy and comedy mingle effectively and it is the scenes in which audiences laugh at Faustus that highlight the tragedy and harsh reality of his story. In the first few scenes, Faustus’s goal to use magic to ‘resolve [him] of all ambiguities’ and to ‘wall all Germany with brass’ would at first appeal to the audience with his thirst for knowledge and desire to protect his country. 11 Audiences no doubt held high expectations for Faustus for the remainder of the play. However, what happens is quite the opposite, as the price he paid for knowledge was not worth the cost and Faustus becomes ‘reduced to using magic as a mindless game with which to escape the revolutions of his thought’.12 Playing pranks upon the Pope, including Faustus becoming invisible and snatching items out of the Pope’s hands to frighten him, is at first comic but there is also a clear underlying reminder to audiences that Faustus is damned. The Pope crosses himself, which visibly hurts and distresses Faustus. Even in the more comedic B Text play, as Faustus boxes him on the ear, the Pope

7 Ribner, p.8.

8 Martha Tuck Rozett, ‘Chapter VII: Doctor Faustus’ in The Doctrine Of Election And The Emergence Of Elizabethan Tragedy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), p.209.

9 ‘Doctor Faustus’, scene 5, ll.20-21.

10 ‘Doctor Faustus’, scene 5, l.5.

11 ‘Doctor Faustus’, scene 2, l.81, and scene 2, l.89.

12 Angus Fletcher, ‘”Doctor Faustus” and the Lutheran Aesthetic’, English Literary Renaissance Vol. 35, No. 2 (2005), p. 203.

calls out, ‘damned be this soul forever for this deed’.13 Not only does this foreshadow the end of the play, but it reminds the audience of Faustus’s fatal mistake. At the core of this comedic scene lies the undertone of tragedy. The scene’s ending further serves as a powerful warning to the audience that once you have revoked God, you are damned for life and there is no redemption:

‘No, Faustus, curse thy self, curse Lucifer, That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.’14

Here, Faustus becomes ‘more real than he has been at any other point in the play’ as his story reaches a tragic ending. 15 As he cries ‘my god, my God, look not so fierce on me!’, God does not save him.16 Knowing that this is based on a true story, the sadness of this final scene is heightened and the plays’ didactic aim is brought forward, encouraging the audience to think about their own devotion to God and avoid the same fate as Faustus.

Whilst Marlowe’s play targets the audience, other plays had a more elitest target: Queen Elizabeth I. By 1594, Queen Elizabeth at age sixty was unmarried and without an heir, and anxieties surrounding who was to succeed her were rife amongst Elizabethan audiences. That year, these fears were dramatized in Robert Greene’s Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay. Whilst comedy prevails in the play, the use of history adds serious undertones to the characters’ actions as Greene presents the plays’ didactic purposes. By romanticising 13th century Oxford, the comedy-romance incorporated history to address common anxieties around the monarchy and succession, moving the play from the past to resonate in the present. Edward’s attempt to win over Margaret is the first example of this. The play’s opening scenes are light-hearted and comedic, with Edward under disguise in Oxford to avoid his responsibilities to the crown. But upon word of the King and Eleanor Castille’s royal visit, and constant references to his status as the Prince of Wales, it becomes obvious that he cannot avoid his duty forever. Even as the audience laugh as Bacon uses his magic to stop Bungay from conducting Margaret and Lacy’s hurried wedding, with ‘the jolly friar mounted upon the devil’ watching Edward’s rage at seeing them together would momentarily stop the laughter.17 Threatening to kill Lacy, claiming ‘Edward or none shall conquer Margaret’, Edward is presented as selfish, acting upon personal desires above anything else, even if it ‘is but for lust’.18 But as Edward is about to kill Lacy, he asks himself, “Edward,

13 Christopher Marlowe, The Tragedie of Doctor Faustus (B text) (1616) Ed. Hilary Binda, Perseus Digital Library, <https://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus:text:1999.03.0011> [Accessed January 8, 2021] Act 3 Scene 2, l.1106.

14 ‘Doctor Faustus’, scene 13, ll.104-105.

15 Rozett, p. 239.

16 ‘Doctor Faustus’, scene 13, l.110.

17 ‘Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay,’ scene 6, l.174-5.

18 ‘Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay,’ scene 8, l.52, and scene 6, l.25.

art thou that famous Prince of Wales?” remembering his duty, which comes before all else. 19 He emphasises this priority to himself again, remarking: ‘conquering thyself, thou get’st the richest spoil.’20 By redirecting Edward’s sexual desire for Margaret towards Princess Eleanor and his royal duties, Greene presents a triumph of Edward’s reproductive duties, representing the importance of tyranny and maturation above personal desires. Edward became a man befitting of his title: a prince who thinks of his future. Not only is there is a clear heir to the throne, but an appropriate marriage and security of further succession. For contemporary audiences, it was almost impossible not to compare him to Queen Elizabeth I, as Edward possessed the qualities that many wanted to see in her. This is further emphasised towards the end of the play, with Bacon delivering a prophetic speech addressed to future generations:

‘From forth the royal garden of a king Shall flourish out so rich and fair a bud.’21

After ‘the stormy threats of wars shall cease’, in reference to the rule of Elizabeth, Bacon makes further no mention of a glorious future to come, implicitly suggesting that there is no future beyond her.22 The audience is left in a haunting feeling of stasis, with no knowledge of what is to come next. The speech therefore possesses a serious undertone. Describing Elizabeth as a ‘matchless flower’ could mean ‘unlike any other’ but could also be interpretated as ‘without a match’, which would have been a backhanded compliment to the childless Queen.23 This image certainly stood in contrast to the wedding that takes place within the play. The contemporary audience were not living in a time when an heir flourishes, so ‘by the 1590s, with the queen's childbearing years long over, no one could see Elizabeth as anything but the ruler who would, by her own choice, end the House of Tudor.’24 While dramatizing a prosperous and great period, the feelings of stasis meant that ‘audiences [would] leave the playhouse with no reassuring fantasy of future glory; rather, they leave knowing only that the time of their present is fading into an uncertain future.’25 Furthermore, much like the ending of Doctor Faustus, the play resonated in the contemporary present as it forced the audience to compare the past with their own lives and meditate on their future.

19 ‘Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay,’ Scene 8, l.113.

20 ‘Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay’, Scene 8, l.121.

21 ‘Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay’, Scene 16, ll.46-47.

22 ‘Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay,’ Scene 16, l.51.

23 ‘Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay’, Scene 16, l. 57.

24 Katherine Eggert, ‘Leading Ladies: Feminine Authority and Theatrical Effect in Shakespeare’s History Plays.’ in Showing Like a Queen: Female Authority and Literary Experiment in Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton, (Pensylvannia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000) pp. 51–99 (48 pages) p.74.

25 Brian Walsh, ‘"Deep Prescience": Succession and the Politics of Prophecy in "Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay,"’

Medieval & Renaissance Drama in England Vol. 23 (2010), pp. 63-85 (23 pages), p.72.

Shakespeare’s ‘history plays’ incorporated tragedy in the same way, only instead of presenting an ideal world to be emulated, Shakespeare dramatized a history that should never be repeated. In Henry VI: Part II, the history presented is the build-up to the stormy period of war foreshadowed by Bacon in his speech. Incorporating themes of revenge, death, and the downfall of a powerful figure, the play resembles a tragedy. Robert Orford notes on the three Henry VI plays that ‘Shakespeare offers us a shifting history which cannot easily be categorised, an untidy, disordered history which alters its dramatic mode, defies generic boundaries and intrigues and frustrates its audience in equal measure’.26 Tragic elements in the play serve to emphasise what happens when a country is governed by a weak monarch and a manipulative court – that an unstable balance of power can lead to tragedy. The virtuous Duke of Gloucester falls victim to this. Upon learning that his fellow lords intend to harm him, Gloucester refuses to listen as he believes that he cannot be punished or harmed by them for he has done no wrong:

‘All these could not procure me any scathe So long as I am loyal, true, and crimeless.’27

Gloucester’s virtuous faith in truth and honour convinces him that he cannot be brought down. But in this play, villainy defeats virtue, scheming wins against honourable behaviour, and he is brought down. Allowing the other lords to take Gloucester away, even though he believes him to be innocent, Henry is warned that he ‘throws away his crutch before his legs be firm to bear his body’ as because once Gloucester is gone Henry is left powerless.28 Even when Henry complains, ‘say ‘who’s a traitor? Gloucester he is none’’, nothing happens.29 Weak and unable to control his inner circle, Henry is the opposite of what the Elizabethan audiences would have wanted to see in their ruler. Katherine Eggert blames Henry’s weakness on his femininity, with Shakespeare catering to the audience’s desires to see a strong King on stage:

‘In the process of this experiment, the sequence of histories absorbs and shapes the political desires of its audience, which become theatrical desires as well: to witness and partake of a compelling masculine, rather than feminine, authority.’30

Whilst Queen Elizabeth I was by no means a weak monarch, her ‘weaker sex’ may have raised concerns in the audience, especially as she had no husband by her side. It was, after all, believed that

26 Peter Robert Orford, ‘Rewriting History: Exploring The Individuality Of Shakespeare’s History Plays,’ The Shakespeare Institute, (2006) p. 205.

27 ‘Henry VI Part II’, Act 2, Scene 4, ll.63-64.

28 ‘Henry VI Part II’, Act 3, Scene 1, ll. 189-190.

29 ‘Henry VI Part II’, Act 3, Scene 1, l.222.

30 Eggert, pp. 51–99.

Henry’s womanly softness and dependence on others was what led to the War of the Roses (14551487).

The Machiavellian Duke of York, who intends to claim the throne, serves as a warning to contemporary audiences that if a monarchy is weak, the crown can and will be won through strength, scheming and bloodshed:

‘But I am not your king

Till I be crowned, and that my sword be stained With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster.’31

The play ends with York’s successful underground plan to claim the throne, defeating the natural line of succession. The success of York eerily serves as a warning to the Queen’s court that this could easily happen again if another weak monarch holds the throne and, with no clear heir after Elizabeth, that this was not a nonsensical fear for Elizabethans. York’s Machiavellian quest for power was a common trope in other Shakespearean tragedies, such as Richard III. As the final Shakespeare play which focus on the War of the Roses, Richard’s soliloquy at the beginning of the play is extremely similar to York’s, as he sets out his plans to steal the crown from his brother, ‘determined to prove a villain.”32 Richard’s soliloquy establishes his role as a Machiavellian and, by mixing history with a classic tragic trope, his speech shakes the audience. As the man who fought against Elizabeth’s grandfather, contemporary history established him as a villain whose likeness cannot be allowed to rule again. As with York, Shakespeare’s didactic aim by adding tragic elements to these characters is to set the audience against Richard and view him as a dangerous enemy of the Tudor family.

Richard III also ends with a prophetic speech by the newly coronated Henry VII that closely resembles Bacon’s, bringing the play up to date with the contemporary audience:

“O, now, let Richmond and Elizabeth, The true succeeders of each royal house, By God's fair ordinance conjoin together! And let their heirs, God, if thy will be so.

31 ‘Henry VI Part II, Act 2, Scene 3, ll.64-66.

32 William Shakespeare, ‘Richard III’, The Folger Shakespeare. Ed. Barbara Mowat, Paul Werstine, Michael Poston, and Rebecca Niles, Folger Shakespeare Library, <https://shakespeare.folger.edu/shakespearesworks/richard-iii/> [Accessed December 7, 2020] Act 1 Scene 1, ll. 30-35.

Enrich the time to come with smooth-faced peace, With smiling plenty and fair prosperous days!”33

Similar to Bacon in his speech, Henry looks on with excitement at the prospect of marrying Elizabeth of the York family and merging the two houses, thereby ending the War of the Roses. But his excitement of producing an heir rang hollow, as the audience know their reign will not last beyond Elizabeth. Commenting on this scene, Katherine Eggert argues that ‘we can envision a bizarre face-off between Henry of Richmond, the progenitor of a monarchical line that re-established dynastic continuity, and his own granddaughter, who inherited that line's promise only to end it.’34 Henry’s assent to the throne, an event which was viewed as a joyous moment in history, was thus being used as a backhanded compliment to Elizabeth who had ended the Tudor line. As the characters in the play celebrate a prosperous new era, the contemporary audience were left to face the harsh realisation that they were living in the moment when this era was about to come to an end. Evidently, Shakespeare had incorporated history in the same way Greene, using the past to speak to the present.

Conclusively, ‘history plays’ are unique in their understanding of the present. Their use of history heightens the dramatic effect of genre, heightening a playwright’s themes and messages, drawing comparisons from the past in order to bring their plays into the present and resonate with contemporary audiences. Whether it was the religious tensions presented in Doctor Faustus, the presentation of a perfect England in Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, or the tumultuous and unpredictable events of Shakespeare’s Henry VI: Part II and Richard III, history was adapted differently to present the past in a certain manner and to aid a playwright’s didactic purposes. Thus, Sidney’s argument that the mixing of genre is a ‘mongrel’ concept is simply flawed when regarding ‘history plays’, which themselves relish in mixing genre to give plays a meaning in the present. These plays presented and used history as a tool to connect with contemporary audiences and shake them – a dramatic effect which playwrights were able to create by mixing and merging genres. Using history emphasises the genre of tragedy, in order to teach the audience that some parts of history were disturbing and should not be repeated, while comedy and romance presents a history which is prosperous and stands to teach us about what sort of life we should be emulating. Displaying that history can be shaped and changed to better present, these genres prove that plays which incorporate history can merge genres and modes effectively, all of which resulted in history becoming a powerful tool on the Elizabethan stage.

33 ‘Richard III,’ Act 5 Scene 5 l.29. 34 Eggert, p.75.

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Marlowe, Christopher, ‘The Tragedie of Doctor Faustus (B text) (1616), Ed. Hilary Binda, Perseus Digital Library, <https://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus:text:1999.03.0011> [Accessed January 8, 2021].

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Promoting the ‘Going Global’ of Taiwanese Films: The Case of the Taipei Cultural Foundation’s Film Support Policy

Yuetong He

Abstract: This article focuses on the policy development of Taiwanese cinema. In particular, it examines Taiwan’s policies to support international film and television production cooperation in recent years, using the Taipei Cultural Foundation’s International Film and Television Production Investment Program as an example. It also analyses its concrete implementation and effects. The methods of analysis include historical analysis, discourse analysis and data research. The article argues that the policy is positive in that it can facilitate the integration of Taiwan’s film and television industry into the international market, as well as increase marketing opportunities for Taipei, build its city brand and enhance the international influence of Taipei and Taiwanese cinema. Additionally, this paper suggests that the funding sources for Taiwan film support should be more market-oriented.

Introduction

Since the mid-1980s, the Taiwanese government has been exploring and reforming its film policy in order to revitalize the Taiwanese film market. It has since developed a variety of film mentorship schemes in an attempt to boost local film production through financial assistance, which has, to some extent, contributed to the positive development of the Taiwanese film industry. In recent years, Asian content has been on the rise in the global market. The Taiwanese authorities have learned from past experiences of supporting policies, and saw them as an opportunity to expand their market reach and promote urban marketing. Since 2017, the Taipei Cultural Foundation has revised and launched policies such as the Taipei City Filming Grant Program (2017), the Assistance in Film and Television Marketing (2017) and the International Film and Television Production Investment Program (2018), which have refined the supporting policies in promoting the filming and marketing aspects of the Taipei film industry. This series of measures, mainly the International Film and Television Production Investment Program, is conducive to enhancing Taipei's international image, promoting the outreach of Taiwanese films, and further integrating Taiwan's film industry into the international market.

Exploring the Path of Taiwan’s Film Support Policy Since the 1980s

In 1986, the Taiwan Information Bureau abolished the quota for foreign films. Due to the lack of market competitiveness, the Taiwanese film market began to be dominated by American and Hong Kong films 1 Furthermore, annual production of Taiwanese films fell from over 200 in the 1970s to less

1 Hung-Mi Chen, ‘Strategies for the Development of Taiwan's Film Industry under Globalisation’ (unpublished master’s thesis, National Sun Yat-sen University, 2004), p.58.

than 20 in the 1990s, and box office revenues accounted for less than 10% of the total annual box office 2 To address the film industry’s plight, the Taiwan Information Bureau set up the Taiwan Film Mentoring Grant Scheme in 1989. In practice, the grant favoured art films that did not typically sell well, and as such, many outstanding films have received funding from it, such as Hou Hsiao-Hsien’s The Puppetmaster (1993), which only grossed HK$111,96. 3 However, local filmmaking remained weak, and art films became the mainstream of Taiwanese cinema, which, while repeatedly winning awards, made Taiwanese cinema more detached from the masses. A prime example of this is that in 2003, only 15 local films were produced, with a combined box office of just NT$15 million, which was less than 1% of the total box office.4 After Taiwan acceded to the World Trade Organisation (WTO) in 2002, the Taiwanese government regarded the cultural and creative industry as a key investment area 5 As a result of this, the Information Bureau was made responsible for implementing the Film Industry Revitalization Plan. This plan adopted different modes of grant allocation for films by new and established directors, and Mainland China and Taiwan co-productions could also apply for film coaching grants to attract funding, technology, and marketing experience. Since 2010, the Taiwanese government has also set up the Flagship Film Industry Program to assist practitioners in solving the problems and needs they face in developing the Chinese language market 6 The scope of the funding has gradually expanded from the initial NT$30 million per year to the current NT$100 million 7 This has allowed it to cover the entire industry chain, including production, distribution, screening, marketing, and promotion.8

Overall, the various support policies of the Taiwanese authorities towards film in recent decades have played a positive role in the development of Taiwan’s film industry. According to statistics from the Taiwan Ministry of Culture, Taiwanese films have shown good development since 2002 in terms of the number of films produced, box office revenues and international visibility.9 Most notably, since 2008, both quantity and quality have taken off, with films such as Cape No. 7 (2008), Monga (2010), You Are the Apple of My Eye (2011), and Black & White Episode: The Dawn of Assault (2012). At the same time, while the support policies have been refined and revised along the way, their implementation has also become increasingly difficult as they have grown in scale. Even with the support of Mentoring

2 Hsiao-Yen Chen, ‘Supportive Strategies for Taiwan's Film Industry’, Contemporary Cinema, 10 (2015), 117120 (p.117).]

3 Han-Yuen Chiang, ‘New Taiwanese films have ruined Taiwan's film industry?’, Zhihu, (2020) https://zhuanlan.zhihu.com/p/20528206 [accessed 26th December 2022]; ‘The Puppet Master’, HKMDB, (2023) https://hkmdb.com/db/movies/view.mhtml?id=7839&display_set=big5 [accessed 21 March 2023]

4 Hsiao-Yen Chen, ‘Supportive Strategies for Taiwan's Film Industry’, Contemporary Cinema, 10 (2015), 117120 (p.117).]

5 Chen, p.119.

6 Chen, p.118-119.

7 Chen, p.120.

8 Ibid.

9 Ming-Che Li, ‘2021 Annual Report on the Development of Taiwan's Cultural and Creative Industries’, Taiwan Creative Content Agency, (2022) https://taicca.tw/article/f9e44cd3 [accessed 26 December 2022]

Grant Scheme, the lack of funding and the limited size of the market are still serious problems for the development of the film industry in Taiwan. 10 Therefore, it is a new challenge for Taiwan’s film industry to refine its film support policies, increase the utilization of funding and expand the market impact of films, thereby increasing commercial profits. Based on this current state of film development, the Taipei Cultural Foundation, under the auspices of the Taipei Cultural Affairs Bureau, has launched a series of new supporting policies for film production in Taipei.

The Development of the Taipei Cultural Foundation and its Film Production Support Policies

The Taipei Cultural Foundation (TCF) was established in June 1985 as a not-for-profit organization with donations from the Taipei City Government. Currently, the TCF is directly under the Cultural Affairs Bureau of the Taipei City Government. Under the delegated authority of the city government, the TCF adopts a more flexible approach than the executive authorities in implementing relevant policies11 . At the end of 2007, the TCF established the Taipei Film Commission (TFC) to provide film and television co-production services, promote international cooperation and investment, market Taipei’s cultural tourism, and serve as the most convenient service window for filmmakers in Taipei.12 In October 2017, the Cultural Affairs Bureau of the Taipei City Government further refined the scope of the Taipei City Filming Grant Program in accordance with Article 8 of the Taipei City Film and Television Filming Assistance and Investment Regulations. This stipulates that any film that is based on human activities, natural landscapes or historical trajectories in Taipei, is shot or postproduced in Taipei, or employs Taiwanese filmmakers, will be eligible for assistance 13

For international film productions, the TFC officially launched the International Film and Television Production Investment Program in September 2018, which has a total annual investment budget of NT$30 million from the city government. This will ensure the dissemination of Taipei elements in productions and help the Taiwanese film and television industry to learn from the production experience of outstanding foreign teams 14 This will then raise the standard of the Taiwanese film industry and open international channels. It will also achieve the effect of ‘world capital coming

10 Yen-Kai Hu, ‘Supportive Strategies for Taiwan’s Film Industry’, Contemporary Cinema, 8 (2012), 108-112 (112).

11 Tien-Shen Li, ‘The Dilemma of Government Contributions to the Accountability Mechanism of Corporations

- The Taipei Cultural Foundation as an Example’, Journal of the National Open University, 28 (2015), 1-30 (4).

12 ‘Written Report on The Statutory Functions, Role and Corporatization of the Taipei Cultural Foundation’, Taipei City Council, (2019) https://obasfront.tcc.gov.tw:8080/Agenda/DownloadFile.aspx?FileName=201900002903.pdf&FilePath= 201910&FileGrpKind=1 [accessed 22 December 2022]

13 ‘Taipei City Government Cultural Affairs Bureau Film Production Subsidy Application Guideline’, Laws & Regulations Database of Taipei City, (2017)

https://www.laws.taipei.gov.tw/Law/LawSearch/LawInformation?lawId=P31E3010-20170930# [accessed 26 December 2022]

14 ‘About the International Film and Television Production Investment Program’, Taipei Film Commission, (2018) https://fund.filmcommission.taipei/about.aspx [accessed 26 December 2022]

in and Taiwan film and television going out’ 15 According to the scheme, the amount of investment in each case will be decided by the vetting committee of the TFC but cannot exceed 49% of the total investment of the applicant’s project 16 In other words, the filmmakers cannot rely entirely on the investment amount from the committee and must obtain more than half of the shooting cost through another channel. This also ensures that the scale of funding for film production can reach a certain level, closer to the ‘commercial blockbuster’, which is conducive to the ultimate test of the market. The first phase of the program was officially opened for application in September 2018. By 2022, the program had assisted 20 film and television projects with a total investment of NT$83.5 million, involving 13 joint venture countries, and 27 domestic and international film production companies spanning East Asia, North America, and Europe 17

Features of the International Film and Television Production Investment Program and its Effectiveness

So far, six films have been completed under the International Film and Television Production Investment Program, namely Wet Season (2019), Love Talk (2020), Dead & Beautiful (2021), Moneyboys (2021), GATAO - The Last Stray (2021) and Terrorizers (2021). These projects showcase the diversity of the program. In terms of subject matter, the TFC has set no limits and this is reflected in the plethora of genres produced which range from dramas, urban films, and romances, to fantasy thrillers and family films that discuss homosexuality. In addition to these, there have also been adaptations of Japanese novels and sequels to local movie franchises. By having no limits, the TFC has allowed for the exploration of each project’s subject matter and facilitated their combination with elements of Taipei. Through doing this, they showcase the city’s landscape and culture in different periods or areas.

In terms of collaborating countries, the project has further expanded its possibilities with Asian countries, such as Japan, Korea, and Singapore, who are geographically close and have a certain basis for exchange and cooperation in the film industry. In addition to these countries, however, the project has also enabled collaboration with European countries, such as France, the Netherlands and Austria, who rarely collaborate. This shows ambition to break through existing markets. In particular, there have been multiple collaborations with countries with thriving film industries, such as France, which are conducive to opening up the marketing of Taiwanese films and enhancing the competitiveness of Taiwanese cinema. This fresh cultural collaboration and diversity can broaden the breadth of the market

15 ‘The 1st Taipei International Film & Television Investment Conference 2019’, Yam News, (2019) https://n.yam.com/Article/20190401214008 [accessed 26 December 2022]

16 ‘Taipei Film Fund Notice ’, Taipei Film Commission, (2022) https://fund.filmcommission.taipei/page.aspx?id=45 [accessed 26 December 2022]

17 ‘Taipei Film Fun d ’, Taipei Film Commission, (2022) https://fund.filmcommission.taipei/index.aspx [accessed 26 December 2022]

This challenges the strong creative clusters with production strength and continuity, thus facilitating success on a transnational scale. In terms of creative teams, most of the TFC’s projects are the work of independent directors involved in screenwriting, as well as some of the new generations of creators who have lived experience in different cultures. Take, for example, David Verbeek, the Dutch director and screenwriter of Dead & Beautiful, who graduated from the Amsterdam Film School in 2005 with a degree in directing and has had experience shooting in mainland China and Taiwan 18 The program gives creators from different cultures the opportunity to showcase their work, which provides a good platform for cross-cultural exchange.

In terms of production, the production companies have a local presence. For example, Giraffe Pictures, the producer of Wet Season, is a boutique Asian film company specializing in creative and visual cinema 19 The films produced by the company reflect stories that span different cultures and countries in Asia. They have a particularly strong audience in Southeast Asia and have been nominated for numerous awards at international film festivals, as well as the Taiwan Golden Horse Awards (such as ILO ILO). 20 Working with the company will also further deepen the integration and exchange between Singapore’s top cultural and entertainment talents and the Taiwanese industry, producing more outstanding Asian stories. In terms of distribution, cross-country collaborations make it easier for films to circulate in international markets and gain recognition and support from the countries where they are made. Wet Season was released in 27 countries and regions spanning five continents, these included the UK, India, Thailand, Brazil, Egypt and Australia.21 In addition to its theatrical release, Dead & Beautiful was also released on Shudder, the leading thriller streaming platform in North America and the UK, in November of the same year.22

In terms of markets, Taiwan’s local box office is the perfect example. The best-grossing film was the local franchise’s sequel, GATAO, which broke NT$160 million, becoming the box office champion of the 2021 Chinese New Year season in Taiwan.23 As a representative of the local gangster films that are popular with the Taiwanese market, the TFC’s investment in GATAO was raised to NT$6.5 million, and the very market-sensitive vision contributed its success as a commercial film. The rest of the film s

18 ‘David Verbeek：About’, IMDb, (2022) https://pro.imdb.com/name/nm1564826/about [accessed 26 December 2022]

19 ‘About Us’, Giraffe Pictures, (2022) https:/ /www.giraffepictures.asia/ [accessed 26 December 2022]

20 ILO ILO. Anthony Chen. Giraffe Pictures. Philippines/Singapore/Taiwan. 2013.

21 ‘Wet Season (2019): Details’, IMDb, (2019) https://pro.imdb.com/title/tt9822706/details [accessed 26 December 2022]

22 Amie Cranswick, ‘Vampire thriller Dead & Beautiful gets a trailer from Shudder’, Asian Movie Pulse, (2021) https://www.flickeringmyth.com/2021/09/vampire-thriller-dead-beautiful-gets-a-trailer-from-shudder/ [accessed 26 December 2022]

23 ‘Year of the Ox Box Office Analysis: GATAO - The Last Stray leads the way’, Yam News, (2021) https://www.thenewslens.com/article/147421/fullpage [accessed 26 December 2022]

released in Taiwan had budgets that ranged from over NT$700,000 to over NT$3 million at the local box office. Interestingly, the market response was relatively better for films with stories close to Taiwanese culture and showing Chinese people, and these typically had directors and screenwriters who were also Chinese. Popular films included, Moneyboys, Terrorizers, and Wet Season, which grossed NT$2,009,645, NT$3,878,296 and NT$1,296,558 respectively.24 This shows that the culture of Chinese life embedded in these films is a significant feature that can distinctly showcase Taiwan to the world in overseas distribution. In 2021, in an interview with Alice Chang, Deputy CEO of Taiwan Creative Content Agency, said:

Asian content has become more and more attractive in recent years, both in terms of films and in streaming TV series on international platforms, have made it possible to further promote Taiwanese content abroad ... As long as the story resonates with audiences, even if it is local and Asian, it can still be seen and may cause a stir in international markets. 25

With its relatively low costs, abundant talent and creative freedom, Taiwan has a lot to offer as a production location, but unlike the cultural environments of Hong Kong and Singapore, it is relatively difficult for Taiwanese filmmakers to reach out to the world. In terms of the positive effects of the program, as Taiwan’s first initiative for international film collaborations, it has built a new bridge for the Taiwanese film industry, allowing local filmmakers to accumulate experience in terms of resources, technology, and contacts. It has also allowed some to achieve success. Terrorizers won the Best Screenplay Award at the Philadelphia International Film Festival in the US, and Moneyboys received three nominations at the Cannes Film Festival in France. Furthermore, Wet Season won the Best Screenplay Award at the Turin Film Festival in Italy and the East Asian Film Festival in London, as well as three awards at the Pingyao International Film Festival in China. It was also highly recommended by various film media in the US. GATAO was selected by Asian Movie Pulse as one of the 15 best action films in Asia in 2021.26 These Taiwanese films demonstrate that its film industry is still thriving, despite the global pandemic.27

It is evident that Taiwan has a vibrant filmmaking scene with talent covering a variety of themes that international audiences can relate to. Furthermore, cultural differences have become a ‘niche’ for film policy to develop the content industry, and local content with elements of Taiwanese culture is the

24 ‘Taiwan Box Office Records’, illya, (2022) https://illya.tw/data/movie/ [accessed 26 December 2022]

25 Vivienne Chow, ‘Taiwan’s Virtual AFM Pavilion Packed with Breakout Pics’, Variety, (2021) https://variety.com/2021/film/asia/taiwan-afm-1235103311 [accessed 26 December 2022]

26 AMP Group,‘The 15 Best Asian Action/Martial Arts Movies of 2021’, Asian Movie Pulse, (2021) https://asianmoviepulse.com/2021/12/the-15-best-action-martial-arts-movies-of-2021/ [accessed 26 December 2022]

27 Vivienne Chow, ‘Taiwan’s Virtual AFM Pavilion Packed With Breakout Pics’, Variety, (2021) https://variety.com/2021/film/asia/taiwan-afm-1235103311 [accessed 26 December 2022]

biggest selling point for cultural content merchandise. Moreover, filming in Taipei can show more of the city’s image and social landscape, from iconic buildings to infrastructure, and diverse cultures to traditional folklore and historical heritage. All of these are conducive to promoting and marketing Taipei and Taiwan, increasing exposure and appeal on the international stage, creating tourism benefits, and revitalizing neighbouring industries. Take the five film and television investment projects announced in the first phase of the program as an example. “The five film and television productions receiving funding support are estimated to create more than 2,800 film and television jobs in Taiwan; through this investment and cooperation program, it is conservatively estimated that the next five years will bring Taipei City NT$2 billion in expected film and television peripheral benefits and tourism output.

Of course, there are still limitations and areas for improvement in the current development and implementation of the scheme. As a relatively new support policy, there are only six completed investment projects. This is not enough reference for the subsequent implementation and adjustment of the scheme, and it is difficult to understand the regularity of the international market. There are also market effects that do not meet expectations. For example, the online related box office data of Love Talk is all vacant, and the market response is low. Similarly, Terrorizers, despite having an investment of NT$5 million and an IMDb rating of 4.5/10, only made NT$704,581 at the Taiwan box office and the whole market cannot recover its costs.29 In addition to this, the mission of the TCF is to promote the development of urban arts and culture in Taipei. This is characterized by a high degree of public benefit and low profitability, and film investment is one of the few projects that may be profitable at present. Therefore, in terms of future long-term development, the TFC, under the TCF as the direct executor of film and television projects, may consider developing towards corporate operation at a later stage, referring to the successful cases of investment in films by companies. At the same time, they may wish to introduce overseas funds and private venture capital, so as to increase market investment and broaden market funding channels.30

Conclusion

From the late 1980s onwards, Taiwanese cinema began to attach importance to policy development to support local films, but until the millennium, only the Mentoring Grant Scheme could be called the

28 ‘The 1st Taipei International Film & TV Investment Conference 2019’, Yam News (2019) https://n.yam.com/Article/20190401214008 [accessed 26 December 2022]

29 ‘Dead & Beautiful (2021)’, IMDb, https://www.imdb.com/title/tt10639214/?ref_=ttawd_awd_tt [accessed 26 December 2022]; ‘Taiwan Box Office Records’, illya, (2022) https://illya.tw/data/movie/ [accessed 26 December 2022]

30 ‘Written Report on The Statutory Functions, Role and Corporatization of the Taipei Cultural Foundation’, Taipei City Council, (2019) https://obasfront.tcc.gov.tw:8080/Agenda/DownloadFile.aspx?FileName=201900002903.pdf&FilePath= 201910&FileGrpKind=1 [accessed 26 December 2022]

ancillary policy. After the millennium, the methods of support became more diversified, involving aspects different areas, such as pre-production scripting, shooting, production, and marketing. Moreover, the targets of support ranged from focusing on supporting productions from art films to commercial blockbusters, as well as local and international production. The Taipei Cultural Foundation established the Taipei Film Commission in 2008. This marked the beginning of a shift in focus to the financial assistance of Taipei’s film and television industry, and the increase the precise implementation of its policies. The International Film and Television Production Investment Program, which began in 2018, targets the lack of funding and the relatively small market for Taiwan’s film industry. It actively explores the possibilities of Taiwanese films and combines them with the international market from subject matter to production. This brings the local film industry into line with the international arena and increases the exposure of Taiwanese films as well as markets Taipei’s urban image at the same time. This forms a virtuous cycle and provides a major boost to the development of Taiwanese films at this stage. However, in terms of implementation, the program currently needs case studies to be accumulated and official reviews to allow Taiwanese films to find certain patterns in the international market. Moreover, due to the public interest nature of the TCF, the program’s market effectiveness is limited, and the source of funding remains relatively homogenous.

This article concludes by suggesting that Taiwan’s funding sources should be more marketoriented and that the Taipei Film Commission could also consider turning into a corporatised operation in the long run. By doing so, they would be actively incorporating funds from the market, such as venture capital platforms, and open up funds from large foreign production companies. Based on the professional platform parties’ knowledge of the film market, such investments have stability, can guarantee the standard of filmmaking, and are also conducive to subsequent marketing activities. Overall, the advantages of the International Film and Television Production Investment Program clearly outweigh the shortcomings, promoting diversity of expression for film creators and contributing to the further prosperity of Taiwan’s film industry. It is still worth watching their development in the long term.

Bibliography

Filmography

Black & White Episode: The Dawn of Assault, dir. by Yueh-Hsun Tsai. (Hero Pictures Co, Taiwan/China Mainland, 2012)

Cape No.7, dir. by Te-Sheng Wei. (ARS Film Production, Taiwan, 2008)

Dead & Beautiful, dir. by David Verbeek. (Lemming Film, Taiwan/Netherlands, 2021)

GATAO - The Last Stray, dir. by Jui-Chih Chiang. (Vie Vision Pictures, Taiwan/Korea, 2021)

ILO ILO, dir. by Anthony Chen. (Giraffe Pictures, Philippines/Singapore/Taiwan, 2013).

Love Talk, dir. by Chen-Ti Kuo. ( A Thousand Tree Films, Taiwan/Japan, 2020)

Monga, dir. by Chen-Zer Niu. (1 Production Film, Taiwan, 2010)

Moneyboys, dir. by C.B. Yi. (KGP Filmproduktion, Taiwan/Austria/France/Belgium, 2021).

Terrorizers, dir. by Wi-Ding Ho. (Changhe Films, Taiwan/France, 2021)

The Puppetmaster, dir. by Era Film Company. (Hsiao-Hsien Hou, Taiwan, 1993)

Wet Season, dir. by Anthony Chen. (Giraffe Pictures, Taiwan/Singapore, 2019).

You Are the Apple of My Eye, dir. by Ching-Teng Ke. (Star Ritz Productions Co, Taiwan, 2011).

Secondary Literature

‘About the International Film and Television Production Investment Program’, Taipei Film Commission, (2018) https://fund.filmcommission.taipei/about.aspx [accessed 26 December 2022]

‘About Us’, Giraffe Pictures (2022) https://www.giraffepictures.asia/ [accessed 26 December 2022].

AMP Group, ‘The 15 Best Asian Action/Martial Arts Movies of 2021’, Asian Movie Pulse, (2021) https://asianmoviepulse.com/2021/12/the-15-best-action-martial-arts-movies-of-2021/ [accessed 26 December 2022]

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The Eerie Sound of the Wind: David Lynch's Sound Dream in Mulholland Drive

Jiyan Wei

Abstract: Sound design is an important element in the construction of David Lynch's cinematic worlds. In Lynch’s Mulholland Drive (2001) the sound of the wind is used as a metaphor for uncertainty and fear, both in the dream realm and in real space. Inspired by Michel Chion's sound theory, this article discusses the relationship between the listener and the sound source from a receptive perspective and uses the sound of the wind as an entry point to examine its role in the film.

1. Introduction

American filmmaker and director David Lynch (1946-) has become synonymous with fantastic and uncanny audiovisual effects, generating a surreal universe of non-linear storytelling through the confluence of audio and visual media.1 Lynch's emphasis on the use of sound within film was first seen within his earliest works, including the short film Six Men Getting Sick (1967) and the horror film Eraserhead (1977). Both films used his signature sound of the wind, which was utilized so effectively that Lynch began to receive public attention. Thereafter, there have been numerous academic studies of sound design in Lynch's films, with Laura Cánepa considering sound design in Lynch's films in terms of cinematic horror and Mark Mazullo focusing more on Lynch’s use of pop music.2 The mixed sound tracks of Lynch's films contain humming, rumbling, pulsing, and wind effects, and his use of sound ensures his films transcend beyond the ordinary.3 In Mulholland Drive (2001), Lynch made use of the wind as a sound effect, synthesized and produced in post-production to be used in the film's camera transitions, plot, and psychological representation of the characters. This consequently gave the soundtrack equal importance to the film's images and conveyed an aural description beyond the limited pictorial representation. Using Mulholland Drive as a case study, this article analyses how Lynch uses the sound of the wind to construct the aural and visual worlds of his films, and how wind and other sound elements cooperate with each other to build the different worlds of dreams and reality.

Mulholland Drive begins with a car accident and follows Betty, a young actress, as she pursues her Hollywood dream. It then gradually reveals clues and answers about the car accident of the famous actress Camilla. Through a series of illogical events, the film then follows Diane, a woman who suffers

1 James Wierzbicki (ed.), Music, Sound and Filmmakers: Sonic Style in Cinema (Abingdon, Oxon: Taylor & Francis Group, 2012).

2 Correio, Laura Loguercio Cánepa, Rogério Ferraraz, and Fabiano Pereira de Souza. 'O Sound Design De Alan Splet Para David Lynch Sob a Perspectiva Do Horror Fílmico', Galaxia (São Paulo, online), (2019), 96-108. Martha P. Nochimson, The Passion of David Lynch: Wild at Heart in Hollywood (Austin, Texas: University of Texas Press, 2012).

3 Ibid.

with nightmares due to psychological trauma, and her feelings of guilt after she hires a killer to take revenge on Camilla for her love. This created a bizarre dream world, in which David Lynch incorporated the sound of wind. As asserted by Michel Chion, the ‘added value’ of such sounds are of expressive and informative value, enriching the images shown on the screen.4 The article will also use diagrams to follow the trajectory of the sound sequences in Mulholland Drive and explore how Lynch’s wind sounds create this ‘added value’ to the film and enhance the plot, as well as aid the development of psychological space for the characters, and transform the space between dreams and reality.5

2. The role of the sound of the wind in the plot

In Mulholland Drive, the sound of the wind is frequently present as a specific form of representation, suggesting the specificity of the plot that follows. At the timestamps 0:27:26 and 0:57:41 in the film there are two scenery shots of the city, which serve as transitions. In these scenes, while the subdued sound of the wind is not unified with the visual images, it provides the audience with an ‘estrangement effect’ between the visual (aerial shots of the city) and the auditory (the eerie sound of the wind).6 The ‘added value’ of the sound is mutual. By influencing the visual imagery, the sound allows the images to project a meaning they do not possess.7 In most films, scenery shots are often accompanied by a soundtrack or ambient sound that fits the context of the film. These include wind and other sound effects that restore a realistic sense of space. Yet in Lynch's spatial construction of dreams in Mulholland Drive, he rejects other realistic sound effects, and instead amplifies the wind. This ultimately undermines the realism of the dream realm.

4 Michel Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen (New York: Columbia University Press, 2019). p. 5.

5 Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, p. 5.

6 Bertolt Brecht, and Barnard Hewitt. 'On Chinese Acting', Tulane Drama Review, 6(1961), 130-36.

7 Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, p. 5, 19-20.

1 From 0:05:57 To 0:07:04

In a car accident in the real world, Camilla stands on a hill looking out over the cityscape.

The sound of insects, car doors slamming, the character walking in high heels. (No sound of wind)

2 From 0:27:25 To 0:27:43

3 From 0:57:43 To 0:57:54

The scenery shots appear before Adam is threatened by the capitalists.

Sound of wind.

The scenery shots appear before Adam is told he is bankrupt.

Sound of wind.

By comparing the use of sound effects in the three scenes selected in the chart above, it is possible to conclude that Lynch uses the sound of the wind in a spatial context to create a depressing and mysterious atmosphere. There is a real-world scene from 0:05:57 to 0:07:04 in which the scenery shots are accompanied by the sound of insects. Although the chirping sound emitted by nocturnally active insects is not explicitly coded as tremolo, a trembling effect, it can in fact have the same effect on the

dramatic perception of time. It keeps the audience focused and maintains minimal sensitivity to the screen's tremolo.8 The pulsing rhythm of natural ambient sounds in this series of shots, as seen in the audio waveform, is surrounded by the sounds of the characters moving around, such as the slamming of car doors and the sound of walking. The use of multiple sound effects creates a realistic soundscape of space. At the same time, the ambient sound maintains a more regular pulsing rhythm, enhancing the audience’s mental rhythms to be in synchronisation with the film's aural rhythm. In the second scene, from 0:27:25 to 0:27:43, there are two scenery shots in which the sound of the wind completely dominates the audio, presenting a denser pulse rhythm and a higher decibel performance. Because of the dense pulsing rhythm, the sound of the wind conveys a sense of oppression and creates a tense, emotional atmosphere. When the screen pans to the next scene, in which Adam, a Hollywood director in the film, and the capitalists are in a meeting, the sound of the wind stops abruptly. This demonstrates that the sound of the wind does not serve as a transition to the synchronized scenery shots, but rather possesses a suggestive and ideographic effect. Finally, in the scenery shots from 0:57:43 to 0:57:54, the sound component still consists only of wind, but is played at a relatively irregular sound sequence. Its pulsing rhythm is softer and shows fluctuations in tempo and decibel, creating a sense of tension and adding to the uncertainty of the narrative. The sound of the wind hints at what is to come, as Adam is told that he is bankrupt.

The comparison of the three scenes demonstrates how Lynch employs wind to create an oppressive aural sensation, and to hint at the development of the eerie plot. In contrast to the realistic ambient soundscape presented in scene 1, the wind sounds in scenes 2 and 3 take place in an urban setting but lack other realistic ambient sounds. Michel Chion suggests that this mixed soundscape creates an atmosphere of stable images and evokes memories of a vast space.9 High-frequency pulsing rhythms and single sound components produce narrow sound moods that amplify auras such as gloominess, eeriness, and tension. In Lynch's cinematic space, the pulsing rhythm of isolated wind sounds are both cyclical and irregular, providing the images with an unstable atmosphere and thus hinting at the specificity of the film's subsequent plot.

3. The role of wind sounds in constructing the psychological space of the characters

The combination of wind and instrumental strings are also important elements of Lynch's films They often play a role in characterization, amplifying and exaggerating real or non-realistic wind sounds to express the mental state of the characters, revealing their inner world. James Wierzbicki asserts that ‘Lynchian sound design deliberately blurs the distinction’ between diegetic music, meaning it occurs within the story, extra-diegetic music, which is super-imposed, and meta-diegetic music, which is

8 Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, p. 18-9

9 Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, p. 84-6.

influenced by the narrator.10 The sounds of wind, people, instrumental strings, and music sometimes appear together, with certain sounds continuing into different scenes. In such cases, the spatial effect of the sound is fragmented and brings the audience a mixed audiovisual experience, thus constructing a particular psychological space for the film’s characters.

Lynch foregoes real sound representation when constructing the psychological space of the characters in Mulholland Drive to emphasize the dramatic conflict of the film's effects. This allows the sound of the wind to appear where it should not, with Lynch using it to interpret the characters' inner emotions, feelings, and experiences. This approach to sound is consistent with Michel Chion's concept of ‘Phantom Audio-Vision’, which provides a sound with an aesthetic and philosophical expression. The audience must interpret this through their imaginations when hearing sound components that do not exist in the image.11

10 Wierzbicki, Music, Sound and Filmmakers: Sonic Style in Cinema, p. 183.

11 Michel Chion, Film, a Sound Art (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009).

4 From 0:15:30 To 0:16:34

Dan leads his psychiatrist down the path of a nightmare scenario, after which he sees the figurative nightmare and faints from shock.

Wind sounds, string sounds, synthesized footsteps, special effects sounds, and the voice of the psychiatrist.

5 From 1:24:39 To 1:26:35

Adam was forced to choose the actress selected by the capitalists against his will.

Wind sounds, string sounds, singing, conversations and footsteps.

The above table highlights two scenes in Mulholland Drive which use wind and instrumental strings for psychological construction. Both sounds build up the inner world of the characters in the film.12 In scene four in the table, in which Dan, a figure representing fear in Diane’s nightmare, leads his psychiatrist through a nightmare scenario, the sounds of the wind and strings are used in a special synthesis throughout. As shown on the scene’s audio waveform, the wind sound remains at a lower

12 Sigmund Freud, The Unconscious (UK: Penguin, 2008).

decibel level with a denser pulsing rhythm, creating a low and eerie aural effect as Dan and the psychiatrist walk. When Dan sees the figurative nightmare, a sharp synth effect sound appears and instantly increases in volume to the highest decibel level of the scene. This sharp , high-pitched sound effect successfully achieves a pictorial projection of sound within the unsettling ambiance created in the early stages. A terrifying close shot image of the figure’s face is used, amplifying the feelings of panic of both Dan in the dream world, and Diane in the real world. After Dan fainted, the sound of the wind and strings remain at a higher decibel level and at more dense frequency, and the post-production gives the sound an echo-like quality, creating a distant and fuzzy sound. The use of wind thus enables the audience to project a unified aural effect with that of Dan in the film.

Similarly, in the fifth scene of the table, Adam has to choose an actress against his will, and when the assistant informs him that Camilla is next in line, the sound of the wind and the strings are heard once again. When Adam puts on his headphones, the sound of the wind disappears until the capitalists arrive, when the low sound of the wind and the strings reoccur. Michel Chion argues that a regular pulse of sound makes an image predictable, whilst an irregular pulse creates suspense and makes an audience’s attention alerted.13 The sound of the wind is irregular in this scene. Its timing is not linear, and the discontinuous sound creates a tense psychological effect. This projects the image that Adam is thinking under pressure, and thus becomes the centre of the audience's attention. The sound design used here completes a wonderful ‘sound montage’ as the audience moves through the film space and shifts in character identity as Adam's headphones are taken on and off.14 Simultaneously, the sound of the wind takes the place of Adam's subjective internal voice, and the low timbre, oppressive sound and dense pulsing rhythm of the wind externalize Adam's internal struggles, contradictions, and stresses.

The combination of wind and string sounds is a device commonly used by Lynch to convey the psychology of the characters and to increase suspense. The string sounds, with their vibrato character, is a device traditionally used in opera and orchestral music, and can be used to create a sense of dramatic tension, or panic.15 Lynch's preference for the use of the sound of the wind has a similar communicative effect to the characteristics of strings, and as seen in the two examples of Scenes 4 and 5, Lynch combines the two soundscapes to construct a psychological state of instability and confusion within the characters. As Schafer argues, the signals in a soundscape may be organized into complex codes that convey nuanced messages to individuals. 16 The low wind and string sounds fill the aural space in

13 Ibid., P. 14.

14 Sergei Eisenstein, Vsevolod Pudovkin, and Grigori Alexandrov. 'A Statement on Sound (Ussr, 1928).' in Scott MacKenzie (ed.), Film Manifestos and Global Cinema Cultures: A Critical Anthology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014), pp.565-68.

15 Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, p. 18-9.

16 R Murray Schafer, The Soundscape: Our Sonic Environment and the Tuning of the World (Rochester: Destiny Books, 1977).

Diane's dream, and the audience is given a full narrative experience using virtual sound effects as they decode the scenes on the screen, as well as decoding characters' psychological spaces.

4. Real and virtual: the transformation of dream and reality by the sound of the wind

As discussed, the sound of the wind permeates Diane's dream world Lynch simultaneously constructs a difference in the sense of hearing in space, thereby using sound to affect a transition between the real world and the dream world. The sound brings the invisible into existence, and allows the audiences to locate the hidden messages, resulting in the sound being able to foreshadow outcomes of the plot.17 When the wind is present in a space it should not be in, such as indoors, this directs the audience's attention in a specific direction, building intrigue over the secrets behind the sound

The sound component of Mulholland Drive’s dream world is singular, with the use of the wind sound effects corresponding to the beginning and ending of scenes in the dream world. Michel Ch ion asserts that a successful use of sound not only changes how audiences interpret scenes but also stimulates a ‘conceptual resonance’ between images and sounds. 18 This means that a film’s use of sound can both shape the meaning of images, and bring images on the screen to life to resonate with the audience.

17 Don Ihde, Listening and Voice: Phenomenologies of Sound (Albany, NY: Suny Press, 2007). P.45-54

18 Chion, Film, a Sound Art

Diane was awakened by the cowboy.

The sound of the wind, strings, the door opening, and the cowboy's voice.

The sound of the wind, strings, the door opening, and the cowboy's voice.

The sound of wind, strings and knocking on the door.

The sounds of breathing and rubbing.

The above diagram depicts the transitions and changes in sound effects as Diane awakens from her dream state, with wind and strings remaining as fictional dream sounds. In this scene, the wind and strings change in decibel from low to high before disappearing completely, symbolizing Diane's return to reality. The synthesized sound effects, created by special production techniques, are rendered rather than real, and are used to support the development of the film's plot.19 The non-realistic sounds support

the spatial changes in the images while also mobilizing the audience's emotional attention. The sound component in Scene 1 from the first diagram, which points to a real-world scene, contains footsteps, insects, and other sounds corresponding to the real environment. It is rich, diverse, and threedimensional. On the other hand, the sound components from Scene 6 in the third diagram are monolithic, consisting primarily of low, deep strings and wind sounds of varying intensity and amplitude. The audio waveform displays a dense and compact state of wind and string sounds, creating an oppressive and heavy auditory effect that is projected onto the audience in a closed space. When the cowboy awakes Diane, the volume of the wind and strings decrease until they completely fade whilst the real sound effects increase in volume. When Diane awakens, the sound component is composed of breath and friction sounds which are clear and synchronized with the image, restoring the realistic auditory space that opens as the heavy sound source fades away. The use of wind and strings in this scene represents a transformation of the auditory projection of imagery from internal to external space, which is consistent with Diane's plot shift from the dream world to the real world.

Sound can establish different cinematic spaces using elements such as the number of channels, and volume levels. André Bazin argues that cinema can recreate an illusion of the external world with all its sounds, colors, and stereo sensations. 20 Whilst sound can reproduce real spatial information through real auditory space, it can also create non-real spatial effects. This is done through the specific use of sound effects that alter the information in real auditory space. Lynch uses the combination of wind and string sounds to create a dream world that is oppressive and hollow in its aural effects, yet they act as a suggestive key sound that helps audience distinguish the real world from the dream world.

5. Conclusion

The sound of the wind is an essential component of Lynch's cinematic sound design, enabling him to create a suggestive influence on the plot, to develop the psychological state of the characters, and to achieve various spatial shifts within his films. The combination of wind and strings creates an eerie, oppressive, and ethereal aural space in Mulholland Drive. It makes characters' emotions threedimensional and complex, externalizes Diane's subconscious feelings of guilt, unease, and panic. Wind becomes a crucial sonic component in separating reality from dreams. The ‘added value’ of wind sound makes the sensations, signals, and meanings portrayed by the visuals more tangible; in other words, the use of wind sound assists Lynch in creating a dream world of tension and unease in Mulholland Drive.21

In Lynch's films, the sound is not merely a technique – it is an art form for communicating ideas and feelings. Identifying the sound design in Lynch's films in terms of the sound of the wind permits more

20 Bazin, André. What Is Cinema? (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005).

21 Chion, Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen, p. 5.

nuanced studies and offers a fresh perspective on the significance of sound elements in the narrative of his films.

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Professors Kevin Donnelly and Louis Bayman for the help they have provided me. Thank you to Lynch’s films for enlightening my present and my future.

Bibliography

Filmography

Six Men Getting Sick, dir. by David Lynch (Pensylvania Academy of Fine Arts, 1967)

Eraserhead, dir. by David Lynch (American Film Institute, 1978).

Mulholland Dr. by David Lynch (Les Films Alain Sarde, 2001)

Secondary Literature

Bazin, André. What Is Cinema? (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005).

Brecht, Bertolt, and Barnard Hewitt. 'On Chinese Acting', Tulane Drama Review, 6(1961), 130-36. https://doi.org/10.2307/1125011.

Chion, Michel. Film, a Sound Art (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009).

Chion, Michel. Audio-Vision: Sound on Screen (New York: Columbia University Press, 2019).

Correio, Laura Loguercio Cánepa, Rogério Ferraraz, and Fabiano Pereira de Souza. 'O Sound Design De Alan Splet Para David Lynch Sob a Perspectiva Do Horror Fílmico', Galaxia (São Paulo, online), (2019), 96-108. https://doi.org/10.1590/1982-25532019340744.

Eisenstein, Sergei, Vsevolod Pudovkin, and Grigori Alexandrov. 'A Statement on Sound (Ussr, 1928).' in Scott MacKenzie (ed.), Film Manifestos and Global Cinema Cultures: A Critical Anthology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014), pp.565-68.

Freud, Sigmund. The Unconscious (UK: Penguin, 2008).

Ihde, Don. Listening and Voice: Phenomenologies of Sound (Albany, NY: Suny Press, 2007).

Mazullo, Mark. 'Remembering Pop: David Lynch and the Sound of The'60s', American Music, 23(2005), 493-513.

https://doi.org/10.2307/4153071

Nochimson, Martha P. The Passion of David Lynch: Wild at Heart in Hollywood (Austin, Texas: University of Texas Press, 2012).

Schafer, R Murray. The Soundscape: Our Sonic Environment and the Tuning of the World (Rochester: Destiny Books, 1977).

Wierzbicki, James (ed.). Music, Sound and Filmmakers: Sonic Style in Cinema (Abingdon, Oxon: Taylor & Francis Group, 2012).

Mulholland Dr. by David Lynch (Les Films Alain Sarde, 2001).

Entering a New Stage: An Analysis of the Main Drivers of the Growth of Korean cinema

Mingyue Wang

Abstract: This article explores the factors that contributed to the growth of the Korean film industry in the 1990s, along with its globalization. It argues that government funding, liberal censorship, and globalization supported by the Busan International Film Festival were the main drivers of this growth. The article discusses the success of certain government programs, such as the relaxation of censorship laws and the government grants and KOFIC's support for the film industry. It also examines their failures, such as the implementation of a screen quota system and a seat tax as well as tax exemptions. Additionally, The Busan International Film Festival is highlighted as a significant player in the regional film industry, promoting Korean cinema and helping it break into the international market. The festival's economic impact is also discussed, including its contribution to the growth of tourism and the local economy. Overall, the essay suggests that the success of the Korean film industry can be attributed to a combination of governmental support, cultural openness, and strategic industry promotion.

Once repressed, Korean cinema is now coming into the international spotlight. Korean cinema experienced periods of severe censorship and obstruction under Japanese rule (1910–1945). It faced disruption from massive shipments of Hollywood movies to the Korean market under the US Army Junta (1945–1948) and the Korean War (1950–1953), during which many Korean directors worked for the US military. As such, Korean cinema continued to struggle forty years after the war's end.1 These challenging times, to some degree, delivered a jolt to the Korean film industry. However, the 1990s saw the sunrise for lively and exuberant Korean films. The Korean domestic market was boosted: market share rose from 23% in 1996 to 35.8% in 1998, and over 50% in 2001. After 1996, Korean films continued their rapid development rate.2 The first-ever Pusan International Film Festival debuted that same year to a roaring reception, enabling Korean film culture to expand globally. For instance, Korean movies like Joint Security Area (shortlisted for the 51st Berlin International Film Festival) and Seopyeonje (Best Director and Best Actress Awards at the Shanghai International Film Festival) directed by Park Chan-wook and Lim Kwon Taek, won numerous prestigious awards at renowned international film festivals. 3 As a result, Korean culture became increasingly popular, and its audience

1 Jimmyn Parc, ‘Evaluating the Effects of Protectionism on the Film Industry: A Case Study Analysis of Korea’, in Handbook of State Aid for Film, ed. by Paul Clemens Murschetz (New York: Springer Publishing, 2018), p. 349.

2 Korean Film Commission, Korean Film Industry Annual. 1996- 2004. https://www.filmkorea.or.kr/web_page/index.php [ accessed 17 December 2022].

3 Joint Security Area, dir. by Chan-Wook Park (Myung Film, 2000); Seopyeonje, dir. by Kwon-Taek Lm (TaeHung Pictures, 1993).

gradually began to expand. With Korea growing as an ‘Asian cultural superpower,’ the cinema industry evolved into a ‘Korean Trend’, and a new appealing identity.4 The intriguing and successful history of Korean film's ascent and development, raises the question: what causes led to the rise and blossoming of Korean cinema in the 1990s? This article will analyze and provide answers from four perspectives: government reform, screen quotas, subsidies, and the Pusan International Film Festival under globalization.

Without the film industry's industrialization, liberalization, and deregulation as a result of Korea's cultural policy, Korean cinema's enormous success in the 1990s would have been challenging. As scholar David E. James claims, a necessary condition for a country's cultural business to thrive is a government that appreciates culture and is founded on a high level of cultural sector independence.5 Like in the political and social realms, any genuine artistic activity is perhaps motivated and driven by the faith that Korea will one day reclaim its overall freedom.

The first reason why the Korean film industry became lax and liberal was because the approach of Kim Young-sam’s administration (1993-1997) to movies was substantially different from that of his predecessors. The Korean scholar Woongjae Ryoo argues that Kim Young-sam understood the relevance of the high-value-added media business as a strategic national industry in the new millennium importance.6 First, in 1995 the Kim Young-sam administration passed the Film Promotion Act. This eliminated the registration and declaration mechanism for creating Korean movies. The Korean government also reclassified the film industry as a manufacturing industry in the same year.7 Both of these actions made it possible for venture capital firms to operate and take advantage of tax breaks, fostering an atmosphere that encouraged investment in the film sector and resulting in significant investment in the Korean film industry. In light of this, the Japanese Zaibatsu business conglomerates adopted the logic of investing in the film business based on globalization and other advantageous government policies and have joined the sector.8 The Korean film business has undergone numerous changes due to the Zaibatsu's activity. For instance, Samsung contributed 150 million Korean won to the creation of Marriage Story’s 600 million won ($670,000) budget. 9 With 520,000 tickets sold, Marriage Story became the year's top-grossing Korean movie.10 Therefore, the audience, who had the

4 Beng Huat Chua and Koichi Iwabuchi, ‘Korean Media’, East Asian Pop Culture: Analysing the Korean Wave, ed. by Chua Beng Huat (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2008). p. 102.

5 David E. James, Im Kwon-Taek: The Making of a Korean National Cinema, ed. by David E. James (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2001). p. 43.

6 Woongjae Ryoo, ‘The political economy of the global mediascape: the case of the South Korean film industry’, Media, Culture and Society, 30 (2008), p. 826.

7 Ibid, p. 828.

8 Darcy Paquet, New Korean cinema: breaking the waves, ed. by Darcy Paquet (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010), p. 54.

9 Marriage Story dir. by Ui-seok Kim (Shin Cine commucations, 1992)

10 Ibid, p. 55.

chance to watch a well-made and well-funded movie, and the Zaibatsu, who had more significant advantages, developed a two-way enthusiasm. Many people in the Chungmuro region of the Korean film industry have also praised the Zaibatsu for their strong participation in the sector. Director Woosuk Kang, for instance, stated that:

"No matter how much money they get from it in the end, plutocrats highly desire involvement i n the film industry. We require the active involvement of plutocrats in order to compete with Hollywood direct distribution. We applaud Zaibatsu's investment and marketing efforts from the perspective of revitalizing Korean cinema ".11

Eventually, plutocrats did become increasingly involved in the movie business and, as time passed, the box office grew more lucrative. Until 1995, they were financing between 50-100% of many Korean films after initially taking part as partial investors. 12 This provided Korean filmmakers with a more solid financial backing and gave them more room to play with their films. In addition to funding many of the well-known writers of the Korean New Wave, the Zaibatsu also demonstrated a keen interest in genre films. For example, following 1992's Marriage Story, several sexual conflict comedies were produced, including Kim Ui-Seok's That Woman, That Man 13 . It is highly probable that this encouraged the exploration of Korean film subjects and expanded the creative space. Furthermore, Korean filmmakers simultaneously had a more expansive creative space and an environment of freedom supported by state policy and funding. This provided them favorable opportunity and a new outlet for their suppressed creative urges that had been building since colonial times.

The second reason Korea has a more liberal filmmaking climate is that the Kim Dae-Jung administration (1998-2002) spearheaded a broad campaign for this liberalization or deregulation in 1999. In order to leave the implementation of film policy in the hands of the private sector, he reorganized the key institutions involved in doing so. Moreover, he abolished the Film Promotion Corporation, an official government agency operating for 26 years, and established the Film Promotion Committee.14 The more laid-back atmosphere for film production resulted in an astounding response. Contrary to the common misconception that global market forces quickly subsumed national cultures, Korean cinema's distinctiveness paints a unique picture. The market share of Korean cinema productions has been steadily rising since the new policy's adoption. Since 1996, the total number of screens in the nation has expanded by 60%. On top of this, between 1999 and 2001 there was a huge

11 Doobo Shim, ‘South Korean Media Industry in the 1990s and the Economic Crisis’, Prometheus, 20 (2002), p. 342.

12 Paquet, p. 56.

13 That Woman, That Man, dir. by Ui-seok Kim (Shin Cine Communications, 1993)

14 Ryoo, p. 829.

increase in the numbers of moviegoers, from 54.7 million to 87.9 million. Furthermore, the market share that Korean movies make up has also risen. In 1999, Korean movies made up just 40%, but this increased to 49.1% in 2001, and rose again to 55% in 2003/4.15 It could be argued that the current liberalized, industrialized, and forgiving policy of the Korean government has produced Korean films with excellent effect. However, some controversy remains. Sook-Jong Lee and Taejoon Han contend that the rapid external environmental change and the transition to neoliberal globalization since the 1990s have caused the state-centered approach to economic development to alter, in favor of a more market-based approach.16 In contrast, Judith Cherry argues that the Korean government's fundamental characteristics – namely, that it is a developmental state that engages in intervention and backing for particular industries – remain.17 This is the case with the subsidy scheme and screen quota system of Korean film policy.

These were two more distinctive Korean policies on film in the 1990s. Firstly, there is the screen quota system, which has a history that is extensive enough to provide information on the effects it had on the film industry. Although it was initially released in 1966, many people know of its existence.18 However, observers Byoungkwan Lee and Hyuhn-Suhck Bae argue that it was not thoughtfully implemented until 1993. To some extent, each country's film policy is pertinent to domestic and global contexts.19 According to Korean legislation, theatres must screen a specific amount of Korean-produced films each year20 and Carolyn Hyun-Kyung Kim tells us that ‘the intended purpose of this screen quota was to filter out Western influences’. 21 In the 1980s, South Korea was forced to eliminate import limitations that were thought to protect its film industry from trade pressure from the United States. In the 1990s, South Korea's screen quota system stipulated that only local films would be shown for at least 146 days a year.22 Nevertheless, there are two things to consider clearly amid a crowd-pleasing public opinion being promoted：

15 Korean Film Commission, 1998- 2004.

16 SookJong Lee and TaeJoon Han, ‘The demise of “Korea, Inc.”: Paradigm shift in Korea's developmental state’, Journal of Contemporary Asia, 36 (2006), p. 312.

17 Judith Cherry, ‘” Big Deal” or big disappointment? The continuing evolution of the South Korean developmental state’, The Pacific Review, 18 (2005), p. 323.

18 Jimmyn Parc, ‘Evaluating the Effects of Protectionism on the Film Industry: A Case Study Analysis of Korea’, in Handbook of State Aid for Film, ed. by Paul Clemens Murschetz (New York: Springer Publishing, 2018), pp. 350.

19 ByoungKwan Lee and HyuhnSuhck Bae, ‘The Effect of Screen Quotas on the Self-Sufficiency Ratio in Recent Domestic Film Markets’, Journal of Media Economics, 17 (2004), p. 164.

20 Parc, p. 356.

21 Carolyn HyunKyung Kim, ‘Building the K Building the Korean Film Industry's Competitiveness: Abolish the Screen Quota and Subsidize the Film Industry’, Washington International Law Journal, 9 (2000), p. 358.

22 Messerlin Patrick and Parc Jimmyn, ‘the effect of screen quotas and subsidy regime on cultural industry: a case study of french and korean film industries’, Journal of International Business and Economy, 15 (2014), p. 60.

1. One possible implication is that implementing a screen quota system has increased incentives for theatres and film importers to bring in high-caliber international films and earn more money. This may expand the options available to Korean audiences and increase the strain on the local film industry.

2. To produce many domestic films, it may be that Koreans chose to produce fast-food entertainment and lucrative films rather than considering how to develop a sustainable and profoundly globalized film market.23

Regarding the quality of Korean film, film critics have been vocal about its shortcomings. Critic Soo-Nam Kim lamented the low quality of Korean cinema because he contends that films distort or omit aspects of Korean culture, and that the country needs to catch up to its peers in the European or American film industries regarding technology and innovation. 24 Moreover Hollywood, the world's most successful creative hub, is more competitive than Korea's nascent film industry. According to market share figures, Koreans prefer to see international films. For instance, in 1997 American movies made up 64% of Korea's total box office while Korean movies made up 25% of the market. The remainder was made up of films from Hong Kong and Europe. 25 The Korean film industry, which warned that Hollywood would swiftly dominate the market with its advertising strength, compelling material, and the financial support of its parent corporation, reacted angrily to these developments.26 Therefore, screen quotas likely have not helped the Korean film industry much because they have stifled technological advancement and the creation of high-caliber movies and generated pointless competition with international films.

Secondly, the film subsidy system must also be considered. Subsidies were once viewed in Korea as a means of enhancing film quality and the ‘cultural’ content of the film industry. However, in recent years, support for subsidies has turned to more practical considerations, including the potential for the cultural sector to be a lucrative industry.27 Public subsidies, tax exemptions, and government subsidies are the three main divisions of the current Korean subsidy system. The ‘public’ subsidy is financed by a 3% seat tax on each ticket sold.28 This system sounds reliable but has numerous weaknesses. For example, cinemas that screen animated, short, or art films that have been certified by the Korean Film

23 Parc, 357.

24 Kim SooNam, ‘A tough year for Korean cinema Industry; sluggish production, lack of quality work stirs up debate on the crisis’, The Korea Herald, 22 December 1997, p. 225.

25 Joongi Kim, ‘The Viability of Screen Quotas in Korea: The Cultural Exception Under the International Trade Regime’, Korean Journal of International and Comparative Law, 26 (1998), p. 199.

26 Darcy,paquet, ‘The Korean film industry: 1992 to the present’, in Cultural policies in East Asia: dynamics between the state, arts and creative industries, ed. by Hye-Kyung Lee and Lorraine Lim (London: Palgrave MacMillan, 2014), p. 46.

27 Mersserlin, p. 66.

28 Ibid, p. 67.

Commission (KOFIC) are exempt from this tax more than 60% of the time. Initially, the system was a good starting point because these actions supported domestic animated films, emerging filmmakers, and cultural diversity. However, it appears that the Korean film industry has been distorted by this trait, which theatres routinely take advantage of. For instance, multiplex theatres have tried to dodge the 3% seat tax by showcasing many high-budget Hollywood animations.29 In this sense, the seat tax did not have much effect on cinema

Then there is the tax exemption scheme. According to available estimates, only 15.9% of small and medium sized enterprises (SMEs) could benefit from this scheme.30 It is difficult to argue that the tax exemptions benefit most film companies given the tight admission requirements, which makes it unlikely that most businesses will profit from the program. Additionally, some Korean organizations and academics have called for an expansion of the film industry's tax exemption system.31 Thus, there are still some shortcomings in the tax exemption regime. The loophole in the seat tax and the strictness of the tax exemption system may have somewhat helped the Korean film industry, however government grants and the Korea Film Revitalisation Committee (KOFIC) support for the film industry are worth mentioning.

In terms of government subsidies, South Korea has established a film investment fund with the support of public institutions and private operators, as well as KOFIC, which distributes funds through a grant application system. In addition to receiving financing from the government, KOFIC also receives tax on movie tickets. KOFIC utilizes this money for activities like talent development, equipment provision, public policy research, film production subsidies, financing loans, and the preservation and promotion of the film industry.32 This has given the Korean film business new life. However, compared to France over the same time period, Korea's subsidy amount is quite small. It represents around 4% of the overall French subsidies.33 This is a crucial reason why scholar Jimmyn Parc believes that the role of the government subsidy system in Korea is minimal.34 However, South Korea also seems to have achieved its goals with modest funding. For instance, three goals were accomplished: (1) Increasing the quantity of locally made films; (2) Raising the caliber of domestically produced films, which in turn increased audience interest; (3) Growing the market.35 In summary, the

29 SookJong Lee and TaeJoon Han, ‘The demise of “Korea, Inc.”: Paradigm shift in Korea's developmental state’, Journal of Contemporary Asia, 36 (2006), pp.320.

30 Ministry of Culture, Sport and Tourism, Analysis on improving the tax regime for the cultural content industry. https://www.kocca.kr/knowledge/research/__icsFiles/afieldfile/2011/01/18/gKELeGygkb2g.pdf [accessed 17 December 2022]

31 Parc, p.864.

32 Kofic, http://www.koreanfilm.or.kr/eng/kofic/intro.jsp [accessed 17 December 2022]

33 Mersselin, p. 69.

34 Parc, p. 866.

35 Korean Film Commission. 2008 Annual Report. https://www.filmkorea.or.kr/web_page/index.php [accessed 17 December 2022]

subsidy policy's seat tax and tax exemption scheme may play a subtle but not essential role. On the other hand, the establishment of KOFIC and government subsidies have improved the state of the Korean film industry to a degree. Of course, having a liberal administration and the support of various policies is insufficient; the next point will discuss the impact of globalization.

The Pusan International Film Festival (PIFF) must be mentioned when discussing the growth of Korean cinema on a global scale, because there is a strong possibility that it is one of the main drivers of Korean cinema's globalization. PIFF was created at a crucial juncture, and it was formed when many areas of Korean society were transitioning and experiencing turbulence. In addition, PIFF has become a significant player in the regional film industry and is now trying to break into the international market.36 To some extent, this signals the start of a crucial phase of profound change for the Korean film industry. Overall, local projects receive less emphasis in the festival's program format. However, PIFF is Korean-focused, and both local and foreign audiences have shown an interest in it. As part of Korea Vision, 12-15 films are exhibited annually in an effort to highlight the most recent Korean movies and advocate for Korea among international filmmakers.37 According to the scholar SooJeong Ahn, it is similar to how other international film festivals have used their local film sections to acquire popularity abroad: PIFF is trying to break into the global film market.38 As a result, the area's film industry has come to rely on PIFF to make sure its films are screened and distributed. The fourth year of PIFF's opening ceremony included a showing of Lee Chang-Dong's Peppermint Candy, which received a resounding audience response and high accolades from local and foreign filmmakers.39 This suggests PIFF is growing to be successful in exemplifying the internationalization of Korean cinema.

Korean cinema's quality and quantity have steadily increased as PIFF rose in prominence among regional Asian film festivals. After 1999, several new works of Korean cinema started making their world premieres at other esteemed international film festivals, including Cannes, Verus, and Berlinale. This meant that foreign viewers could watch new Korean movies outside of Pusan and, indeed, Korea. This demonstrates how Korean cinema gradually began to gain international acclaim. Here, the renowned Korean director Park Chan-wook is the prime example, due to how well-regarded his works are on the international film scene. For instance, his movies, Old Boy 40 and Sympathy for Mr.

36 SooJeong Ahn, ‘Why Pusan? The political economy of a film festival’, in The Pusan International Film Festival, South Korean cinema and globalization, ed. by SooJeong Ahn (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2012), p. 43.

37 ‘Placing South Korean cinema into the Pusan international film festival: Programming strategy in the global/local context’, in Cultural studies and cultural industries in northeast Asia: what a difference a region makes, ed. by Chris Berry and Nicola Liscutin (Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2009), pp. 79.

38 Ibid, p. 82.

39 Peppermint candy, dir. by Chang Dong Lee (Dream venture capital, 1999); Ibid, p. 84.

40 Old boy, dir. by Chan-Wook Park (Show East, 2003)

Vengeance41 all had PIFF screenings, but none had global premieres in Pusan.42 This shows that many movies have successfully made it to the international market on their own, as intended by the Korean government, without the need for a significant push by PIFF. Moreover, the PIFF affects nearby linked sectors economically. For instance, there has been a sharp rise in travel packages for the international film festival, including lodging, meals, refreshments, and festival tickets. PIFF, which had a budget of 25 billion won, brought in 250 billion, which not only helped Pusan's local economy but also highlighted the value of culture in the Korean economy.43 On a national level, it has prompted a positive expansion of cinema in cities like Pusan and Seoul, including an increase in film events.44 Therefore, PIFF has been a significant factor in the success of the Korean film industry, not only in its development but also in its globalization.

This article argued that from the 1990s onward, Korean cinema expanded due to government funding, liberal censorship, and globalization supported by the Pusan International Film Festival. This occurred despite the failure of some programs, such as screen quotas and financial assistance in the form of seat tariffs and tax exemptions. Additional factors may have also been involved in the growth of the Korean cinema business in the 1990s, and this is something that should be taken into consideration and investigated. However, despite some flaws, overall the development of Korean cinema in the 1990s was a success.

41 Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance, dir. by Chan-Wook Park (CJ Entertainment, 2002).

42 SooJeong Ahn, p. 85.

43 SooJeong Ahn, p. 51.

44 Ibid, p. 52.

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Filmography

Joint Security Area, dir. by Chan-Wook Park (Myung Film, 2000).

Old boy, dir. by Chan-Wook Park (Show East, 2003).

Peppermint Candy, dir. by Chang Dong Lee (Dream venture capital, 1999)

Seopyeonje, dir. by Kwon-Taek Lm (TaeHung Pictures, 1993).

Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance, dir. by Chan-Wook Park (CJ Entertainment, 2002)

That Woman, That Man, dir. by Ui-seok Kim (Shin Cine Communications, 1993).

Marriage Story, dir. by Ui-seok Kim (Shin Cine commutations, 1992)

An evaluation of Academic Interpretations of Vladimir Putin’s Image through visual sources

Lydia Boniface

Abstract: The public image of Russian President Vladimir Putin has become an increasingly popular research topic amongst historians due to its complex, versatile and ever-changing nature. No doubt all major politicians forge a public image to project a certain agenda, yet the image of Putin is unique in its sheer quantity of different, and sometimes even contradictory, personas and characteristics conveyed. This article will explore a variety of key academic interpretations of Putin’s image, analyse what these images are intended to project and how these projections are connected to Putin’s political agenda. The article will also offer an evaluation of these academic arguments, assessing the ideas presented, commenting on what improvements and alterations could be made to the authors’ work, and concluding with which of the interpretations are the most convincing and useful to historians. Each of the author’s interpretations explore the topic through the use of visual sources, ranging from photographs, television, film and social media, in an attempt to further understand Putin and analyse his image from a new and modern perspective.

Most modern political leaders utilise visual material to advance their political campaigns and project a certain image to the voting public – and whilst Russian President Vladimir Putin is no exception, his visual image is particularly complex, with no definitive interpretation and a vast number of characteristics. As historians have increasingly taken a visual approach in their studies following developments in technology and the digital world, the use of photographs, advertising, and film as sources of historical material has become more prominent. The turn in approach is also due to visual media’s ‘indelible impact’ on our everyday lives and the symbolism and messages these forms of media project.1 Historians studying Putin, a figure who so heavily relies on visual material for his public image, have likewise increasingly incorporated visual sources into their studies, using them t o help interpret the President and his public persona. Interpretations of Putin’s image as a post-Soviet inspired leader, a celebrity, the father of the nation, a masculine icon, and a leader who is dualistically both human and superhuman are key ideas which have dominated the historiography. Many of these interpretations overlap and amalgamate with one another, further displaying the ability of Putin’s image to be variously construed.

Julie Cassiday and Emily Johnson (2010) utilise visual sources to conclude Putin’s image projects that of a great post-Soviet leader. They assert that as Putin came into office in 2000, the

1 Jennifer Evans, ‘Historicizing the Visual’, German Studies Review, 35 (2012), 485-489 (p. 485)

Kremlin began in earnest to create an image of him that imitated Soviet cults of personality, with his portraits starting to appear in stores and schools across the country. Images of Putin hiking and fishing became seen as reflecting the strength and leadership of both the President and the nation, with ‘Putinania’ increasingly spreading through various modern media platforms for the world to see. 2 Putin’s image as a symbolic leader was created not only by the Kremlin-controlled media but also by ordinary Russians, who produce and purchase Putin iconography and thus manufacture Putin as a ‘cultural icon’ and a unifying symbol of Russian nationhood.3 The idolisation and popularity of his images, and the formation of a following, eerily reflects that of past Tsarist monarchs, Soviet leaders and, in particular, Joseph Stalin’s ‘cult of personality’. Just as Soviet society constructed its identity around Stalin’s visual image of an omniscient leader and carer of the Soviet peoples, the identity of modern Russia has become formed around the omniscient image of Putin, with this achievement partly reflected by the sheer quantity of Putin images and merchandise. Yet Cassiday and Johnson argue Putin’s image differs from that of past Soviet leaders in its modernity, noting ‘Putin mania is inherently polysemantic, highly mobile, and easily individualized’ due to technology and its consequent accessibility.4 They furthermore argue that Putin’s image differs from Stalin’s as it is ‘less frightening’ and not equipped to entrench public fear.5 While no one equates the extent of terror associated with Stalin’s image, Cassiday and Johnson’s argument has been debated. Journalist Masha Gessen argues in their Putin biography that, to some Russians, Putin’s omniscient image has become synonymous with fear and control. They detail how images of Putin on billboards and social media during the 2011 election were seen as projecting intimidation and autocracy. Particularly in light of the ongoing RussoUkrainian war (2022-), historians such as Simon Sebag Montefiore go as far as to assert that Putin is incapable of escaping the legacy and image of Stalin, and is in fact at tempting to replicate aspects of his rule to ‘secure his place in history’.6 The work of Cassiday and Johnson is, however, particularly useful in its historical references and detail, highlighting how Putin’s image and its surrounding mania imitates those of Soviet leaders and how this has been adapted and exported in the modern world. They use a wide range of visual sources, from photographs and film to images of material objects, highlighting the expansive ways Putin’s image is replicated as part of a Soviet-style cult of personality.

2 Julie Cassiday and Emily Johnson, ‘Putin, Putiniana and the Question of a Post-Soviet Cult of Personality’, The Slavonic and East European Review, 88 (2010), 681-707 (p. 691).

3 Cassiday and Johnson, p. 700.

4 Cassiday and Johnson, p. 686.

5 Cassiday and Johnson, p. 696.

6 Simon Sebag Montefiore, ‘Why Vladimir Putin is beholden to Stalin’s legacy: The Russian president has embraced the Soviet cult of fear and control. His invasion of Ukraine is a colossal gamble to secure his place in history.’, The New Statesman, <https://www.newstatesman.com/culture/2022/12/two-dictators-vladimir-putinbeholden-joseph-stalin-legacy> [accessed 02 January 2023]; Simon Sebag Montefiore and Adrian Bradley, ‘Stalin and Putin: a tale of two dictators – Audio Long Reads’, The New Statesman <https://www.newstatesman.com/podcasts/audio-long-reads/2022/04/stalin-and-putin-a-tale-of-two-dictators> [accessed 02 January 2023].

Their work has greatly influenced the field and coherently highlights the historical connections of Putin’s image.

Contrastingly, whilst Helena Goscilo (2010) agrees that elements of Putin’s image link to those of Stalin and old Soviet leaders, she asserts the President’s image is more that of a modern celebrity figure. Putin’s celebrity status was ‘ascribed… achieved… [and] attributed’ through himself, the Kremlin-controlled media and by the Russian public themselves.7 Goscilo views state-crafted images of Putin as central to his ‘visual celebrification’, using examples of images on billboards, posters, and social media.8 Internet videos such as Putin riding shirtless on horseback like ‘Clint Eastwood’ project him as not only akin to a film star but also as a ‘sex icon’ and idolised figure.9 Similarly, videos such as the 2008 DVD ‘Lets Learn Judo with Vladimir Putin’ portray him as a strong action-man, with the DVD’s clear selling point being the ‘famous celebrity’ Putin himself.10 Goscilo argues the central motivations behind this image are to formulate a Soviet-style cult, create large profits for those involved in the production and selling, and boost approval ratings. This latter aim in particular is achieved by using Putin’s image next to nationalist symbols – such as postcards of Putin with the Russian flag or his face on the iconic Russian doll – which subconsciously visually ‘equat[e] Putin to Russia’.11 His image’s link to consumerism and its constant use thus propels him to the status of a celebrity, subsequently differentiating him from any Tsar or Soviet leader. At its time of publishing in 2010, Goscilo’s work and her use of visual sources to interpret Putin was innovative and influenced many historians. Although her approach to Putin through visual sources continues to be influential, following the 2014 annexation of Crimea there has been less analysis on Putin as a celebrity, with historians placing greater emphasis on the more menacing aspects of his image. Indeed, at times Goscilo concentrates on Putin too greatly as a ‘Hollywood star’ and lacks a detailed exploration of the intention behind the projection of such an image, including the pursuit of political control and power which was certainly apparent by 2010. Yet Goscilo’s work remains useful and is influential in illuminating the huge ‘non-political’ scale in which Putin’s image dominates Russia.

Another popular interpretation of Putin’s image is Tatiana Mikhailova’s (2013) argument of Putin as the father of the Russian nation and nature. Such a portrayal of a Russian leader has been constructed before; the late Romanov Tsars notably conveyed themselves as the fathers of the people, and later figures such as Vladimir Lenin and Stalin were also portrayed in a similar light. Mikhailova builds her interpretation from this historical link, agreeing with Cassiday and Johnson that Putin’s

7 Helena Goscilo, ‘The Ultimate Celebrity: VVP as VIP Objet d’Art’, in eds. Helena Goscilo, and Vlad Strukov, Celebrity and Glamour in Contemporary Russia: Shocking Chic, (Milton Park, Abingdon: Taylor & Francis, 2010), p. 30.

8 Ibid., p. 37.

9 Ibid., pp. 37-40.

10 Ibid., p. 43.

11 Ibid., p. 42.

image borrows from Soviet nostalgia and imagery, adding that he ‘has managed to restore the image of the Leader as the Father of the Nation in the post-Soviet condition’.12 Putin’s masculinity, which is greatly visually highlighted, is intended to reflect the stereotypically masculine qualities of strength and bravery upon the nation, and is tied ‘with the patriarchal model of fatherhood’.13 Mikhailova analyses a range of visual sources that emphasise how Putin’s image is centred around strength and machoism, yet simultaneously portrays a caring, father-like figure. For example, in his first three terms Putin was frequently pictured and filmed alongside his devoted dog Konni, with the images arguably used to create public ‘attraction to Putin through [his] dog’.14 These images project him as a caring, nurturing father, whilst simultaneously masculine, as he is accompanied by ‘man’s best friend’. Putin is frequently pictured with animals – his 2008 photo album featured numerous images of him with various animals and ‘even one with a stuffed toy’, yet no pictures of him with his wife.15 Mikhailova concludes that ‘Putin [visually] appears as not just the Father of the Nation, but also… husband of Russia’s entire nature world’ as the images are also tailored to assert his ‘rightful belonging to the Russian lineage of authoritarian rulers’.16 Mikhailova’s analysis is convincing, giving a detailed and nuanced evaluation of Putin’s visual image and illustrating its historical connections. She builds upon the arguments of Cassiday and Johnson and Goscilo, whilst providing her own interpretation. Her work would have benefitted from greater engagement with other historiography and analysis of Putin’s fatherly image on platforms such as social media – which could have replaced some of the many examples she presented of his image in Russian print media and television – yet is nevertheless useful and insightful.

Valerie Sperling (2016) similarly uses visual sources to illustrate Putin as a masculine figure, with his hyper-masculine image illuminating him as a strong, fearless leader in order to attract high approval ratings and discredit political opponents. Sperling challenges Cassiday and Johnson’s argument that the Kremlin began promoting Putin’s visual cult in 2000. She asserts the projection of him as a ‘strong, decisive, tough, and manly leader’ began in 2004 in response to the Ukrainian Orange Revolution of that year – an event which unsettled Russia after the Kremlin-supported presidential candidate Viktor Yanukovych was defeated by Viktor Yushchenko.17 Henceforth, the visual portrayal of Putin as a strong, manly figure was furnished by Russian media, with Sperling highlighting that pictures of Putin exercising, fishing shirtless, and videos demonstrating how to achieve his body-figure became increasingly popular. This tactic has again been deployed during the Russo-Ukraine war, with

12 Tatiana Mikhailova, ‘Putin as the Father of the Nation: His Family and Other Animals’ in ed. Helena Goscilo, Putin as Celebrity and Cultural Icon, (Milton Park, Abingdon: Taylor & Francis, 2013), p. 65.

13 Ibid.

14 Ibid., p. 71.

15 Ibid.

16 Mikhailova, pp. 75-6.

17 Valerie Sperling, ‘Putin’s Macho Personality Cult’, Communist and Post-Communist Studies, 49 (2016), 1323 (p. 15)

Putin frequently photographed and filmed exercising to emphasise he health and athleticism as a leader.18 His masculine image is used not only to reassure Russians and assert Putin as a ‘real man’ protecting the nation, but also to weaken political opponents, who are frequently portrayed in a feminine light.19 Sperling uses examples of images of Putin in comparison to former American President Barack Obama within Russian media, including the popular 2014 social media image of Putin holding a majestic leopard next to Obama cuddling a poodle. Discrediting political opponents has also been undertaken on the basis of sexuality; Putin and Kremlin-controlled media portray Western liberal opponents in ‘gay Europe’ as weak and incompetent through political cartoons and social media images.20 Sperling assesses that Putin’s masculine image has been ‘mobilised’ to legitimize his rule and has succeeded in gaining admiration, particularly on social media. Sperling highlights countless videos on YouTube dedicated to the President, including the popular 2015 music video ‘My Putin’ which thanked him for protecting Russia.21 Sperling writes in an academic style and her analysis of Putin’s image from a gender perspective offers valuable insight not only into Putin as a figure, but also masculinity, femininity and sexuality within Russian politics. She engages at length with other historiography, including the works of the previously mentioned authors. However, one flaw is her suggestion that the visual campaign surrounding Putin’s image began in 2004 – although the Orange Revolution certainly heightened the volume of state-commissioned images of Putin, Cassiday and Johnson convincingly and successfully demonstrate that Putin’s visual cult was formed before this date, as a large portion of their work highlights the projection of Putin’s image in the beginning of his first term. Despite this flaw, Sperling provides an insightful interpretation of Putin’s image, using a range of visual sources and presenting a useful analysis.

Lastly, Magdalena Kaltseis (2019) analyses Putin’s image on Russian television, interpreting him as constructing a dualistic ‘human’ and ‘superhero’ visual persona.22 Kaltseis is critical of the dominant use of photographs within the study of Putin’s image and the lack of focus on television, which has come under greater focus since Russian attempts to export channels such as RT (Russia Today).23 She examines three popular Russian television programmes and their projection of Putin’s image. The news show Vremia portrays Putin as an active, busy statesman, an image which is furthered by his featuring in a large number of stories. Videos of Putin fishing, travelling and kissing children’s

18 John Bryson, ‘Vladimir Putin’s non-Russian macho sporting interests’, University of Birmingham, <https://www.birmingham.ac.uk/news/2022/vladimir-putins-non-russian-macho-sporting-interests>, [accessed 20 December 2022].

19 Sperling, p. 16.

20 Ibid., p. 19.

21 Ibid., p. 20.

22 Magdalena Kaltseis, ‘Cold and Distant or Hearty and Human? The Visual Portrayal of Vladimir Putin on Russian Television’, Modern Literacy and Academic Research, 2 (2019), 6-33 (p. 30).

23 Daphne Skillen, Freedom of Speech in Russia: Politics and Media from Gorbachev to Putin, (Milton Park, Abingdon: Taylor & Francis, 2016), p. 295.

heads are frequently shown, and Kaltseis links these examples closely to the interpretations of Goscilo and Mikhailova. The popular annual television show Priamaia linia s Vladimirom Putinym also creates the impression of Putin as a busy statesman, but simultaneously a man of the people. The show, in which Putin is interviewed before a live audience and answers questions from the public, conveys that Putin, busy as he is, still has time for the queries of ordinary Russians. Kaltseis’ analysis is hugely insightful, providing screengrabs and illuminating how camera shots of Putin are at eye-level to create a sense of closeness, and that the raised platform he sits upon displays a power dynamic and his Tsarist ambiance. The final programme analysed is Moskva.Kreml’.Putin., a weekly talk show which covers the President’s activities of that week. Kaltseis argues that the show attempts to both ‘humanize’ and ‘superhumaniz[e]’ Putin, portraying him as a busy politician but also as an individual submersed in nature, the Russian countryside, and sports. 24 Even during the ongoing Russo-Ukrainian war, this impression continues to be emphasised; Putin is frequently shown playing sports, projecting the interpretation of a ‘superhero’ leader in control.25 Whilst all three shows portray Putin as this busy yet ordinary figure, none of them offer any insight into Putin’s actual character. Thus, Kaltseis concludes that whilst Putin has a post-Soviet ‘cult of personality’ surrounding him, as also articulated by Cassiday and Johnson, his image is unique in its duality and overall fluidity, enabling the public to ascribe their own symbolism and ideals to him. Kaltseis’s analysis is informative and perceptive, and she brings innovation to the field with a detailed focus solely on Putin’s television image. Her academic style of writing and clear structure is useful to readers, as is her use of screengrabs and engagement with historiography. She herself notes the limitations of only analysing three programmes and acknowledges that a wider variety of examples would improve her work. Indeed, it would have been of great interest if Kaltseis gave an example of how Putin was portrayed on less pro-Putin independent channels, which still existed when she was writing in 2019, to explore any contrast of his portrayal on Russian television. This could have replaced some of the long section devoted to how she would expand her study.

Historians have come to various interpretations of Putin’s image using visual sources. These interpretations are largely complimentary and agree to varying extents that Putin’s image derives from those of the Soviet era. Whilst each of the interpretations explored are useful, the works of Cassiday and Johnson and Kaltseis are most convincing and provide significant informative analysis. Cassiday and Johnson highlight in depth the historical connections of Putin’s image, emphasising the use of modern technology in creating a post-Soviet cult of personality. Moreover, their work has greatly influenced the consideration of Putin through visual sources. Alternatively, Kaltseis’s study usefully provides detailed analysis on several television programmes, exemplifying how Russian television

24 Kaltseis, p. 25.

25 John Bryson, ‘Vladimir Putin’s non-Russian macho sporting interests’, University of Birmingham, <https://www.birmingham.ac.uk/news/2022/vladimir-putins-non-russian-macho-sporting-interests> [accessed 20.12.2022].

creates an image of Putin. Her work introduces new insight to the field and is successful in presenting the fluidity of Putin’s visual public persona.

Bibliography

Beale, Matthew, ‘Brand Putin: An Analysis of Vladimir Putin’s Projected Images’, Defence Strategic Communications, Vol. 5, (Riga: NATO Strategic Communications Centre of Excellence, 2018).

Bryson, John, ‘Vladimir Putin’s non-Russian macho sporting interests’, University of Birmingham, <https://www.birmingham.ac.uk/news/2022/vladimir-putins-non-russian-macho-sporting-interests> [accessed 20 December 2022]

Cassiday, Julie, and Johnson, Emily, ‘Putin, Putiniana and the Question of a Post-Soviet Cult of Personality’, The Slavonic and East European Review, 88 (2010), 681-707

Edenborg, Emil, Politics of Visibility and Belonging: From Russia s “Homosexual Propaganda” Laws to the Ukraine War, (Milton Park, Abingdon: Taylor & Francis, 2017).

Evans, Jennifer, ‘Historicizing the Visual’, German Studies Review, 35 (2012), 485-489

Gessen, Masha, The Man Without a Face: The Unlikely Rise of Vladimir Putin, (London: Granta, 2014)

Goscilo, Helena, ‘The Ultimate Celebrity: VVP as VIP Objet d’Art’, in eds. Goscilo, Helena, and Strukov, Vlad, Celebrity and Glamour in Contemporary Russia: Shocking Chic, (Milton Park, Abingdon: Taylor & Francis, 2010).

Kaltseis, Magdalena, ‘Cold and Distant or Hearty and Human? The Visual Portrayal of Vladimir Putin on Russian Television’, Modern Literacy and Academic Research, 2 (2019), 6-33

Loftus, Suzanne, Insecurity & the Rise of Nationalism in Putin’s Russia: Keeper of Tradition Values , (New York, NY: Springer, 2019).

Mikhailova, Tatiana, ‘Putin as the Father of the Nation: His Family and Other Animals’ in ed. Goscilo, Helena, Putin as Celebrity and Cultural Icon, (Milton Park, Abingdon: Taylor & Francis, 2013).

Montefiore, Simon Sebag, and Bradley, Adrian, ‘Stalin and Putin: a tale of two dictators – Audio Long Reads’, The New Statesman, 30 April 2022, <https://www.newstatesman.com/podcasts/audiolong-reads/2022/04/stalin-and-putin-a-tale-of-two-dictators>, [accessed 02 January 2023]

Montefiore, Simon Sebag, ‘Why Vladimir Putin is beholden to Stalin’s legacy: The Russian president has embraced the Soviet cult of fear and control. His invasion of Ukraine is a colossal gamble to secure his place in history.’, The New Statesman <https://www.newstatesman.com/culture/2022/12/two-dictators-vladimir-putin-beholden-josephstalin-legacy> [accessed 02 January 2023]

Skillen, Daphne, Freedom of Speech in Russia: Politics and Media from Gorbachev to Putin, (Milton Park, Abingdon: Taylor & Francis, 2016).

Sperling, Valerie, ‘Putin’s Macho Personality Cult’, Communist and Post-Communist Studies, 49 (2016), 13-23

Space and the ‘Feeling of Community’ in the context of the Gorbals Jews

Sam Beesley

Abstract: This article takes a spatial approach to the history of Glasgow’s Gorbals Jewish community during the inter-war period, to identify how it created and contributed to the present ‘feeling of community’ that has been expressed and mythologised in and by popular history and historical memory. Applying this notion of ‘community as feeling’ to narrative evidence of the Gorbals and its geography, this article unearths the importance of ‘geographical possibilities’ within spatial boundaries of Jewishness that together combine to create a level of coherence that subsequent settlements could not match. This is aided by an original map of the community and the consideration of specific locations within the community. The article follows historiography, particularly by Avram Taylor, by adding under-utilised oral testimony to the source base while moving beyond sociological definitions of community.

Introduction and Methodology

When one crosses the Clyde via Glasgow’s South Portland Street Bridge today to enter its Gorbals neighbourhood, a neighbourhood mythologised as a site of rich Jewish tenement life, the connotations of such an activity may be remarkably different for those with an idea of the area’s history, as indicators of the tenement life are scarce.1 Attempting to search through the area is best achieved using street names. The sign to tell the visitor they are on Abbotsford Place, formerly a main Jewish street, is on the side of a modern flat complex; walk further and you will reach the car park for B ridge Street subway station. What lies in the former heart of the Gorbals may be equally functional and sustaining of its present-day people but set against stories of rich tenement and community life, the space seems bereft of the ‘feeling of community’ and landmarks that carry this meaning or any sense of Jewishness. Even the critical intellectual Ralph Glasser said when returning to the place of his childhood: ‘Here and there in the devastation stood a bit of broken masonry… What street had it been in?’ wondering why the ‘Old Gorbals had been erased’.2 When Glasser wrote, the tenement residents had moved out, but the memory of and attachment to the place was taken with them. The use of spatial questions and theories and utilising the testimonies of Gorbals Jews can therefore add to understanding how a ‘feeling of community’ unique to the Gorbals might come about.

1 See Appendix 1.

2 Glasser, Ralph, Growing Up In The Gorbals, 1st edn (Long Preston: Magna Large Print, 1983), p. 37.

Historiography of the Gorbals Jews is plentiful but many studies are survey texts that do not use narrative evidence as predominantly, such as Kenneth Collins’s Second City Jewry 1790-1919 3 There has been a justifiably heavy focus on the forced migration process that led Jews to settle in Glasgow and the creation of the settlement, as well as on the integration of Jews into the wider city; Ben Braber’s thesis on Jewish integration into Glasgow is similarly a key work.4 More recently, Avram Taylor has taken a variety of social history approaches to Jewish life in Glasgow in multiple works. One such work, Remembering Gorbals through Spring Voices, used descriptions of Gorbals life from autobiographical texts to draw broader conclusions about the nature of community, arguing that the Gorbals Jews were a community in sociological terms. 5 Citing Robert Redfield’s definition of community, Taylor argued the Gorbals Jewish community met the necessary characteristics to fulfil it, in that it was small and distinctive (through the common bond of Judaism) and met the lifelong needs of its members.6 However, Taylor argues internal divisions meant there was enough that was unique to differentiate the Jews from others, yet independently, the community was thin and fragile.7

We can take this one step deeper by considering the feeling and experience of ‘community’Jewish and Gorbals identity, sociability and belonging. When the popular historian Piers Dudgeon refers to the ‘fabric of the Gorbals’ Jewish community being a network of shared institutions,’ he is describing institutions that bound Jews together, had an inherent Jewish quality in their creation and existence, and met the religious requirements and human needs of the individual Jew.8 To what extent is the Gorbals itself a space in one of Dudgeon’s ‘institutions’ in terms of making Jewish social encounters possible and supporting that bond by making its use well practiced? To assess this, the way in which the compact geography of the community and its use fostered a common sense of belonging in varying aspects of Jewish life must be considered. Following this, two particular landmarks and the departure of Jews from the community will be discussed to give further contextualisation. Because of the importance of individual attachment and the internalised idea of community, geographical discussions will be triangulated with oral and written testimony. There is definitely scope to examine the nature of Jewish homes in the tenements or compare particular aspects of the Gorbals to those of other Jewish quarters in Britain. However, a focus on the human experiences of ‘Jewish settlement’ within the shared Gorbals, beyond Jewish domesticity, is most fruitful. Temporally, testimonies

3 Collins, Kenneth E., Second City Jewry: the Jews of Glasgow in the Age of Expansion (Glasgow: Scottish Jewish Archives Committee, 1990).

4 Braber, Ben, Integration of Jewish Immigrants in Glasgow, 1880-1939 (Glasgow: Glasgow University, 1992).

5 Taylor, Avram ‘’‘Remembering Spring through Gorbals Voices’: Autobiography and the Memory of a Community, Immigrants & Minorities, 28:1, (2010) 1-30, DOI: 10.1080/02619281003611824

6 Ibid, p. 1.

7 ibid, p. 23.

8 Dudgeon, Piers, Our Glasgow - Memories of Life in Disappearing Britain (London: Headline Publishing Group, 2010), p. 138.

primarily focus on the years 1930-39 unless otherwise stated, though the conclusions formed largely fit the broader interwar period.

The Geography of the Community

While mapped self-depictions of the Gorbals were not available, as a guide the map in Appendix 1 shows some of the places referenced in oral testimonies and other landmarks from which the nature of the community can be further inferred.

As a starting point, the nature and location of ‘boundaries’ is a relevant consideration. In many Jewish contexts this has referred to physical borders, often created at the behest of a more dominant power.9 In the Gorbals, there were no built boundaries, and the tenement residences often had Jews living alongside others. To begin with, their main barrier was linguistic: most residents spoke Yiddish as their mother tongue and few spoke English.10 Coupled with physical distance, this not only separated them from every other Glaswegian Jewry but entrenched the uniqueness of the Gorbals as a space, something that many did not find an overwhelming problem relative to previous challenges of persecution and integration in Eastern Europe. 11 Chaim Bermant makes this plain; even when not resident, visiting the Gorbals ‘was a homecoming, for [he] heard the sound of Yiddish … and saw Yiddish lettering on some of the shop fronts’ 12 Bermant drew comfort from the distinct language of his community but spatial familiarity was comforting even when there was no intrinsic Jewish quality to it As Ralph Glasser noted when the fountain at the Gorbals Cross, a local rendezvous, was demolished in 1932: ‘again and again… (locals) stared in unbelief at the empty space, de prived of a mysterious comfort, vital but indefinable’ 13 External boundaries can be very hard to transcribe if simple familiarity (i.e. not Jewish construction or ownership) fostered a particular attachment to a space. Redfield’s sociological definition of community draws attention to the homogeneity within particular boundaries.14 But as imagined external boundaries here would be determined most clearly by activity and belonging, not erected borders, these could practically create internal borders as well, if the activities occurring in a particular space were along lines of purpose or internal cohorts. This was not the case.

Perhaps the most important street was the single road named South Portland Street in the north, and Abbotsford Place in the south Here, many Jewish homes, the Grand Synagogue (one of eight) with

9 Schloer, Joachim, “Introduction: Jewish Forms of Settlement,” in Jewish Space in Central and Eastern Europe, ed. by Jurgita Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė and Larisa Lempertienė (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2007), p. 3.

10 Dudgeon, p. 137.

11 Levene, p. 5.

12 Chaim Bermant: ‘’Foreword’’, in Kaplan, Harvey, and Hutt, Charlotte, A Scottish Shtetl - Jewish Life in the Gorbals 1880-1974 (Glasgow: Gorbals Fair Society, n.d.), p. 2.

13 Glasser, p. 36.

14 Taylor (2010), p. 1.

the community’s only mikveh, the neighbouring Jewish Institute for socialising, Yiddish and Hebrew library, and some of the most popular Jewish retail and hospitality spaces could be found, creating a focal point for the community and placing these institutions within a common streetscape. If one’s practice of Judaism determined that you or, perhaps, a family member, visited South Portland Street most days, then that can function as a shared, Jewish, abstract practice in the community’s imagination regardless of the actual nature of your visit. Conversely, an individual might utilise the entirety of the Gorbals depending on which example of each space-type they used.15 The point here is compactness; within the whole locality there existed many spaces with different purposes in one concentrated place. Different types of Jewish space, from the teleologically sacred to the Jewish-owned business, mixed very closely together. However, with that same Jewish quality permeating the space, the lines between these different parts of one’s life were non-existent for all under the community umbrella.

The proximity of Jewish spaces with otherwise different functions or meanings to each other meant that locals could theoretically mirror the compact fluidity of the Gorbals’ geography in their own daily practice. Using narrative evidence here can confirm this notion, and this includes a range of oral histories that depict yet retain a level of typicality with those less complete, often found in the speaker’s following of shared practices.16 While the autobiographical texts may have greater agendas that promote greater selectivity, these testimonies, conducted by archives and charitable organisations, particularly strove for an unmatched level of exhaustiveness. These testimonies indicate that the possibility to fulfil lots of different aspects of Jewish life in one ‘trip’ has helped create singular prevailing notions of Jewish identity in narrative evidence of the space. It allowed Archie Rein, for example, to attend several different shuln for cheder and complete his Hebrew education, but he mentions this alongside his ability to go home for a meal in between secular school and cheder - not atypical of other Jewish communities, but inherently connected to the local geography in his mind.17 Fanny Rosenthal lived in Rutherglen Road in the east, but regularly went westward as a child perhaps to visit the Hebrew library, her aunt in Warwick Street, or Teitlebaum’s, her regular baker but not her nearest. Yet she was still much less likely to leave the Gorbals as a whole.18 Lily Balarsky discusses detouring on her way home to visit her mother making cholent at Callender’s in Hospital Street.19 This might be true for the non-resident Jews too; Chaim Bermant juxtaposed his childhood visits to the South Portland Street yeshiva alongside visiting his favourite Kosher restaurant Geneen’s immediately afterwards, again demonstrating an easy integration of different aspects of Jewish life. 20 These testimonies all suggest that the implied

15 Testimonies of Fanny Rosenthal conducted by and held at the Scottish Jewish Archives Centre, 2004.

16 Sentence added here following feedback.

17 Archie Rein at the SJAC, 2005.

18 Rosenthal at the SJAC, 2004.

19 Balarsky, Lily, “Callander’s Bakehouse,” Jewish Arts Israel Jubilee 50th Anniversary Anthology (Glasgow, 1992), p. 2.

20 Bermant in Kaplan and Hutt, p. 2; see Appendix 1.

geographic possibilities for Gorbals residents were achievable in practice, with the significance of this geography being qualified by the Jewish character of visited spaces. Therefore, whilst claims like Evelyn Cowan’s that she ‘hardly saw Christian people’ appear to underestimate the plausible interactions between Jews and non-Jews, (there were many churches even in Jewish streets), they make sense when one considers that Jews were still never far from a space that was Jewish in purpose or at least offered the chance of interaction with one’s own community. 21

Of course, these were still very much possibilities and allowing them to be treated as such accounts for differences in practice due to social role or personality; one didn’t have to make use of a space but had an attachment to it through those who did by having a common bond of Judaism To take one communal space that Jews didn’t physically construct: the junction of the three Gorbals, Norfolk and Ballater Streets, marked on the map in appendix 1 as ‘Gorbals Cross’, was a site where working men in particular would come to socialise, usually on Sunday mornings. These men could go and have their basic needs for social interaction met by discussion with (the same) groups of friends, or along other affinitive lines (such as shared occupation).22 But as testimonies note, if one were to visit the Gorbals Cross, they would also notice a multitude that Jack Caplan referred to as a collection of ‘orthodox, the couldn't-care-less business men, the would-be politicians, the mourners for a funeral [and] youthful idlers’ who were all Jews ‘peacefully’ getting on with their own use.23 In short, your fellow Gorbals Jews would be enjoying the same social opportunity as you, in the customary place for it.

It would be easy to assume that singular depictions of space in narrative evidence come from the singular purpose of describing the whole community or one’s life, therefore a brief observation of the testimonies themselves is needed for clarification. The narratives of place created within oral narratives, when compared, display commonality and coherence. Without temporal prompting, Fanny Rosenthal was able to refer to particular landmarks using their precise geographical address (the necessary specificity highlighting the geographic concentration of daily life and her good memory) but most former residents chose to describe spaces in relation to specific points of reference.24 What is notable is that while a certain familiarity is assumed, aided by speaking with a knowing interviewer, the places used by each interviewee as reference points greatly vary 25 Of course, this is partly a

21 Cowan p. 99; Taylor, p. 10; see Appendix 1.

22 Dudgeon, p. 140.

23 Caplan, Jack, From Gorbals to Jungle (Glasgow: William Maclellan, 1960), p. 17.

24 Rosenthal at the SJAC.

25 For example:

- Fanny Rosenthal spoke of ‘Harvey Kaplan’s grandfather’s shop as opposite Callender’s bakehouse’ (Rosenthal at the SJAC, 2004).

- Archie Rein spoke of the ‘chaddisische klaysel and Kosher Soup Kitchen not far from the Buchan Street shul’ (Rein at the SJAC, 2005).

reflection of which spaces were important to each individual, but it suggests there were a wide range of spaces important enough in popular imagination to function as a basis of communication. Yet in the testimony’s spaces tend not to be geographically categorised, (synagogues, bakers), nor are they simply familiar, expressed separately from the intrinsically Jewish when that point is not relevant. To frame spaces in this granular way further implies no personal qualms or sense of confinement to certain parts of the Jewish Gorbals - rather a coherent sense of place permeating through the whole Jewish Gorbals, as intertwined and fluid as its layout itself.

While not literally ghettoised, there is evidence to show a common, religiously bounded sense of place specific to the Gorbals Jews, with firm roots in the layout and kinds of space available for practical obligations, but also in common shared spatial practices that could theoretically apply to all.

Landmarks of the Community

Similar to discussion of the Gorbals Cross, it is worth considering two more individual landmarks and the nature and memory of Jewish interaction with them. There are two main reasons to consider these particular ones: firstly, their position within the testimonies cited here, both in terms of prevalence and their status as ‘essences’ of the Gorbals in popular imagination. Secondly, while the processes by which interaction with them occur are certainly encouraged by Jewish identity, the way in which visits to them may be ritual were not intrinsic to their teleological meaning.

The bakehouse is a staple of Jewish settlement. To fulfil the need for challah or Gebeck, and to bake cholent on the Sabbath, there existed a variety of local bakehouses: Fogell’s, Ettinger’s, and for consideration here, Callender’s. 26 Located on Hospital Street, Callender’s fulfilled the vital characteristics of the Jewish Bakehouse, selling Kosher products that could not be bought elsewhere, or allowing Jewish women to use on-site ovens.27 When asked to recount her memory of the bakehouse, Lily Balarsky’s stated that Callender’s had ‘landmark status’ within the community, and Philip Berman and Fanny Rosenthal both deemed it to be the community’s overwhelming favourite, even though they were both more frequently customers elsewhere.28 This of course has much to do with the quality of its offerings, particularly at Jewish feast times. But the opportunities for social encounters the bakehouse

27 Balarsky, p.2.

- Philip Berman spoke of the ‘Workers Circle opposite the Citizens’ Theatre’ (Berman and Berman at the SJAC, 1989).

26 Rosenthal at the SJAC, 2004.

28 Ibid; Berman and Berman at the SJAC, 1989; Rosenthal at the SJAC, 2004.

afforded is a common feature and going to Callender’s as a common practice was ‘a known thing’ as Mrs Laski said - but strictly among and for Jews.29

Similarly, the shared use of space for the community was inherent to the Jewish Institute’s existence. If the Gorbals Cross was a site where community was fostered, the Jewish Institute building institutionalised these interactions further and in a similar way. Formed in 1925, it moved to a larger, more central, location on South Portland Street and in 1935 neighboured the Great Synagogue.30 As well as regular meetings of particular clubs, notices of one-off community events would be published in the Jewish Echo newspaper. The basic human need for belonging and friendship could be met by being a member of just one Jewish club, or going to one weekly event, and conversely it offered the most accessible means (geographically and financially) to indulge one’s interests outside of informal conversation, ranging from music and dances to Zionist meetings. A number of Jews have described meeting their spouse for the first time here, demonstrating the new social bonds forged between Jews alongside existing ones.31 It was ‘just the place you met’ in the words of Sidney Mayer.32 Here exists both the functional use of space to make Jews’ interactions with each other more likely but also to blur the boundaries between the religious identity which grants you access and the personal interests that enhance one’s own identity. The Institute is the most universal example of such a phenomenon; there were others, like membership of the Maccabi in Turriff Street, which George Taylor and Leo Metzstein joined because of their respective interests in athletics and table tennis, but this also offered them a way of feeling part of the Jewish community, and fulfilling the need for friendship.33

Losing the Community

This third section aims to enhance the previous two by contextualising the broader timeline of the Gorbals, with a final call back to the introduction on the notion of the ‘loss’ of this Jewish community, in light of unignorable practical questions. The descriptions of the community thus far have given a positive impression by focusing on bonds and activities ahead of the area’s poverty, but the latter was a daily reality. As the historian David Cesarani noted, the possibility to move from crowded tenements into spatial suburbs appealed to their residents, including non-Jews, long before the clearances of the 1950s, owing to a mixture of disassociation, particularly among youth, and genuine

29 Tape, Mrs Laski, 21 July 2005, 0380–0448, reproduced in Taylor, Avram “‘In Glasgow but Not Quite of It’?

Eastern European Jewish Immigrants in a Provincial Jewish Community from C.1890 to C.1945,” Continuity and Change, 28 (2013), 451–77, DOI: 10.1017/S026841601300035>, 131.

30 Kaplan and Hutt, p. 8.

31 Gathering the Voices Testimonies (Sidney Mayer).

32 Ibid.

33 Gathering the Voices Testimonies (George Taylor and Leo Metzstein).

desires for better housing.34 But the spatial qualities of the Gorbals are worth considering alongside the subsequent decline in the coherence of the feeling of Jewish community.

Once Jews began to move to other suburbs which they believed to be adequate for a Jewish community, particularly Crosshill and Langside to the immediate south, their needs were very quickly met and encouraged more relocation in turn. Anne Berman tells of her father who founded Langside Synagogue to ensure locals had one, (and given her father’s religious commitment, perhaps so that locals could keep to the techum shabbat). 35 In fulfilling this need, residence in the Gorbals was becoming no longer of practical benefit or imagined requirement. For example, as discussed, Fanny Rosenthal undertook a range of journeys when she was a Gorbals resident, but after moving southwards she only recalls returning once for a special occasion.36

As Gorbals Jews moved out and the bonds between individual Jews were no longer sustained by interaction within the Gorbals, it meant that Jews had to come to terms with the Gorbals having novel connotations. As Evelyn Cowan’s sister begged of her mother in 1932: ‘what kind of address is Apsley Place to tell my friends!?’, who had already relocated. 37 Chaim Bermant notes that after the Second World War, it was Queens Park, one such suburb, whose clergy soon ‘felt it was now the top community’ instead of the original Jews in Garnethill.38 According to Bermant, the reasons for this confidence had more to do with newfound class identification superseding religious bond, even as the spread of English made discourse between the two communities easier, but this was a claim Gorbals Jews, firmly confined to set spatial, class and religious patterns, could never make. Yet Bermant states that laymen never bought into this strong identification with their new suburb, so why has the Gorbals specifically seen heavy narratives and mythologising of the feeling of community? This could be quite understandably dismissed as cultural lore or solely arising from shared poverty. If one is to argue that the Gorbals’ spatial layout was conducive to feelings of community, then in comparison many of the suburbs were a long way from the major points of interaction that testimonies reference the most, even if the characteristics of Jewish settlement were nominally met with new synagogues and shops. 39 Patterns in shared use of space which developed organically would have to start over with smaller numbers of participants. This is why moving away from a concentrated community did not end the Gorbals Jews’ feeling of belonging to it; rather, there would never be a similar set of circumstances which would allow a corresponding feeling to supersede it.

34 Cesarani, David (1998) A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Suburbs: Social Change in Anglo-Jewry Between the Wars, 1914–1945, Jewish Culture and History, 1:1, DOI: 10.1080/1462169X.1998.10512209, p. 20.

35 Berman and Berman at the SJAC, 1989.

36 Rosenthal at the SJAC, 2004.

37 Cowan, p. 153.

38 Bermant, p. 56.

39 Rosenthal at the SJAC, 2004.

Conclusion

By combining narrative evidence with ideas about Jewish space, it is clear that the spatial characteristics of the Gorbals functioned as a community institution in its own right, and had the same effect on feelings of community. Within a compact space determined by the presence of many Jewish spaces, not only were the ‘requirements’ of Jewish settlement met, but the spatial layout of the Gorbals encouraged dynamic social interactions between lots of Jews in those different spaces and with each other. Yet the key variable that applied to the Jewish community was the strong Jewish identity that they imprinted on the spaces they used, which had a universalising effect on spaces that, from the synagogue to the Gorbals Cross, varied in terms of the essentiality to Jewish life. Coupled with a proximity which made mixing between different spaces easier, this gave the Gorbals a notion of coherence reinforced by the common experiences among a large number of residents. These findings would also support Avram Taylor’s claims that the Gorbals was distinctive and sufficient.40 In short, the use of space was undeniably determined by Jewish practice and belonging, but this morphed into Gorbals Jewish practice.

Acknowledgements

With thanks to Harvey Kaplan and the Scottish Jewish Archives Centre, to Professor Joachim Schloer for his unending support, and to him and Professor Tony Kushner for their comments and feedback after submission.

40 Taylor, p.1.

Appendix 1

Landmarks of the Jewish Gorbals c. 1930-39

Base map: Geographia large scale plan of Glasgow (1938) available at: https://maps.nls.uk/towns/rec/10530 Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland

Annotations: myself, sourced from Bibliography, labelled when drawn from a single testimony.

Bibliography

Testimonies

Anne Berman and Philip Berman, Scottish Jewish Archives Centre, Garnet Street, Glasgow, 1989

Anonymous, Scottish Jewish Archives Centre, Garnet Street, Glasgow, 2013

Archie Rein, Scottish Jewish Archives Centre, Garnet Street, Glasgow, 2005.

Fanny Rosenthal, Scottish Jewish Archives Centre, Garnet Street, Glasgow, 2004

Balarsky, Lily, “Callander’s Bakehouse,” Jewish Arts Israel Jubilee 50th Anniversary Anthology (Glasgow, 1992).

Leo Metzstein, n.d. Gathering the Voices (available at https://gatheringthevoices.com/leo-metzsteinsettling-in/).

Sidney Mayer, n.d. Gathering the Voices (https://gatheringthevoices.com/sidney-mayer-settling-in/).

George Taylor, n.d. Gathering the Voices (https://gatheringthevoices.com/george-taylor-settling-in/)

Autobiographies

Bermant, Chaim, Troubled Eden (New York: Basic Books, 1970)

Caplan, Jack, From Gorbals to Jungle (Glasgow: William Maclellan, 1960)

Cowan, Evelyn, Spring Remembered (Glasgow: Southside, 1978).

Glasser, Ralph, Growing Up In The Gorbals, 1st edn (Long Preston: Magna Large Print, 1983)

Map

Geographia large scale plan of Glasgow (1938) available at: https://maps.nls.uk/towns/rec/10530. Reproduced with the permission of the National Library of Scotland.

Secondary Literature

Braber, Ben, Integration of Jewish Immigrants in Glasgow, 1880-1939 (Glasgow: Glasgow University, 1992)

Cesarani, David (1998) A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Suburbs: Social Change in AngloJewry Between the Wars, 1914–1945, Jewish Culture and History, 1:1, 5-26.

Collins, Kenneth E., Second City Jewry: the Jews of Glasgow in the Age of Expansion (Glasgow: Scottish Jewish Archives Committee, 1990)

Dudgeon, Piers, “Chapter 5: Street Magic,” in Our Glasgow - Memories of Life in Disappearing Britain (London: Headline Publishing Group, 2010), pp. 134–47.

Kaplan, Harvey, and Hutt, Charlotte, A Scottish Shtetl - Jewish Life in the Gorbals 1880-1974 (Glasgow: Gorbals Fair Society, n.d.)

Lässig, Simone, & Rürup, Miriam Introduction: What Made a Space “Jewish”?: Reconsidering a Category of Modern German History, in, Space and Spatiality in Modern German-Jewish History (Bergbahn Books: 2019_ 1st ed., Vol. 8, pp. 1–20. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctvw04f34.5.

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The Design and Analysis of Three Speaking Tasks for Classrooms

Binxin

Gong

Abstract: This article details a lesson plan designed for 20 Chinese students aged 9-years-old in Year 4, who have been learning English with a professional English teacher for 80 minutes per week, over 60 weeks. The students have learned the vocabulary of some common clothing items and fruits, as well as the sentences asking for the price. The class will take 45 minutes. According to the Task-Based Language Teaching theory, a task is a purpose-driven activity that assists students to communicate in the target language (Ellis, 2009). I designed 3 tasks to achieve the aims as follows By the end of the course, the students should be able to recognize and produce clothes and shopping terms orally, and then use them in a situation to ask for prices. They should also be able to evaluate products’ characteristics or prices simply, differentiate the uses of single and plural nouns in a sentence, and evaluate the performance of others reasonably.

Task Analysis

Task 1

Task 1 involves items being placed into a cloth bag, raising the students’ curiosity. They will be engaged by the fun and positive environment. Rost (2006) points out that motivation is the “neglected heart” of language teaching (p.1). Deci and Ryan explain that in Self-Determination Theory, there is always a distinction between different types of motivations. For the purpose of this article I will be considering ‘intrinsic motivation’ which, they say, “refers to doing something because it is inherently interesting or enjoyable” (Ryan & Deci, 2000, p. 55). According to Anjomshoa (2015), interest is a component of intrinsic motivation, and refers to a student's natural interest in his or her surroundings and the wider world. Prayoga (2018) indicates that interesting items can be utilized to motivate kids to speak English. The learning process of L2 by young learners is directly impacted by the classroom atmosphere that the teacher creates. It is therefore a crucial factor in maintaining and growing students' intrinsic motivation. Young learners can be intrinsically motivated from the beginning by creating a supportive learning environment and successfully intervening in the learning process (Wu, 2003).

In my task, learners should be able to recognize keywords. To recall students’ memories about the vocabulary of the clothes and how to ask for the price, I will take out the items from the bag one by one and ask the whole class "What is this in English?". After that, I will direct their attention to the price of these clothes by asking them “How much is the .../ How much are the...?” to combine their knowledge of the former clothes’ words and the way to ask for the price. According to Piaget (1977), who first put up the theory of cognitive constructivism, learning happens via the active creation of meaning rather than through passive receptivity. In other words, it emphasizes the individual’s role in the development

of the cognitive process. Learning is a process where students actively negotiate their understanding in light of what they encounter in a brand-new learning environment. If what the students experience conflicts with what they already know, their existing knowledge may alter to take into account the new information. Learners must therefore be engaged during this process and cannot be inactive (Amineh & Asl, 2015). Mvududu and Thiel-Burgess (2012) note that teachers should take their students' prior knowledge into account first, and then give them the opportunity to use their knowledge according to the constructivist educational approach. If the student's existing knowledge has been further expanded, then the teacher should provide an opportunity for the student to apply the new knowledge in practice with time (Hoover, 1996). Nevertheless, we cannot assume that all students in the same class understand the new knowledge to the same level, as children have different comprehension skills. Moreover, most studies in the field of cognitive constructivism have only focused on individual effects in the process of learning.

Social constructivism (Vygotsky, 1978) tells us that teachers play a vital role as a supporter of knowledge and problem-solving in students’ development of learning (Jaramillo, 1996). Therefore, students need more experience and support from their peers and teachers to help the m achieve a better level of understanding. I will hold a price-guessing game for the students to encourage them to use the target language in groups to discuss together. Interaction among group members helps students clarify their comprehension by allowing them to compare notes with their groupmates (Mvududu & ThielBurgess, 2012). Before the group discussion, I am going to provide the conversation structure (see appendix A) with pictures to help students make simple comparisons between the usage of single and plural nouns in a sentence. The sentence structure is an implicit scaffolding that teachers can provide in implicit teaching. Scaffolding is where experts and beginners work together to solve an issue (Pinter, 2011). Using scaffolding, the expert may intervene to simplify the activity and to motivate the learner to persevere, in addition to providing informational guidance and assistance. With implicit teaching, students pick up knowledge without consciously focusing on the rules. Through implicit instruction, students can "induce rules from examples supplied to them" (Ellis, 1994, p. 642).

Moeen et al. (2019) put forward two fundamental factors to the success of learning to speak in a second language. Learners should first be familiar with the formal aspects of the target language, which may be acquired through both implicit and explicit teaching strategies. Second, teachers must provide enough assistance, or scaffolding, to their students to enable them to complete speaking assignments on their own. Griffiths (2003) proves that teaching English as a Foreign Language (EFL) students implicitly through scaffolding has a considerable impact on a variety of oral production skills. For instance, having a basic understanding of grammar helps students find solutions to the challenges they encounter when speaking a second language. The sentence structure on the blackboard provides enough

assistance to students to understand basic grammar rules before they use them to communicate with their peers. It is hoped that they could improve their oral sentences with correct grammar.

To reduce students’ anxiety about speaking in class and practice the words as well as the sentences, I designed the group discussion to take place within games to guess the price. By games, I refer to Hadfield’s description of "activities having rules, an objective, and a component of fun" (1998, p. 4). Gozcu and Caganaga (2016) discovered that using games in teaching language to students at primary school level helped to inspire them as it generated enjoyment and a sense of accomplishment while also minimizing anxiety and stress.

Task 2

To put the target language from the first task into situational practice, I created a shopping situation and designed a role-play based on the shopping theme to encourage students to speak. Using learnerlearner interaction is the foundation for teaching communicative language, hence teachers should provide learners with meaningful communicative circumstances concerning appropriate themes (Richards & Renandya, 2002). To achieve that purpose, classroom interaction is essential. According to Angelo (1993), interactions in the classroom include those between the teacher and students as well as between students themselves.

First, the teacher will select an outgoing student with middle oral proficiency (they can speak related words, understand sentence patterns and are able to express ideas simply). With the student, the teacher will demonstrate the dialogue based on the relevant setting on the screen (see appendix B). During the process of performing, the teacher will encourage the student when they encounter a problem, and offer praise for their bravery and performance. This sets a good example for other students and allows the student to gain direct experience that increases self-efficacy. Strengthening self-efficacy in learning is important because it helps to increase students' motivation to complete tasks. Self-efficacy was first proposed by Bandura (1977), who defined it as "the subjective judgment of whether one can successfully perform a particular achievement behavior". For students, self-efficacy is expressed as their confidence in how well they can complete the writing task. Factors that can affect self -efficacy include direct experience, observational experience and verbal persuasion (Bandura, 1977). Direct experience is the experience gained by the learner himself/herself through practice. A successful experience could increase the learner’s self-efficacy (Bandura, 1986). Therefore, if the selected student interacts with the teacher successfully, his/her confidence in the following role-play task with other students would be increased. Students can also gain their own self-efficacy through model observation. Students who watch similar peers complete a task are likely to feel more efficacious since they believe that they can complete it as well (Schunk, 1989). Similarly, in my task, other students will also increase their self-efficacy by observing the student who interacts with the teacher.

The conversation set on the screen aims to show the basic requirements and language pattern of the following role-play. The teacher will lead the dialogue and will actively use language that is conducive to students' understanding in order to guide students to answer to continue the dialogue. This interactive dialogue provides students with more grammatical and efficient language input. At the same time, the dialogue explanation behind the utterance is an implicit scaffolding that will allow for a better understanding of the conversation’s logic. Examples of scaffolding strategies used in content-based classrooms can be found in the research of Gerakopoulou (2011). In this study, teachers supported their students' speech task completion using both verbal and nonverbal cues. The study discovered that when teachers structure their instruction to accommodate low-level learners, this has a substantial impact on students’ comprehension of the subject matter and their oral reproduction. As a result, the teaching strategy of scaffolding can be seen to greatly enhance students' oral English proficiency.

In order to allow students to practice the use of their newly learned shopping conversation, the teacher will engage the students in role-play. According to Brown (2001), role-play entails putting one or more participants into a role and providing them with a task or goal to complete. Second language (L2) learners can encounter a variety of settings in which they will use the language through role-play As they gain proficiency in those situations, they ought to gain understanding, and be able to speak more naturally in other contexts (Stern, 1980).

To ensure every student participates in the oral task, the teacher will divide students into pairs (tablemates in one pair) and ask them to role-play the seller and customer. After they've played their own parts, the teacher will ask them to exchange parts. Students could therefore take on different roles and practice both parts’ utterances in the role-play. When students have fully prepared to perform in front of the class, the teacher will invite some pairs to role-play in front of their classmates. This activity can help students to overcome their shyness, fears, and anxiety to gain confidence in speaking English. To encourage students to open their minds in order to create more relevant dialogues when they are buying clothes in real life, the teacher will take note of any good expressions they hear while the students perform (see appendix C). Moreover, to help students monitor their own performance and motivate them, after each pair’s performance, other groups will give evaluations based on 5 criteria which the teacher will assess later (see appendix D). Hung et al. (2016) state that although English language learners (ELL) may not feel qualified to assess their peers, taking on the role of assessor encourages them to participate in class activities and helps them to keep track of their own performance. This kind of assessment from both peers and teachers is called formative assessment. Its goal is to aid learning and teaching by providing appropriate feedback (Lewy, 1990, p. 26-28, as cited in Ketabi & Ketabi, 2014, p.437).

Task 3:

Students' oral expression should be more fluent by extending practice, and the teacher will encourage this through another role-playing game. Again, the students will work in pairs, however the exercise will be based on a new shopping situation (see appendix E).

Extending practice through task repetition is defined by Bygate and Samuda (2005) as having a similar conversation with a different partner, thus utilizing the same resources to communicate more than once. It is required to produce both fluent and accurate spoken discourse (Wang, 2014). It could be useful in reducing students’ anxiety and helping to lessen their errors in a similar dialogue. It may also allow for greater fluency (Ellis, 2005, p. 18). Therefore, task repetition should be used in EFL speaking classes to help students improve their speaking fluency, while also emphasizing accuracy (Lynch & Maclean, 2013).

Reflection

In Task 1, it may not be easy for some low-level students to understand how to differentiate the uses of single and plural nouns in a sentence. Second, while playing the guessing game in the pair's discussion, some students may discuss in their native language rather than the target language, English. The teacher could not monitor all groups at once. In Task 2, the biggest challenge is if the selected pairs get feedback from other students that adds anxiety to their next performance. Secondly, some students may not be willing to speak with their partners due to self-doubt. This is challenging for the teacher to help them overcome, and also causes their partners to have negative experiences in oral practices. Thirdly, students may not aid the presenter’s future work, and could even undermine their self-esteem. In Task 3, students who have already mastered the dialogue content may find it boring to repeat a similar task, while those with lower-level partners may still struggle. It is a challenge for the teacher to balance the students’ needs and obtain an ideal outcome.

To conclude, learners should be appropriately assisted in knowledge and vocabulary before speaking. Ultimately, the aim of the tasks is to lessen students’ stress and anxiety. While practicing speaking, students should be provided time and strategies to focus on growing their fluency and expressing their meanings. Next, students should be given opportunities to receive feedback on their performance to note the accurate language. Finally, extension practice is important for strengthening learners' language usage, since working memory capacity assists learners in developing fluent and correct spoken English.

Appendices

A.

The teacher should have prepared a large cloth bag containing items that they know the price of The vocabulary for these items should have been taught in the previous lesson (a T-shirt, hat, blouse, skirt, sock pair, trousers, sweater, and jacket). The teacher shows the bag to the students, shakes it to rattle the objects inside, and asks students to guess what items are inside. The teacher will pull out different objects, states their names, and then tell the class they are going to play a price-guessing game. The teacher will put four students in each group and set a time limit of 3 minutes in which the groups discuss and write down their guesses for the prices of each object.

Before they are discussing the prices, the teacher will draw two of the objects from the table on the whiteboard. Below is an example illustration. On the left is a singular object, and on the right is a plural object, followed by the conversation structure.

-How much _ is__ the T-shirt?

- It _ _ is__ XX yuan.

-How much __are _ the socks?

- They__ __ are__ XX yuan.

The teacher will ask a student to use the structure on the board to ask them for the price. Once asked, the teacher will say the price. The teacher will then find out which group guessed the closest, and the group (or groups) who did wins 1 point. If anyone guesses the exact price, they get 2 points. The teacher will repeat this for each object, each time having a different student ask for the price. In the end, the teacher will find out which group is the winner with the most points.

B.

The teacher creates a setting of shopping in a clothing store. The teacher models the activity with another student to show the class what to do, as follows:

(Teacher: seller Student: customer）

Seller: [Actively offers help] Hello, can I help you?

Customer: Yes, please. [Wants to ask for the price of a jacket from the table] How much is it? [Points at the jacket]

Seller: 150 yuan.

Customer: [Evaluates the item] It is good! I will take it. [Pays for it]

Seller: Here you are.

Customer: Thanks.

Next, the teacher will put students into different pairs. The students then role-play, with one student playing the role of the seller, and the other as the customer. Over the next 10 minutes, they then take turns asking their partner questions about the prices of the clothes on the table using the basic pattern as shown above, which would be displayed on the whiteboard.

Next, the teacher will invite 3 pairs of students to perform in front of the whole class. While watching voluntary students’ performances in front of the class, the teacher will write any good expressions that they hear on the board. This encourages students to use expressions such as:

• I’m not sure, but I think (it’s about 80 yuan).

• I have no idea! Maybe (they’re 30 yuan).

• That’s cheap / expensive / reasonable!

• It’s nice / lovely / pretty / amazing.

After each pair’s performance, the teacher will invite other students to give oral assessments based on the following 5 criteria:

1. General impression

2. Fluency

3. Creativity

4. Accuracy

5. Collaboration

E.

Students will be divided into different pairs and will try to practice the shopping conversation based on a new setting (in a fruit store). The teacher will ask about the prices of the following fruits: a watermelon, two oranges, and three bananas.

C.

D.

Languages, Cultures & Linguistics Department

Bibliography

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Approving Translanguaging as a Medium of Instruction in English as a Medium of Instruction Classrooms

Yijia Wu

Abstract: Recently, the definition of TMI (Translanguaging as a Medium of Instruction) has been raised and argued by Jenkins (2020) to as a method to replace EMI (Englis h as a Medium of Instruction) settings. This article investigates the advantages of translanguaging use in EMI classes based on previous empirical studies which establish that it has the potential to improve students' classroom comprehension as well as increase their participation. Of further interest is the phenomenon of monolingual prestige, and the misunderstandings towards TMI in social value.

In recent years, multilingualism has been widely shown to occur in many EMI classrooms, and an increasing number of researchers have confirmed that it is extremely beneficial for students' learning. This is predominantly due to it enhancing comprehension, constructing a rapport relationship, and improving the efficiency of note-taking. Theoretically, TMI takes advantage of utilizing multilingualism as a mediation to teach content to students. This plays an important role in tackling the defects of an English-only setting in an EMI classroom, such as poor understanding, low classroom participation, and low motivation (Marie, 2013). The argument in this article is that the EMI classroom is primarily produced through translingual practices, and follows Jenkins' perspective that renames the EMI label. This article compares bilingual education to a monolingual style of instruction for students whose first language is not English, who must be immersed in an English-speaking environment due to regional policies. It is based on empirical studies from Turkey, Sweden, and elsewhere. It focuses on an investigation of the purposes, advantages, and disadvantages of employing multilingualism in higher education of EMI classes.

Firstly, the article explores the empirical study of how TMI can enhance students' classroom effectiveness by improving comprehension. Then, it focuses on the positive effects of the translanguaging model on students' cognitive and affective factors by promoting engagement and encouraging participation in class. Finally, the article focuses on the danger of TMI, which has an influence on academic English learning in EMI settings. Here, the contentious questions of whether TMI is helpful for the improvement of academic English proficiency, and how instructors should balance between TMI and EMI under strict policies, are considered.

One of the primary benefits of TMI is that it ensures the avoidance of content misunderstandings, which improves classroom efficiency. Multilingual practices help students become more efficient in the classroom by reducing the likelihood that they misinterpret the material being taught. Creese et.al

(2017) shed light on the fact that TMI can be used to understand unfamiliar content that is challenging in Language 2 (L2), such as specific terminology. Switching between different languages allows students to have a deeper understanding of the content, and may also prevent students from misunderstanding the material due to of unfamiliarity with the language. This contrasts with the multiple barriers to comprehension that may be caused by multilingual students in an English-only class, such as the inability to differentiate between word meanings, and the need to spend a significant amount of time and effort taking notes that are inefficient (Hellekjaer, 2010; Leeman and Serafini, 2016).

Many analyses have been done to make a similar point that when students encounter specific concepts that are difficult for them to understand, they could get a clearer explanation by asking questions to instructors in their first language in an EMI class. Take, for instance, a sampling survey made by Namrullah et.al (2020) who used a T-test formula based on a quantitative survey of two groups of Indonesian students. This is a classic example of verifying the important influence of translanguaging on students’ comprehension. According to data analysis, the inferential statistics demonstrate that Indonesian students can have a better understanding of content by using a bilingual teaching method. This method allows them to share their opinion which is combined with teachers’ explanations of how to understand the content in a better way. This demonstrates that being allowed to communicate in more than one language makes it simpler for students to comprehend and assimilate new information in class.

Moreover, the use of TMI helps to eliminate the hazards that are posed by misconceptions brought about by L2. When mandating the use of a single language, misunderstandings of certain terminology may arise which may cause irreversible results. A typical example of this is an interview analysis of an organic chemistry lesson (FS programme) based on TMI pedagogy. The avoidance of translation language in chemistry laboratories may lead to serious accidents. For example, the Turkish researchers Kirkgoz et al. (2021) point out that when working with explosive solutions, instructors need to carefully explain terms, procedures, and precautions to students in Turkish. This ensures that the pupils fully understand the experiment procedure to avoid any potential dangers. Therefore, in specific specialist classes, the avoidance of multilingual usage could result in serious accidents due to the misunderstanding of the terminology and content. Jenkins (2020) proposed replacing EMI labelling with TMI labelling because it is essential to tackle these kinds of misunderstandings of classroom content, especially so dangers that may occur in specific classes can be avoided. This also plays an important role in improving student efficiency in the classroom.

In addition to enhancing content comprehension in EMI classes, an increase in classroom participation is another advantage of TMI. This is because it improves students' cognitive and affective factors. An English-only policy would make students feel reluctant, or even afraid, to share their

opinions, which would result in reduced involvement in classroom participation and trigger negative emotions, such as anxiety and low motivation. Take for example the case of 22 undergraduate physics students from two Swedish universities who were interviewed as part of a qualitative study by Airey and Linder (2006). By comparing the different language use of the lecture (English and Swedish) through analyzing changes in students’ behavior, researchers found that Swedish students were much less willing to ask or respond to the questions in the L2 language (English). Thus, due to fear of mistakes and/or confusion about the questions, the majority of students who were not native English speakers experienced negative emotions, such as a lack of motivation in classroom participation, when they were in a lecture given solely in English.

There are two different viewpoints on the benefits of multilingual activities. Studies on these provide valuable suggestions for how to adjust teaching pedagogy. Firstly, from the point of view of students, Li Wei (2018) demonstrated that the process of both reading and group discussion in class enables students to express their opinions more clearly and bravely. This is because multilingual practices through peer work eliminate the fear of making mistakes, which in turn increases their willingness to participate in class and motivates them in learning. Secondly, from the teachers’ perspective, Pulinx et al. (2017) claim that teachers’ tolerance towards students’ errors in a multilingual environment may increase. This would have a positive effect on the students' engagement in the classroom and help to construct their cognitive and affective factors, such as high levels of motivation. It’s possible to draw the conclusion that students who have difficulty communicating in English in the classroom would benefit more from a multilingual communication environment between classmates, and a more tolerant attitude from their instructors. This would result in increased classroom involvement for these students. As a result, what Jenkins refers to in this instance enables students to boost their intrinsic drive and engage in more spontaneous participation in the classroom.

Although TMI is beneficial for subject understanding and encouraging classroom involvement, a number of academics have voiced their worries over the program's inability to adequately execute academic English policies. This conundrum has been critiqued by J. Jaspers (2019), who argued that regardless of how students learn in a classroom with a high diversity of languages, academic English, which emphasizes monolingual competency, is always eventually evaluated by authority and society. For example, students need to pass the IELTS or TOEFL test in order to gain access to higher education. These mandatory assessments increase the pressure on both teachers and students, and they may feel like they have to choose between learning in a way that is tolerant and easy for students, or in a way that will help them do well in the strict assessment. The academic situation emphasized in an Englishonly classroom is just as Baldauf (2012) highlights. EMI classrooms make it possible for multilingual students to increase their academic abilities in language learning while understanding course material in their second language in a mono-lingual environment. However, with such a monolingual policy and

placement of social value, the emphasis of translanguaging may become a temporary tool to help students learn English, rather than a tool that helps students comprehend the subject content or participate in classes (Pennycook, 2010). Garcia (2009) verifies that teachers would consciously avoid multilingual teaching methods when they are restricted from fitting policies in a monolingual environment, even though they may know that TMI is beneficial for students' learning and comprehension. In other words, this kind of social value about monolingual prestige and the language assessment of authorities in EMI settings could be the cause of the struggling status of TMI. These kinds of social biases toward language teaching settings may also lead to some students feeling stressed and anxious about their ability to succeed rather than focusing on successful content learning. Therefore, instructors need to be aware of the different ways that multilingualism may be used in the classroom, and must be ready to alter the manner that they teach based on different individuals of students.

In conclusion, given the advantages of using TMI, this article concludes that there are two necessary situations for EMI to be replaced by TMI. Firstly, in specialized classes that contain specific terminologies, such as poetry appreciation, chemistry, and medical courses. Here, the role of TMI must not be ignored in order to help comprehend the content and avoid serious risks. Secondly, TMI leads to an increase in classroom participation, which creates a chance to stimulate students’ motivation. However, some weaknesses of TMI should also be acknowledged. Take students using L2 as an example. The unstopped assessment of academic English leads to a bias of multilingual practices in the EMI classroom. Therefore, instructors also need to carefully balance multilingual practices in EMI settings. Unfortunately, there is no perfect method of education, but the advantages of embracing TMI in EMI classes may be more valuable than previously thought for non-native students in higher education of EMI classes.

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The Digital Conception and Realization of Musical Instruments in the Western

Music History: The Barak Norman Bass Viol

Lei Qin and Wei Chen

Abstract: This article aims to explore the digitization of ancient western musical instruments, putting forward the idea of digitization realization based on interactive functions and methods to provide new solutions and methods for the establishment of ancient instrument databases in the future. The article also seeks to make contributions to the research methods of ancient instruments in western music history.

Introduction

In the research of music history, the history of musical instruments is an important element that cannot be ignored. Some ancient musical instruments have played a vital role and held huge significance in the entire history of music, such as the Chinese musical instruments including chime bells and the guqin, and western instruments including the organ, viol, and lute. 1 From a technical perspective, digitalization is transforming all kinds of information into digital signals and coding, all of which are processed by a variety of programs. 2 Digitalization has gradually entered a higher stage with the development of the internet, 5G technology, artificial intelligence, and other fields, that make the digitalization of ancient musical instruments convenient and accessible. This has not only had a positive effect in music research but has also made the database of musical instruments more complete.

The research on the digital construction of ancient musical instruments is not new field, but has recently had a boom in interest. Many kinds of literature have positively influenced the research. 3 However, there is a common point in these studies which is waiting for greater attention and improvement. Websites such as the ‘Chimei Digital Archive System’ crucially do not provide interactive performances with digital instruments, so it is difficult to obtain detailed and real sound from the interaction process. Therefore, this article adopts digital technology to restore different varieties of Barak Norman’s bass viols, and to display the development characteristics and changes of the viol in different periods and regions through dynamic simulation. Based on the concept of digital realization

1 Xiaojuan Zhang, “Sixty Years of Research on Chinese String History (1949-2009),” (PhD diss, Fujian Normal University, 2012), 4.

2 Bill Endres, ed., “Introduction. The Age of Visual Wonder Digitizing Materiality and Unriddling Light,” Digitizing Medieval Manuscripts: The St. Chad Gospels, Materiality, Recoveries, and Representation in 2D and 3D (Amsterdam University Press, 2019), 1–6, https://doi.org/10.1017/9781942401803.001.

3 Ruiyang Chen, “Building digital musical instrument Museum

Taking Oriental Musical Instrument Museum as an example,” Musical Instrument, No.6(2019): 44-46.

of interactive functions and experimental data, it hopes to provide solutions and methods for the realization of interactive functions of instruments.

The Digitization of the Barak Norman Bass Viol Collection and Collation of the Experimental Materials

1. Shape data

Table 1. the shape data of Barak Norman bass viol 4

Tab.1 Object Details

Title： Bass Viola da Gamba

Medium： Wood

Height: 25 1/16 in. (63.7 cm)

Dimensions： Width: 13 11/16 in. (34.8 cm)

Depth: 4 11/16 in. (11.9 cm)

The size data, detailed contours, materials and body patterns of the bass viols can be used for modeling, and are regarded as auxiliary information needed for modeling.

2. Sound data

The sound data is taken from the bass viol recording played by Catherine Reisser. According to the demonstration recording with 6 empty strings, ‘Melodyne 4’ audio software was used to simulate the sound data of other parts, and the data of these parts were collected and arranged (Figure 1). The sound data was tested for the difference within and beyond 8 degrees, and the results showed that the accuracy was guaranteed.

4 Data from "The Metropolitan Museum Of Art", and keyword of searching is"viol".

Sound difference simulation test within 8 degrees:

a. Collect two single notes of the cello on the spot, and the player performs the string D and string A respectively, to obtain tones d and a.

b. Compare the d tone raised 3.5 diatonic scales by Melodyne 4 (that is, the actual pitch is tone a) with a tone actual performance. The waveform and spectrum diagram and other information about the two tones are as follows (Figure 2):

Sound difference simulation test over 8 degrees:

a. Collect two single notes of cello on the spot, and have the performer play d and b1 respectively.

Figure 1: Screenshot.5

Figure 2: Screenshot.6

5 Screenshot from Melodyne 4.

6 Screenshot from Melodyne 4.

b. Compare tone d raised by 10.5 diatonic scales (that is, the actual pitch is b1 tone) with the actual tone b1 performance. 7 The waveform and spectrum diagram of the two tones are as follows (Figure 3):

Test results

Testing two sets of single sounds in Adobe Audition, it was found that the test results within 8 degrees were as follows:

• The raised tone d (that is, the actual pitch is tone a) has a frequency of 222.87hz and the tested note is a+22 cents, while the actual tone a has a frequency of 221.53hz and the tested note is a+11 cents, with a frequency difference of 1.34hz and 11 cents. For the test results of over 8 degrees:

• The raised tone d (that is, the actual pitch is b1) has a frequency of 497.26hz, and the note tested is b1+11cents. The actual b1 frequency is 498.78hz, and the tested note is b1+17cents. The frequency difference between the two is 1.52hz, and the tone difference is 6 cents.

Therefore, by comparing the simulated sound in Melodyne 4 with the actual collected sound, the data of frequency difference and pitch difference are relatively small, and may even exceed the performance accuracy of human beings. These simulated sounds are accurate and widely available.

Model Construction and Final DEMO Program Digital Implementation Process

1. Three-dimensional modeling, using Blender version 2.9 for modeling:

a. According to the necessary data collected above, the basic solid model of the bass viol can

8 Screenshot from Melodyne 4

Figure 3: Screenshot.8

7 The Melodyne 4 software is used to raise the scale.

be obtained by using the polygon modeling method, as shown in Figure 4.

b. The viol is made of wood, but the wood material will change with age due to wood’s rection to oxygen.9 In order to keep it consistent with the existing image data material as much as possible, and based on the BSDF (principle shader) under Eevee renderer, the highlight parameter value was set to 0.38, roughness to 0.5, gloss staining to 0.5, varnish roughness to 0.03, matte wood was selected on the model material as the base color map. The material ball as shown in Figure 5.

c. Regarding the Barak Norman viol body patterns (including fingerboard, string board, etc.) apply the extracted and post-made maps to fingerboard and other related piano bodies, as shown in Figure 6.

d. Set the material parameters of the strings (gut strings) and other parts, and conduct the total synthesis of each detail of the model, resulting in the final picture as shown in Figure 7.

9 Caitlin M. A. McQueen et al., “Oxidative Degradation of Archaeological Wood and the Effect of Alum, Iron and Calcium Salts,” Heritage Science 8, no. 1 (2020), https://doi.org/10.1186/s40494-020-00377-0.

Figure 4.10

10 Screenshot from Blender2.90.

Figure 5.11

Figure 6.12

11 Screenshot from Blender2.90.

12 Screenshot from Blender2.90.

2. The above digital models and sound data are collated and applied to Unreal Engine to make instrument rendering better for interactive applications (Figure

13 Screenshot from Blender2.90.

14 Unreal Engine: The world's most advanced real-time 3D authoring tools can create photo-realistic visual effects and immersive experiences.

15 Screenshot from Unreal Engine.

Figure 7.13

8).14

Figure 8: Bass viol in Unreal Engine rendering.15

The main development functions are as follows:

a. Use a fixed camera to observe the entire scene, including objects in the scene.

b. Sound interaction features of the digital viol: firstly, sound data is added to each string to confirm that the pitch of each string changes accordingly when different strings are clicked during the interaction (the pitch change logic is that the pitch difference between adjacent strings is a half-step and increases from the first string). Secondly, it matches the sound data of different pitches with the sounds of different strings after switching between different interactive options. Finally, for visualization and feedback on the interaction, the light effect prompts the press option.

c. Establish mouse action items: firstly, the mouse control rotation and scaling viol model position items are established. Then the left mouse button was used to trigger the string and put a bit event (simulating the bow and finger pressing different bits). Finally, add the corresponding introduction text button for the instrument to introduce basic information about the instrument.

Design of Digital Platform for Ancient Instruments Based on Viol Digitization Experiment

As seen with the experiment of digitizing viols, it is evident that the digitizing of ancient musical instruments is a challenge which involves multiple steps such as data collection, material research, and model construction. Ancient Western instruments often have different materials and ways of playing them, so the methods of digitizing them vary. But no matter what kind of musical instrument, digitization should pay attention to the following two points.

Digital Musical Instrument Platform Construction

1. Data Collection

Figure 9: Download (Windows 64 bit version).

A comprehensive digital instrument platform should employ an interactive aural and visual/text application system. It should include: searchable classification systems, 3D models based on actual information such as the scale of the ancient instrument, sound data collected from the original sound of the ancient instrument, and other text and images related to the instrument (Table 2).

Tab.2 Integrated digital instrument platform

Classification system Digital instrument model Acoustic. Or analog data Other information related to the instrument

Chordophones Violin etc Acoustic or analog Form data etc.

Aerophones Flute etc Acoustic or analog Form data etc.

2. Interactive Experience

In terms of interaction, the users' experience should be fully considered. For example, users should be able to view the instrument model sterically. When the user clicks on the strings or the keys of the instrument, the instrument should produce the corresponding acoustic sound, and so on. It is worth noting that some wind instruments (such as brass and woodwind instruments, etc.) cannot be completely controlled by keys and need to match the application of breath. In this case, the ‘analog keyboard’ in digital interactive works can be considered to reach the test and performance of sound. In addition, it is important to mention the musical instrument database which stores three-dimensional models and data of various instruments. This 3D data can be set up as a separate 3D printed instrument database, and can be directly connected to a 3D printer for rapid ‘restoration’ of various physical instruments.

The Aim of Musical Instruments’ Digitization

The ultimate aim of the instrument digitization platform is to establish a database about the digitalization of musical instruments. In the future, researchers of music can easily and quickly search information about musical instruments, especially when researching ancient instruments which need to be studied through the database. In addition, the model data provided can also be 3D printed for various instruments to be studied to achieve intact restoration. All these will provide a great convenience for the study of musical instruments.

Conclusion

The digitization of the Barak Norman bass viol is a successful attempt to digitize musical instruments within music research. This article puts forward ideas and aims for the digitalization of musical instruments such as the Barak Norman bass viol, and studies how to further achieve the digitalization of string instruments. This method may provide some new research ideas for the establishment of the musical instrument database in the future. Whilst current research on the digitization of musical instruments is still faced with many difficulties and challenges, to better realize and solve the digital problems more researchers are needed to utilise the combination of literature, and science thinking and ability. It is important to note that this is not only a combination of current digital technology and humanities, but also enables historical data and materials to be displayed in a more intuitive and novel way from the perspective of music research, and even has a positive impact on interdisciplinary exploration.

Bibliography

Secondary Literature

Chen, Ruiyang. "Building digital musical instrument Museum Taking Oriental Musical Instrument Museum as an example." Musical Instrument, No.6 (2019): 44-46.

Endres, Bill, ed. "Introduction. The Age of Visual Wonder Digitizing Materiality and Unriddling Light." Digitizing Medieval Manuscripts: The St. Chad Gospels, Materiality, Recoveries, and Representation in 2D and 3D, 1–6. Amsterdam University Press, 2019. https://doi.org/10.1017/9781942401803.001.

McQueen, Caitlin M. A., Martin N. Mortensen, Francesco Caruso, Sara Mantellato, and Susan Braovac. "Oxidative Degradation of Archaeological Wood and the Effect of Alum, Iron and Calcium Salts." Heritage Science 8, no. 1 (2020). https://doi.org/10.1186/s40494-020-00377-0.

Zhang, Xiaojuan. "Sixty Years of Research on Chinese String History (1949-2009)." PhD diss., Fujian Normal University, 2012.

Assertability and the Paradox of Conditionals

Thomas Phillips

Abstract: In Classical Logic, a conditional (if-then) statement is only false when the antecedent is true, and the consequent is false. For example, the statement “if it is red then it has a colour” could only be shown to be false if we could demonstrate that the object in question is red but that it does not have a colour. As this does not appear possible, the statement is true. This common-sense way of viewing conditionals is threatened by the paradoxes of material implication which appear to show that there are instances where we may intuitively want to suggest that a conditional is false, but we are compelled to say that it is true. In this article, I formulate a defence of the classical analysis on the basis of assertability. Under my view, the problematic conditionals are true, but we often cannot assert them for contextual reasons. Two of the most prominent assertability accounts are given by Grice and Jackson. I evaluate these in turn before concluding that they are both unsatisfactory in some way and a new assertability account is required.

Introduction

Indicative conditionals such as “if it is/was later than 10pm then it is/was/will be dark” form an integral part of both our communication with others and our ability to form rational arguments. Consequently, we desire a comprehensive account of the conditions that must be fulfilled in order for them to be true and assertable. One such account is that indicative conditionals are truth-functional (their truth depends exclusively upon the truth values of the antecedent and the consequent) and that their truth aligns with the truth table for the material conditional found in classical logic. However, accepting this account leads us into the paradoxes of material implication. I will first briefly motivate the material conditional analysis of the indicative conditional. I will then explain the aforementioned paradoxes and the way that they appear to undermine this analysis. Finally, I will analyse what I consider to be the most promising method of dissolving these paradoxes and conclude that they do not compel us to reject the material conditional analysis of the indicative conditional.

Section 1: Material Implication

In classical logic, the interpretation of the truth value of the conditional is that of material implication. Under this interpretation, a conditional of the form if A then B is true iff A is false or B is true. In other words, a conditional is only false when the antecedent is true, and the consequent is false. Although Edgington suggests that this interpretation initially appears unintuitive, describing it as “logic’s first surprise” (Edgington 2001: §2.1), it seems to work smoothly in a range of cases. Take, for example, the conditional “if I am at home then I am safe”. One case in which this conditional would be false is where an armed robbery is taking place while I am at home. This is a case where the antecedent

is true (I am at home), but the consequent is false (I am not safe). In this way, it can be seen that we can infer from the truth of the conditional that either the antecedent is false or the consequent is true.

This inference from the conditional to the disjunction, at least for simple conditionals, is largely uncontroversial, as rejecting it would require a rejection of modus ponens which forms a crucial part of our logical reasoning (see Walters 2014 for a discussion of this topic). Not only this, but it also seems that the truth-functional account gets it right that we can make an inference in the other direction. We can infer the truth of the conditional from the truth of the disjunction. Stalnaker calls this the “direct argument” and gives the following example: “Either the butler or the gardener did it. Therefore, if the butler didn’t do it, the gardener did” (Stalnaker 1976: 193). If we accept that the direct argument is a valid inference, and it certainly appears to be, then we are forced to accept the truth of the material conditional account.

However, accepting the direct argument leads us into two similar, highly unintuitive conclusions known as the paradoxes of material implication. Given the nature of disjunction, if we can infer the truth of the conditional from the disjunction, we must also be able to infer it from either of the disjuncts. Consequently, we only require a false antecedent to infer the truth of a conditional. This means that, providing that I am not in my car, the conditional “if I am in my car, then I am a billionaire”, hereafter (1), is true, when it is intuitively false. This is the first paradox of material implication. Similarly, the second, related paradox is that we only require a true consequent to infer the truth of a conditional. This means that, providing that it is a sunny day, the conditional “if it is cloudy, then it is a sunny day” is true, when it is intuitively false. For the purpose of this article, we will mainly focus on the former paradox.

If we wish to say that the direct argument is valid, and we can infer the truth of the conditional from the truth of the disjunction, we must also accept the unintuitive paradoxes of material implication. Whilst Stalnaker’s solution to this problem is to suggest that neither the direct argument nor the paradoxes of implication are valid (see Stalnaker 1976), I suggest that it is perfectly coherent to maintain our intuitions about the direct argument and instead explain away our intuitions about the paradoxes of material implication by appealing to assertability. A benefit of such a solution is that it does not require a revision of Classical Logic and its rules.

Section 2: Assertability and Grice

Assertability in general does seem to come apart from truth in certain contexts for a variety of reasons. If I were to be entrusted with the national nuclear detonation codes, it is reasonable to suggest that I should not reveal this fact to others even if they ask about it directly, as it would compromise national security. Even within our ordinary lives, we do not always assert all the truths that we are aware

of. Many truths are not relevant to the conversations that we are having and, even if they are relevant, they may be unassertable in virtue of the fact that they would offend the person that they concern: they may be unassertable for etiquette-based reasons.

Grice (1989) argues that an assertability account can be provided for indicative conditionals. Under Grice’s account, the indicative conditionals generated from the paradoxes of material implication are true, but they are not assertable due to the fact that they are misleading: they implicitly lead us to false conclusions. To demonstrate the notion of implicature, Grice gives the example of a person (A) asking another person (B) how their friend (C) is performing in their new job. “B replies, Oh quite well, I think; he likes his colleagues, and he hasn’t been to prison yet” (Grice 1989: 24). Strictly speaking, B’s reply does not entail anything untoward. For B to be telling the truth, we merely require C to like their colleagues and not be a convict. This would likely apply to many people beginning a new job. However, Grice rightly notes that B’s reply raises questions in virtue of its implicature. By singling out the fact that C has not been arrested as a point of merit, B implies that C is the kind of person that would ordinarily be likely to go to prison even if this is not necessarily entailed by the truth of B’s statement. If this is not what B wishes to imply, then it appears that B’s response is not assertable despite its truth.

Similarly, we can use disjunction to express a weaker proposition than one that we know to be true. Imagine for example that you know that Bill is out running when he is meant to be in a lecture. Given your knowledge of Bill’s whereabouts, you must also know that Bill is either out running or he is in a lecture. This disjunction is true but asserting it implies to the listener that there is a reasonable chance that Bill is in the lecture which he had no intention of going to. If the material conditional analysis is correct, you must also know that if Bill is not out running, then he is in a lecture. This conditional is also true given the falsity of the antecedent, but it comes with the same implication that there is a reasonable chance that Bill is in the lecture. The conditional is therefore not assertable despite its apparent truth. Consequently, returning to (1), under Grice’s account, the paradoxical conditional is strictly true but unassertable because it misleadingly implies that there is a reasonable chance that I am a billionaire.

Edgington criticises Grice’s account by suggesting that the problem with conditionals lies not with assertability but rather with belief. Whilst Edgington agrees that Grice’s account correctly identifies the fact that we must believe disjunctions such as Bill is either out running or he is in a lectu re, she argues that this does not mean that we must also believe that the corresponding conditional is true. This is because “we need to be able to discriminate believable from unbelievable conditionals whose antecedent we think false” (Edgington 1995: 245). The point that Edgington is making can perhaps be best demonstrated by expanding our original example. Imagine that you not only know that Bill is out running but you are also aware of the fact that he must write an entire essay within the next day. Given

the choice between writing the essay and going to the lecture, you are confident that he would decide to write the essay given the immediacy of its deadline. You are therefore able to say that “if Bill is not out running, then he is writing his essay”. Under the material conditional account, you should believe this conditional to the same extent that you believe the original conditional, and indeed more absurd conditionals such as “if Bill is not out running, then he is on Jupiter”. As Edgington notes, this problem intuitively appears to be about belief rather than just about whether we can assert the conditionals.

Section 3: Assertability and Jackson

Jackson (1979, 1981, 1987) attempts to alleviate the problems found in Grice’s account by providing a different analysis of the assertability conditions of indicative conditionals. Jackson suggests that an indicative conditional is assertable when the asserter both believes that it is true, and their belief is robust. This means that “it must be that you would not abandon belief in the conditional if you were to discover the antecedent to be true” (Edgington 1995: 247). The problem with asserting conditiona ls for Jackson is therefore not necessarily that they are misleading, but rather that they must still be true when the antecedent is true. This means that, for an indicative conditional to be assertable, it cannot merely be true as a result of the falsity of the antecedent. Returning to (1), under Jackson’s account, the paradoxical conditional is true but not assertable because I would abandon my belief in the conditional if I were to discover that I was in my car. However, Edgington notes that Jackson’s account still fails to address the problem highlighted earlier. “There is no evidence that one believes a conditional whenever one believes the corresponding material implication, and then is prepared to assert it only if some further condition is satisfied” (Edgington 1995: 247). In other words, the problem still seems to lie at the level of belief rather than the level of assertion. It cannot merely be solved by positing a different account of assertability.

However, I suggest that the apparent problem that Edgington raises at the level of belief is not a genuine one and that it only appears because of the strange notion of certainty that we have so far unknowingly employed within our reasoning. Let’s return to our previous examples of what we outlined as “believable” and “unbelievable” conditionals: “if Bill is not out running then he is writing his essay” and “if Bill is not out running then he is on Jupiter”. Edgington highlights the fact that the material conditional account does not allow for a distinction between the truth values of these conditionals when we are certain that Bill is out running and suggests that this is problematic. However, if we are genuinely certain that Bill is out running, then it is just as likely that he is writing his essay as living on Jupiter. The likelihood of both is zero and they are both “unbelievable” conditionals. The reason that we consider the former conditional to be more believable is because we are considering cases in which the antecedent is contingently rather than necessarily false. Consequently, we are able to consider a set of circumstances under which Bill is not out running, as we originally believed. Within these

counterfactual circumstances, we conclude that it is more likely that he would be writing an essay rather than visiting Jupiter and hence we suggest that the former conditional is more believable.

It may therefore appear that I am advocating a view under which the indicative conditional has different truth conditions to counterfactuals, such as if Bill had not been out running then he would have been writing his essay. Strawson describes such a view as “the least attractive thing that one could say” (Strawson 1986: 230 cited in Edgington 1995: 245). I instead posit that indicative conditionals and counterfactuals come apart in truth values rather than truth conditions. This happens in instances where the antecedent is false in the actual world, but we can at the same time consider a non-actual scenario in which it would be true. The truth value of the indicative conditional is based on the actual world whilst that of the counterfactual is based on the non-actual possible world. Consequently, the difference that Edgington recognises between believable and unbelievable conditionals is one that concerns counterfactuals rather than indicative conditionals. Although it can be argued that counterfactuals have different truth conditions to indicative conditionals, this is not a proposition that needs to be accepted in order to explain their different results. Overall, it therefore seems that the problem that Edgington identifies with believability comes when we want to suggest that we know that Bill is out running (our knowledge of the proposition also entails its truth) but simultaneously want to suggest that there is the possibility that he is not. This is evidently contradictory unless we invoke a counterfactual scenario. It is within the counterfactual scenario that their believability differs and not within the actual world as Edgington suggests. Consequently, we can still suggest that there are true conditionals within the actual world that are not assertable (perhaps even because of the fact that their associated counterfactual is not believable) and maintain the possibility of an assertability account.

However, Jackson’s account falls short when attempting to account for other forms of seemingly assertable conditionals. Take for example, our “unbelievable” conditional: “if Bill is not out running then he is on Jupiter”. Although I initially suggested that this is an example of an unassertable conditional, even this could be assertable in the right context. If we want to express our certainty about the falsity of the antecedent, we may assert a conditional that has an evidently false consequent. Given the truth conditions of the material conditional, we know that a true conditional and a false consequent will entail a false antecedent by modus tollens. Such a conditional does not fulfil Jackson’s robustness criteria because if it did somehow turn out that the antecedent was true, and Bill was not out running, we would not want to say that the consequent was also true. It is the very fact that we are secure in our knowledge of the falsity of the antecedent that makes the conditional assertable within a given context. A similar effect is achieved by the idiom “if pigs could fly …”. It therefore appears that we require a different assertability account.

Section 4: A New Assertability Account

Although I agree with Grice and Jackson that assertability is capable of explaining our intuitions about the nature of indicative conditionals, I argue that an exhaustive assertability account is at the very least impractical if not impossible given the nuance required as a result of the complexity of human communication. Similarly to Grice, I suggest that our understanding of what is assertable is derived from the context in which it is or isn’t asserted. However, I am not convinced that this can be strictly defined by maxims such as brevity or being informative. Grice admits that “one might need other [maxims]” (Grice 1989: 27), but unless these maxims are extremely specific, it is difficult to see how this will allow us to capture all the assertability criteria for indicative conditionals. This is because what is assertable differs across cultures, languages and even from person to person or conversation to conversation.

To demonstrate this, consider Edgington’s conditional: “if you press that switch, there will be an explosion” (Edgington 1995: 289). As Edgington notes, this statement can be useful as it can help to avoid a disaster. This may lead us to suggest that it is assertable when there is a direct causal link between pressing the switch and an explosion because it implies that refraining from pressing the switch will prevent the explosion. Under Grice’s account, it is assertable because it does not mislead the listener and imply a link that does not exist. However, it also appears that there are contexts in which we can exploit this implication and assert the statement even when there is no causal link present. Imagine for example that you are near the site of a controlled explosion with an unhappy child. You know that a controlled explosion is due to take place in front of you and pull out a fake switch and assert the aforementioned statement to the child. The child presses the switch, and the explosion happens which makes the child happy. Contrary to Grice’s suggestion, it appears that it is the very fact that the statement is misleading that makes it assertable within this case. It serves the purpose of making the child happy and could not do this without the implication that there is a causal connection between the switch and the explosion. In this instance, perhaps Jackson’s assertability account fares better. We would not abandon our belief in the conditional even if the switch was pressed. Indeed, we are counting on the switch being pressed or else the child will see through our partial deception. However, as mentioned earlier, Jackson’s account is unable to effectively account for other problematic cases.

Section 5: Potential Problem Cases

I will now examine two other examples of seemingly problematic conditionals that Edgington observes and demonstrate how they can be explained by the notion of assertability. Firstly, Edgington suggests that “the truth-functional account gives bizarre results for compounds of conditionals”

(Edgington 1995: 281). It must be true that either, if Bill is out running then he is on Jupiter, or, if Bill is not out running then he is on Jupiter. This is a tautology under the material conditional account of the indicative conditional.

Although it may seem unintuitive, I suggest that this consequence is perfectly acceptable. Our unease around accepting the truth of one of these conditionals in this context is solely related to the fact that we wish to deny the truth of the consequent of both. We seem to believe that accepting this disjunction will force us to accept that there is at least some merit to the suggestion that Bill is on Jupiter when this is not the case. This would only be required if we wanted to claim that both conditionals are true simultaneously. Furthermore, given our knowledge that Bill is out running, we know which conditional is the true one (the latter). Although we must believe that the conditional is true, we do not have to believe that it is necessarily true. There is a reasonable counterfactual scenario in which Bill is not out running and, in such a case, the conditional is false. However, given its tautological nature, the disjunction remains true because it is the former conditional that becomes true. Once again, it is important to note that none of this reasoning requires us to say that the proposition Bill is on Jupiter is true at any point. Despite the truth of the disjunction, Edgington correctly notes that there is something about the reasoning that appears “bizarre”. I postulate that it is the aforementioned implication that there is some merit to the suggestion that Bill is on Jupiter. It is for this reason that the statement is believable but not assertable.

Finally, Edgington suggests that the truth-functional account leads us to the wrong conclusion about the validity of some arguments. For example, “If God does not exist, then it’s not the case that if I pray my prayers will be answered. I do not pray. Therefore God exists.” (Edgington 1995: 281) is valid. This argument can be abbreviated as follows:

If ~G then ~(if P then A).

For the argument to be valid, the truth of the premises must entail the truth of the conclusion. When ~P is true, P is false. Under the material conditional account, this means that if P then A is true and its negation is therefore false. The wider conditional if ~G then ~(if P then A) can only be true when the antecedent is false. This means that G must be true. This argument is considered to be problematic due to the fact that it appears to entail that God must exist as we begin with the assumption that God does not exist and still end with the conclusion that God exists.

However, this conclusion relies on the argument being not only valid but also sound. Although it may intuitively appear sound, further analysis reveals that it is only sound in cases wh ere God exists. Our conclusion is therefore limited to the rather mundane observation that if God does not exist is false, God exists. This is because all that the validity of the argument demonstrates is that the conclusion will be true when the premises are true. Assuming that the innocuous second premise is true, the truth of the conditional in the first premise is entirely dependent upon the truth value of the antecedent (God does not exist). When the antecedent is false, then the conditional is true, and the conclusion can be inferred.

In other words, when God does not exist is false, then God exists. Conversely, when the antecedent is true, then the conditional is false, and the conclusion cannot be inferred as the argument is unsound. In other words, when God does not exist is true, then we cannot infer that God exists. Contrary to Edgington’s suggestion, this appears to be the correct analysis. This further strengthens the case for the truth-functional account. Not only this, but the misleading nature of the argument that Edgington identifies can form the reason for its lack of assertability in both my account and that of Grice.

Conclusion

To conclude, our initial suggestion that the truth conditions of the indicative conditional are the same as the interpretation of the material conditional within classical logic is sustainable once we have obtained a tenable account of their assertability. Whilst this account may be extended to counterfactuals (which Strawson believes to be necessary), it is compatible with an alternative interpretation of the meaning of counterfactuals and I leave this debate open. It is also notable that I have not explicitly denied the suggestion that there could be a viable non-truth-functional account of indicative conditionals. This too is a question that I leave unanswered. My purpose was to demonstrate that a nontruth-functional account is not necessary. It is not the only option available to us as there is a plausible truth-functional account that can be generated by contemplating the notion of assertability. The benefits of such an account include the fact that it allows us to maintain our intuitions about many standard indicative conditionals and the fact that it does not require a revision of the truth conditions found with in classical logic. I argued that Grice and Jackson are both correct to suggest that assertability is required but that Edgington correctly identifies the fact that there is a sense in which both of their accounts are lacking. Whilst Edgington inferred from the unsuitability of their assertability accounts that assertability cannot be used to explain how the indicative conditionals are truth-functional, I advanced a more nuanced notion of assertability under which the majority of true indicative conditionals, even some instances that appear to be paradoxical, are assertable in some context or other. Consequently, the paradoxes of material implication do not in themselves undermine the material conditional account of the indicative conditional. It need not follow from this that the material conditional account is the correct analysis.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Dr Lee Walters for his supervision and guidance in the writing of this article as well as all the academics whose ideas are covered in this article for their important and insightful contributions to the field.

Bibliography

Secondary Literature

Edgington, D. (1995). “On Conditionals”, Mind, 104(414), pp. 235-329.

Edgington, D. (2001). Indicative conditionals, Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. (Stanford University). Available at: https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2020/entries/conditionals/

Grice, H.P. (1989). Studies in the Way of Words. (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press)

Jackson, F. (1979). "On Assertion and Indicative Conditionals". Philosophical Review, 88(4), pp. 56589.

Jackson, F. (1981). "Conditionals and Possibilia". Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 81(1), pp. 125-37.

Jackson, F. (1987). Conditionals. (Oxford: Basil Blackwell)

Stalnaker, R. (1976). “Indicative Conditionals”, IFS, pp. 193-210.

Walters, L. (2014). “Conditionals, Modals, and Hypothetical Syllogism”, Thought: A Journal of Philosophy, 3(1), pp. 90-97.

Ignoring Practicality: An Infallibilist Conception of Knowledge

Connor Caw

Abstract: After Gettier’s (1963) famous paper highlighting the flaws in the Justified-True-Belief (JTB) definition of knowledge, there was a philosophical scramble to overcome his Gettier problem and produce a new definition. The majority of the attempts to do so remained fallibilist conceptions of knowledge. Whether because of this or otherwise, there has been little progress in finding a suitable definition of knowledge.1 Therefore, this article argues that the attempts to find a suitable philosophical definition of knowledge whilst remaining faithful to the everyday uses of the word “know” have proved ineffective. Thus, the debate would be better served by no longer being faithful and starting again from the common factor, as most definitions of knowledge agree upon, the notion of truth. Consequently, a truth-focused theory of infallibilism shall be offered to present a new angle from which to resta rt the debate.

Motivations and Clarifications - Introduction

Firstly, it is imperative to clarify the goal of this article. The aim is not to provide a total defence of infallibilism nor to entirely dismiss fallibilism. Instead, it is to note that the type of infallibilism suggested here can offer more than is typically conceded to the debate. The entailment definition of infallibilism shall be adopted here. Namely, “one knows that p iff one’s evidence entails that p” (Brown 2018). The word entails, in this case, shall be understood as guaranteeing the truth of p.

The strictness of this is by design. The aim here is to carve knowledge at the joints, to get as close to truth as possible with the definition. This is done because there has been a disconnect surrounding knowledge, between what one intuitively believes knowledge is and how it has been defined. Most often, this is regarding practicality or everyday uses of knowledge. When analysing a definition of knowledge, it will often be weighed against particular scenarios to test its viability. If the definition grants or denies knowledge in a particular situation where it should not, this is seen as a weakness. It is unusual to suggest that the issue is not with the definition but with the intuitive conception of knowledge. Many definitions have been rejected because they fail to meet the requirements stipulated by the everyday use of the word “know”. However, this assumes that the everyday use of the word “know” should be the aim of a definition. This seems incorrect; the word “know” is often used in situations where it seems dubious that one has knowledge. For example, one may claim that they “know” a particular football team will win, or perhaps they “know” it will rain this afternoon. Even on certain fallibilist accounts it is doubtful that these cases would count as knowing. To use the traditional JTB account there would be discussion as to whether one is indeed justified in

1 See Kaplan (1985) for a discussion of this.

knowing in such cases. These demonstrate a clear divide between the practical use of “know” and the philosophical definition. This is not to say that any definition that rebels against the everyday use of “know” is correct, merely that a different standard should be considered. It is the suggestion here that the benchmark be truth.

Knowledge is intuitively connected to truth and is often held up as the highest epistemic good because of this relation. Therefore, this relation should be prioritised instead of prioritising the wide use of the word “know”. Importantly, the aim here is not to merely maximise true beliefs. Instead, the aim is to produce the most refined pieces of knowledge.2 In this sense, one’s justification for knowledge should come as close to truth as possible. As such, a definition should be sought whereby the evidence one holds entails the truth of a proposition. This entailment should exclude any luck or doubt from one’s knowledge claim. Therefore, one’s evidence should remove any chance of lucky knowledge and eliminate the opportunity for doubt. This should hopefully satisfy an extremely theoretical definition of knowledge, one that ignores the practical uses of the word “know”, presenting new avenues that may reignite the definition of knowledge debate.

Why Not Fallibilism?

One could argue that this account would be served better by being an extremely restricted fallibilist account rather than an infallibilist one. However, there are several issues that the fallibilist struggles against that the infallibilist does not, namely, the threshold problem and Gettier cases.

It is these issues that provide the basis for this being an infallibilist theory. Perhaps the most apparent difference between fallibilism and infallibilism comes in how the two tackle the threshold problem. The threshold problem is a question of at what level of justification one’s true belief becomes knowledge (Bonjour 2010). From here then, if the fallibilist maintains that justification need not entail truth (produce a probability of 1) they must account for where the divide lies. This is where the prob lem occurs, for it seems that anywhere the fallibilist places this requirement for the level of justification it is subject to two criticisms. Firstly, the arbitrary nature of deciding to place the level there and not say one per cent lower. Secondly, whether that truly is enough justification for knowledge.

The infallibilist on the other hand has a simple response to this problem: justification must entail truth. There are attempts to solve the threshold problem for the fallibilist, but none of these has ever proven definitive and this is perhaps best highlighted by Hannon’s (2013, 2017) two proposed solutions to this. The first in response to Bonjour (2010) specifically, the second as an attempt to present a new impurism not subject to the problem. The gap in time and the difference in approach speaks to

2 Whilst there is certainly more to be said on this clarification, in the essence of space this will suffice. Credit: Doctor Kurt Sylvan PhD.

the persisting nature of the threshold problem. This is not all however. Although fallibilism is most commonly objected to via the classical or synchronic threshold problem, it along with some versions of infallibilism, must also contend with the diachronic threshold problem (Borges 2022). This version of the problem targets the defeasibility of justification which Borges (2022) calls “fallibilism spread over time”. Therefore, fallibilists and some infallibilists who rely on the defeasibility of justification must contend with the diachronic threshold problem. This is not the case for this version of infallibilism. Since the knowledge it allows for is so restricted, the evidence (justification) required to entail the truth of these propositions is such that it cannot be defeated if indeed it does entail truth. If it turns out that one’s evidence is defeasible, then it cannot be said to entail truth and thus one never had knowledge in the first place. Consequently, this version of infallibilism overcomes the synchronic and diachronic threshold problems. Therefore, it seems best to adopt Ockam’s Razor here. If infallibilism avoids a problem that fallibilism hasn’t tackled then it is the better option.3

Impractical Infallibilism

An infallibilist conception aims to produce the most prominent cases of knowledge. This is done by one’s evidence entailing truth, thereby removing the possibility for luck or doubt. Another way of thinking about this is if there is a chance of luck, then one can doubt. Therefore, the goal for the infallibilist is to eliminate the chance of luck. This is the role of the entailment definition. If one’s evidence entails truth, there can be no room for luck. This is easy to claim, however, but less easy to demonstrate. One type of luck is veritic luck (Pritchard 2005); being lucky in this way means that one forms a belief which will be false in close possible worlds. Pritchard (2005) gives the case of Gullible John, where John is told his house is on fire by his “friends” as a joke. Upon returning home, John finds his house ablaze due to an electrical fault that occurred moments before his “friends” joked about a fire. It is apparent in this case that John is veritically lucky, his evidence (“friends’” testimony) does not in any way link to the truth of the fire. This type of luck infallibilism appears to deal with well, by requiring one’s evidence to entail the truth of a claim there is no possibility of knowing when being veritically lucky under infallibilism.

The second type of luck presents greater difficulty. When one is reflectively lucky, they are lucky by not having sufficient awareness of the reliability of one’s method of knowing. For example, imagine Norman, a man with a perfectly reliable power of clairvoyance. Norman has no evidence for or against such a power. One day this power grants Norman the intuition that the president is in New York with no accompanying perception. He uses this intuition to form the belief “the president is in New York” (Goldman and Beddor 2021). In this case, Norman cannot be veritically lucky. His power

3 This should not be taken as a definitive defeat of fallibilism. It is merely to outline some of the thinking that led to impractical infallibilism.

grants that in all close possible worlds, his belief will be true. However, Norman lacks awareness of how reliably this belief can be formed. He may doubt the truth of his belief. Thus, Norman can be considered reflectively lucky. This type of luck is trickier for infallibilism to deal with, for it seems that one’s evidence may entail something but that one would be unable to avoid being reflectively lucky. Suppose a maths professor and a maths novice both know a mathematical proof. It would seem wrong to suggest that both know it equally (Brown 2018). The professor would be able to demonstrate the proof, whereas the novice may only know it through testimony. In both cases, there is evidence that entails truth, but the novice seems reflectively lucky. Reflective luck must be tackled if the aim here is to get one’s evidence to entail truth. In short, the version of infallibilism proposed here must keep all attributions of justification as close to truth as possible by having one’s evidence entail truth and exorcise all luck, both veritical and reflective from knowledge claims. In doing so, one would be left with the most reductive forms of knowledge that, if achieved, should be incontestable as knowledge. It is with this aim that impractical infallibilism is proposed.

This account adopts a psychological (and thus non-generous) conception of evidence. To include claims about the external world when attempting to exorcise luck and doubt would be contradictory. Furthermore, this would be a non-shifty account. The change in context or variation in the subject should not make a difference in this case with the dismissal of practicality. Finally, it should be clear why this account must also be internalist. Given the psychological account of evidence this account aligns with, one can only be justified based upon what is available to them. This would make this account a weak accessibilist, internalist one, whereby one knows P iff one can become aware of one’s knowledge basis for P via reflection. The high demands this account places on knowing means this account allows for but does not wholly endorse the KK principle (knowing that one knows). For example, one may know P (whereby their justification entails that P) but be unable to know that they know P since their justification for knowing that they know P falls short of entailment. This is how one may be reflectively lucky (the maths novice) under this account. It is clear that most knowledge claims from everyday life would no longer count as knowledge under this definition. The primary things one would be able to know are necessary truths such as tautologies and mathematical proofs.4 This account is highly problematic for everyday or even non-standard ways in which the concept of knowing is used. Although there is a recognition that in some ordinary cases, the infallibilist conception of justification is the norm (lottery cases), many of one’s intuitive knowledge claims would be denied. It is so extreme that this might even be considered an error theory of knowledge. Thus, having outlined this infallibilist error theory of knowledge, now comes the time to defend it. Whilst practicality has been ignored in the

4 One would potentially know internal conscious states also, but this would require further analysis in conjunction with reflective luck.

formation of this position, the same cannot be said when critiquing it. Whilst there are certainly some theoretical criticisms, the most prominent ones arise from practical concerns.

Criticisms: Practical and Theoretical

Despite aiming to ignore the everyday use of the word know, this would seem to take it too far. Therefore, although it has been recognised as an error theory, this does not stop it from being criticised in this regard. In some instances, the ordinary demand placed on knowledge can be extremely high. For example, most would be remiss to claim that they know they will lose the lottery despite the odds of winning being remote. However, this does not expand to all cases. For instance, the claim “I know the ball is on the mat” would seem to have a much lower demand. Considering these cases, it would seem that a shifty account of knowledge might be the optimal solution. Indeed other accounts of knowledge appear to recognise this divide and account for it without dismissing the practical demands of the word “know”.

The contextualist argues that the level of justification is subjectively relative between cases. Thus, “knows” works linguistically in both. Additionally, pragmatic encroachment appears to have a more robust solution than impractical infallibilism. Pragmatic encroachment argues that the demand of justification changes depending on the practical features of a situation (“S is justified in believing that p only ifs is to act as if p” (Fantl and McGrath 2002: 78)).

Both of these seem to offer a more palatable position than impractical infallibilism. However, these can lead to some theoretical contradictory situations. Consider this situation for contextualism where D is a demanding context and O a forgiving one:

1) “Joe knows that Anne has hands” is true in O.

2) “Anne knows that she has hand” is not true in D.

3) “Anne knows that 1” is true in D.

4) If “Joe knows that Anne has hands” is true in O, then Anne has hands.

5) “Anne knows that 4” is true in D.

6) “Anne knows that she has hands” is true in D.

7) “Anne knows that she has hands” is true and not true in D (Baumann 2016).

This is a shortened version of the knowability problem that contains “uncontroversial assumptions” (Baumann 2016: §5.1) (importantly simple closure). From these premises, it becomes clear that contextualism can result in a contradiction. “Anne knows she has hands” cannot be true and not true in

the same context. Therefore, whilst contextualism may make practical gains, this concession to practicality results in a theoretical issue that clearly is not how knowledge should function.

Whilst the knowability problem is a critical issue for contextualism, there are possible responses to it. Indeed Baumann (2016: §5.5) offers a solution he calls downward closure, which is supposed to be a “special contextualist closure principle”. In summary, (where “A” is for ascribers) “(a) If A knows-d that S knows-d that p, and if A knows-d that (If S knows-d that p, then p), then A knows-o that p, and (b) If A knows-d that S knows-o that p, and if A knows-d that (If S knows-o that p, then p), then A knows-o that p (Baumann 2016: § 5.5) ” This essentially outlines how one person can know something via closure but in a weaker sense. Thus, they only know it in a downgraded context (hence downward closure). This would seem to solve the knowability problem by allowing one person to form a weaker version of someone else’s knowledge. Therefore, when using this version of closure in the problem, one would be left with the following:

6 DC) “Anne knows she has hands” is true in O.

7 DC) “Anne knows she has hands” is true in O but not in D (Baumann 2016).

Prima facie this does solve the knowability problem, but a further examination of downward closure highlights this response’s weakness. Take a conditional of the form “If p, then q.” That one knows-d the conditional as well as its antecedent does not mean that one knows-d the consequent of the conditional” (Baumann 2016: §5.5). This is how Baumann (2016) introduces the idea of downward closure. The problem here is the notion of entailment that is contained within closure. Simple closure expresses that if one knows a proposition p and knows that p entails q, then one knows q. This entailment is the foundation of the closure principle. The problem with downward closure is that it does not contain this same entailment. One knowing that someone else knows does not entail. This is supposed to be reflected by the change of the knowledge applying to d but being downgraded to o. The point here is that the downgrade does not result in knowledge because knowing the antecedent, and the entailment (knowing that another knows) is not the same as knowing the consequent (yourself). Claiming that one knows but in a weaker sense is begging the question of contextualism; it is simpler to claim that one does not know. Thus, the contextualist position still results in the contradiction caused by the knowability problem since downward closure does not hold. Therefore, whilst contextualism can provide practical gains over impractical infallibilism, it falls short theoretically.

This aptly responds to contextualism which still leaves open pragmatic encroachment. The pragmatic encroacher (at least those akin to Fantl and McGrath (2002) who align with practical adequacy) faces situations whereby one can gain knowledge that p by gaining evidence against p, along with the inverse of this (Eaton and Pickavance 2015). In short, there are scenarios in which a person

does not know p, but by gaining evidence against p, one ends up knowing p. This hinges on practical adequacy; “S’s epistemic position is practically adequate iff the gap between S’s position’s actual strength to p and strength of the position conditional on p makes no practical difference” (Eaton and Pickavance 2015: 3136). No practical difference means the action that is rational based upon credence is the same as the one conditional on the truth of p. Eaton and Pickavance (2015) offer a situation whereby one can gain evidence for a proposition that results in one’s position no longer being practically adequate. They offer a scenario where one is deciding whether to get the vaccine (X) for a disease (D) (C=rational credence value).

When “not exposed & not allergic” is conditional, “don’t get X” has a greater value. However, when calculating with credence values, “get X” is of higher value. This demonstrates that one’s epistemic position regarding “not exposed & not allergic” is not practically adequate. Now suppose one’s evidence for being allergic is doubled. When recalculating the credence and conditional outcomes, one finds that their position is practically adequate as the conditional now aligns with the credence outcome.5 Thus, one has gained evidence against “not exposed & not allergic” yet is now in a position to know “not exposed & not allergic”. This is problematic; one’s credence of a position has reduced, yet this results in one being in a position to know. Once again, accounting for practicality results in a theoretical issue.

It is worth noting that this criticism only applies to the pragmatic encroacher who accepts the notion of practical adequacy. Furthermore, even for the encroacher who accepts practical adequacy, there is a response. Part of the definition of pragmatic encroachment is that the practical sometimes encroaches onto the epistemic. Therefore, it should not surprise that one’s rational credence can decline in certain situations, but one gains knowledge. This misinterprets the criticism; in this case, nothing has changed practically. Instead, the only change has been an evidential one (Eaton and Pickavance 2015). Thus, this criticism still presents a problem for the pragmatic encroacher. In summary, it appears clear that although some theories may cater more towards the practical aspects of knowing, this results in

5 See Eaton and Pickavance (2015) for a more detailed account of this criticism.

theoretical issues for the position. This reinforces the disjunction between the theoretical and practical uses of “know”. It highlights that when one concedes to one end, this creates problems at the other.

Furthermore, this practical problem of insufficient knowledge can be dismissed as not a problem. In carving knowledge at the joints, this need not change how we use the word “know” in everyday language. Carroll (2016, cited in Kaufman 2017) outlines his theory termed “poetic naturalism”. This is to say that there is one “natural” reality; the bare fundamental reality of the universe. This natural reality would be where truth resides; any true claim would be a reflection of this reality. However, this is not to say that any claim which does not reflect this reality is meaningless. It may be false, but not meaningless. Carroll (2016, cited in Kaufman 2017) thus notes that there are valuable ways of talking about the world, such as our everyday use of the word “know”. Therefore, our everyday use of the word know may be incorrect, but still valuable. Consequently, this version of infallibilism can maintain the value of the everyday use of the word “know” and the subsequent knowledge attributions whilst acknowledging that they are not cases of knowing.

Indeed Unger (1978) makes a similar argument, claiming that knowledge as an absolute term in the sense that it must meet certainty leads to scepticism. However, he maintains that everyday knowledge attributions are still possible. Therefore, this disjunction between what knowledge is and how it is used is not a novel suggestion. However, this means some criticisms are already present. One claims that this position presents a divide that is both confusing and seemingly pointless (Hannon 2019).

To keep the conditions of knowledge so far removed from knowledge ascriptions seems tantamount to ridiculous. In short, what motivates this distinction?

The motivation, in this case, is an attempt to avoid the practical restrictions often placed on definitions of knowledge, which have thus far led to little progress being made. There does seem to be some merit to this criticism beyond that however, if there are genuinely two ways of “knowing”, namely the everyday (shifty) sense and the infallibilist sense proposed here, why has this not been reflected in language?

Whilst knowledge is undeniably the most discussed of the epistemic mental states, it is by no means the only one. As such, it may be another one of these states that could fulfil the everyday use of the word “know”. For example, consider understanding, whilst it is certainly a different state to knowing, could it not serve as an everyday replacement for “know”? Consider, does one know they have hands or do they merely understand they have hands? The possibility for understanding to be factive or non-factive allows for the maintenance of the restrictive nature of impractical infallibilism.

Whilst this is by no means the most robust response since it appeals to a state still under debate,6 it does present an avenue against the criticism presented by Hannon (2019).

As noted, although there are some practical criticisms, this account also suffers some theoretical ones. It is here that the issue of reflective luck presents itself contained within the entailment definition of infallibilism. Think back to the maths professor and novice- both possess evidence which entails the truth of the proof. Thus, each would possess knowledge of the proof. However, there does seem to be some divide between the professor and the novice that is not recognised by impractical infallibilism. Again, there can be an appeal to alternative epistemic states. Thus, it may be that when a subject suffers reflective luck, this is not a gap in their knowledge, but a gap in their understanding. This would account for how most describe this case; both the professor and the novice know the proof but not equally. This lack of equality can be explained as a difference in understanding rather than in knowledge. The professor and the novice can claim to know the proof, but the professor can claim greater understanding. Therefore, issues of reflective luck are issues of understanding rather than issues of knowledge.

Again, this response may be criticised for appealing to another mental state. Further, it makes an assumption about the nature of understanding and how it relates to luck. Therefore, whilst this response cannot be considered close to watertight, it maintains the argument’s spirit. Knowledge is being asked to do too much. It must solve Gettier cases, allow for practical reasoning, fit our everyday intuitions, provide an answer to the threshold problem, and more. Thus, it is not out of the realm of possibility that many of the issues caused by this myriad of conditions are not to be solved by knowledge, but by other epistemic states.

Conclusion

To repeat, the goal of this article is not to fully prove infallibilism nor disprove fallibilism. The aim is to highlight the role which impractical infallibilism can fill in restarting this debate. The debate around a definition of knowledge has become stagnated and repetitive due to the host of conditions that any definition must meet. This has resulted in startlingly little progression from a discipline that is often famous for its lack of progression. Therefore, the aim here was to present a theory that ignored the practical concerns of knowledge in favour of a purely theoretical definition In conclusion, if taken seriously, restarting the discussion of defining knowledge in this manner may illuminate some path hitherto unforeseen. For this to happen, further analysis of this approach and potential criticisms surrounding it are needed. For once a purely theoretical definition of knowledge is agreed upon, broadening the scope to account for practicality can begin.

6 This requires further discussion to realise the potential of this defence, especially given the issues of factivity and coherence. See Elgin, (2007) and Kvanvig, (2003) for opposing views on factivity as well as analysis of coherence.

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Authenticity In Musical Performance: Score Compliance versus Interpretive Freedom

Cara Duttaroy

Abstract: When watching or listening to a performance of a musical work, there is often talk by critics of ‘authenticity’, but where does this lie? There are two potential candidates to answer this: in its score or further afield in its performer’s interpretation. Intuitively, we expect a performance of a piece to resemble the score that it reads from, but this carries the potential to constrain performers to stale performances. Conversely, given that a large part of a piece comes from the emotion and story that underpins it, there is the potential for a performer to get carried away and lose sig ht of the piece they set out to perform. Here, I will explore these two types of authenticity and outline both their strengths and shortcomings as seen by Dodd (2012). I will then examine the intuition presented by Kivy (1995) that most authentic equals best. Next, I’ll examine additional arguments of the potential for a slippery slope from interpretive authenticity and bring into question the importance of the intentions of the composer. Finally, I will describe why neither can be taken as gospel and why t hey must, in fact, be taken together in order to make up for the failings of the other.

Introduction

When one considers the authenticity of a musical performance, what comes to mind? To most, I would wager a guess that authenticity means the act of being true to the traditions and intentions of the composition and of the composer. This intuition, at first glance, would appear to be the main - if not only - type of authenticity that we need take into consideration when evaluating a performance’s authenticity, for if a performer does not play what is written, then they have not performed the composition. To be sure, we would consider a performance of Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique that was, in fact, an arrangement of Taylor Swift’s Love Story, to be inauthentic since it strays away from the score entirely and could thus no longer be considered a performance of the Symphonie. This is, of course, an extreme case, and not one that would likely ever occur. Let us consider, instead, a far more likely scenario: a performance that strays from Berlioz’s original score only minorly - perhaps by a tempo mark changed from Largo (♩= 56) at the beginning of Movement 1 to a more generous Rubatoin order to properly articulate to us, the listeners, the pain of the artist at the hand of love.

Here we find ourselves at the intersection of two types of authenticity that Dodd writes about in his paper ‘Performing Works of Music Authentically’ (2012). These are the intuitive score compliance authenticity, which is advocated for powerfully by Stephen Davies, and the bold newcomer, interpretive authenticity, which is what Dodd argues the case for. This is just a starting point, however,

for both of these types of authenticity stem from the intentions of the composer which Peter Kivy (1995) points out is not axiomatic to musicology and must, in fact, be investigated. I intend to outline both types of authenticity and bring into question whether we should care about the intentions of composers that underpin them. Finally, I will describe why we cannot do away with score compliance, nor can we adhere to it absolutely; instead, we must find a compromise with intentional authenticity.

Davies and Intuitions

Let’s begin by exploring our initial intuition. Davies is an excellent example of the score compliant stance. He tells us that everything we need to know about a piece of music is written in its score (Davies 1987: 39), for who could know the intentions of the composer better than the composer themselves? Dodd also points out that score compliancy is typically coupled with historicism (Dodd 2012: 486), and this is certainly considered by Davies who says:

“A highly authentic performance is likely to be one in which instruments contemporary to the period of composition (or replicas of such instruments) are used in its performance, in which the score is interpreted in the light of stylistic practices and performance conventions of the time when the work was composed, in which ensembles of the same size and disposition as accord with the composer’s specification are employed, and so forth.”

(Davies 1987: 40)

It is clear here that Davies advocates for the idea that authenticity is a replication of the circumstances in which the composition was first written and performed. Let’s take this and run with it to properly gauge what this means for us and for performers of these works.

What We Think They Want, What They Really Really Want

Consider the pre-eminent public favourite that is Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Dodd uses it as an illustration of how time can impact musical performance and as a wonderful gateway to the question of extrapolating composers’ intentions. In the exposition of the first movement, the horns play a motif which acts as a sort of fanfare that announces the modulation from C minor to E-flat major and the commencement of the strings’ melody. By contrast, in the recapitulation this modulation is from C minor to C major, but because Beethoven was writing at a time when valveless horns were in use (and these could not reach the required notes), the fanfare was passed to the bassoons instead. These two instruments have noticeably different timbres and effects, and many find the bassoons to be underwhelming in their fanfare. As a result of this and of the modern development of the valved horn,

many modern performances of the symphony will stray from Beethoven’s score and have the horns play the motif instead (Dodd 2012: 494).

This, to Davies, would be sacrilegious. Playing modified (or as Davies would say, wrong) notes in order to perform, what the performer would consider, a more nuanced and rich interpretation of the piece is foolish, and akin to a chess player who knows how to move all the pieces but fundamentally misunderstands the goal of the game (Dodd 2012: 496-7). Indeed, if these notes are, as Davies claims, wrong, then we find ourselves back at our Berlioz-Taylor Swift problem; in the case of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, the notes are the same, but are merely played on a different instrument. Of course, to Davies this is still within the realm of the foolish chess player. By diverging from Beethoven’s original orchestration of the piece, a performance that allows the horns to play the fanfare motif instead of the designated bassoons is breaking away from the score compliance authenticity that Davies champions so passionately. A natural thing to wonder is whether, had Beethoven had access to the modern valved horn when he was writing his symphony, he would have still placed the fanfare motif in the bassoon part that, we have assumed, he only did out of necessity? Obviously we cannot pretend to know what Beethoven, a man long dead, would have wished for but we can infer based on the evidence we have available: in this case, the lacklustre bassoon fanfare and the fact that it was presented in the horn part in the exposition. But this is not enough.

Kivy points out that when considering whether someone really wants something we must take into consideration not only the alternatives that exist in their circumstances, but also “what might be or might have been” (Kivy 1995: 25). He illustrates this with a thought experiment concerning a boy named William who was born in 1769 and who chose to become a sailor rather than apprentice as a harness maker. Can we say for sure that William would not have wanted to be a Formula One driver had he been born in 1989 instead of 1769? The same can be asked of Beethoven and valveless horns. We cannot with certainty deny that either man would not wish for something that they could only have hundreds of years after their deaths; as Kivy says these ideas “cannot be rejected because they cannot even be thought about” (Kivy 1995: 25).

Interpretive Authenticity

Let us move away from score compliance for now and investigate the alternative type of authenticity: interpretive authenticity. Dodd draws inspiration largely from Aaron Ridley’s idea that the thing that matters most to us in a performance is the performer’s understanding of and faithfulness to the work (Dodd 2012: 487). Dodd agrees with Ridley that a performance is more faithful to a work when it demonstrates a deeper and more insightful understanding of it (Dodd 2012: 487). With that in mind, let’s return to Davies’s chess player analogy. To Ridley and Dodd’s minds, a performer is not

only entitled, but encouraged, to make changes in order to deliver to the listener a richer performance. As we saw earlier, Davies views this as incorrect, and equates such behaviour to a chess player who fundamentally misunderstands the game’s aim. It is clear to see here that these two authenticities are in contention, but before we take this discussion further, let’s finish outlining interpretive authenticity. It is commonly held that music is composed and performed in order to convey something to the audience, and the aim of performers is to realise this. Again, we look to Berlioz’s pioneering work in programme music, his Symphonie Fantastique, to illustrate. Narrative and emotion are central to the Symphonie Fantastique, so any performance of it would focus on doing it justice and conveying the story that Berlioz worked so hard to put to music. Of course, emotions are hard to portray when constrained, so interpretive authenticity would be preferred. Indeed, most performers would not hesitate to make the case for such freedom.

To illustrate the importance of narrative to the piece, let’s outline the storyline of the symphony since it is such an important part of the work. The circumstances surrounding its composition have taken on a somewhat notorious mythos, and rightfully so. The work is a reflection of Berlioz’s obsession with the actress Harriet Smithson, whom he fell in love with upon seeing her performing in a play. In the programme notes of his work, Berlioz tells the audience the story of an artist struggling with the love he feels for his “Beloved One”, whom he is haunted by visions of. In a fit of despair, the artist attempts to poison himself with opium, but takes too small a dose and instead takes a heady trip through his tormented subconscious. He sees visions of his execution on the scaffold for the murder of his beloved, and of a demonic orgy (Scoilnet 2014: 10). The piece has three movements expressing heartache and longing, and two depicting wild drug-fuelled visions, so it is only fitting that performers would seek to convey this, as Berlioz sought, to the audience; and in order to do this, they may deem it necessary that they to stray from the score. Having Berlioz’s intentions written out by him, from the storyline down to his thoroughly considered orchestration, allows performers and listeners alike to understand the gist of what should be conveyed. Thus, so long as this overarching idea is achieved, it does not matter if the score is adhered to as absolutely as Davies demands. Dodd himself states that an “interpretively authentic performance of W, in evincing a profound understanding of W, is faithful to W by retrieving and displaying elements of W’s musical content” (Dodd 2012: 489). What this tells us is that by delving into the depths of the Symphonie Fantastique’s heartache and despair, and successfully putting this across to the listener, a performance is allowed some flexibility in interpretation of the score as a necessary sacrifice for this interpretive authenticity.

Best Equals Most Authentic?

It is worth noting here that Kivy tells us that authenticity has become synonymous with a ‘good’ performance (Kivy 1995: 1), so a more authentic performance would be considered a ‘better’ one. This

means that when we say the “best version is the version that gives ‘the listener’ the most aesthetic satisfaction” (Kivy 1995: 179), we mean to say that the most authentic performance is the best because it is the one that is most pleasing to the listener’s ear. Naturally this raises questions, and Kivy acknowledges this (Kivy 1995: 179). How does one quantify satisfaction? What do we mean when we say something sounds ‘best’? These are both questions without firm answers, and can be answered in contrasting ways depending on the stance one takes. Take, for example, two interpretations, A and B, of the same piece, which are both score compliant and adhere equally to the conventions of the composition. However, performance A conveys a particular melodic line in a way that B does not (perhaps the performers of A have a more expressive vibrato technique or perhaps B is performed by an ensemble of amateurs) (Dodd 2012: 499). It would not be foolish to presume that, since all else is equal, A demonstrates an enhanced understanding of the piece and is, then, the better performance. Unfortunately, in Davies’s view, A, despite its beautiful interpretation of a particular melodic line, is no better or worse than B because they are both equally true to the score (Dodd 2012: 499). This is clearly a problem for Kivy’s ‘best version’ as the ambiguity of his argument still gives rise to the differing views that it sought to resolve.

Further Arguments: Slippery Slope

A further argument one could mount against interpretive authenticity is that it is a slippery slope. By allowing one modification, we open the door to making another, then another, and another, ad infinitum, such that we will eventually reach a piece which, through minor changes, has been transformed so far away from the original work that it is unrecognisable. This is the danger of allowing for score deviation.1 However, I do not think that we are in danger of this happening. While there can be no doubt that there have been performances that have strayed from scores, these are still recognisable as the pieces they are interpreting as they are, to some extent, still referring back to the original score. Take, for example, Ben Lee’s world-record breaking violin rendition of Rimsky-Korsokov’s Flight of the Bumblebee, or Kivy’s example of Pablo Casals’s interpretation of Bach’s Cello Suite no 2 in D minor (Kivy 1995: 32). Both of these strayed from the score: Lee by sacrificing intonation accuracy for speed, and Casals by taking rhythmic liberties (Kivy 1995: 32). We can see clearly that score deviating interpretations are permitted, and in the case of Casals, even lauded. We can also see that such instances have not meant that all performances have followed suit, nor have they continued to make changes to the point of transformation. This is not the Ship of Theseus: nobody is changing the entire thing. Ultimately the goal of the performer is to perform the piece, and they cannot do that by playing a separate work, so while they may seek to have their own take on a work, they will still remain true (enough) to the score in order to be able to claim to perform the piece.

1 See SEP §4.4 and Goodman 1976 for further discussion.

Intentions

A natural question that we need to consider at this stage is this: does the intention of the composer even matter? This assumption of the significance of intention underpins both arguments: score compliance argues that intentions are written in the score (and only the score), and interpretive authenticity allows for modifications based on the assumption that expression is the intention of the composer. However, Kivy sets about to question this very foundation. It is a deceptively small detail, but one that threatens to derail both arguments. According to Kivy, we have misidentified ‘intention’ as being equal to a command when, in actual fact, when we describe score markings as intentions, these are mostly suggestions and not, as we have taken it to mean, an order (Kivy 1995: 11). This takes us back to the question of whether we can guess at what the composer would have wished had they known of the changes that would come in the future, and raises the question of how we differentiate between a firm command and a suggestion. This, according to Taruskin, is not possible. Taruskin offers a sceptical rebuttal of intention, claiming that there is an epistemological barrier that prevents us from ever knowing the intentions of the composer (Kivy 1995: 13). This means that, even if composers were to have had strong intentions regarding the performance of their work, these would be inaccessible to us.

However, Kivy points out that this argument is self-refuting. This is because, by claiming to know that composers did not have intentions, Taruskin also claims to know that the composer did not intend for characteristics X, Y, and Z. But if this is the case, then, of course, he must have overcome the epistemological obstacle that he claims prevents us from knowing the intentions of composers (Kivy 1995: 13). Moreover, if this were the case, then we cannot ever know intentions (or there cannot exist intentions), so we cannot have any sort of authenticity. Taruskin is not denying that composers have, and can have intentions, but is instead casting doubt on whether these are intentions that we should seek to uncover (Kivy 1995: 19). Kivy is quick to clarify that when Taruskin talks about “intentions”, he means it in the traditional sense: that intentions are sacrosanct and not, as the case may be, mere suggestions

But what are the epistemological constraints that Taruskin claims bar us from composers’ intentions? Kivy suggests that Taruskin may be taking influence from Wimsatt and Beardsley’s ‘Intentional Fallacy’ (Kivy 1995: 14). This is the idea that an author’s intentions are both mysterious and unimportant to us when judging a work of literature. Kivy is careful to place Wimsatt and Beardsley’s idea into the context of music, and tells us that what this means for us is not as sceptical as one might assume. We must look beyond this idea of the accessibility of intentions, and instead consider where one might attempt to find them (Kivy 1995: 14). Kivy tells us that what this leads us to is the common thought that we can find clues to the composer’s intentions through biographical documents

and, more importantly, sources external to the work. Here, Wimsatt and Beardsley’s Intentional Fallacy comes into play. They tell us that the best place to find evidence of the composer’s intentions is in the work itself not unlike Davies and his score compliance. The example that they give illustrates this nicely: if a critic is trying to gauge the intentions of a poet, then they should look to the poem itself; if the poet was successful in their intentions, then the intentions will be clear, but if they were not, then the critic would need to look elsewhere. However, there is rarely ever, they say, evidence for intentions external to the work (Kivy 1995: 15). Unlike Taruskin, this does not deny intentionality, nor does it tell us that intentions are inaccessible as a result of a mysterious epistemological blockade; instead, what Wimsatt and Beardsley encourage us to do is seek the composer’s intention in the work itself and in our interpretation of it (Kivy 1995: 15).

Two Options and a Modest Proposal

At this stage, we have two options: jettison intentions all together, or accept them as absolute (Kivy 1995: 21). To do the former would throw us out of the frying pan and into the fire, as it were, because we would essentially trade in despotic adherence to composers’ intentions for the chaotic melee of taste. To do the latter is to remain in the frying pan, where performers are restricted to only play what is scored and are prevented from free interpretation of the work, and listeners have no choice but to listen to worse sounding music than they otherwise would have (Kivy 1995: 22). However, I believe that there is a third option: compromise. As I have previously mentioned, and as we can see clearly here, we must find a middle ground, because neither extreme is good in isolation but they can balance each other out. Interpretive authenticity allows performers to reinvigorate and understand pieces, while score compliance provides some grounding to constrain the performer enough that they do not stray so far from the score that they end up in chaos.

What does this mean for authenticity? By marrying intentional authenticity and score compliant authenticity, we must acknowledge a trade-off, and consider which we must prioritise in order to give the best, most authentic performance (again, for simplicity, I am going to make the assumption that best equals most authentic). If we prioritise score compliance over interpretive authenticity then we find ourselves not much better off than we started, since it would seek to control and constrain performers in such a way that the interpretive freedoms allowed would be limited to the extent that they may as well not be granted. Thus, we must take interpretive authenticity to be preferred in the trade-off. In doing this, we are providing the opportunity for composers’ intentions (explicit or not) to be explored in depth and, further, opening the door to better musical performances for listeners. This, with the added bonus of enough score compliance to ensure that any interpretation does not lose sight of the work and its origins, makes for the best picture of authenticity available.

Dodd says that “it remains to be seen whether such an exchange of score compliance [...] for interpretive insight actually succeeds in making the performance better overall” (Dodd 2012: 493), but I would argue that this is incorrect. If we take Kivy's idea that aesthetic satisfaction is the determinant of what we consider to be better (and thus, more authentic), we can assume that the listener’s enjoyment of a performance is what lies at the heart of an interpretation’s value. Based on this, we need not think too hard whether a performance that devoutly and robotically follows a score, or a performance that allows space for nuance with respect to the score, is preferable. Consider a computer-generated score of any work, let’s say in this instance, Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony. On modern digital music programmes, notes are translated by the computer into MIDI sounds using artificial renderings of instruments. This would allow for a perfect performance of the symphony because only the score markings written would be played. However, it is widely agreed that MIDI files are unsatisfactory and beside the use of computer-generated instruments, this is because there is no demonstration of understanding, no depth, no richness or subtlety; it is simply going through the motions. This is why we need interpretive authenticity and must prioritise it over score compliance.

Conclusion

As we have seen, the balance of score compliance and interpretive freedom is a point of contention for musicologists and philosophers alike. Davies offers an argument that initially aligns with our intuition that an authentic performance must be true to the score, but threatens to leave us dissatisfied as listeners and unfulfilled as performers. By contrast, interpretive authenticity offers us the freedom to do away with score markings if we deem them an obstacle to achieving a richer understanding and faithfulness to the composers’ artistic intentions. Of course, this leaves us open to the threat of a descent into chaos. Thus, we can see that neither can stand alone, rather we must combine the two in order to ground interpretation and to inject sparkle into the score. Hence, score compliance is not the only type of authenticity that matters, for it can only be taken seriously when combined with interpretive authenticity.

Bibliography

Secondary Literature

Davies, S. (1987) “Authenticity in Musical Performance”, British Journal of Aesthetics, Vol. 27, No. 1, Winter 1987, pp. 39-50.

Dodd, J. (2012) “Performing Works of Music Authentically”, European Journal of Philosophy, 23:3, pp. 485-508.

Goodman, N. (1976) Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols, 2nd edition, Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company.

Kivy, P. (1995) Authenticities: Philosophical Reflections on Musical Performance, pub. Cornell University Press.

Scoilnet (2014) “Berlioz - Symphonie Fantastique”, pub. 29th September 2014, https://www.scoilnet.ie/uploads/resources/12929/12566.pdf (accessed: 25th January 2023).

Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (SEP) (2017) §4.4 Authenticity in “Goodman’s Aesthetics”, https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/goodman-aesthetics/#Aut (accessed: 16 March 2023).