2013 Student Capstone Journal

Capstone Journal Volume V 2013

WORCESTER ACADEMY Graduation Projects: Explorations in the Real World

Table of Contents Populism and the Creation of an American Style of Music in the Twentieth Century Libby Dimenstein ‘13

Pages 4 - 31

Transcending Victimhood

by Grant Fan '13

Pages 32 – 61

An Analysis of Crises’ Influence on Horror A Closer Look at Horror’s Evolution

Aidan Fly '13

Pages 62 – 87

Artificial Intelligence Making Abstract Logid Games Unbeatable

by Cecil Woebker, ‘13

Pages 88 – 128

Populism and the Creation of an American Style of Music in the Twentieth Century Libby Dimenstein ‘13

The European Musical Tradition For hundreds of years, Europe was considered the center of all serious Western music.

From the beginnings of classical concert music1 in the Baroque Period through its development in the Classical and Romantic Eras, European composers dominated. Germany, France, Italy, Russia, and England each produced music at an astounding rate, with many other countries contributing. Men such as Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, and Brahms commanded international respect and grew to define their ages. In the first decades of the twentieth century, avant-garde music still found its home in Europe. The Romantic Period was just ending, and two distinct musical styles began to emerge: neoclassicism and serialism. These trends would influence the modern music scene for years to come.

The Russian Igor Stravinsky was the principal promoter of neoclassicism. This style of music moved away from the Romanticism of the previous century in favor of a renewal of the music from the 1700s. The turn to neoclassicism had to do in part with the animosity that many European countries felt toward Germany in the wake of World War I; for Stravinsky, it was time to search for different sources of inspiration than the great German Romantics like Brahms and Wagner. One of Stravinsky’s aims, according to Jean Cocteau2, was to “recapture wit and lightness in music” (qtd. in Griffiths), a serious change from the emotional weight inherent in Romanticism. Some of Stravinsky’s most typically neoclassical works include his Octet, with its use of classical forms like the sonata, the fugue, and the variation (Walsh). Stravinsky would continue to develop neoclassicism through the 1950s, and his works influenced many of those who studied alongside him in Paris, including Francis Poulenc, Sergei Prokofiev, and Bohuslav Martinú. Ultimately, neoclassicism worked its way into the fabric of modern music of the twentieth century.

1 The term “concert music” here refers to the genre of art music, often classical, that is not considered popular music. This definition excludes music such as folk songs, religious music, and jazz.

2 John Cocteau (1889-1963) was a French author, poet, playwright, and artist.

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One of Stravinsky’s principal critics, the German Arnold Schoenberg, was the driving force behind the advent of serialism. Twelve-tone serialism, or dodecaphony, involves arranging the twelve tones of a scale so that each is heard once in a segment of music and none is emphasized over another (Griffiths). However, this method allows for a huge number of permutations, depending on the choice of series, what part of the series is used, how series are joined, or how different voices work together to complete the series. Though serialism in itself is not atonal, Schoenberg–and many others–often used it in atonal works, a characteristic of modern music that many audiences found difficult to grasp. A prime example of Schoenberg’s technique is found in his Variations for Orchestra op. 31, in which he constructs a melody using four serial statements (Griffiths). Schoenberg frequently used such statements as a basis for his pieces’ themes and with great versatility; some were tonal, while others were not. Many of Schoenberg’s contemporaries, like Webern and Berg, adopted the practice of serialism. Even Stravinsky, Schoenberg’s quasi-rival, experimented with this style of composition. In addition to neoclassicism, serialism defined music of the Modern era.

Figure 1: Igor Stravinsky (Igor Stravinsky)

Figure 2: Arnold Schoenberg (Arnold Schoenberg)

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Antonín Dvorák Before progressing into the territory of American music, I would first like to mention a musical figure who originates from Europe, a man who helped to bridge the gap between European and American music. Antonín Dvorák was born in Czechoslovakia in 1841, the son of uneducated, provincial parents. He, like the musicians that I am about to discuss, devoted much of his career to creating music with a nationalistic flavor. During the first period of his musical life, Dvorák composed works that used melodies and themes from Czech folksongs. His style included “some pentatonic phrasing, the sharpened fourth degree in the minor, strongly syncopated rhythm with elements from dances such as the polka [and the] mazurka” (Döge).

Each of these features is present in traditional Czech music, and many of Dvorák’s compositions were proud reminders of his cultural background, so much so that critics sometimes complained about his blatant patriotism. The prominent Viennese music critic Eduard Hanslick once wrote, “Dvorák, who has always lived among the Slavs, a son of the people, among the people, has become so imbued with the spirit of Slavic national melodies, that one has to worry lest [the composer] should become captive to his charming but one-sided attraction.” (Brodbeck).3 Dvorák’s explicitly nationalistic music stood in sharp contrast to that of his other European contemporaries, many of whom believed that folksongs were too lowbrow to be incorporated into serious concert music. Dvorák, though, would not be deterred, and works like his Slavonic Dances and Slavonic Rhapsody were nationalistic in sound, as well as title (Döge).

What does Dvorák’s Czech nationalism have to do with the creation of American music?

Dvorák influenced American composers in two ways. First, he showed them that music with themes characteristic of traditional folksongs could be seen as significant by the world of high art.

Second, he gave American musicians a model on which to base their own creations. In 1892, Dvorák travelled to the United States to be the artistic director of the National Conservatory of Music in America. Throughout the four years he spent in the States, Dvorák wrote music that he felt symbolized the spirit of the American people. His famous Symphony no. 9 “From the New

3 These criticisms, however, should be taken with a grain of salt; German reviewers were sensitive to works that they felt praised Slavic culture over German, and Dvorák is now widely considered to be a masterful composer.

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World,” Biblical Songs, and String Quartet no. 12 in F (“The American”) all use themes from African American and American Indian sources. Dvorák sympathized with these American ethnic minorities because he saw their problems as similar to the ones faced by his own Czech people, and as a result, much of Dvorák’s music from his “American Period” involves the brilliant synthesis of both American and Czech themes. Yet, despite the glaring Americanisms in Dvorák’s work, the composer declined to be called the “founder of American national music;” he perceived himself as a guest in America who composed music from the viewpoint of an outsider (Smolka). Although Dvorák demonstrated the potential of folksongs in creating national music, it would take an American to write the type of music that would encapsulate the American spirit.

However, for all of Europe’s apparent control over the world of western music–either in Europe, like Stravinsky or Schoenberg, or in America, like Dvorák–there was a small group of young American musicians who wanted to compose for their own country. These artists were not particularly well known at first; in fact, most had to tirelessly promote themselves in order to hear their music played by prominent groups. It can also not be said that they were wholly original; European musical techniques, like serialism, still acted as crucial influences. However, within the first half of the twentieth century, these composers succeeded in creating a distinctly American style of music that grew to thrive as much as–if not more than–the European music that prompted its development. This statement begs a critical question–what makes American music American? Perhaps the answer to this question lies in America’s relatively recent beginnings, or maybe American culture has unique aspects that differentiate it from that of Europe’s. Could geography have to do with this puzzle, or might the solution be rooted in American democracy? The rest of this essay will attempt to answer this fundamental question and assess the creation and growth of American music.

Progressivism and Populism in the Twentieth Century Like in all societies, arts in America could not help but be linked with current events. The political and social climate in early twentieth century America was turbulent, to say the least.

Aristocratic traditions of previous times began to crumble, and the lower classes rebelled, claiming that they deserved a chance to share in the prosperity that benefited the elite few. The end of the nineteenth century was marked by industrialization and the rise of big business,

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factors that placed almost all of America’s economic power in the hands of a small number of incredibly wealthy entrepreneurs. Men such as Andrew Carnegie, John Rockefeller, and Cornelius Vanderbilt grew fabulously wealthy by creating steel, oil, and railroad monopolies, while those who worked for these magnates hardly earned a wage on which they could subsist.

As the nineteenth century drew to a close, Americans were tired and frustrated, sick of a country in which it appeared impossible to succeed. This shared feeling of oppression prompted the public to demand changes in the way that their government and economy were run. The country experienced social upheaval in the form of the Progressive Movement, a widespread campaign typically defined as lasting from 1900 to 1918 that aimed to publicize the problems faced by the country’s poor and, ultimately, to fix them. Progressives took on many guises; some were social reporters, others novelists or politicians. A few of the Movement’s most effective participants included photographer Jacob Riis, author Upton Sinclair, and President Theodore Roosevelt, each of whom grew to prominence through his tireless efforts on behalf of the downtrodden and poor.

Ultimately, though, the Progressive spirit tired out, mostly because of the economic upturn that characterized the 1920s. Though World War I devastated the peoples and economies in Europe, it actually revitalized the economy in America. Production soared, and people were willing to buy; the consumer price index almost doubled between 1916 and 1920 (Pash). Labor began to see major gains for the first time in years as a result of institutions that grew from the War. The War Labor Board (WLB), an agency directed by Frank Walsh and William Taft, was created to help coordinate peaceful negotiations between workers and their management. The WLB often favored labor’s side in their decisions, giving workers the power to use collective bargaining and limiting their workdays to eight hours (Pash). And, because the unemployment rate was so low as millions of people were needed to fill jobs in industry and agriculture, workers’ strikes were brief and effective (Ford). The economy would surge for the next ten years, and only with the arrival of the Great Depression would America again feel the urgent need for government reform.

The Great Depression was a crisis greater than America had seen since the Civil War and, like so many catastrophic events, caused the emergence or revival of various social movements

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and political philosophies. During the Depression, industrial production fell about fifty percent, and America’s GDP declined by 25 percent (Szostak). Unlike in previous depressions, the economy did not recover completely for more than a decade, until the economic boom ushered in

by World War II. The huge decrease in industrial output left millions of urban factory workers without the jobs that they had held for the previous ten years. The Depression greatly affected farmers as well; they too saw the value of their crops drop by fifty percent (Szostak).

Understandably, Americans were desperate for change. Income inequality, a problem that had plagued the country even in the ‘20s, grew to be a pressing issue as parents struggled to feed their children. Many people wanted to see increased government assistance to those who needed it–they would find a strong supporter in Franklin Roosevelt, who drastically changed the relationship between the government and the American people for years to come. From these frustrated sentiments sprang numerous groups: the Socialists, the Communists, and eventually, the Populists. Though each of these movements plays its part in the discussion of American music, none has as much importance as Populism. As I will attempt to demonstrate, the widespread Populist sentiment that gripped the country led American composers of the early twentieth century to explore beyond the esotericism that defined modern European music and to develop an American style of music that was both respected and accessible to a range of social and ethnic classes.

Populism in the 1930s was not so much a new movement as the resurrection of the Progressivism of the beginning of the century. The “true” Populist party, the group that combined with the Democrats in 1896 to nominate William Jennings Bryan as their presidential candidate, was formed at the end of nineteenth century. This party had been composed principally of farmers opposed to northeastern and Republican economic dominance. The Populists’ demands included the direct election of senators, government regulation of the railroad industry, and bimetallism, or the use of both gold and silver for producing coins, a measure that would inflate currency and ease the economic strain on farmers. When the Republican William McKinley was elected president over the Democratic and Populist William Jennings Bryan, the party was unable to recover (Stock). However, Populist sentiment was revived in the 1930s by the hardships of the Great Depression, and though it did not take on the

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role of a political party as it had before, it still influenced the ideology of many Americans. This new type of Populism was a synthesis of democratic Progressive initiatives and more radical Populist Party principles from the previous century. Most Americans subscribing to a Populist philosophy believed that money should be shared, if not equally, then to the point where all members of the population could support their families. Populist ideology also decried what it interpreted as the elitism of the wealthy and educated living in cities. The movement was championed by farmers, the population that had initially supported it, but like Progressivism, it also reached out to the urban poor.

Over the course of the 1930s and the 1940s, Populism grew significantly as a movement.

Ultimately, its advocates split into two different groups, each with their own title: the Communist Party and the Popular Front. The American Communist Party had strong ties to the Soviet Union, where Communism had become the ruling system of government after the Russian Revolution in 1917. The Communists were extremely organized, with clear platforms and activists throughout the world. Conversely, the Popular Front, though still related to the Communist movement in Russia, was a loosely structured movement that was less radical, and therefore more palatable to most Americans. The Popular Front did not aim to define itself along party lines; it was an ideologically based, leftist movement that worked within the constraints of American politics (Crist). Throughout its duration, the Popular Front attracted the support of writers, artists, and musicians who used its spread as a means to reach out to a larger audience, one removed from the urban intelligentsia. By aligning themselves with this movement, these creative people could express their liberal values without taking the dangerous title of “Communists.”

Inherent to the ideology of the Popular Front was a belief that the uneducated masses had a right to artistic attention, even if that attention came from those considered highbrow. Contrary to these Populist ideas, music in Europe in the first decades of the twentieth century was decidedly difficult to understand. Stravinsky and Schoenberg were at the peaks of their careers, shining beacons of Modernist esotericism. Many of their works, and especially Schoenberg’s, were even hard for the musical community to understand, let alone the general public. It seemed apparent that music for “the people” would not be found in Europe, but in a newer, more democratic continent. The United States and Latin America were prompted to develop their own

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styles of music by the demand for a powerful, but comprehensible, variety of music. Ultimately, the Populist movement and the whole of the Western world would turn to the Americas for an accessible style of concert music, one that would be taken seriously but that would also appeal to a socioeconomically diverse public.

Charles Ives and the Mass Song Though the American Popular Front prevailed in the ‘30s and ‘40s, Populism in American music dated back to around 20 years earlier. Charles Ives, born in Connecticut in 1874 and a man regarded by many as the father of American music, was one of the first prominent composers to emerge from America and to be admired by the listeners of concert music. His music has strong ties to Europe, as is seen in his liberal use of the sonata and symphony forms (Crawford). However, he began to make this older style of music more American, incorporating American folk songs and gospel hymns into well-established structures. In his Second Symphony, Ives uses material such as fiddle tunes and Stephen Foster4 songs to evoke thoughts of America while still using a traditional 5-movement form that partly mimics Brahms’s First Symphony (Burkholder). Ives also uses ragtime, a wholly American invention, incorporating this style into a number of pieces, such as his Piano Sonata no. 1 (Burkholder). The uneducated public could easily enjoy ragtime, folk songs, and hymns, and thus Ives’s music can be considered of the popular strain. But, despite the occasional accessibility of Ives’s work, many of his pieces were dissonant, perhaps a commentary on the chaotic times in which he composed.

Though he did include popular elements, Ives needed a musically intelligent audience to be fully understood and appreciated.

Not only did Ives incorporate traditionally American tunes into his concert music, but he also created works containing lyrics of a Populist nature. For example, his song “Majority,” the opening piece to his collection of 114 Songs, affirms the importance of the lower class. His lyrics state: The Masses have toiled, Behold the works of the World!

4 Foster (1826-1864) composed numerous songs that incorporated American themes and settings.

His works were popular, and many were meant to be sung at home or in plays (Root).

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The Masses are thinking, Whence comes the thought of the World!

The Masses are singing, Whence comes the Art of the World! (qtd. in Starr) Ives’s lyrics explicitly demonstrate that he supported the “Masses” and felt for their plight.

According to Ives, the “Art of the World” will come from the “Masses,” or the sentiments of the laboring public will determine the direction of modern art and music. This notion fits very much with the Populist view of the common worker. Unfortunately, Ives never attained a high level of recognition in his lifetime, and as such it cannot be said that he defined American music of his time. But, his work certainly inspired later generations to create a Populist, distinctly American style of music.

Ives’s Populism encouraged a new generation of composers to create American music for the Modern Era. American musical leaders such as Aaron Copland facilitated gatherings of politically involved composers who hoped that the Popular Front values of democracy and equality would dictate the progression of the development of American music. In 1932, Copland founded the Young Composers’ Group, a collective of Copland’s musically talented peers who “leaned heavily in the direction of Marx” (Pollack 273). And, in the same year, Henry Cowell, a politically liberal composer born in 1897, and Charles Seeger, a composer and musicologist born in 1886, created the Composers’ Collective (Nicholls). This group of American composers would meet to discuss its constituents’ works and the role of those works in the creation of music for the working class. Among those who counted themselves as members of the collective include Cowell, Seeger, Henry Leland Clarke, Marc Blitzstein, and Elie Siegmeister5 (Clarke).

In 1934-5, the Workers Music League published the two-volume Workers Songbook, a collection filled with music written principally by the members of the Collective (Clarke). The songs in the Workers Songbook were not only understandable to working class Americans, but written precisely for them. One of the dreams of the Popular Front was being enacted; educated,

5 Elie Siegmeister was an American composer who wrote music for the “common people.” He led and participated in numerous groups, such as the American Ballad Singers, that promoted original American works. His pieces incorporated American elements of music, including jazz, American folk songs, and Amerindian music (Cassaro).

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respected composers were producing music for the enjoyment of the masses that comprised America’s population. The Collective used the first volume of the Songbook as an opportunity to state the members’ purpose, explaining that the Collective was “a group in which conservative and radical musical thought and taste meet in free and vigorous clash upon the question of the definition of a musical style ‘national in form, proletarian in content’” (Oja). According to this opening statement, the Collective hoped to create music that was appealing on a “national” scale but that was sure to be inclusive of the “proletarian” populace. In this regard, the Collectives’ members were not afraid of any ensuing conflict. Indeed, they hoped to “clash” in their passionate opinions about the extent to which their music should inspire the masses and satisfy the musical community. This “clash” is apparent in the Songbook’s inconsistency, in which the “styles [of music] vary widely” (Oja). Some pieces, such as those written by Ellie Siegmeister, an American composer who often used folksongs as material for his concert works, were considered overly simple, too concerned with the opinion of the uneducated laborer. For example, Siegmeister’s “The Scottsboro Boys Shall Not Die” contained many open fourths and fifths, consonant intervals6 that didn’t sufficiently challenge the musically adept (Oja). Others, like Aaron Copland’s “Into the Streets May First,” were accessible but more demanding; “Into the Streets” includes Copland’s signature “jazzy syncopations and pungent modal and chromatic shifts” (Pollack 276). The Workers Songbook acted as one of the first steps on the path to fulfilling American musicians’ hope for a recognizable style of music that they could call their own. But, it was designed primarily for a public that had no connection with music of the elite cognoscenti, and therefore was not universally American. To develop a musical style that could be appreciated at home and abroad, American composers would need to deftly infuse serious concert pieces with this Populist tone in a way that could interest the educated and the workers alike. Though many composers would try their hands at this daunting challenge, few would achieve widespread success, and none would do as much for the American musical cause as Aaron Copland.

6 Consonant intervals are musical intervals that are harmonious, or that sound pleasant when played.

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Figure 3: Cover of the Workers Songbook (The Workers Songbook)

Figure 4: Charles Ives (Charles Ives)

Aaron Copland Aaron Copland was a proponent of the Popular Front, and arguably the greatest American composer of concert music. This musician, known as the “Dean of American composers,” grew up the son of Russian-Jewish immigrants living in Brooklyn at the turn of the twentieth century.

Throughout his extraordinary life, Copland acted as performer, composer, conductor, and author, travelling the world in order to share his music and learn from other masters. He also became a teacher to countless young musicians, influencing them with his Populist attitude and determination to create American music that would be respected by the European intellectual elite. It is partly because of Copland that American music grew into its own in the first half of the 1900s; Copland, like Ives, was inspired by the “common man” and hoped to be his spokesperson.

In renowned American conductor Michael Tilson Thomas’s film Keeping Score: Copland and the American Sound, Thomas quotes Copland’s 1935 article in the Musical Vanguard, mentioning that Copland wrote, “The young composer who allies himself with the proletarian movement must do so not with the feeling that he’s found an easy solution but with the full realization of what such a step means if his work is to be of permanent value to the workers and their cause” (qtd. in Keeping Score). Thus, Copland always had the common workers in mind

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while creating his music and did not take his responsibility to the American people lightly.

According to Tilson Thomas, Copland changed the way Americans would think about themselves, presumably giving them a greater sense of pride in their country. However, Copland became far more famous than Ives, more famous, in fact, than any other American composer who had ever lived. While he, like Ives, used hymns and American folk songs to represent the heterogeneous American society in which he lived, his influences were far more diverse.

Copland used themes from Yiddish popular music, such as klezmer, and from the wild jazz that he heard on the streets of his Brooklyn neighborhood. Each of these varied cultural elements helped him to construct the incredibly unique sound that came to define American concert music.

Similar to most characteristically American music, Copland’s sound has frequently been described as “simple,” “pure,” and “open,” written in a style mimicking the ordinary people for whom he often wrote. What is more, Copland promoted Latin American music and encouraged the Spanish-speaking countries of both North and South America to join the United States in the fight to compose serious concert music that would be played throughout the world. Copland’s wide range of music encompasses some pieces that could be enjoyed by the masses and others that were appreciated by the more musically trained, thus fulfilling his desire to create a distinct, American brand of music that would embody the country’s democratic spirit.

One of Copland’s most well known works is the aptly titled Fanfare for the Common Man. Copland was commissioned to compose this fanfare in 1942 by Eugene Goossens, the head of the Cincinnati Symphony, who had asked eighteen additional American composers to create fanfares in order to boost the country’s morale in the midst of World War II (Pollack 360).

Copland decided to name his work after the “Common Man” because, as he said, “it was the common man, after all, who was doing all the dirty work in the war and the army. He deserved a fanfare” (qtd. in Pollack 360). Though this reason certainly fits with Copland’s Populist attitude, he might have named the Fanfare as he did for a more political reason. Henry A. Wallace, a progressive politician who served as the US’s secretary of agriculture through most of the Great Depression and also as one of FDR’s vice presidents, titled one of his speeches “The Price of Free World Victory: The Century of the Common Man” (Crist). Through his tenure, Wallace championed the rights of poor farmers, eventually creating the Agricultural Adjustment

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Administration in 1933 to stabilize the prices of farm products (Kirkendall). Wallace’s determination to help rural America must have inspired admiration in Copland, a firm believer in the Popular Front. Wallace, like the members of the Popular Front, supported the “Common Man,” and therefore Copland’s desire to emulate Wallace’s speech in his own piece is not surprising. Copland’s Fanfare is quite short, but it nevertheless grew to be a musical symbol of American strength and democracy and was often used by politicians and other figures hoping to inspire patriotic sentiments. Even today, the Fanfare is one of the most recognizable pieces of music in the American classical repertoire. The Fanfare is composed of “declamatory” themes, as if announcing the importance of the “Common Man” to the survival of America (Crist). And despite its grandeur, the Fanfare also contains open intervals that are reminiscent of the folksy sounds of fiddles or guitars, instruments of the “Common Man” (Keeping Score). Since its premiere, this Populist work has become a symbol of American music that is inextricably linked with the Popular Front.

Figure 5: Fanfare for the Common Man (Copland)

Figure 6: Aaron Copland (Smith)

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One of the major themes in Copland’s music, and a major theme in American history, is the idea of the West as a democratizing force. For hundreds of years, the United States’ Eastern Seaboard was typically associated with capitalism and old wealth while the American West was perceived to be the destination of fearless pioneers looking for a fresh start in a land of wideopen spaces. Often, those who could not compete economically in the East moved West to make their livelihoods. In Frederick Jackson Turner’s Frontier Thesis, presented in 1893, the historian argued that the Western frontier was one of the most important democratizing forces to shape American society. The West’s democratizing image must have appealed to Copland, and, not coincidentally, the Populist movement of the late 1800s was primarily made up of Western farmers. Copland’s fascination with the West is apparent in his music; motifs that evoke prairie life and the open spaces of the West appear in many of his pieces. In his 1938 ballet, Billy the Kid, Copland tells the story of the eponymous protagonist, a Western tale filled with cowboys and outlaws. In this piece, as in his Fanfare, Copland uses fewer complete chords and reverts to open intervals composed of fourths and fifths that produce an open sound to capture the majestic spaces of the West. In Appalachian Spring (1944), another ballet that Copland wrote for the dancer Martha Graham, Copland creates a fictional frontier community. In this ballet, he employs folk music and hymns, each of which creates a beautiful simplicity that stirs up images of the West. One notable melody that he borrows is that of the Shaker song “Simple Gifts,” a tune that he repeats throughout the work and with which he creates a number of variations. The Shakers, who attempted to construct a utopian community at the end of the eighteenth century, had ideals similar to Copland’s own, such as education and gender equality (Keeping Score). His use of their hymn was intentional, a further layer of meaning in a work about the West. In both Billy the Kid and Appalachian Spring, as in many others of his pieces, Copland used Western themes to symbolize the American Populist spirit.

In his quest to create an American style of music, Copland fostered a rich relationship with Latin America, and with Mexico in particular. He felt that, like the music of the United States, Latin American music had been ignored by the broader musical community for too long.

It appears as if Copland believed that the synthesis of North and South American music could produce a revolutionary style of music, one that would represent the interests of the working

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class people for whom Copland composed. The US’s direct neighbor, Mexico, was a special source of inspiration for Copland. In 1910, Mexican peasants and its urban poor united to overthrow the dictatorial president, Porfirio Díaz, in the Mexican Revolution (Hart). These groups, in response to Mexico’s increasing economic disparity, hoped to usher in an age of equality. As a result, the atmosphere in which Copland found himself in Mexico in the 1940s was, if not procommunist, then extremely tolerant of the movement. The Populist spirit infused the nation, which was most likely the reason that Copland described the country as “fresh,” “pure,” “wholesome,” and “unconventionalized” (qtd. in Pollack 225). Copland admired the music of Mexico, especially that of the indigenous peoples and of Mariachi bands. In other areas of South America, he noted the Cuban “danzón,” the Colombian “bambuco,” and the Argentinean tango (231). He thought that these types of folk and popular music had a special vibrancy related to the spirit of the common people, and he ultimately incorporated Latin American themes into many of his concert works, a number of which grew to prominence as examples of original American music.

Another one of Copland’s popular works, El Salón México (1932), was inspired principally by Mexican themes. In writing this piece, Copland drew from his unforgettable experience one night at a lively dance hall in Mexico City. There, he and his partner danced to popular Mexican music and reveled in, as Copland himself put it, the “essence of the people– their humanity, their separate shyness, their dignity and unique charm” (qtd. in Pollack 299). The finished work retains the vitality that Copland experienced for himself. El Salón México uses variations on Mexican folksongs that Copland found in two collections, one edited by Rubén Campos and the other by Frances Toor. These songs include “El Palo Verde,” “La Jesuita,” “El Mosco,” and “El Malacate,” but many more are subtly referenced throughout (Pollack 299).

Copland also employs traditional Mexican rhythms in El Salón; in his hands, “a variant of ‘El Palo Verde’ acquires gentle lilt thanks to alternating meters of 6/8 and 3/4, a metric play characteristic of Mexican folk music” (Crist). The use of these already standard folksongs combined with their performance in a traditional meter speaks to the Populist nature of El Salón– the piece is a celebration of Mexico and its people. However, Copland alters the feeling of these typically cheerful folk songs. He “distorts” them and “reflects their incongruous placement in the

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urban, industrial world of the dance hall” (Crist). Thus, El Salón México reflects the economic and social disparity that existed between the rural and urban populations, a motif typical of the Popular Front (Crist). Ultimately, Copland argues through the piece’s grand finale, the industrial moneyed classes must reconcile with the farmers and laborers in Mexico–and throughout the world–to create the harmonious society for which the Popular Front advocated.

Figure 7: Opening bars of Copland’s El Salón México arranged for piano by Leonard Bernstein (El Salón México–Dedication)

New Composers of North and South America Not only did Copland compose music with Latin American influences, but he also promoted the works of Latin American composers themselves, thereby establishing Latin America as a legitimate partner in his Populist-driven search for distinctive American music.

One of the composers with whom he shared a particularly close relationship was the renowned Mexican artist Carlos Chávez. Though Chávez benefitted greatly from Copland’s support, he was a strong proponent of American music in his own right. Chávez, more so than Copland or any other musician from the United States, conducted his musical career in the public sector. He served as the head of Mexico’s premier orchestra, the Mexico Symphony Orchestra, and its

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foremost conservatory, the National Conservatory of Music. He also managed the Ministry of Education’s Department of Fine Arts and the National Institute of Fine Arts, exerting a powerful influence on the direction of musical life in Mexico (Pollack 218-219). Chávez, like Copland, believed in the values of the Popular Front and hoped to make concert music accessible for the Mexican people. Chávez used Mexican Indian themes in a number of pieces, such as the Aztec ballets El fuego nuevo and Los cuatro soles and his Sinfonía india. This use of pre-Columbian music emphasized the nationalism that Chávez promoted and the pride that he felt for his country’s rich past and diverse population (Parker).

Chávez’s support of the Popular Front is evident not only in his use of Mexican Indian music but also in the employment of Populist themes in his compositions. Some of his most Populist-motivated works include the ‘proletarian symphony’ Llamadas and the Obertura republicana, “an arrangement . . . of three types of Mexican popular music: a provincial march, a ‘nostalgiac’ waltz and a revolutionary ‘canción’” (Parker). The aural accessibility of these works and their popular roots support the idea that Chávez wrote them with the farming and laboring population of Mexico in mind. Furthermore, Chávez initiated programs with the intention of bringing his and other Americans’ music to world prominence. He directed concerts for laborers and children and travelled with the Mexico Symphony orchestra to various regions of Mexico (Parker). Chávez also funded publication of American music and “promoted colleagues like Moncayo7, Silvestre Revueltas8, and Blas Galindo9” (Pollack 219). In fact, Copland stated that “His [Chávez’s] dedication to improving conditions for Mexican music was similar to my own efforts in American music” (Pollack 219). Chávez wanted to honor not just the musical elite of Europe, but also his own talented countrymen who might have otherwise gone unnoticed.

Chávez’s activism on behalf of Populist ideals and his enduring friendship with Aaron Copland

7 A Mexican composer who studied with Chávez and Copland, Moncayo cofounded the Group of Four, an association of Mexico musicians whose goal was to promote nationalism in Mexican music (Pérez).

8 Revueltas was a Mexican violin player and composer who used many folksongs in his works.

Like Copland, he used the traditional Mexican meters of 3/4 and 6/8 (“Revueltas, Silvestre”).

9 Galindo was a Mexican composer who studied with Chávez and Copland. He was part of the Group of Four alongside Moncayo, and many of his composition, such as his Sones de Mariachi, are based on popular Mexican street music ("Galindo Dimas, Blas”).

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were two more factors that contributed to the rise of American concert music in the first half of the twentieth century.

Figure 8: Carlos Chávez (Carlos Chávez)

Figure 9: Marc Blitzstein (Marc Blitzstein)

Throughout his sojourns in Mexico, Copland continued to promote and encourage composers from the United States and Latin America in their pursuit of American music. Men such as Marc Blitzstein, Elie Siegmeister, and most famously, Leonard Bernstein, each benefited from the inspiration and support, both moral and financial, that Copland provided until his death in 1990. The camaraderie that Copland espoused, more than any one of his or anyone else’s compositions, was what allowed American concert music to grow into its own by the second half of the twentieth century. In what was a grand show of the American democratic spirit, American composers in the early- to mid-1900s listened for the voices of their fellow musicians, permitting new talent to emerge, for the most part, without feeling threatened or jealous. By publicizing each other’s music and by constructively criticizing each others’ compositions, American composers gained a level of world-wide fame and critical acclaim that would have been impossible for any of them to achieve individually. Thus, a new generation of American

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composers led by Aaron Copland fought together for a common, Populist cause, and, through their astounding collaboration, they triumphed in their efforts to develop serious American music.

Copland and Marc Blitzstein shared a professional relationship that was especially productive, with each benefitting from the advice and support of the other. Because Copland was five years older and commanded more public attention than Blitzstein, he was able to market Blitzstein’s music to both a wide audience and to respected musicians composing at that time.

For instance, Copland featured Blitzstein’s music in a number of the programs that he and Roger Sessions organized for their renowned concert series. Additionally, Copland “informally offered Blitzstein guidance” at many points in his career, encouraging Blitzstein to develop his natural talent of finding, as Copland put it, “a voice for all those American regular fellows that seem so much at home everywhere except on the operatic stage” (Pollack 181). Blitzstein, for his part “remained deeply respectful of the man [Copland] and his music” and continued to praise Copland even when the two experienced artistic differences (Pollack 182). This friendship most likely developed as it did because Blitzstein and Copland shared similarly liberal political ideologies. Blitzstein was a vocal supporter of the Communist movement and incorporated its Populist philosophy into his music. He “agitate[d] for music that would address social concerns . . . and, most importantly, convey its message in an accessible, vernacular musical language” (Kushner). Like Copland, Blitzstein hoped that his compositions would resonate particularly with the masses who felt alienated by the avant-garde, atonal music of men like Schoenberg. Some of his many Populist- and Communist-centric works include his opera The Condemned (1932) and his musical The Cradle Will Rock (1936). In The Condemned, Blitzstein tells the story of Sacco and Vanzetti, two Italian anarchists who were wrongfully accused of murder and robbery and then executed by the United States government in 1921. Blitzstein, as so many Communists and liberals did, must have identified with the plight of these men who were persecuted for their beliefs and immigrant status (Blitzstein himself was of Russian Jewish descent). His retelling of their tale was an explicit message that he sympathized with the Communist Party and the Popular Front. Blitzstein’s most well known work, The Cradle Will Rock, is another example of his Populist leanings. It is “pro-union” and it incorporates “stylistic

Dimenstein 20 elements taken from patter10, jazz, and the musical revue11” (Kushner). Because the Popular Front had a large following of laborers, virtually any work with a pro-union message won its approval. Moreover, the popular musical styles that Blitzstein incorporated into the show, such as jazz, appealed to the musically untrained ears of working-class Americans. Instead of feeling alienated by Blitzstein’s music, as they felt with regard to the abstruse music being produced in Europe, many Americans felt included and represented; fittingly, inclusion and representation were two traits valued by the Popular Front and by the democratic origins of America. Clearly, Populist ideology was a powerful influence in Marc Blitzstein’s compositions, a characteristic only enhanced by his connection with Aaron Copland.

Leonard Bernstein Another great American composer, conductor, and performer who defined the landscape of American music for years to come was Leonard Bernstein. Born to Jewish immigrant parents in 1918 in Lawrence, Massachusetts, Bernstein was perhaps America’s most beloved performer of classical music. His vivacious personality translated into sweepingly dramatic performances of works by Classical masters such as Beethoven, Brahms, Sibelius, and Mahler. Bernstein was also one of Aaron Copland’s closest friends and confidants, and an avid admirer of Copland’s music. Bernstein often conducted Copland’s works, and Copland, eighteen years Bernstein’s senior, provided his friend with contacts that helped him to advance in the musical world. The hundreds of letters between Bernstein and Copland that are catalogued in the Library of Congress stand as a testament to their unusually intense relationship, and Bernstein centered three of his Young People’s Concerts around Copland’s life and works. Bernstein, like Copland, Blitzstein, and other American classical composers of the twentieth century, was a man of the Populist strain. In a 1989 interview with Jonathan Cott, Bernstein said of himself, “I’m a liberal, but one who believes in people, not in some ‘thing’” (Cott 84). Bernstein trusted in the power of the common people to make their own decisions about their fates and to effect change that would benefit America as a whole. And, he was not shy about using his music to make Populist-driven

10 Patter songs, typically used in operas, are comedic songs that are sung extremely rapidly, so that it is impossible to make out their words.

11 Revues are performances composed of songs and skits that are often meant to be satirical (Gammond).

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statements. In this same interview with Cott, Bernstein said, “the worst thing concerns the removal of ‘politics’ as an acceptable subject of artistic works” (Cott 82). Bernstein felt that it was his and other artists’ responsibility to use their influence to send a political message.

According to him, political subjects did not make music superficial, but actually enhanced its meaning. For this reason, Bernstein chose not to receive an arts award from President George H. W. Bush or to attend a dinner hosted by John Frohnmayer, the chairmen of the National Endowment for the Arts in 1988. The agency had recently decided to stop its support for an exhibition about AIDS deemed “overly political art” by Congress. Bernstein wrote to President Bush that “I cannot risk that coming to Washington to be officially honored during your administration might imply that I am an ‘official artist’ content to collect a medal in kind and gentle silence while hoping for less stifling days ahead” (Cott 81). Following the lead of musicians like Copland and Blitzstein, Bernstein was determined to use his musical skills not only to achieve fame, but also to share his liberal sociopolitical values with the rest of the world.

Though Bernstein grew famous as a conductor, his own compositions also demonstrate his Populist political attitude. Throughout his career, Bernstein wrote numerous scores to accompany dramatic works. These theatrical creations included two operas (Trouble in Tahiti and A Quiet Place), the ballet Fancy Free, and multiple musicals, the most famous of which is the ever-popular West Side Story. Each of these works contains characteristics that hint at a Populist ideology on the part of Bernstein. In West Side Story he uses “Latin rhythms” and “various types of jazz,” both of which are drawn from popular American sources (the jazz comes from the African American community, and the Latin rhythms hail from Central and South America) (Laird and Schiff). In addition, West Side Story is set in New York City, arguably the center of American cultural life, and explores the issues inherent in an ethnically and socioeconomically diverse society. This blend of cultures and the message of tolerance are typically progressive subject matters, as Bernstein no doubt realized as he was writing the musical’s score. Similarly, the opera Trouble in Tahiti, which premiered in 1952, features American concerns and musical themes. The plot centers on a young husband and wife living in an American suburb who are discontent with the life that they have made for themselves. The opera’s music, which Bernstein described as “popular song inspired” (in reality, the music is

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more harmonically complex than Bernstein would lead us to believe) acts as a “sardonic evocation of American suburbia” (Burton 223). The critical lens through which Bernstein viewed suburbia makes sense in the context of his political outlook; the white, middle-class, culturally homogeneous suburbs of the 1950s were essentially the opposite of the poorer, diverse rural and urban populations that were the base of the Populist movement. And, as with his other works, jazz and the popular musical idiom were components of the opera’s oeuvre. Bernstein undeniably succeeded in writing America’s first serious opera, a work that fittingly emulated the rebellious and democratic spirit of the nation’s public.

Figure 10: Leonard Bernstein Leonard Bernstein

Figure 11: Aaron Copland and Leonard Bernstein (Copland Sings and Plays with His Friend)

What About Europe?

Now, who is to say that the use of Populist musical themes, that is, the use of melodic and well-known folk songs, is specific to American music of the twentieth century? It would be dishonest to leave out the fact that European composers of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries–in fact, composers of any generation–also drew upon some simple, recognizably tonal sources as they created their music. Musicians, like all artists, are influenced by elements of their culture and by those who come before them. As Picasso once said, “good artists copy and great ones steal.” Dvorák borrowed heavily from Czech folk music, and even revered and original

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composers such as Stravinsky and Schoenberg found themselves occasionally relying on traditional folk tunes in their respective works. For example, Stravinsky uses folk tunes as the musical theme of Prince Ivan and his bride in his Firebird ballet. He also attempted to “recreate a type of rustic travelling theater” and a “squeaky, clattery band of 15” in his dance piece Renard (Walsh). Schoenberg, too, was influenced by communal music; he used variations on Jewish melodies in a number of his works. However, these composers made sparse use of traditional tunes, and those that they did use were distorted, sometimes to the point that they couldn’t be recognized. More importantly, the vast majority of prominent European musicians weren’t composing with the same audience in mind as American composers of the same time period.

While the American composers were writing music for both the wealthy intelligentsia and the uneducated masses, Europeans knew that they would only be listened to by the upper classes.

They didn’t spend their time, as the Americans did, composing for a nationalistic, Populist purpose. Though this reality may be more a testament to Europe’s politically fragmented nature during this era than to a conscious desire on the part of the composers to create varying music, the fact remains that European music was not as unified or socio-politically aware as the music coming from America. Hence, the phenomenon of Populism as a driving musical force belongs primarily to the Americas.

Conclusion–American Music and its Significance Thus far, a number of different examples of American music from the twentieth century have been given. Men such as Aaron Copland, Marc Blitzstein, and Leonard Bernstein have been named as composers crucial to the creation of an American style of music. Recognizing all of this information, what, then, can we conclude is characteristic of American concert music? The answer ultimately lies within the fabric of American society as a whole. American concert music is diverse, new, and democratic. According to Leonard Bernstein, American music is “youthful” and “wildly optimistic” and represents all the “different sides of the American personality” (Bernstein). American music, especially that which comes from the Populist composers of the 1930s and 1940s, is everything that America’s most liberal politicians hoped that the country would be.

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The Populism that came to define music from the United States and Latin America makes sense within the context of the two continents’ histories. The United States and the other countries of Latin America are relatively new nations when compared with the countries of Europe. Unlike places such as France, Italy, and Germany, the Americas were colonized within the past five hundred years, and as such, their social structures were not as ingrained as those in Europe. 12 The founders of the United States, though they themselves were white, wealthy, and male, imagined that their new country would be a shining beacon of democracy, a land with equality for all. Their dream never came to complete fruition; even now, after years of fighting for civil rights and eliminating such unfair measures as poll taxes, the United States has a large population of disadvantaged individuals. However, compared with the monarchies that the majority of the most musically prolific countries in Europe experienced for hundreds of years, the US was incredibly democratic. Similarly, Latin American countries had only existed for a few hundred years since their colonization, and many had even experienced social revolts in the past few decades. So, they too were more open to the democratic, Populist ethos than the nations of Europe.

This tolerance of Populist ideals found in the Americas, a tolerance merely exacerbated by the aforementioned events in the early 1900s, led their populaces to create music that was liberal in spirit, or that could be appreciated by a range of classes. Jazz and folk music appear regularly in their works, as do other, harmonically pleasing musical themes. Moreover, the composers of the Americas, gripped by the democratic attitude, attempted to educate their peers and the rest of their countries about the music that was currently being created. However, this wave of Populism in American music was only the beginning of an enduring movement towards harmony and equality, a movement that would continue to thrive for the next three decades.

12 There were, of course, indigenous peoples living in the Americas for years before the European colonization, but the Americas’ relatively diffuse tribes and civilizations were never wide reaching enough to define both continents’ social structures.

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Transcending Victimhood

Grant Fan

Fan 2 The end of the Pacific War marked a period of major social upheaval in Japan. The dissolution of the authoritarian Meiji state and its replacement by the American occupation forces, headed by the domineering Douglas MacArthur, brought the old era to a close.

Moreover, persistent economic difficulties, social disruption from the war, and the sudden “second opening of Japan” contributed to the general chaos that characterized the immediate aftermath of Japan’s war. This paper examines some of the challenges faced by Japanese society in the post-war period and explores a few of the subsequent reactions to this time of crisis in several pieces of literature in order to better understand the emergent attitudes of this era of shifting national identity.

Introduction: Historical Background and Context On the sixth of August, 1945, the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, and four days later, on Nagasaki. Soon afterwards, Japan’s formal unconditional surrender was concluded, ending years of conflict that had begun with Japan’s invasion of the Chinese mainland. Emperor Hirohito, speaking to the public as a whole for the first time in his reign, announced the struggle’s end on August 15 via radio broadcast, marking the end of the imperialistic ambitions that had driven the last fourteen years or so of warfare.

The Pacific War had exhausted Japan in both a physical and psychological sense. The devastation inflicted by American bombings late in the war, even before the use of atomic weaponry, had brought the imperial economy to ruin. The once-mighty urban industrial centers had been leveled by an extensive bombing campaign, and civilians and soldiers suffered alike from displacement and a general economic collapse. 80% of Tokyo itself had been damaged or destroyed by firebombing attacks. Over the course of two days, fires started by these attacks

Fan 3 killed over 100,000 individuals, and almost every major city was subjected to these assaults (Junod 274). Meanwhile, stubbornness on the part of Japanese military command contributed in large part to the senseless destruction. Their insistence on a “decisive battle,” even after numerous crushing defeats at the hands of American forces, led to much unnecessary bloodshed, whether it was military casualties experienced by the two opposing armies, or the deaths of civilians caught up in the expansive conflict (Jansen 651). Both the far reach of American offensives and the massive human cost of the war effort began to bring home the reality of the war to everyday Japanese. The war, which had once been a source of national pride and a present only in the constant stream of victorious reports from China, was now felt deeply and painfully in every aspect of civilian life.

The war’s ending did not dispel these difficulties. The swath of destruction had left some 30% of the urban population homeless, and the victorious Americans laid claim to some of the few undamaged areas for their headquarters. Millions of civilians and soldiers remained on foreign soil awaiting repatriation. Although most would return to their homeland over the course of the next few years, many would never get the opportunity. The bitter legacy that the rapacious Imperial Army had left in invaded nations gave those governments little desire to address the repatriation projects with haste. The total deaths on the Japanese side of the war ultimately amounted to almost 3 million.

Economic difficulties persisted. MacArthur’s initial estimates claimed that Japan had lost a third of its wealth over the course of the war, and a third of its capacity for future growth (Dower 45). The immediate post-war years saw unchecked inflation and widespread opportunism on the part of the old bureaucracy. In the period of chaos following surrender, profiteering individuals made off with huge portions of military supplies. Officials who had once

Fan 4 fervently championed the imperial cause were now mainly concerned with securing a comfortable existence by looting the national stockpiles.

Starvation and malnutrition had become serious issues as a result of the Allied efforts to destroy the Japanese economy. As Japanese colonial holdings were lost and trading routes were disrupted, the supply situation became ever more desperate. Food weighed heavily on the minds of most civilians who were forced to live what was called the “bamboo-shoot existence.” As a result, a thriving black market took over where rations could not satisfy, a problem compounded by government corruption before and immediately following the war’s end. Many families resorted to selling their inherited possessions to deal with the vastly inflated food prices.

The American presence offered no solutions to these problems. Although MacArthur was granted “supreme authority” over the economic affairs of Japan, he was also instructed, “You will not assume any responsibility for the economic rehabilitation of Japan or the strengthening of the Japanese economy” (Hollerman 209). As far as the Japanese economy was concerned, SCAP (the Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers) was primarily interested in “democratization,” or the dissolution of the zaibatsu concentrations of economic powers. The end of these institutions further complicated the Japanese government’s initial reconstruction efforts. Moreover, the American occupiers’ expenses (“war termination costs”) accounted for a full third of the initial post-war government’s budget (Dower 115). The immense cost of housing GIs and other Americans struck a particularly bitter chord for a population that was in the midst of a homelessness crisis as the result of American bombings.

In the militarist regime’s final days, the government was extremely wary of any sign of social unrest or discontent, and the effects of the grueling conflict on the populace had not gone unnoticed. Even before the surrender, the military had begun to diagnose individuals with

Fan 5 kyodatsu, a general label for the war weariness so many were experiencing (Dower 89).

Although extensive propaganda efforts had managed to instill some sense of fatalistic resignation among the empire’s subjects, the reprieve offered by surrender brought all of the war’s problems to the forefront. SCAP was hardly a force for free political discourse, but as long as blame was laid upon the “militarists,” the American censors rarely stifled discussion of the immense challenges posed by reconstruction. In any case, even MacArthur lacked the authority (or the desire) to suppress the outburst of publications and voices attempting to address these issues.

The sense of narrowly averted disaster and the now relatively liberated press led to a sudden and explosive outcry over the pressing social ills of the time. All these post-war dilemmas contributed to the disintegration of the social fabric that had been so carefully maintained by the Meiji state: the extreme casualty rate experienced during the war’s later hours destroyed the structure of many families; the difficult repatriation process was in many ways even more painful as children and spouses waited for family members who would never return; the disorganization and lack of reliable information that characterized this process left many in doubt for years. A radio program for identifying returnees, Missing Persons, continued as far as into the early sixties (Dower 58). The loss of so many family members during this period was one of the more pressing social issues of the time.

Those soldiers who did return offered little comfort to the populace as a whole. The Imperial Army, once venerated and a major source of national pride, was now disgraced and often neglected. These former soldiers were a depressingly common sight, still clothed in the tattered military uniform, lacking any money or other clothing to wear. The stigma of defeat but also of the atrocities in China and elsewhere followed these men, as the truth of Japanese war crimes received more thorough exposure. While a culture of victimization may have offered to

Fan 6 some a comforting perspective with which to view the nation’s current woes, these men were a living reminder of Japan’s active role in the “war of aggression.” These reservations about the returning soldiers posed yet another challenge to families, as they struggled to accept back men who had been agents in such a destructive conflict; remarking on a series of interviews with the relatives of war criminals, Philip Seaton notes, “one common thread is clear: family bonds make critical judgments of relatives’ war actions extremely painful” (Seaton 55). The process of assigning responsibility for the war was difficult and often disruptive, even though the American occupation attempted to lay guilt at the feet of a few very specific individuals and organizations.

The soldiers, for their part, were often equally ashamed by defeat or angry at what they saw as betrayal by their commanding officers. The former military, now designated as the national scapegoat for the disastrous war, had found it especially difficult to return to normal conditions following the mass, American-imposed demilitarization.

The sorry state of the economy also contributed to the persistent social instability of the immediate post-war period. The black market, already a major institution for those suffering from ration shortages, was now a necessity for many citizens. Rather than provide much-needed relief, however, participation in the black market often embroiled families in further financial troubles. Family possessions were sold en masse to cover mounting debts; once rich families found themselves resorting to extralegal methods of securing food, sacrificing their dignity along with their family possessions. The destitute economy also gave rise to alcoholism and drug abuse in disaffected individuals. The perceived failure of the government in these matters was even more evident in the rampant corruption amongst former officials. An estimated 70% of military supplies were stolen in the days before the American arrival (Dower 114). The self-sacrificing,

Fan 7 nationalist rhetoric that had characterized Meiji propaganda now served only in ironic contrast to the shamelessly self-serving attitudes of former Japanese leaders.

One final but crucial element of the chaotic years following surrender was the American presence. The collision of different cultures is rarely an easy process, and the sudden American hegemony was one more strange aspect of this period of change. The Americans, for their part, made clear the distinctions between the conqueror and the conquered, arriving with Commodore Matthew Perry’s flag displayed prominently upon their ships. The establishment of “Little America” in Tokyo’s largely undamaged financial district and the afore-mentioned “war termination payments” were both clear signs of the heavy-handed American approach to political change and reconstruction. Douglas MacArthur’s domineering personality also likely played a part in these attitudes. In an iconic photo of the era, the supreme commander is seen towering over the stiff and formally attired Hirohito.

For this reason, there was an inevitable tension between the absolutism of American authority and their sincere desire to institute “democracy from above.” American wartime propaganda had stressed the religious aspect of Japanese reverence for the emperor, and this understanding of Japanese culture contradicted American democratization efforts. Also, while the press was liberated from the draconian censorship laws of the wartime government, it was also forbidden from expressing dissatisfaction with the occupation or often even from commenting on global affairs. Even war memoirs that could be perceived as nostalgic for the previous regime were subject to censorship. Meanwhile, in the courts, the trials seemed to be heavily influenced by a sense of “victors’ justice.” Although many war criminals were tried and found guilty, others were largely ignored.

Fan 8 The emperor was the most outstanding case of this somewhat arbitrary process. Although Hirohito had clearly presided over many of the military decisions of his government, and had even prepared to abdicate if necessary, the American occupation actively sought to preserve his position, believing that he would be a stabilizing figure in an unstable transitional period. This may have not been without reason, but the assumption overstressed Hirohito’s importance as a national symbol when most citizens were first and foremost concerned with securing a steady supply of food. This belief led the Americans to have Hirohito renounce his apparent status as a deity, nationalist Shinto being one of their prime targets for demilitarization (Jansen 669).

Finally, the omnipresent American troops left a lasting impression on the post-war years.

Propagandists on both sides of the conflict had made efforts to demonize their enemies, and this made the sudden contact all the more difficult. The Japanese government had often depicted the Americans as rapacious invaders and there was significant concern about the interactions between these soldiers and local women. The concern was great enough that the government briefly established facilities for sex workers to cater to the occupation forces (Dower 124-125).

The post-war “lady of the night” became another iconic image, representative of the changing times, along with the occupiers’ ubiquitous green army jeeps. The Americans consciously viewed the occupation as a “second opening” of Japan, and the sudden cultural exchange had a lasting impact on the perception of the war’s aftermath. American presence, if not Americans themselves, was one more symbol of the tumultuous transition.

What these many pressing issues indicate is not only that this was a time of extreme hardship for most Japanese, but a period of sudden change. Almost every aspect of Japanese society was undergoing some transition, whether political, religious, or social. The Emperor who had presided over the war now renounced his divinity in favor of becoming a symbol of the

Fan 9 people’s will. The nation that had waged it for him now renounced war and embraced a pacifist constitution. Surrender marked the end of many important institutions: authoritarian government, state religion, and a centralized economy. The culture of nationalism and conformity that the militant government had attempted to enforce had fallen apart with the “cliques.” No longer resigned to its imminent destruction, society as a whole could now reevaluate the war, its causes and effects. Reconstruction, not simply of the physical damage, but of the narratives of the national consciousness was not only possible but also necessary after the failure of Imperial governance and culture. The war’s end raised important questions of national identity. How had the war come about? Was Japan to blame for the destruction? Who was responsible for the “war of aggression?” And most importantly, where do we go from here? With the detonation of the atomic bomb, Japan, and the world for that matter, entered a new age. Making sense of these events, however, was part of an ongoing cultural search for personal meaning in the context of the national crisis.

Given the newfound creative freedom afforded by the end of the police state, it is hardly surprising that written responses to this period of national crisis were by no means uniform.

Reactions varied from the rampantly hedonistic decadence movement to the violently selfdestructive patriotism of writer Mishima Yukio. This paper, however, is concerned with the culture of victimization that rose as a means of making sense of an apparently senseless conflict and its similarly devastating consequences. While the following works offer varying perspectives and conclusions about the Pacific War and its after effects, all of them center upon the struggles of the war’s Japanese victims, rather than the exploits of its perpetrators. By thoroughly examining the nature of wartime strife and the tragedy of well-meaning individuals caught up in

Fan 10 global conflicts, these texts offer insight into the war’s causes, and most importantly, how to reconcile this violent past with the new sincere desire for peace and reconstruction.

The Setting Sun: Decadence, Class, and the Family in a “transitional period of morality” Osamu Dazai’s The Setting Sun immediately foreshadows its concerns with the choice of title; it implies the state of decline that Imperial Japan, “the Land of the Rising Sun,” is experiencing. The difficulties of post-war life are certainly evident in the novel, which follows the story of a minor aristocratic family’s slow death after the war. While the war has not left any obvious scars on the family, its effects are clear. Their family is nobility, but that title means less and less each day as financial hardship takes its toll. The protagonist, Kazuko, is missing a brother: a soldier who has yet to be repatriated. Kazuko recalls that he once cynically labeled their family as “High-class beggars” (Dazai 4). This title becomes increasingly accurate as their dwindling finances lead to more and more hardships for the family. Kazuko’s father is dead, she has divorced her husband, and her brother finally returns an alcoholic. Mother and daughter are largely left to fend for themselves, with only a detached uncle guarding their interests.

Ironically, it is their aristocratic origins that bring about this helplessness. Kazuko and her mother are products of the pre-war and wartime culture. They are untrained and not expected to be self-reliant. Kazuko’s mother has only her sense of dignity; she endures life’s difficulties with the practiced stoicism of an idealized housewife, but can only hand responsibility off to “Uncle Wada.” Kazuko notes that she herself lacks even the proud bearing of her mother; she fears attempting to imitate her might only expose herself as “a beggar plain and simple” (Dazai 6).

Instead, she performs what unskilled labor she can in an effort to sustain her family. Despite her attempts however, the family is becoming increasingly anachronistic during an age of rapid

Fan 11 industrialization and modernization. Kazuko is aware of this and attempts contact her brother’s writer friend, Mr. Uehara, for help, but this ultimately just another form of dependency, another untenable existence for Kazuko. Their family slowly but inevitably runs out of money.

Kazuko is aware of this tension between old world values and the demands of the modern one. As she works to secure financial security for her family, she feels she becomes “a coarse, low-class woman” (Dazai 42). These developments, in turn, have an adverse effect upon her mother, who symbolizes the old aristocracy. Both Kazuko and her brother, Naoji, fail to fall into their traditional roles. She gave birth to a stillborn child, and led her husband to believe she had conceived it with a lover, leading to their divorce. In this she has failed as both a wife and a mother. Naoji is a soldier, but his aspirations are more artistic than military, and he eventually lapses into a self-centered lifestyle of addiction. Kazuko laments that the two of them are responsible for their mother’s current depression and declining health. While this assumption may be more the result of Kazuko’s guilt-complex than any fact, it is an accurate metaphor for the social dynamics at play. Kazuko and Naoji, desperate and impoverished as they are, are the aristocracy’s future, while their mother, with her social graces and passive nature, belongs to a dying generation. Observing the regal fashion in which her mother eats their miserable morning rations, Kazuko remarks “Such innocence really charms me, and I wondered if Mother might not be one of the last of that kind of lady” (Dazai 7). She repeatedly describes her mother in similar language, emphasizing the woman’s fragility and naiveté, whether in noting her lack of any practical knowledge, or expressing amazement at her complete trust in others. As Kazuko’s generation displaces that of her mother’s, she laments the death of what she of an idealized “old Japan.”

Fan 12 Naoji’s return is also significant in the post-war context. He has experienced the same disillusionment that Kazuko has endured, but he responds with an intensely nihilistic outlook.

Although he, like Kazuko, dismisses the war (“There’s nothing to tell. Nothing at all. I’ve forgotten” (Dazai 59)), its effects are clearly upon him. He too notices their mother’s sad condition, and bluntly remarks, “It’d be best for her to die soon. People like Mama are not meant to go on living in a such world as this” (Dazai 58). His return, rather than being an occasion for joy, only worsens the strains upon the household. His indifference towards the family and rampant alcoholism drive Kazuko towards breaking point.

If the mother represents “old Japan” and Kazuko herself is torn between forces of modernization and tradition, Naoji embraces, or perhaps is consumed by, the new culture.

Although his alcoholism and company imply that he associates with the decadence movement, Naoji expresses disdain for everything and everyone. The Pacific War, the modern government, and his own literary peers: he dismisses them all as liars and hypocrites, himself included. He is ashamed of and disillusioned with the decadent culture that has risen in response to kyodatsu, but he detests himself in equal measure for pretending to be part of it. He subsists by pawning possessions and leeching money off his family, which worsens his self-hate. Faithless, goalless, and lacking in any self-respect, Naoji embodies all of the material and philosophical despair in the difficult post-war years. As far as he can see “The world is out joint” (Dazai 67).

At this point, Naoji’s aristocratic origins are only a source of shame. His decadent friends look down on him for his initial unwillingness to let others pay his expenses, interpreting his hesitance as pride. He holds the aristocracy responsible for the sufferings inflicted upon the lower classes during wartime. Although he has good intentions, these only serve to worsen his self-loathing in light of his complete financial ruin. Rather than acting as a force for positive

Fan 13 change, he describes himself in relation to his lower-class comrades as “a robber who sympathizes with his victim,” (Dazai 160) devaluing his own ideals and again pointing to his own complicity in the making of the current struggles. In his final writings, a suicide note, he notes with bitter irony, “I am, after all, an aristocrat” (Dazai 169). Despite his desperate search for meaning and his attempts to abandon the restrictions of his class, Naoji was ultimately unable to escape the war and its effects.

Kazuko, however, refuses to abandon hope in the way her brother did. Although she understands that she cannot emulate her mother to do so, she resolves to continue living. Noting the symbolic importance her mother possesses, she relates that, “Now that it was clear that Mother would soon die, my romanticism and sentimentality were gradually vanishing, and I felt as though I were turning into a calculating, unprincipled creature” (Dazai 125). This manifests in her shameless attempts to woo the married writer, Uehara. Kazuko’s encounter with his wife instills guilt in her, but she does not waver in her resolve to see him.

Her final meeting and letter to the man demonstrate the way in which she reevaluates the difficulties of these years. Uehara reveals that he does in fact love her, but upon discovering the decadent writer, she is shocked and discouraged by his own fragility. She understands that he too is dying, and labels him “A precious victim.” Later, she pens her last letter to the man, and this refrain comes up once more. “Victims. Victims of a transitional period of morality. That is what we both certainly are… In the present world, the most beautiful thing is a victim” (Dazai 173174). Acknowledging that they have both been torn between the clash of the “old morality” and the new one, she nonetheless resolves to give birth to Uehara’s child, abandoning hope for herself. The sufferings of herself, her mother, brother, and even the pathetic decadent writer, are for this “revolution” taking place. Understanding this, Kazuko accepts the death of her heritage.

Fan 14 This conclusion to The Setting Sun offers little in the way of definitive answers to the suffering experienced post-war. The war itself is a topic the characters would like to avoid, and the broader political issues of the time are secondary to the personal grievances of Kazuko’s family and their immediate acquaintances. Although this may seem to be an overly narrow perspective to take of the period of reconstruction, the effect of this choice is to convey the general powerlessness of these individuals against the forces shaping the nation as a whole.

While the characters may seem symbolic of elements of Japanese society to the point of caricature, they are in truth only the products of these cultural trends, not their instigators. This is what Kazuko means when she calls herself and her family victims; they are largely helpless to resist or embrace the forces of change that are sweeping Japan during this time. Instead they live in despair, hoping only that the future will bring and end to the struggle between new and old. In this sense the novel’s scope extends to all the victims of post-war strife, sacrifices for the creation of a new Japan.

Black Rain: Wartime Life and the Atomic Bomb Ibuse Masuji’s Black Rain is told primarily in the form of journal entries from a number of sources, recalling the immediate aftermath of the atomic explosion at Hiroshima. It is at once an account of the final days before surrender and a documentation of the fate of the hibakusha, a term which translates literally as “explosion-affected persons.” Ibuse uses the primary accounts of Hiroshima alongside the present-day narrative concerning the hibakusha as a poignant reminder of the continuing threat of war.

The novel centers around Shizuma Shigematsu’s attempts to marry off his daughter, and his mounting concern that rumors about her proximity to the atomic explosion might be driving

Fan 15 away potential husbands. Eager to attract candidates for the young Yasuko, he decides to transcribe both her journal and his own from the time as a means of proving that she does not suffer from the dreaded radiation sickness, literally reconstructing their narratives. From these accounts, Ibuse conveys the state of Imperial Japan on its last legs by contrasting the many individual stories of normal citizens with the momentous events occurring around them.

The tales of confusion in the explosion’s aftermath indicate that Japanese society was already in considerable disarray by the time the war concluded. Shigematsu’s wife, Shigeko, relates the state of their diet, recalling the dire food shortages and massive inflation that dominated their concerns at the time. As she describes, a sort of barter system rose in response to the general uselessness of government currency, and she notes, “If ever there was a typical product of war, that word ‘black marketeer’ was it- a hateful word that I can never hear now without thinking of wartime austerity” (Ibuse 64). So prevalent were these practices that they had become symbols in the public consciousness in a manner that the government propagandists could only hope to imitate. Shigeko observes that the food shortages were bad enough that most families were scrounging plants from the countryside to supplement their diets, as government rations were no longer anywhere near sufficient.

These strains are seen in the chaotic response to the bomb as well. The Japanese government is largely absent from the immediate relief efforts. Instead, charitable individuals and local community organizations largely coordinate rescue. Public services and the trains cease to function properly. Absurdly, Shigematsu himself is told that he needs to provide Buddhist rites to the dead, despite being more or less irreligious. Nonetheless, his fellow refugees beg him to do so, lacking any other form of solace. Meanwhile, in the absence of any reliable source of news, rumors about the bomb spread rapidly; Shigematsu meets a number of people who claim to know

Fan 16 for sure the nature of the new weapon, spouting their own outlandish theories. The government can only offer the vague statement, “Details are still under investigation” (Ibuse 198). In an ironic turn of events, the survivors are able to respond effectively to the atomic bomb because their current conditions already necessitate the sort of scavenging and self-reliance that are rampant after the initial explosion at Hiroshima.

In this vein, the broader attitudes towards the war and the Japanese government are revealing. Government announcements are rightfully treated with suspicion. The police are not held in very high regard either, although some attempt to appease them in hope of favors.

Shigematsu dislikes this approach, however, stating, “It occurred to me that rather than stay dependent on the army and get robbed and beaten for our pains, we would do better, at this stage, to devise some independent course of our own” (Ibuse, 170-171). Bureaucratic officers tend to hamper recovery efforts more than help them, and those who are not useless are bullies or thieves. At one point Shigematsu is forced to lodge a complaint when a military force makes off with their supplies. A doctor’s account of his drafting by the military takes a similarly harsh view of their actions. Describing a man beaten by an officer, he writes, “His face displayed unconcealed perplexity and disappointment, like a father being bullied by his own son” (Ibuse, 241). Most of the army men have such harsh dispositions, contrasted with the resignation that colors the attitudes of Shigematsu’s neighbors. As Doctor Iwatake’s account indicates, however, many people saw this as an unnatural state of affairs, and understood that the end of the war might bring an end to the oppression that they endured. Until then, civilians are generally depicted as attempting to avoid trouble, or occasionally indulging in small acts of rebellion: a sarcastic yawn or placing rice in a soldier’s boot.

Fan 17 The general representation of the Empire and its agents in Black Rain offers perspective on the Pacific War and the Japanese populace’s feelings towards it. Although most citizens are dedicated to their country and its institutions, the patriotic war fervor that the nation’s propagandists attempted to cultivate is nonexistent. Rather nationalism manifests in the expression of community strength following the bombing, and in the sense of stoicism with which the everyday citizen faces the bombings. The war is characterized more by a sense of resignation than violent fanaticism. Shigematsu, upon hearing that the Soviet Union has entered the war, remarks that, “The news affected me with a feeling, not so much that the end of the road had at last been reached, as that it had been passed some while ago” (Ibuse 198-199). At this point, the war is a series of increasingly unwelcome events, rather than an active struggle on the part of the whole nation. When surrender finally comes, it brings relief to those who hear it.

Ibuse’s Japan is largely passive; individuals are ignorant and disconnected from world affairs and politics, the normal Japanese seemingly dragged further into the destructive conflict by a few militaristic types.

Complementing the passages that detail the wartime struggles is another important element of Black Rain: its portrayal of the post-war dilemma of the hibakusha, the irradiated Hiroshima survivors. Although Shigematsu’s journal provides the bulk of the novel’s material, his reason for transcribing it, and reliving the associated experiences, is to dispel the rumors about his daughter having radiation sickness: a framing device that provides modern context for past events. Shigematsu himself is still experiencing the physical effects of the bomb, and some of the locals distrust him for it. He lacks the strength to perform real work anymore, and is thus resented and ostracized. He associates primarily with his fellow survivors. After a widow berates their apparent laziness, one of Shigematsu’s friends angrily responds:

Fan 18 The people at Ikemoto’s have forgotten that Hiroshima and Nagasaki were atombombed. Everybody’s forgotten! Forgotten the hellfires we went through that dayforgotten them and everything else, with their damned anti-bomb rallies. It makes me sick, all the prancing and shouting they do about it. (Ibuse 29-30) Ignored (or worse) by both their neighbors and the government, these survivors have a sense of camaraderie with each other, lacking sympathy from anywhere else. These experiences serve both as a criticism of the Japanese government’s neglect of the hibakusha and an expression of frustration with some of the ineffectual leftist movements of the post-war era. The hibakusha are almost living reminders of the war’s senselessness, and their marginalization seems to be part of a collective effort to forget the past.

The tragedy of these victims is especially evident in the young Yasuko, whose marriage prospects are ruined when she is suddenly revealed to have the sickness as well. The revelation shatters the girl’s hopes as well as her father’s attempts to move beyond the bomb. Shigematsu claims to have seen the image of the mushroom cloud upon hearing the news. He, too, is unable to escape its shadow.

The sad fate of Yasuko and the others affected by the bomb is a reminder of the war’s horrors. Notably, Sh igematsu repeatedly states that his account is for the sake of “posterity.”

Even after the marriage negotiations fall through, he continues his transcription despite the fact that it cannot aid Yasuko’s marriage prospects anymore. Instead, he relates the journal of a doctor and a fellow hibakusha, confiding that he thinks the story will help strengthen Yasuko’s resolve. The ultimate purpose of his document, however, is to chronicle the worst days of the war, a time that society should not forget. As noted earlier, Black Rain offers an important

Fan 19 portrait of wartime existence. The story of the affected survivors bookends this image, affirming the relevance of the narrative years after the events have passed.

Fires on the Plain: Crimes, Redemption, and the Soldier’s Experience Ooka Shohei’s Fires on the Plain is an account of the last days of the ragged Japanese Imperial Army on Leyte, an island in the Philippines, in part based on Ooka’s own experiences as a drafted soldier, during which he was captured by the Americans. Fires on the Plain follows one Private Tamura, a thoughtful young Japanese soldier, as the situation on Leyte deteriorates rapidly during an American offensive on the island. The novel offers the portrait of man isolated from all sources of authority and even human connections, who ultimately seeks answers in religion. Tamura’s descent into barbarism and subsequent tentative salvation illustrate both the failings of wartime culture and the difficulty of giving personal meaning to such an extraordinarily senseless conflict.

Tamura’s account of the war is one that emphasizes the futility of the struggle. The novel opens with Tamura being turned away from his squad. His commanding officer gives him six potatoes and a hand grenade: if the hospital will not accept him, his squad leader instructs, he will just have to blow himself up with the grenade. “At least you’ll be carrying out your final duty to the country,” the officer helpfully reassures him (Ooka 4). Such ludicrous statements make the hypocrisy and irrelevance of wartime propaganda clear. The hospital is not much better; starving and wounded soldiers surround it, begging for scraps. Tamura’s interactions with other members of the Imperial Army are similar. Relationships are largely defined in materialistic terms; Tamura joyfully announces that he has acquired companions when his supply of pilfered salt wins him some new friends. When the hospital is bombed and catches fire, one of

Fan 20 his fellow soldiers runs straight into the inferno, believing this is an opportunity to steal some food. These incidents clearly imply that the army is on its last legs, in not only a material sense but a moral one. He observes that, upon their arrival at the island, “we soon began to sink back into our normal egotism” (Ooka 9). Grand ideas of country, loyalty, and even friendship no longer apply to the daily routines of survival.

The extent of the Imperial Army’s decline leads Tamura to question his current values and beliefs, in light of his alienation from military command and his lack of faith in the war itself. He notes that while he had once possessed a “system” of beliefs that “that combined conformity to social demands and conventions, on the one hand, with a type of personal hedonism, on the other” (Ooka 80), this sort of cold, rational self-interest fails to compel him under the current conditions. “In the loneliness of defeat, my system had inevitably begun to break down” (Ooka 80). Tamura has begun to realize that the values and code of conduct that has made him a useful and functional soldier conflict with his own spiritual needs. These two forces, his desire to exercise personal freedom and belief and the army’s compulsions, come into direct conflict without the threat of his superiors’ whips. After pausing and observing the beauty of the Philippine forest, it occurs to him that, “A successful infantryman must look at nature only from the standpoint of necessity. A gentle hollow in the ground is nothing but a shelter from artillery fire, the beautiful green fields simply dangerous terrain that must be crossed at the double” (Ooka 19). His identity as Private Tamura of the Imperial Army and Tamura the human being come into conflict; his sense of self challenges the fear-instilled adherence to wartime thinking.

His experimentations in free will yield ambiguous results, however. He casually murders a Filipino woman during a foray into a local village. His written response to the event is complicated and at times contradictory, at once faulting himself and his country for supplying

Fan 21 the weapon with which he committed the crime. His hypocrisy concerns him; he notes the irony of this murder: his first action as an individual free from the army’s chains of command is to deprive another human of the right to self-determination. Following this conclusion, he relinquishes his sense of free will, saying, “I felt as if I were being moved forward mechanically like a puppet” (Ooka 121). His brief stint of independent thought and action is closed by this incident, and subsequently he attempts to reunite with the military. As bad as the Imperial Army is, the murder has convinced him it would be better to be an irresponsible puppet than a killer by choice.

His identity shifts back and forth between the free man and the damned soldier in this manner over the course of the novel, culminating with his bizarre spiritual awakening in the depths of the Philippine wilderness. Confronted with a dying, raving Japanese officer, he is tempted to cannibalism when the man offers his arm to Tamura shortly before expiring. At this crucial juncture, however, Tamura experiences a religious revelation. His left hand seizes his right and prevents it from taking the flesh of his fellow man. The voice of God commands him “Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth” (Ooka 187). This passage marks a shift in the earlier conflict between his brute instincts and spiritual side; his left hand, described as “long, limber, and beautiful… the most conceited part of my body” (Ooka 187) acts in opposition to the impulses of his right. The hand’s description implies an almost unworldly appearance, which emphasizes its spiritual importance; Tamura eventually comes to believe it is possessed by God. Inspired by this knowledge, he resolves to eat no living thing, believing his transfiguration is at hand.

Despite this sudden embrace of spirituality, Tamura does not find the transcendence he sought. He reunites with his companions only to discover that they have been feeding him human

Fan 22 flesh. Tamura shoots and kills his friend-turned-cannibal in an act of God’s vengeance, at which point the narrative abruptly shifts to the present day, where Tamura reveals he is writing this account from a mental institution, having suffered amnesia and being unable to recall anything beyond that point.

At the novel’s conclusion, Tamura is broken and thoroughly ambivalent about the horrors he experienced, and the inner conflicts he struggled with have not received any sort of final resolution. Commenting on his current situation, he says, “People live only because they have no reason to die. Besides, I knew that since I was still alive, I must conform to the preposterous rules of my fellows” (Ooka 229). He briefly halts his practice of apologizing to his meals prior to eating them in accordance with this line of thinking, implying that he has abandoned his desire to transcend social pressures. He continues to waver on even this stand as well, however. The conflicts of free will and determinism continue to haunt Tamura, as he acknowledges both the “arbitrariness of authority” on one hand and the “principle of chance” on the other: “Just as all men are cannibals, all women are whores. Each of us must act according to his nature” (Ooka 236). These statements imply Tamura is preoccupied by determinist sentiments, feeling unable to extricate himself from the influences of his fellow men or even the principles of probability.

Despite his defiance of the army’s orders he has yet to feel truly free. He does, however, finish his account with a few words of fragile hope. If he was at one point compelled to eat the flesh of his dead comrades, and through a miracle was prevented from doing so, “Then glory be to God.” Fires on the Plain can be read as a harsh critique of the Meiji police state and its militant elements. The Imperial Army is depicted as hopelessly unprepared to meet the Americans and often indulgent in wanton cruelty and senseless sacrifice. To accept only these aspects of the novel would be to ignore the moral complexity of its content, however. Tamura’s release from

Fan 23 military life does not liberate his spirit or leave him blameless from the war. On the topic of his continued obedience of social mores, he writes, “It struck me as strange that the broken life I had to patch up on my return to Japan tended to make me do only things that I did not wish to do” (Ooka 231), demonstrating a thoroughly ambivalent attitude towards the post-war reconstruction.

His other remarks concerning contemporary politics certainly indicate a lack of optimism on his part. This, too, is evident in his inconsistent assessments of religion. The implications of these cynical statements are that Tamura sees the root causes of war and repression as yet unhealed.

The war’s end has not brought freedom of thought and action to the citizens of Japan.

This struggle between Tamura’s individuality and the immutable forces of nations, culture, and law forms the primary conflict of Fires on the Plain. Tamura is largely a victim of these forces, but his few moments of choice demonstrate that freedom does not correlate to goodness. Still, he finds some tentative hope in religious belief, and while his actions are often morally ambiguous, the aging institutions of state power and fanaticism are clearly not the answer to his search for meaning. It will have to be found in the day-to-day struggles of individuals, not blind conformity to authorities or rigid social codes.

Requiem for Battleship Yamato: Surviving Suicide Yoshida Mitsuru’s Requiem for Battleship Yamato is unique amongst these works in that it is nonfiction. It is the author’s account of the Ten’Ichigo suicide mission aboard the massive battleship, Yamato. Although Yoshida survives to tell his story, the Yamato and many of her crew do not, and Yoshida himself did not expect to return form the mission, which was part of the ongoing Japanese strategy to throw everything into a last “decisive battle.” To have lived

Fan 24 while so many of his equally young, patriotic comrades died was a significant challenge for Yoshida, and the memoir is in some ways a method of addressing that issue.

Requiem for Battleship Yamato is a peculiar mixture of oftentimes patriotic, even nostalgic sentiments and outright contempt for the horrors of war. At once Yoshida recounts the passionate devotion he felt for his fellow soldiers and country and the absurdity of their mission and the certainty of defeat. The sacrifices made during the Battle of Okinawa are brought into question: what meaning can be made of such losses? This is further emphasized by the Yamato itself and its unshakably loyal crew, who serve as a symbol for wartime Japan: the great industrial giant sails tragically towards it fate at the hands of the Americans. Yoshida, presenting the violent deaths of these supremely self-conscious martyrs, asks: were these sacrifices worth it?

Did the deaths of these men lead to the rebirth of Japan as they had wished?

Yoshida makes clear the extent to which the Yamato’s crew was aware of the impending defeat and their nonetheless unflagging dedication to the mission. Tensions on the ship are significant, both because of the certainty of failure and the weight placed upon them by the mission’s symbolic importance. The often-contradictory sentiments that accompany the knowledge of these facts are evident in the reactions of those relieved from the mission at the last moment: “Even when their eyes are filled in fact with regret, one can detect in their words a relief at their narrow escape from the tiger’s jaws” (Yoshida 25). These men depart with words of encouragement: “Do a good job!” and “Die a death worthy of you!” These sentiments weigh heavily on the minds of the Yamato’s crew as they prepare for the final sortie. Repeatedly, the specifics of the Yamato’s armaments and functions are described as woefully inadequate to face the brunt of the American attack; Yoshida instead appeals to the camaraderie and loyalty of his crewmates as a form of encouragement. “We can only look forward to demonstrations of unity

Fan 25 and strength at each battle station” (Yoshida 29): lacking any hope of success, he finds comfort in their support for one another and sense of duty. These realizations do not belong solely to Yoshida; his crewmates are equally aware of the nature of the situation and their subsequent acceptance of the role of the sacrifice is all the more moving. One Lieutenant Usubuchi expresses the general feeling: “We will lead the way. We will die as harbingers of Japan’s new life. That’s where our real satisfaction lies, isn’t it?” (Yoshida 40) This brand of optimistic fatalism is what motivates the crew of the Yamato to complete its final mission to the best of its abilities.

Yoshida further humanizes the crew by recalling the individual stories of many of his comrades. Ensign Nakatani, whose parents and brothers live in the United States; Seaman Hashimoto, the old greengrocer who mails his final letters to his four children. The named men are not introduced to lead up to some dramatic plot turn in which they are significant, but to establish the identities of the many, disparate individuals who make up this united suicide mission. They are not suicidal or fanatical, but are nonetheless determined to see the operation through. Yoshida gives the Yamato crew humanity, stressing familial connections and individual weaknesses to depict their sacrifice as more than a simple loss of manpower.

These elements are contrasted by the intense and sudden violence of the actual battle. The battle is as ferocious as might be expected from a suicide mission, and many of Yoshida’s comrades are killed in the first waves of assault: “A scene of carnage with no place for the living.

Casualties among machine gunners are staggering” (Yoshida 77).

The hellish conditions into which they are thrust provide a climax to the tension that Yoshida has been building in anticipation of action. Their calm, often poetic goodbyes are replaced by the frantic and fiery din of battle. Even as his crewmates are felled, Yoshida continues to give their

Fan 26 name and rank, out of both a personal level of respect and his sense of duty, again providing an almost bureaucratic tone to contrast with the suddenly violent mood. Describing several crewmen in a doomed compartment, Yoshida writes, “In the instant the water rushes in, the black gang on duty are dashed to pieces, turned into drops of spray. In that instant they see nothing and hear nothing; shattered into lumps, they dissolve; turned into swirls of water, they disappear” (Yoshida 82). The carefully characterized lives of these poor men are instantly snuffed out in response to the falling of some bomb. Even the crew of the Yamato’s devotion and training fail to prepare them for the brutality of the final battle.

Yoshida’s choice of content to relate here is not arbitrary. The details concerning the collective sense of pride and sacrifice and the individual touches of his crewmates are conveyed with gratitude and reverence. The battle itself, on the other hand, makes a confused mess of the diverse yet unified crew of the Yamato. While the actions of the Americans are often portrayed with respect or even a sense of awe (“Forming beautiful patterns, the torpedo tracks chase after our giant stern” -Yoshida 95), those of the Japanese are presented as ineffectual (“We are covered all over with wounds. What is more, we are down to half our power. Helpless.” Yoshida 95). The Yamato, the embodiment of Imperial Japan and its people, is a resigned victim of this onslaught.

So, although Yoshida portrays the Yamato’s fate as necessary and at times even beautiful, he is thorough in his condemnation of the war that brought such an event about. “No matter how splendid its raiment, death is death” (Yoshida 19) he concludes when the crew casts glares at a fearful officer. Though embracing patriotic attitudes may offer some comfort for these men who must go to their deaths, Yoshida reminds himself that the manner of exit does not change its inevitability. Beautifully wasted life is still wasted life. Remembering the sight of his

Fan 27 letter home, stained with his mother’s tears, Yoshida reprimands himself: “That being the case, did I know precious life is? How despicable the slightest pride in having seen actual combat?”

(Yoshida 148). Yoshida, like many others, mourns the passing of old Japan, but never forgets that its death was avoidable. In his requiem for the fallen men and their nation, he offers the harshest condemnation of the self-destructive attitudes hat compelled them towards their end.

Conclusion These works differ significantly in subject matter and style; however, they all form part of the greater narrative of victimization that was one response to the rapidly changing Japan their authors confronted. Whether in the bitter obscurity of forgotten hibakusha or the bombastic martyrdom of the Yamato’s crew, these stories are those of the war’s casualties, and their subsequent search for answers to the great sufferings they endured in the name of Imperial Japan.

During his declaration of surrender broadcast over all of Japan, Hirohito asked his former subjects to “Endure the unendurable and bear the unbearable” (Dower 36). Many of his subjects would do as much during the ensuing years, and had done so during the war. The question that followed, however, was: what for?

A culture of victimization might initially appear hypocritical. How can men and women portray themselves as the victims of the very conflict their nation was responsible for? This attitude is a misunderstanding of the implications of victimhood, however. The overwhelming power of the forces of government and culture makes individual acts of resistance all the more meaningful. Kazuko, Tamura, Shigematsu, and Yoshida are all subjected to the will of institutions greater than themselves, but none of them simply submit to or actively appease these forces. While they are often self-centered, unsuccessful, or ambiguously heroic, these

Fan 28 protagonists nonetheless seek positive solutions to the staggering issues presented by the Pacific War. From this conclusion, it is evident that the narrative of victimhood offers not only an acceptable understanding of the destructive forces of conflict, but the means to transcend them.

Fan 29

Works Cited Junod, Marcel. The Disaster of Hiroshima. International Committee of the Red Cross, 1982. Print.

Jansen, Marius. The Making of Modern Japan. Cambridge, Massachusetts: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2000. Print.

Dower, John. Embracing Defeat: Japan in the Wake of World War II. New York: W. W. Norton and Company, 1999. Print Hollerman, Leon. “International Economic in Occupied Japan.” The Journal of Asian Studies 38.4 (1979): 707-719.

Seaton, Philip. “'Do You Really Want to Know What Your Uncle Did?' Coming to Terms with Relatives' War Actions in Japan.” Oral History 34.1 (2006): 53-60.

Dazai, Osamu. The Setting Sun. Trans. Donald Keene. New York: New Directions, 1956.

Print.

Ibuse, Masuji. Black Rain. Trans. John Bester. Tokyo, New York, London: Kodansha

International, 1969. Print.

Ooka, Shohei. Fires on the Plain. Trans. Ivan Morris. Tokyo: Tuttle Publishing, 2001.

Print.

Yoshida, Mitsuru. Requiem for Battleship Yamato. Trans. Richard H. Minear. Annapolis,

Maryland: Naval Institute Press, 1985. Print.

Fan 30

WORCESTER ACADEMY

An Analysis of Crises’ Influence on Horror A Closer Look at Horror’s Evolution Aidan Fly

Over the course of the last century, horror has become an explosive cultural phenomenon. It nearly goes hand-in-hand with everything now: movies, books, games, music, art, and so much more. It is almost a daily occurrence for us to find something relating to the genre of horror. But there is a historical relevance to horror. In the past one hundred years, there have been many national and international crises that have in turn created new varieties of horror as well as influenced the growth of existing genres.

Notable examples of these time periods include World War II, The Cold War, and the modern economic recession.

Horror has been around for as long as humans have told stories and can be seen in many different mediums over the course of our history. Some of the earliest forms of horror can be seen in ancient mythology. During this time period, horror was mostly used as a teaching device, but in some cases it was for narrative purposes. Horror was mostly attributed to gods of the underworld, such as Zeus, Nu, Hel, and Lucifer. It was commonly believed by the peoples of ancient times that these deities were responsible for the terrifying things that inhabited the world and the frightening things that happened to mankind. In Christian mythology, this has persisted up to even recent days gone by.

Following the horrors of myth and legend, literary horror was founded on the emerging gothic genre of the late 18th century.

The initial true examples of horror were published during the latter half of the 18th century as gothic and romantic tales, a precursor of sorts to horror of the modern day. The first of these works was The Castle of Otrantom, by Horace Walpo. This gothic tale revolves around a lord and his family that is paranoid that a castleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s curse is to doom them all, but in the end it was merely the madness of its own lord. This story was

followed by other tales such as The Mysteries of Udolpho, by Anne Radcliffe, and The Monk by Matthew Lewis. Both of these tales used early archetypes that would later help define the genre of horror. One will even notice that their usage of resourceful female protagonists mirrors many popular films of this day and age.

The early stages of horror laid somewhat dormant over the next few decades until a special woman emerged onto the scene. In 1818, Mary Shelley published Frankenstein, one of historyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most famous tales of horror. Frankenstein is one of the first recognizable gothic works of horror that used a monster to instill fear in the reader. Another notable example of this was The Vampyre by John William Polidori, which was published the following year. This particular tale would eventually inspire another writer to create his own vampiric work, but that would come about during the last decade of the 19th century.

The next author during the 19th century that would further progress the development of horror as a genre was the romantic poet, Edgar Allen Poe. Edgar weaved devices into his works that would make the reader uneasy, uncomfortable, and afraid. A noteworthy example of this can be found in The Fall of the House of Usher, in which a nameless narrator tells the tale of a cursed family and a haunted house. Another such story is The Cask of Amontillado, which takes place around a man named Montresor taking revenge on Fortunato by getting him drunk and chaining him up in Italian catacombs, where he would soon be walled in and left to rot. Edgar Allen Poe was a major influence in the literary movement that would birth horror one day.

In 1886, Robert Louis Stevensonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tale, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, was brought to the public eye. This was one of the first gothic tales in which internal conflict generated horror, which stems from the constant battle between Jekyll

and Hyde for control of Dr. Jekyllâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body between him and Mr. Hyde, a scientifically created side meant to contain all the negativity within Jekyll. This, however, was soon followed by another story with a similar theme. An author by the name of Oscar Wilde published a work titled The Picture of Dorian Gray in 1890. This too was centered on internal conflict, where a one Dorian Gray has a mystical portrait that ages in his place whenever he commits sin. Once he realizes that there is no return to the version of him that existed prior to the painting, he stabs the painting, which in turn kills Dorian, who then becomes old and grotesque, unlike the now young image of him in the painting. It would be several years before the next gothic precursor to horror came into the literary scene.

It was the year 1897 when Bram Stoker wrote the most famous vampire tale of all time: Dracula. Dracula is an epistolary gothic horror that tells the tale of a vampire by the name of Dracula who seeks to live in an environment (London) where there are ample bodies for him to feed upon. His plot is ultimately foiled in the end by Abraham Van Helsing and a group of other protagonists. It was through this tale that many of the staples that would define vampire fiction were born, and this allowed for horror to once again evolve into something that had never been seen before.

The birth of the twentieth century led to an astounding boom in horror fiction.

This can be attributed much to the publications around at the time as well as the easily manufactured paperback books and periodicals. This would allow for influential writers to appear on the scene such as H.P. Lovecraft, Arthur Machen, Algernon Blackwood, and M.R. James. But what horror literature was to the 19th century, horror in film was to the 20th century.

Since the horror film began, the world has seen many stories retold in motion pictures and many new ones written masterfully by their ‘authors,’ screenwriters, which are then organized by directors. Directors such as John Carpenter, George Romero, Ridley Scott, Alfred Hitchcock, Wes Craven, and so many more are the reason that horror in film has become such an expressive medium. Movies like King Kong, Godzilla, Alien, The Evil Dead, The Blair Witch Project, Ju-on, The Wolfman, and The Exorcist have all reshaped the film industry forever. And from film, even more mediums for the world of horror emerged.

Horror has been worked into music, into interactive media such as video games, and in an independent way, the internet. Games like Alone in the Dark and Resident Evil prove groundbreaking for a revolution in the interactive world, whereas the artist Rob Zombie from White Zombie has woven the world of horror into his music and even his own films that were inspired by great works from the thirties to modern day. The internet has seen supernatural horror database sites such as the SCP and web serials such as Marble Hornets and the recently popularized shorts known as ‘creepypasta.’ The world has experienced many new varieties of horror and horrific inspirations and that will continue to happen. Events that have made impacts in the past were the first two world wars, the Cold War, and the economic recessions as of late.

Body: Following the conclusion of the First World War, horror became a powerful phenomenon. The genesis of this was in Germany. Before the war’s end, the German film industry was controlled by the government and used as a propaganda device. Not only

this, but foreign films were also banned on German soil until 1921, and German cinema truly earned something spectacular from this. UFA, Germanyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most prominent studio at the time, decided to go even bigger and hired as many talented filmmakers of German origin as they could in order to get this film movement moving.

German expressionism in film began in roughly 1920 with the creation of the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. It would later be used for such films as The Golem, Nosferatu, and Waxworks. Unlike other expressionistic movements, such as the ones occurring in Hollywood, Germany focused theirs on the atmosphere and film composition, rather than story and editing. Through the use of techniques built around Expressionism, one could create the abstract from the realistic, express subjectivity, create a sense of mystery and other varying types of false reality, and bring out the truth of an object, situation, or state of being. Expressionism, thus, has been said to have been a method of protesting the replication of empirical reality.

The first film to see the light of day was The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari directed by Robert Wiene and written by Hans Janowitz and Carl Mayer. This film portrayed the state that Germany was in following the war. It demonstrated the confusion that the people of the time were feeling as well as the oppression that many Germans faced during the war. Rick Worland, a film historian, says that Dr. Caligari represented an authority figure not unlike the government of Germany during the war. He sent his assistant out to kill as he had instructed just like Germany had ordered its troops to go out and fight a war. This expressionistic film truly showed the condition of Germany at the time and where the genre of horror was headed.

The use of German Expressionistic techniques in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari creates a telling portrait of the status of Germany at the time. One of the most notable examples comes early on in the film with Dr. Caligari sitting on a low bench waiting for a fair official, who is on a high seat, to speak to him.

Figure 1: Wiene, 7:20 This is an allusion to the state of government in Germany. Following the war, those who run the country remain high up, angry at those below whom they look upon with scorn. In the screen shot (fig. 1), Caligari squats in the lower left corner of the frame, glaring impatiently at the official. Ignoring Caligari completely, the official—whose back is to the petitioner—perches in the high right corner of the frame, seemingly oblivious to the old man’s needs. The vertical elements in the shot are at an angle, increasing the sensation of Caligari’s discomfort (the wall seems to loom over him). The combination of character placement and setting serve to enforce the symbolic oppression felt by the lowly classes of Germany.

There is also, of course, the techniques used to invoke a sensation of paranoia and the fear of the unknown in the viewer. In figure 2, Weine opens his scene by displaying a crooked and narrow road at night, compressed from both sides by diagonal walls. Even the ground itself slopes disconcertingly to the right. And although the foreground is light, the scene recedes into utter blackness.

Figure 2: Wiene, 29:05 The malformed street corners and the pale illumination emphasizing the darkness reflects the state of Germany at the time: every turn taken will only increase the anxiety of the new, dark, and unknown future life.

The next film Germany produced to reflect this time was Nosferatu. Despite being a German film adaptation of Dracula, there are certain examples of symbolism within the movie. The first of which is Count Orlok (Nosferatu/Dracula), who can be compared to the German government during World War I as he pretended to be doing something harmless when those that saw him knew that he was only trying to achieve his goals to

‘conquer’ more people. Some of the victimized and those who share some form of a relationship with those victimized then form an alliance and seek to take down Count Orlok. This is much like Germany’s loss at the end of the war. But unlike the end of Nosferatu, only fire came from the ashes.

World War II and the scars that it left on all those involved would haunt the world and thus influence horror for decades to come. Two nations were affected by this more than others: The United States of America and Japan. Not only influenced by psychological effects of the war, these countries were also moved by the recent application of nuclear power and the threats it posed.

Japan was to be more affected by its scars from the recent war in a much more physical manner. Dealing with the cleanup of a recently bombed country, they began to fear that which had ended the war on their side: the atomic bomb. This powerful reality haunted them and introduced them to an all new level of fear they had never before experienced. And they used this exact fear to terrify moviegoers. One of the most popular films that this spawned has a series that has continued until this very day and most likely for much longer. In 1954, Godzilla was born into cinema history.

Godzilla was an embodiment of the fears and weariness that weighed upon Japan.

This massive reptilian beast, that came from seemingly nowhere, unexpected but inevitable, just like the bombs that rent cities just a decade before. The lore of this Kaiju tale is that Godzilla is an unknown species of reptile mutated by the radiation from the bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. In the beginning, before anything is known, two ships are attacked by flashes of light from the legendary sea monster known as Godzilla, according to Odo Island’s village elder. Yamane, a researcher, goes to Odo Island and

discovers Godzilla along with many frightened islanders. Godzilla later comes to Tokyo and begins wreaking havoc upon the terrified city. In the end, the protagonists of the film defeat Godzilla with an ‘Oxygen Destroyer’ which reduces him to naught but bones sinking to the seafloor. Dr. Yamane ultimately decides that if humankind is to continue testing nuclear weapons, a new Godzilla could arise in the old one’s place. This is a clear denotation of the fear the Japanese had for nuclear disasters following the war.

Another Kaijin tale was produced two years following Godzilla, again revealing the uneasiness caused by nuclear war devices. This film was Rodan, and focused on mysterious deaths experienced within a flooded mine. It is later revealed that the culprit behind these fatalities is a Meganulon, but this is only the beginning. One of the characters, Shigeru, discovers an egg deep in the cave, which hatches to release Rodan, a massive pteranodon approximately 200 million years old. While they cannot gather how it survived for so long, Kashiwigi, a scientist, theorizes that it was released due to cavities created by earth loosened by nuclear bomb testing. This is yet another horror, however unlikely, that Japan faces because of the ever-feared nuclear bomb.

Japan’s giant monster horror films focused much more on the idea of an opposing force as opposed to one coming from within. Godzilla and Rodan are both examples of looming disasters that can only be stopped by unity and effort, just like the cleanup efforts for the nuclear wastelands of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Fig. 3: Rodan

Fig. 4: Godzilla Through the fighting of such towering beasts, representing towering issues, these films demonstrate what Japan needs to crawl out of the hole it dug itself into during World War II, and thus shedding light on that which they feared the most during the time. They,

unlike other countries, who focused entirely on the internal impacts, focused on the outside forces, and what they did to ordinary people.

Japan was most certainly not the only country affected by the horrors of World War II. America, too, was changed by this, and so did too their horror films. Like Japan, America had many films that now featured large creatures and other monsters, be they alien or of earthly origin. Both rampaging creatures and monster invasions portrayed the paranoia that America felt now that it was in the spotlight following World War II. One notable film is much akin to Godzilla in theme and content; The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms. North of the Arctic Circle, a nuclear missile test known as Operation Experiment is being enacted, the blast of which awakens an ancient diapsid formerly frozen in ice. This diapsid is a Rhedosaurus, which ends up on the northeast coast of North America. It immediately begins causing havoc in areas such as Canada, Maine, and Massachusetts. The beast is ultimately felled by a rifleman at Coney Island, ending the horror. This film showed America that nuclear bombs were no joke and something to be feared, even though the repercussions in the film were fictional and impossible.

Another film illustrating the horrors of the atomic bomb is released in the year 1955 with the title Day the World Ended. This film takes place following a nuclear fallout in a canyon with lead cliffs, where two survivors live, Jim and his daughter Louise. The two fears are whether or not the radiation will go away in time and a massive, murderous creature formed by radiation. After conflict between a group of survivors including Jim and Louise occurs with the monster and bad seeds among the group, it is learned that the rain will wash away the fallout, but a message remains. This message is a warning of

what could happen were a nuclear war to breakout, yet again painting a portrait of the fear that the world has for nuclear weapons.

It was a relatively short while after World War II that another conflict between countries arose. The Cold War, fought from labs and military bases between The Soviet Union and The United States, began in 1947. Due to the long amount of time it lasted (forty-four years), this allowed ample influence for horror to build on. Many of the most iconic horror films from the twentieth century were formed because of the societal fears of an all-out war or impending invasion.

One such film was produced by the Americans in 1956 known as Invasion of the Body Snatchers. This film is meant to instill fear of an invasion, something feared by all Americans during this period. Dr. Miles Bennell, a doctor from Santa Mira, California is receiving many patients claiming that those they know are not who they seem to be. A select few citizens of the city, Bennell included, soon learn that there are clones of everyone attempting to replace the real versions of them. In the end, the psychiatrist hearing the story from Bennell learns that someone was hospitalized after being crushed by a large number of giant pods. The end of the film is open-ended, allowing audiences a lingering sense of fear that those pods and clones are out there, slowly invading the country.

Another film was released only two years later; The Blob. This filmâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s monster, the blob, is an alien creature that ends up on Earth and begins devouring everyone it comes in contact with, growing more monstrous in size for every being eaten. This red monstrosity is meant to symbolize The Soviet Union and its constant growth by enveloping other countries. This well illustrates the growing fear that America had for communism during

this period of time, an early period of the cold war. In the end, the only way to kill the blob is by coming together and using fire extinguishers to drive it away and freeze it.

This symbolizes the unity required to take down such an overwhelming force, just like Americaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s conflict with the Soviets.

The alien monster in The Blob is a near perfect image of the Soviet Union, its expansion, and its weakness. The blob, as previously mentioned, is a red entity that grows in size when it engulfs another being, much like the Soviet Unionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s growth by taking in other nations.

Fig. 5: Irvin, 24:10 As seen in this screencap, the blob begins small, roughly the size of a basketball, a slowly massing horror. As it begins to grow in size, it poses a greater threat, much like the

communist agenda.

Fig. 6: Irvin, 72:09 Once it reaches the size of a building, a truly immense size, it becomes a true threat to the masses, and people come together, trying everything to stop it; fire, electricity, bullets, all to no avail. However, it is discovered that they can stop it by freezing it. America used a very similar method during the Cold War to stop its growth, which is evident in the Vietnam War as we began it to stop the spread of Communism to the southern reaches of Asia. By freezing the blob, it is possible to get rid of it, to stop the harm it may cause.

The following year, history was made with the creation of the television show The Twilight Zone. In this series, each episode focuses on strange occurrences and encounters rather than following a specific story line. The Twilight Zone was around for much of The Cold War and thus had many episodes dealing with themes related to Communism and all-out war. However, some stand out more than others and are more relevant, and those

will be the ones will be explained and broken down to their underlying symbols and messages.

One such episode is The Monsters Are Due On Maple Street from the first season.

It begins with a massive shadow soaring above accompanied by a deafening sound before a flash is seen. The people of Maple Street discover that all the electricity has gone out and they come together to get to the bottom of what happened. The residents then start to become suspicious after a young boy named Tommy informs one of them that an alien invasion is in effect. Ultimately, during a riot breaks out, there is a scene upon a hill where you see two aliens watching the commotion on Maple Street. They then mention how simple creating panic and suspicion was and that rather than a full-scale invasion, it would do well enough to let humanity be its own undoing. This is similar to the state of sAmerica during the Cold War, especially after McCarthyism, due to the large number of people constantly worrying and fearing the possibilities of total war. This large-scale panic could have easily been the undoing of our country had it not been controlled and eased.

A second significant episode is The Obsolete Man. This is more of an aftermath scenario, as it takes place in a totalitarian future where many things have become crimes, things as simple as being a librarian or believing in a deity, as the main character of this episode does. He is sentenced to death, as the State has somehow proven that there is no God. Declared worthless by the Chancellor, he is convicted. He asks that he may request how he dies as well as have his death televised so that the State can see what happens to someone who has no use left. These requests are honored and later that night, Wordsworth (the obsolete man) tells the Chancellor that he wishes to die by a bomb that

will go off in his room at the stroke of midnight. Wordsworth then reveals that they are both locked in this room and that the Chancellor cannot escape. As the state’s reputation would be hurt by rescuing the Chancellor, he is left to die. But after begging to be let go in the name of God, Wordsworth releases him and the Chancellor flees and returns to the court. He finds that he has already been replaced for he has disgraced the state by becoming a coward and as he cries out and tries to fix the situation, he is apprehended and carried off. The narrator then states that “…any state, any entity, any ideology that fails to recognize the worth, the dignity, the rights of man, that state is obsolete,” bringing forth yet another example of America’s fear and hatred for communism, a form of government that through the ideology of equality only creates a greater divide.

More films were to be made in the next thirty years, with some being more applicable to the red scare than others, and one notable example is the film Night of the Living Dead. While not explicitly a symbol of communism, it has underlying themes that highlight the fear of such a thing. This film from 1968 takes place in rural Pennsylvania and begins with Barbra and her brother, Johnny coming to visit their late father’s grave.

A strange figure then appears and attacks the both of them and Johnny dies upon cracking his head after a fall. Barbra hurries off to a nearby farmhouse, where she discovers a mangled corpse and even more of these hollow people. She soon encounters more living beings within the house and they all band together, although there is conflict between them at points. Throughout the film they learn of what have caused this pandemic as well as learning that it is even more widespread than they had believed. The spread of this disease, turning all those infected into mindless husks, is much akin to that of the spread of the Soviet Union in Eurasia during the middle to late twentieth century. It would all

begin with a few minds swayed by the promise of equality, when in the end, the only equality they had was that they were of lesser importance, much like the zombies executed in Night of the Living Dead.

One of the most iconic fear films produced during this forty-four year period is Red Dawn. This movie is true to its title and takes place in an alternate future where The Soviet Union and its allies in Middle America and Cuba invade North America. Many important cities have been nuked and the country is seemingly all but lost. It takes several months, maybe even years, for America to fend off the invasion and regain its freedom.

This film is a literal example of what Americans feared could happen were tensions between The Soviets and America to raise to insurmountable levels.

It would be over a decade following the end of The Soviet Union that the world would find itself in yet another crisis that would inspire even more horror films. This, of course, was caused by recessions all around the world due to military spending, debt, new currencies, and unions. However, alongside this was the prospect of another possible nuclear war in Americaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s conflict with the Middle East. It was through this that the subgenre of apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic horror finds a rebirth. And with this new time period, so too comes another media vessel for horror: video games.

One of the reasons for such an increase in horror during this generation is due to the horrors we are facing in reality. Finding a job, failing to pay off loans, falling into debt, our friends and family not coming back from their military tour, all these are things that some of us cannot avoid and thus become to fear. However, with horror in film and other forms of entertainment, you can stop at any time. You arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t being forced to face hardship when sitting in a theater or lying in bed or resting on a couch. This horror also

allows us to forget of the other horrors we face, even when the things which entertain us are a result of our societal fears.

Zombie films were far from new during this generation, but they found themselves once again insanely popular. Zombies are nearly synonymous with recession, as their popularity increases exponentially in times of duress. There have been several such films in the past decade or so that have much to do with the issues we are facing in the world. Some franchises have found sweet revivals due to this while others are experiencing their genesis. George Romero has come back onto the scene and many films from decades past have been remade.

A very fitting example as to how the living dead are a reflection of society comes in the form of Land of the Dead. In this film, the last survivors of humanity live in security enclaves, and one in particular is featured in this film: Fiddlerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Green. This haven is a large shopping complex complete with a tower and this is clearly meant to represent a center of commerce. This fort is held by mercenaries who guard it from the horde of zombies filling the world. These zombies symbolizing the excluded lower-class and through their mindless unity, break through into this haven where they feast on those who reside within, people who represent the upper-class of our country. This film is essentially saying that by not integrating the classes and society, all will fall to ruin and disaster as war breaks out between them.

Another good portrait of society in horror media is the film series Quarantine, based off the Spanish found-footage series Rec. Two citizens that work for a local news station are in conjunction with fire fighters in order to learn more about their work. The station receives an emergency call from an apartment complex, where the film ultimately

takes place. They discover that an infection has spread through the building and most, if not all, of the residents are contaminated. The CDC quarantines the building and refuses to truly aid those inside, going as far as to report that there are no inhabitants within the complex. This can be perceived as a portrayal of peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fears that the government does not truly wish to help solve the problems of the many and would rather give the illusion that everything is going smoothly, making it clear that the lower-class is unimportant.

Zombie films would not be the only apocalyptic themed films to resurface, so too did films with a theme revolving around nuclear experiments, weapons, and contamination. One such film that dealt with this was the 2006 remake of Wes Cravenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s The Hills Have Eyes. This film takes place in an American desert where nuclear atmosphere tests had been conducted between the forties and sixties. A traveling family ends up stranded in the desert after running over a spike trap placed by a yet unknown character. It is not long before the viewer learns that the culprit was a mutant, one of a family that was turned this way by the nuclear tests done decades prior. From this point on, it is a battle of survival between the mutants and the stranded family. In the end it is the family that wins but the ending is left open ended. There was a segment in the film in which a father of the stranded family stabs a mutant through the back of the throat with an American flag. This act has been reported to be a critique of the strained relations between America and other countries following terrorist attacks in years past. In effect, this film both portrays the fear of nuclear issues as well as the battle between good and evil, a matter which is somewhat highlighted by the fact this film takes place in the desert, much like the war in the Middle East takes place in a similar, arid landscape.

A second horror film featuring this theme is The Road, a film adaptation of a novel bearing the same name. This tale is a much more literal take on the fears of an apocalypse and nuclear weapons. The story takes place in years following an apparent cataclysm, most likely nuclear, which left the land a barren wasteland. It follows a father and son striving for survival in this brown and grey hell. They face many horrors, ranging from nearly running out of food, encountering cannibals, and running from bands of bad people. This film shows the viewer that when the world ends, so too do the luxuries that we hold dear. Once the end comes, nothing can be changed, not truly.

There is a third genre that has also arisen during recent times that can be attributed to the hardships that Americans have faced when going overseas as well as the tortures performed on enemy soldiers in Iraq. This inspired film makers to create movies that ended up forming the genre dubbed â&#x20AC;&#x153;torture porn.â&#x20AC;? It is in these films that characters are taken prisoner and tortured for a whole host of reasons from hatred of Americans by foreign countries to the inhumanity that dwells inside all but may rise to the surface in some individuals. There are many franchises that spawned from this but there are some that have proven to be more influential and fear-inducing.

The most notable of the series that originated from this template is the Saw franchise. In this film, captured persons, often immoral people or individuals that donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t truly value what they have, are subject to torture. But, they are given a chance of redemption. In some cases they may have to work together and in others they have to inflict harm upon themselves to set themselves free of the impending death that awaits them otherwise. This is all done by a serial killer known as Jigsaw who does this in attempt to get people to realize that life is much more valuable than they give it credit and

that only through true fear and pain do they set themselves free of such delusions. This is meant to mirror the fear of “ourselves” and what “we” are capable of doing when placed in conditions of doom and death.

Another series that follows the same overall theme is the Hostel franchise. This leans more towards the horrors of what could go wrong to American tourists who travel abroad. It follows three travelling college students who are backpacking across Europe.

They are convinced by a local man to travel to an unknown hostel near Bratislava, Slovakia. Over the course of time, they constantly run into a mysterious businessman, meet two very attractive women who seduce two of the travelling college boys, and learn from another traveler that her friend is missing, as is one of the three. It is revealed to them via a text message containing an image that the two are dead. One of the college students is later drugged and taken to a factory where he is killed. His friend later finds him after convincing the two women, now revealed to be working for the killer, to take him there. He, too, is captured and nearly killed but narrowly escapes and following a series of fortunate events, escapes this hell via a train. For many people travelling abroad, this is a fear that can be all too real as there are slave-trafficking rings in other parts of the world that tourists can occasionally be taken forcefully into.

Hostel is a prime example for those seeking insight into the fears of a traveling stranger, usually American, in a foreign land. Paxton, Josh, and Oli are basic images of the kinds of people we are; Paxton wants to have fun, but he can be rational at the same time. Josh is nervous and doesn’t exactly want to be around, more of a sightseer than a partier. Oli, on the other hand, is the party animal, much like the stereotypical jock or popular kid. The foreigners are the ones meant to frighten you, an embodiment of the

idea that so many are afraid of foreign countries because of the kinds of people lurking within.

Fig. 7: Roth, 59:46 In fig. 7, you can see the terror on Paxtonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face as the man who paid money to torture him is selecting from his tools. Paxton cannot see the man or what he is choosing, but he knows that he is there, and that is very frightening. This is similar to an individual being unable to see the dangers of a place, country, or foreign individual, and thus turning a blind eye in fear. Through this, one can gather that this fear is the primal fear of the unknown at its core.

Then there exists this new vessel for horror, the world of video games. While significant titles such as Resident Evil and Silent Hill have been around for roughly fifteen years now, this has nonetheless reflected on society to an extent. The popular series Dead Space shows what happens when a people is controlled by a religious or almost-cult like institution and the endless horror that follows in its wake. Resident Evil is a series that has shown its players that the corporate world isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t all peaceful and can

become quite dangerous and secretive, which can lead to disaster. Silent Hill, similar to Dead Space in the fact that a cult is involved, illustrates the fear that one experiences from losing their child or a loved one and the lengths that they will go to in order to have this important person returned unto them. Then there are the standalone titles, such as I Am Alive, that focus on a post-apocalyptic world where you must survive by collecting the necessities, such as water and forms of protection, all the while avoiding scavengers and areas of low visibility. Games like these reflect our fear of being on our own in disaster, things that are all too possible in modern times. Video games have continued to evolve the horror genre in its own way, and most likely will until they are obsolete.

Conclusion: Horror has evolved in an endless number of ways since its genesis. It has produced books, movies, games, television shows, art, and almost anything else you can imagine. Its inspirations range from A to Z and they continue to bring it to new levels in every decade. What started out as a small genre has blown up into an all-encompassing genre popular with nearly everyone. From Nosferatu to Godzilla to The Blob to Hostel, films have evolved from one form to the next, an evolution that can be attributed to the horrors the race of man has experienced in the last century. What lies ahead is unpredictable, but the human race can count on one thing, that as long as fear is present in society, so too will movies that mirror that which makes us stir in our sleep, hide behind our hands, and keep our wits about while wandering city streets and suburban strips.

Sources: Rodan Image: http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20070627160656/godzilla/images/5/50/Rodan7.jp g Godzilla Image: http://www.everythingaction.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/godzilla5.jpg

http://courses.washington.edu/crmscns/FilmExpressionismHandout.pdf

Khairy, Wael. "The Roots and History of the Horror Film." The Cinephile Fix. N.p., 7 Dec. 2009. Web. 29 May 2013.

Riegler, Thomas. "The Connection between Real and Reel Horror." Horror. N.p., n.d.

Web. 29 May 2013.

Edwards, William. "The Connection between Horror and Recession | Teen Observer." The Connection between Horror and Recession | Teen Observer. N.p., 10 July 2012. Web. 29 May 2013.

Justice, Chris. "The Blob (1958)." ClassicHorror Main. N.p., 22 Nov. 2004. Web. 29 May 2013.

Maddrey, Joseph. Nightmares in Red, White, and Blue: The Evolution of the American Horror Film. Jefferson, N.C: McFarland, 2004. Print.

The Blob. Dir. Irvin S. Yeaworth. Perf. Steve Mcqueen. 1958. DVD. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Dir. Robert Wiene. Perf. Werner Krauss. Famous Films Production, 1919. Youtube.

Hostel. Dir. Eli Roth. Prod. Eli Roth, Mike Fleiss, and Chris Briggs. By Eli Roth. Perf. Jay Hernandez, Derek Richardson, and Eyth贸r Gudj贸nsson. Lions Gate Films, 2006. DVD.

Godzilla and the Japanese Nightmare: When "Them!" Is U.S. Chon Noriega Cinema Journal Vol. 27, No. 1 (Autumn, 1987), pp. 63-77 Published by: University of Texas Press Article Stable URL:http://www.jstor.org/stable/1225324

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