<?page no="0"?> Band 88 Laura Winter Dystopia on Demand: Technology, Digital Culture, and the Metamodern Quest in Complex Serial Dystopias <?page no="1"?> Dystopia on Demand: Technology, Digital Culture, and the Metamodern Quest in Complex Serial Dystopias <?page no="2"?> herausgegeben von Anja Bandau (Hannover), Justus Fetscher (Mannheim), Ralf Haekel (Leipzig), Caroline Lusin (Mannheim), Cornelia Ruhe (Mannheim) Band 88 <?page no="3"?> Laura Winter Dystopia on Demand: Technology, Digital Culture, and the Metamodern Quest in Complex Serial Dystopias <?page no="4"?> Zugleich Dissertation an der Philosophischen Fakultät der Universität Mannheim Gedruckt mit freundlicher Unterstützung der Geschwister Boehringer Ingelheim Stiftung für Geisteswissenschaften in Ingelheim am Rhein. DOI: https: / / doi.org/ 10.24053/ 9783381112227 © 2024 · Narr Francke Attempto Verlag GmbH + Co. KG Dischingerweg 5 · D-72070 Tübingen Das Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist ohne Zustimmung des Verlages unzulässig und strafbar. Das gilt insbesondere für Vervielfältigungen, Überset‐ zungen, Mikroverfilmungen und die Einspeicherung und Verarbeitung in elektronischen Systemen. Alle Informationen in diesem Buch wurden mit großer Sorgfalt erstellt. Fehler können dennoch nicht völlig ausgeschlossen werden. Weder Verlag noch Autor: innen oder Herausgeber: innen übernehmen deshalb eine Gewährleistung für die Korrektheit des Inhaltes und haften nicht für fehlerhafte Angaben und deren Folgen. Diese Publikation enthält gegebenenfalls Links zu externen Inhalten Dritter, auf die weder Verlag noch Autor: innen oder Herausgeber: innen Einfluss haben. Für die Inhalte der verlinkten Seiten sind stets die jeweiligen Anbieter oder Betreibenden der Seiten verantwortlich. Internet: www.narr.de eMail: info@narr.de CPI books GmbH, Leck ISSN 0175-3169 ISBN 978-3-381-11221-0 (Print) ISBN 978-3-381-11222-7 (ePDF) ISBN 978-3-381-11223-4 (ePub) Umschlagabbildung: https: / / www.istockphoto.com, Stock-ID: 1070015334, Marco_Piunti Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http: / / dnb.dnb.de abrufbar. www.fsc.org MIX Papier aus verantwortungsvollen Quellen FSC ® C083411 ® <?page no="5"?> 11 33 1 35 1.1 36 1.2 50 2 61 2.1 65 2.2 77 3 85 3.1 88 3.2 92 97 1 99 1.1 104 1.2 118 1.3 130 1.4 143 2 153 2.1 157 2.2 169 2.3 179 2.4 194 3 205 3.1 211 Contents Introduction: Serialising Dystopia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dystopia, Complex TV, and Metamodernism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Technology and the Dystopian Imagination . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tracing the Human-Technology Entanglement . . . . . . Digital Culture, the Good Life, and Resilience . . . . . . . . Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Challenging Escapism through Complexity . . . . . . . . . Worldbuilding and Modes of Complexities . . . . . . . . . . Dystopia and Complex TV: A Metamodern Quest . . . . . . . . . . Oscillation, ‘Depthiness’, and Other Metamodern Sensibilities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The End is (not) Nigh: Seriality and Utopia as Process Complex Serial Dystopias and the Human-Technology Entanglement . . . . . . . . . Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) . . . . . . . Navigating Screen Culture: The Black Mirror Universe Invasive Technologies: Implants, Algorithms, and Robot Dogs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dystopian Heroes and the Vortex of Hyperobjects . . . . “Heaven is a Place on Earth”: The Anthology’s Metamodern Impulse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) . . . . . . . . . . . . Decoding the Dystopian Realism of Mr. Robot . . . . . . . . Merging Hyperobjects: Visions of Technology & Capitalism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “Are you a 1 or a 0? ”: Elliot’s Entrapment . . . . . . . . . . . Failed Revolutions: Hacking the Way to Utopia . . . . . . The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Westworld: A Carefully Designed Microcosm for Visitors ‒ and Viewers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . <?page no="6"?> 3.2 221 3.3 234 3.4 244 4 255 4.1 259 4.2 270 4.3 282 4.4 289 305 319 319 326 “Going off script”: Hedonism, the Good Life, and Malfunctioning Machines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “If you can’t tell, does it matter? ”: Narratives and Unresolved Binaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . An Android’s Utopia: Romanticising the Robot . . . . . . VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) . . . . CGI meets Reality: VR Gaming and Dystopian Realism “What you’re hiding… it’ll come out”: Red Pill and the Unconscious . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Coming of Age in Digital Culture: Leila’s Solitary Quest From Utopia to Eutopia: False Promises and the Infinite Deferral of Utopia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Primary Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Secondary Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Contents <?page no="7"?> Acknowledgements I want to express my profound gratitude to all those who have played a key role in making my PhD experience an unforgettable and transformative one. First and foremost, I am immensely grateful to my supervisor Prof. Dr. Caroline Lusin, whose expertise, guidance, and support have been instrumental in shaping my research. I am also indebted to the entire team of the Department of English Literature and Culture at the University of Mannheim for their critical input and constructive feedback. Your collective expertise has significantly enriched the quality of this work. I would like to thank my family and friends for their patience, understanding, and encouragement throughout this demanding journey. My heartfelt thanks go to … Stanley Reams, whose presence has been my anchor in the ups and downs of this research journey and whose countless encouragements to ‘accomplish greatness’ have enriched my growth as a scholar and individual. … my father Johannes and my mother Andrea, Christl, Marcus, and my sisters Elena and Sofia, whose belief in me kept me going, even in the most challenging moments. … Dr. Annika Gonnermann, whose camaraderie, shared experiences in nu‐ merous projects and conferences, and constructive feedback on hundreds of proof‐ read pages have made this challenging path much more rewarding. … countless others who have made a significant impact on the success of this journey through their support and insights, including Sina Schuhmaier, Lisa Schwander, Birke Gerold, Julia König, my colleagues from the M ² OLIE Research Campus, the acadeMIA group, Dr. Susanna Layh, and the Utopian Studies Society. I extend my gratitude to the Landesgraduiertenförderung by the Ministry of Science, Research and the Arts Baden-Württemberg for the research scholarship, the Geschwister Boehringer Ingelheim Stiftung für Geisteswis‐ senschaften for the financial support in publishing this work, and the Narr Francke Attempto team for the support during the publication process. <?page no="9"?> “The bug forces the software to adapt, evolve into something new because of it. Work around it or work through it. No matter what, it changes. It becomes something new. The next version. The inevitable upgrade.” - Elliot Alderson, Mr. Robot, S1/ E3 0: 33 “Metamodernism moves for the sake of moving, attempts in spite of its inevitable failure; it seeks forever for a truth that it never expects to find.” - Timotheus Vermeulen and Robin van den Akker, “Notes on Metamodernism” <?page no="11"?> 1 The mock advertising was created by students of an advertising agency and was not affiliated with the series’ producers or the streaming provider Netflix. Nevertheless, the ad went viral on Twitter with ironic comments, such as “Black Mirror really outdid themselves this time. Having us EXPERIENCE season 6 instead of watching it on Netflix? Remarkable really” (@ThatgyalKrys, Twitter, 1 June 2020). 2 The Facebook group ‘Boring Dystopia’ is a paramount example of this prevailing mood in Western neoliberal societies, linking dystopia with a sense of resignation. The group was initiated by cultural theorist and neoliberal critic Mark Fisher as a “consciousness-raising exercise, encouraging people to perceive the actual state of Britain rather than the PR state” (Kiberd). Today, members are still sharing images and memes expressing a silently shared (and, due to the abundance of examples, almost ‘boring’) pessimism towards the present and future, such as “pictures of an England rarely seen in the meticulously filtered world of social media: mundane, unlovely images of broken machinery and canned Christmas dinners, tattered shop signs and CCTV cameras watching over decaying streets” (ibid.). The group raises awareness of the various forms of alienation in late capitalism but does little to silence the notion of dystopia as a signifier of our times. Introduction: Serialising Dystopia “Black Mirror - 6 th season. Live Now, everywhere.” This was the headline of a mock-style advertising poster displayed at a bus stop in Madrid during the first months of the COVID-19 pandemic. 1 The poster, designed like a literal mirror, suggested to pedestrians that they were living in a world that might as well be an episode of the renowned dystopian TV series, which is particularly adept at channelling contemporary cultural anxieties. Unsurprisingly, the poster resonated widely with fans of the series. They posted selfies of their reflection on social media, perhaps in an attempt to find common ground with other viewers based on a shared sentiment of resignation. 2 Dystopias are in vogue now more than ever, as evidenced by news headlines, literature, audio-visual culture, and the growing scholarly interest in exploring the contours of what constitutes a ‘bad place’ in the third decade of the 21 st century. The poster and the kind of reactions it provoked illustrate both the social fascination with dystopia and the cultural power that TV series have assumed when it comes to offering a situated commentary on the challenging times the world is currently facing. The unprecedented times of COVID-19 have catapulted dystopia - defined in the broadest sense of the word as “an imagined place or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad, typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one” (OED, “Dystopia”) - back to the centre of cultural discussions. With government-imposed lockdowns, curfews, social distancing, and the de‐ <?page no="12"?> 3 For a comprehensive exploration of utopias and dystopias in audio-visual culture and filmic adaptation of literary works, see Blaim and Gruszewska-Blaim’s Imperfect Worlds and Dystopian Narratives in Contemporary Cinema (2011) and Mediated Utopias: From Literature to Cinema (2015); see also Klonowska et al.’s (Im)perfection Subverted, Reloaded and Networked: Utopian Discourse across Media (2015), which discusses how “the 20 th century brings a radical change to literature’s monopoly on the artistic representations of utopia and a gradual move towards other media” (“Reconfigurations” 10). 4 The rapid growth of streaming services has become “a real threat to the cinema” (Lalliard) in less than a decade. The already declining numbers of cinemagoers dropped further during the pandemic with stay-at-home orders that intensified competition for viewership not between cinemas and streaming services but among streaming providers, such as Netflix, Amazon Prime Video, and Disney+. pendence on data-harvesting technologies for communication, reality seemed to be catching up with fictional imaginations. Admittedly, considering that in May 2020, Singapore authorities were testing the deployment of patrolling ‘robodogs’ called SPOT, programmed to remind joggers and cyclists via loudspeaker to keep social distance in local parks (Su), it comes as no surprise that fans of Black Mirror (2011-) immediately thought of the episode “Metalhead” (S4/ E5), in which eerily similar canine robots relentlessly chase the protagonist across a post-apocalyptic landscape. Rather than offering an escape into other worlds, dystopian imaginations have always extrapolated emerging trends of their time and put them through their paces. The robodog example shows that the trust in technological solutions to human problems is often accompanied by fears of misuse, surveillance, and loss of control (cf. Khasawneh). Dystopias play a role in these cultural fears as they critically process the zeitgeist (cf. Kitzinger), encapsulating the advancing technological progress, the looming ecological crisis, the damaging imbalances of global capitalism, the challenges posed by ‘post-truth’ politics, ‘alternative facts,’ and the nostalgic utopias of right-wing politics. The perpetual crises of the 21 st century provide more than enough reasons to investigate the notion of ‘serial dystopias,’ both in extratextual reality and in artistic forms of expression. The audio-visual space lends itself to exploring vivid imaginations of dysto‐ pian futures. In addition to dystopia’s firm roots in the literary paradigm, the genre is well-established in the medium of film (albeit often in the form of literary adaptations, such as Children of Men (2006) or Cloud Atlas (2012)). 3 However, “[s]ince the turn of the 21 st century,” as Caroline Lusin and Ralf Haekel point out in Community, Seriality, and the State of the Nation: British and Irish Television Series in the 21 st Century (2019), “the television series has replaced cinema as the paradigmatic filmic medium by developing a new and different form of narrative” (14). 4 It is surprising, therefore, that few have explored the 12 Introduction: Serialising Dystopia <?page no="13"?> 5 See, for example, Altered Carbon (2018-2020), which explores a transhumanist perspective on how bioengineering enables the immortality of consciousness in a 24 th -century future in which murder is considered ‘property damage’ and the wealthy transfer their minds to different bodies (‘sleeves’); Snowpiercer (2020-) depicts a two-class society made up of the last human remnants living on a moving train as the Earth has become uninhabitable after a climate engineering attempt has failed; Electric Dreams (2017-2018) and Soulmates (2020) offer more grounded perspectives, negotiating human agency against technological omnipresence. See Landau for a discussion of dystopian series (e.g., The Leftovers (2014- 2017), The Handmaid’s Tale (2017-), Humans (2015-2018)) that take an “ordinary setting and push[] it to the realm of the extraordinary” (77). dynamics of serial narration, such as the advantage of “exploring society in its different layers” (ibid. 14), in the context of the utopian/ dystopian paradigm. Barbara Klonowska and colleagues argue that “the shift from literature to audio-visual forms can be interpreted as an exploration of new possibilities in the artistic rendering of utopian and dystopian projects, and thus not merely a challenge but also a potential opening up of new artistic horizons” (“Reconfigurations” 10). The fact that many scholars remain interested in the literary dystopia (and classical dystopian fiction) speaks for the persistence of the genre throughout centuries. Yet, the growing presence of dystopias on the small screen and hence these “new artistic horizons” of the serial art form should not be overlooked. In 2018, Evan Kindley considered dystopian TV series a relatively new phenomenon: It’s taken a surprisingly long time for dystopia to become a viable TV genre. Science-fiction stories, of course, have long been a staple of the medium, though the preferred genre has been the space opera, an essentially hopeful series of adventures […]. Meanwhile, dystopia has colonized virtually every other popular narrative medium, from feature films to young-adult novels. But rare, until recently, was the dystopian TV series. Much has changed since Kindley wrote these lines. With the widespread popularity of films and TV series, reflected in over 221 million paid Netflix subscriptions at the end of 2021 (Stoll), dystopia finds itself in an audio-visual space of unprecedented scale to alert viewers to socio-political and cultural developments. Gloomy visions of the future have been flooding the digital libraries of streaming services, articulating the hopes and fears surrounding the challenges of the 21 st century, such as unchecked technological progress, in‐ equality, polarisation, rampant consumerism, and global warming. 5 Extratextual reality offers a multitude of templates that fuel the rise of the dystopian TV genre - not least the ideology of then-US-president Donald Trump, who ironically considered each day in the office as “an episode in a television show in which Introduction: Serialising Dystopia 13 <?page no="14"?> 6 Cf. Voigts, who lists 21 st -century ills including “unchecked scientific dynamics in biotechnology, cloning and ‘reprogenetics’; nuclear proliferation; the rise of illiberalism; unchecked surveillance and Big Data; viral pandemics; human regression and transor posthuman displacement by computers, robots” (2). he vanquishes rivals” (Poniewozik). The impetus for narrating dystopia always originates from a sense of unease with the world; the genre’s extrapolations contain warnings that the nightmarish depictions could actually become a possible chapter of reality if certain trends continue unchecked. 6 Amidst the maze of dystopian worlds on screen, there is only a limited (yet growing) number of examples that seize the potential of the serial format and challenge the literary dystopias in their monopoly of issuing warnings. The most interesting examples for critical analysis all seem to employ a narrative complexity that supports the critical warning function of dystopia by drawing on a “set of textual attributes of high production values, serious themes, and connection to other more culturally legitimated, prestigious media such as literature and cinema” (Mittell 212). In his seminal work Complex TV: The Poetics of Contemporary Television Storytelling (2015), Jason Mittell coins the term ‘complex TV’ to refer to “a storytelling mode and set of associated production and reception practices that span a wide range of programs across an array of genres” (233). This mode of storytelling, which emerged in the late 1990s (ibid. 17), seems inherent to those TV series that engage viewers critically without sacrificing their entertainment value. The poetics of complex TV, therefore, lend themselves to exploring the modus operandi of serial dystopias on the small screen. In this book, self-reflexive serial narratives of the dystopian imagination that keep the critical spirit of the audience alive throughout an expanding audio-visual storyworld of the near future will be termed ‘complex serial dystopias.’ Through diligent worldbuilding, strong story arcs, and subtexts filled with details, complex serial dystopias offer virtual spaces that audiences can repeatedly enter and explore - spaces to engage with the dystopian premise from multiple angles. The advantage of seriality lies in exploring these worlds in depth by gradually mining what Timothy Morton refers to as ‘hyperobjects,’ that is, those human-induced phenomena that are massively distributed in time and space, entities that envelop us yet escape our grasp and that are, therefore, “necessarily uncanny” (55). Given that (emerging) technologies play a crucial role in the self-understanding and operating mechanisms of contemporary realities, this book will focus on complex serial dystopias that negotiate the 14 Introduction: Serialising Dystopia <?page no="15"?> 7 See Claeys, who highlights that “now, particularly where science and technology are central, [dystopian] projections have much to offer. The new, it warns us, is not always the better. ‘Progress’ is not automatic, and may be dangerous. What benefits the few may harm the many. Machines may devour us. So may corporations or revolutionaries” (Natural History 501). 8 A. Rubin elaborates on these complexities, arguing that society “resembles a hologram composed of a vast selection of small details, each bearing meaning only in relation to one another and to the whole.-[…] We are accustomed to call this holographic process reality. However, this reality is not the same as it used to be” (38-9). 9 Jonathan Nolan, showrunner of the Westworld series, argues that the popularity of dystopia generally feeds on “a shared human curiosity to imagine society under stress - while observing from a safe distance” (Itzkoff). The TV series discussed in this book challenge this observation from a ‘safe distance’ through their engaging complexity and mode of realism. omnipresence of technology and the good life in digital culture. 7 Thus, with regard to their themes and the positioning of their artistic expressions within the broader cultural logic, the underlying concerns of this book will be: how does serial narration influence the dystopian imagination of technology and digital culture? What kind of ‘structure of feeling’ do complex serial dystopias subscribe to? It is assumed that it is precisely a complex serial storytelling mode that allows dystopias to unravel the complexities and paradoxes of digital culture by reworking one-dimensional imaginations of technology and thus making a valuable contribution to cultural conversations about the future. 8 The British and American TV series covered in this book epitomise the cul‐ tural power that complex serial dystopias radiate by narrowing the “dystopian distance” (P. Murphy 25) between fictional world and possible world in ways that engage audiences and provoke contemplation. 9 Dystopian and utopian imaginations of technology reside at the heart of their narrative investigations: Black Mirror (2011-) deals with the collective discomfort that accompanies advancing digitalisation in Western capitalist society. As will be shown, the British anthology negotiates human agency versus technology as a treadmill for undesirable outcomes, skilfully placing viewers in the role of complicit spectators rather than passive bystanders. Like the other TV series in question, Black Mirror demonstrates, as Olivia Bina and colleagues argue, that fiction is crucial to ethical considerations “because it presents imaginary and plausible situations in which we can imagine ourselves facing dilemmas, options, having to envision possible solutions in adverse scenarios” (168-69). In contrast to the kaleidoscopic insights of Black Mirror, the American series Mr. Robot (2015-2019) revolves around a single protagonist and his struggle to come to terms with the mechanisms of late capitalist society. The series excels at constructing a relatable fictional world that convincingly traces the growing Introduction: Serialising Dystopia 15 <?page no="16"?> 10 Given the urgency of contemporary world affairs in addition to the already daunting challenges facing humanity on a grand scale, it seems tempting, almost justified, to detach dystopia from its roots as a literary genre. However, the term’s widespread use triggers a sense of doom-mongering towards the here and now and the future ahead. It also fosters a sense of passivity that plays into the hands of a late capitalist system that, broadly put, likens audiences to consumers who prefer to lean back and have the characters on the screen work out alternatives to the status quo for them (cf. Pfaller’s concept of ‘interpassivity’). Recent discussions among utopian scholars point to this alienation in society along with cultural anxieties about transparency, data leaks, and vulnerability. The American HBO series Westworld (2016-) addresses the opportunities and dangers of technologically advanced entertainment culture. The complex narrative promises fruitful ethical considerations of lifelike robots, anthropocentrism, and the idea of utopia as a posthuman space. The fourth object of analysis is the British series Kiss Me First (2018-), which has largely escaped scholarly attention but offers a critical commentary on the virtual sphere and its social function for young adults in digital culture. By conflating real-life sequences with computer-generated imagery, the complex serial dys‐ topia aesthetically processes the themes it portrays in a self-reflexive manner. Overall, this book is situated at the intersection of dystopia, TV, and digital culture, and thus interested in serial narratives that stand out from what Ed Cumming refers to as “colourful, people-pleasing TV.” Committed to both com‐ plex themes and complex modes of storytelling, these series serve as examples of complex serial dystopias that critically engage viewers without losing their entertainment value. The creative interplay of form and content shows an effect at the reception level, namely an active involvement of the audience and hence viewing experiences that evoke responsibility and response-ability rather than resigned pessimism and passivity. Before diving into the more detailed discussions about complex serial dystopias, the following pages will outline the key premises covered in this book in order to generate a better understanding of the nexus between dystopia, TV, and representations of digital culture. On Demand: Serialising Dystopia in the Age of Streaming Providers Because the sense of unease with the world is historically contingent, dystopia is often called “literature’s genre-of-the-moment” (Shiau), which, however, contains a frequently overlooked utopian core. As Joss Hands highlights, “the dystopian and the utopian are not opposites or equivalents; rather, the dystopian is a dialectical moment in utopian thought” (148). Despite the temptation to use dystopia as an ‘adjective’ to describe paralysing world affairs (Moylan, “Necessity” 175), dystopia is, first and foremost, a literary phenomenon that is situated within the tradition of utopianism. 10 In his seminal work “The Three 16 Introduction: Serialising Dystopia <?page no="17"?> widespread but ill-founded use of the adjective ‘dystopian’ (see Moylan, “Necessity” 175) and the commodification of dystopia through the commercialisation of hope (see Baccolini, “Appropriation”). 11 See Levitas for the variety of ways in which utopia has been defined. See also Claeys, Searching for Utopia: The History of an Idea (2011), and Czigányik, Utopian Horizons: Ideology, Politics, Literature (2017) on utopianism and its manifestations. 12 The ambivalent interpretation of utopia is also indebted to the phonetic similarity of the Greek prefixes ou=no and eu=good, both pronounced ‘u’, with -topos=place: outopos (‘no place’) and eutopos (‘good place’). The term dystopia (from Ancient Greek dys=bad, hard, abnormal) was long assumed to be coined by John Stuart Mill’s parliamentary speech in 1868. Recent research, however, has shown that dystopia was used to describe an ‘unhappy country’ as early as 1748 (see Budakov; Claeys, Natural History 273). Dystopia is generally regarded as the antonym of the utopia of the literary genre, but it also refers to the non-literary manifestations of utopia in the form of hope for change in society for the better. 13 Maloney claims that the more popular dystopian science fiction becomes, “the more it confronts a major existential dilemma: making people fear a dark future is no longer a useful tool in preventing it.” Alex Garland, writer and director of the film Ex Machina (2014), even wonders if “this storytelling had been futile” because “engaging with the dystopia” obviously did not “vaccinate us against them happening” (Itzkoff). Faces of Utopianism Revisited” (1994), Lyman Tower Sargent conceptualised the triad of utopianism: utopia as a literary genre, utopia as a practical form (as in intentional communities), and utopia as a social theory (including humanity’s aspiration to progress and perfection). 11 The term ‘utopia’ was first coined in Thomas More’s eponymous socio-political satire published in 1516 as a fictional travel report, conjuring up the ambivalence between utopia as a ‘good place’ and ‘no place.’ 12 Given its kinship with utopia, which harbours “the affirmation of a possibility and the negation of its fulfilment” (Vieira 6), the dystopian genre is ready-made to flourish in serial formats due to its versatility. However, serialising dystopia in today’s most popular medium is as much an opportunity as it is a challenge. The commercialisation of TV dystopias threatens to transform visions of the future into a ‘lean-back’ viewing experience (see Gerber; Andersen and Gray 511). Utopian scholars like Zsolt Czigányik express their concern about the ubiquity of dystopia, arguing that “[d]ystopian themes have become so popular that nowadays it is almost taken for granted that when a movie or a novel takes place in the future, its plot is defined by an undesirable social or political structure” (“Afterword” 245). Indeed, if the arbitrary connotation of dystopia with anything deemed ‘bad’ prevails (cf. Shames and Atchison), then the genre might be on the brink of becoming a purely ‘aesthetic category’ in audio-visual culture (Czigányik, “Utopia” 34). 13 Dystopian imaginations are crucial because they offer a vehicle to make sense of complexities, but the proliferation of Introduction: Serialising Dystopia 17 <?page no="18"?> 14 The core interest of dystopian studies is often theme-based, examining the critical commentaries on empirical reality’s social and political tendencies. The medium and format in which these warning are articulated, however, should not be dismissed when exploring dystopias on the small screen. See Ryan and Thon, who point out that “[t]he explosion of new types of media in the twentieth century and their ever-increasing role in our daily life have led to a strong sense that ‘understanding media’ (McLuhan) is key to understanding the dynamics of culture and society” (2). 15 For dystopia in video games, see, e.g., Farca; Markocki; Maziarczyk; Navarrete-Cardero and Vargas-Iglesias; Schulzke. undesirable future scenarios on screen could jeopardise the warning function of the genre. Dystopias face particular challenges when transitioning to a serial format - provided viewers are to be jolted awake from their slumber in front of the screens. One could argue that the serial TV format offers the opportunity to disentangle complexities that plainly require more screen time than a regular 90-minute film and to provoke transformative action by involving audiences in ever-expanding dystopian storyworlds. However, as Kindley argues, dystopias tend to be “rarely character-oriented and don’t lend themselves to the kind of lively ensemble casts that TV shows usually feature” - and “[t]rickiest of all is finding a way to tell an ongoing serialized story set in a dystopian world that’s not unremittingly depressing or, worse, didactic.” While Kindley correctly points to dystopia’s challenges in the serial format, such as working out the depth of characters, he also seems to suggest that dystopia’s inherently ‘depressing’ and ‘didactic’ qualities are incompatible with a medium that is traditionally associated with ‘light entertainment.’ Although the ‘golden age of TV’ has thoroughly challenged television’s association with a ‘lean-back’ mass medium and creative expressions in this arena are flourishing, the serial format - particularly for the dystopian genre - merely provides a framework to be filled with careful consideration. When it comes to creating dystopian worlds that are more than just bleak and moralising, and, above all, storyworlds that are thought-provoking rather than merely entertaining, then this balancing act points to fundamental tensions of dystopia on TV that boil down to the important enquiry of how the dystopian genre can maintain its cautionary function in an arena that typically offers immersive rather than critical viewing experiences. Exploring the dynamics of the serial dystopia in the TV and streaming landscape shall thus be the overarching focus of this book. As the dystopia breaks out of ‘closed’ narrative forms such as novels and films, the TV medium needs to be closely examined. 14 While dystopias in audio-visual and interactive formats like video games are receiving increasing scholarly attention, 15 the form and function of serial dystopias on TV lack terminological 18 Introduction: Serialising Dystopia <?page no="19"?> 16 Series are characterised by ‘open,’ ongoing narratives that spin out over several seasons (cf. Mittell 18). The Walking Dead (2010-) or Game of Thrones (2011-2019) are examples of highly serialised narratives that take characters, and by extension also the viewer, on journeys through fictional landscapes over decades. Serials comprise long story arcs that unfold as the series progress. In a narrow sense, they differ from episodic storytelling, which is characterised by closed, self-contained narratives within one episode, where viewers need “little cumulative knowledge, as actions and events rarely matter across episodes” (ibid. 20). But there is also an increasing convergence between serial and episodic forms, leading to hybrids like ‘anthological serials’ that encompass both closed plots and running plots within one season (e.g., Atlanta (2016-)), or ‘seasonal anthologies’ that commit to one theme per season but offer different scenarios and analytical clarity. Against the backdrop of a mass medium for entertainment that is breaking with old conventions and successfully challenging other art forms through ‘high-end’ productions, Miłosz Wojtyna is one of the few scholars to explicitly emphasise that “we need to learn to watch the TV series as attentively as we read literary dystopias” (179). Viewing ‘attentively’ here means not only to engage hermeneutically with the themes presented but also to look more closely at the ways in which the peculiarities of serial storytelling influence the operating mechanisms of the dystopian form. Wojtyna highlights that the popularity of dystopia coincides with the maturing of television itself: The radical increase of ambitions of the TV series form is reflected in a ‘dystopian turn’ that could be observed in the most significant series of the last five years. Such a turn is a logical part of the developments of the form; with more and more ambitious artistic, narrative, visual and thematic preoccupations of the TV series, it seems only natural that one of the most structurally complex and prominent cultural paradigms - the utopian/ dystopian model - has become an important ambition for creators of the form.-(171) Wojtyna correctly observes that the dystopian genre resonates particularly well with series creators interested in testing the limits of conventional TV storytelling. Simply put, through dystopia, “the TV form has found its own way of addressing an ambitious critical agenda without forsaking its entertainment value” (ibid. 179). The evolution of the TV format, then, does not just happen to coincide with the popularity of dystopia, but it also sheds light on the versatility of the genre due to its inherent complexity, culminating in a symbiotic relationship in which both thematic and formal complexity can produce a novel canvas for expressing hopes and fears about the future. The proliferation of dystopias on streaming platforms like Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime Video indicates that the genre is keeping up with changing preferences for serial formats. 16 While dystopian themes are usually quick to Introduction: Serialising Dystopia 19 <?page no="20"?> and closed plots (e.g., American Horror Story (2011-)) (cf. Innocenti and Pescatore 9). Dystopias are found in serial, episodic, and hybrid formats. 17 See Innocenti and Pescatore, who point out that “[t]he traditional contours of the television medium, and above all its means of consumption, are changing. What was once a medium-based relationship is shifting to a serial one: once upon a time we watched television at home in the living room according to times defined by the palimpsest; now we follow specific series and we do so when we want, where we want, and with the apparatus that we want, irrespective of the medium and institutional modes of consumption” (9). capture the audience’s attention due to their haunting commentary on the zeitgeist, it is also the medium that accommodates changing viewing behaviours in digital culture. 17 While TV programmes (the name speaks for itself) used to be highly regulated in terms of variety and accessibility, today, any story is constantly available and easily accessible through various devices, including tablets and smartphones. In light of TV’s problematic ontology in the age of streaming providers, some critics herald the end of traditional TV. However, M. King Adkins maintains that TV is not defined “by its container, the means through which it is conveyed, or the device on which it appears” (139). In this line of thought, streaming platforms are merely another “technology for telling stories” (ibid. 137). The technological interface of this medium offers a highly individualised digital library that invites viewers to choose from a plethora of entertainment options. Interestingly, streaming providers use recommendation algorithms that con‐ tinuously monitor viewing behaviours and update preferences on the dashboard based on previous choices. This algorithmic customisation can be dangerous, as Kyle Chayka points out, because it is easy to “stay ensconced in our soothing aesthetic bubbles.” Netflix, for example, even applies algorithms to personalise the artwork of cover pictures of films and series to appeal to viewers’ preferences, increasing the likelihood that viewers will click on the suggested content (Chandrashekar et al.). Selling the illusion of choice, these elaborate marketing strategies not only increasingly call into question the idea of ‘freely’ choosing content but also, by metaphorical extension, conjure up questions with regard to the overall autonomy and control of individuals in consumer societies. It is within this arena of customised digital media that dystopian fiction currently thrives. Serial dystopias that explore themes of digital technology and entertainment point to themselves as consumer products and are therefore particularly well suited for conducting meta-analyses of digital culture. The fact that dystopia is migrating to a technological medium of storytelling is not new, given the popularity of the genre in cinema, but the way the serial form shapes the dystopian expression makes TV series worth a closer 20 Introduction: Serialising Dystopia <?page no="21"?> 18 The generic paradigm shift from classical dystopias to critical dystopias has been intensively discussed by Baccolini and Moylan, who use the term of the latter to refer to dystopian fiction that critically engages with the contemporary moment under the influence of capitalism and consumerism (“Introduction” 7; “Conclusion” 233-49; see also Moylan, Scraps 189). look. At first glance, the task at hand seems simple: to reach contemporary audiences, dystopia should be able to easily ‘translate’ its settings, motifs, and plot devices and extend them to the space and time offered by seriality. However, a simple copy/ paste of the generic hallmarks to the serial form may not be enough to ensure that its cautionary tales find resonance. In other words, simply putting dystopia into a popular format might attract contemporary audiences but does not automatically preserve dystopia’s critical impulse. At worst, the serial form may inadvertently even undermine the cautionary function of the genre. “The fact that television has discovered this unique ability to offer ever-expanding landscapes,” as Adkins argues, “doesn’t necessarily mean it always uses this ability effectively” (95). Similarly, although dystopian worlds seem ideal for storytelling in expanding narratives, not all serial dystopias use the serial potential to process the complexities of digital culture in a way that leaves a lasting impression on the viewers beyond screen time. When TV series use dystopia as a portal of entry to conventional drama that essentially would not need a dystopian context, they catapult the genre into the arena of ‘lean-back’ viewing experiences (see Andersen and Gray 511; Chan-Olmsted et al. 165). Serial dystopias run the risk of reproducing what they seek to criticise, namely the surrender of viewers to ambient technology through familiar, easily digestible stories. Considering the abundance of dystopian TV series in audio-visual culture, it might be useful to refine the umbrella term of serial dystopias further and roughly distinguish between ‘complex serial dystopias’ (generically as the televisual pendant to the ‘critical dystopia’ in literature and formally linked to Mittell’s ‘complex TV’) and ‘simple serial dystopias,’ which are more in line with what utopian scholars have recently described as ‘commercial dystopias’ - “mainstream dystopias with a tendency to close the stories with ‘happy’ endings, where hope is not maintained ambiguously but is substituted by a conformist happiness” (Baccolini, “Appropriation” 44; see also Gerber). 18 Simple serial dystopias do little to engage viewers critically, thereby continuing a cannibalising trend within the genre that started with its popularity in the 2000s, a phase when the commodification of dystopia gained momentum. Most often found in young-adult (YA) fiction, these dystopias usually comfort audiences with a sense of closure and the reconciliation of the story’s conflict for the sake Introduction: Serialising Dystopia 21 <?page no="22"?> 19 Film adaptations such as The Hunger Games trilogy (2012-2015), the Maze Runner trilogy (2014-2018), the Divergent series (2014-2016), The Giver (2014), and Ready Player One (2018) are successful examples that follow similar plot principles. Similarly, many YA series focus on archetypical heroes, distant futures, and interpersonal dramas (e.g., The 100 (2014-2020) or 3% (2016-2020)). Since dystopias are more appealing to young audiences than ‘blue skies’ TV (Anthony Smith 447), that is, idealised storyworlds with unrealistic happy-go-lucky characters, it comes as no surprise that the media industry capitalises on this demand and hopes for continued commercial success by repeatedly applying similar formulas to setting, plot, and character depictions. 20 See Maloney, who claims that recent dystopian fiction “gained steam because it was good entertainment, an escapist adventure into the frightening hypothetical consequences of human frailty.” The commercial exploitation of dystopia also finds expression in other domains of entertainment. The Motiongate theme park in Dubai, e.g., now features the section of ‘The World of The Hunger Games’ - an amusement park designed to pay homage to the novel and film franchise (MacDonald). The ‘Panem Aerial Tour’ takes visitors through the twelve districts in a hovercraft 3D simulation (ibid.). The very idea of this theme park weakens the trilogy’s warning against capitalist societies willing to accept exploitation and oppression of the disadvantaged for good entertainment. Locating dystopia in the arena of ‘fun’ can have damaging effects on the genre’s function. of harmony. 19 In so doing, these ‘feel-good’ dystopias are at risk of reproducing static values and belief systems and usually encapsulate little progressive spirit to the dystopian expression (cf. Morrison). Damien Walter, for example, already denounces dystopia as “just another category of light entertainment, a marketing niche for ebooks which even has its own channel on Netflix.” This ‘t-shirt-making ability’ of the genre implies that dystopia’s cautionary function is at stake when it joins the ranks of escapist entertainment. 20 Overall, more screen time for dystopia is not necessarily a blessing. Kindley, for example, argues that “[t]he idea of spending weeks or years exploring a dystopian world is unappealing on its face, not only because these worlds are bleak but because, after a while, you get the point already.” At the risk of indulging in some sort of “dystopia-porn, the easy techno-fix, or the escape-to-another-planet” (Singh), serial dystopias that replicate the same premises in different constellations merely use the genre’s hallmarks to unravel conventional dramas that aim to please viewers rather than pay homage to the intrinsic complexity and didactic function of the genre. In order to do justice to their core function as vessels of critique, serial dystopias seem intrinsically dependent on a complex approach to serial storytelling. Precisely because dysto‐ pias are mushrooming across the TV and streaming landscape, it is important to examine those examples in which serial narration is effectively used to negotiate the complexities and paradoxical developments of contemporary society. 22 Introduction: Serialising Dystopia <?page no="23"?> 21 See also Shaw, who describes “the study of technoculture as an enquiry into the relationship between technology and culture and the expression of that relationship in patterns of social life, economic structures, politics, art, literature and popular culture” (4). Henceforth, the terms ‘digital culture’ and ‘technoculture’ are used interchangeably since both stress that “technology is always already cultural and culture is always already technological” (Roderick 1). See also Slack and Wise (4-5). 22 The speculative settings echo what Varsam refers to as ‘concrete dystopias’ - dystopias with an “emphasis on the real, material conditions of society that manifest themselves as a result of humanity’s desire for a better world” (208). Cf. Bloch’s ‘concrete utopia’ as an Complex Serial Dystopias and Critical Representations of Digital Culture The TV series discussed in this book each exhibit their own approaches to narrative complexity, but they share features that allow us to situate them in the ‘fuzzy set’ (cf. Attebery 12-3) of complex serial dystopias. Thematically, they all discursively revolve around the potentials and dangers of emerging technologies, thus explicitly reflecting and commenting on the manifestations of a digital culture which Vincent Miller describes as everyday life shaped by the continuous emergence and use of digital technologies “including mobile communication technologies, surveillance, algorithms, ambient intelligence, gaming, big data and technological bodies […] within and beyond the internet” (1-2). 21 These dystopias abandon classical science-fiction imaginations of distant futures and instead deliberately speculate about the near future. Fictional worlds steered by algorithms or robotic assistance are settings not too far removed from an empirical reality that celebrates the continued progress of artificial in‐ telligence (AI). While Westworld, for example, investigates the human-machine interaction in live-action entertainment, Black Mirror explores what happens when we relinquish control of problem-solving to AI. In their depiction of rather familiar settings, the TV series in question lean toward what Margaret Atwood coined as ‘speculative fiction’: a strand of science fiction in which the discrepancy between fiction and reality shrinks. Such fiction, in Atwood’s words, addresses “things that really could happen but just hadn’t completely happened when the authors wrote the books” (“Ustopia”). Speculative dystopian scenarios not only magnify the potential and threats of these technological innovations in the near future but also draw attention to possible implications for the social mechanisms of digital culture - when analogue values are subjected to binary systems of digital ones and zeros. By reinforcing the “mimetic function of the narrative” (Wojtyna 179) and resembling a world of our own - only slightly advanced in technology - the symbolic environment of complex serial dystopias speaks to us in an intrusive way. 22 We are invited to “judge the storyworld, its characters, and their actions on a metric of plausibility, with success measured by how much the fiction Introduction: Serialising Dystopia 23 <?page no="24"?> actual utopia that “signifies that utopian possibilities are established in the concreteness and openness of the material of history” (On Karl Marx 172). 23 The idea of ‘little brothers’ finds expression in the aesthetics of CCTV cameras, the vast majority of which are run by private companies, making “one camera for every 32 UK citizens” (Lewis). See also Gonnermann, who explores Grewal’s concept of ‘network power’ in neoliberal dystopias. represents society as we know it” (Mittell 221). The complex serial dystopias discussed in this book harbour a high degree of realism, following consistently the internal logic of an alternate reality. However, as Mittell points out, this kind of television realism “is not a marker of accurate representation of the real world but rather is an attempt to render a fictional world that creates the representational illusion of accuracy - a program is seen as realist when it feels authentic, even though no media text comes close to a truly accurate representation of the complex world” (221). The result is that it is much easier to talk about ‘living in a Black Mirror episode’ than, for example, in the world of the iconic film Blade Runner (1982). Complex serial dystopias are not dependent on elaborate designs of distant futures to capture the audience’s interest and provoke discussions. On the contrary, perhaps it is precisely a near, plausible, and comprehensible future that resonates with viewers because they can relate to the problems and dilemmas first-hand. For example, the TV series discussed in this book render ‘Big Brother’ an increasingly outdated metaphor to describe the fears associated with the mechanisms of a digital culture that is shaped by decentralised databases and powerful algorithms. Technological advances have contributed to the weakening of state structures-- the rise of the internet, for instance, has enabled the emergence of an “ungoverned space” (Hewitt-Page), while Google and Facebook have taken over “functions previously associated with the state” (Dasgupta). Today, the dystopian citizen no longer struggles with coercive state power but with “powerlessness and vulnerability” (Solove 47), especially when it comes to personal data (see Zuboff, ‘surveillance capitalism’). Given the power of Big Data corporations to control and influence consumer behaviours and desires, the idea of ‘many little brothers’ monitoring us “as inconspicuously as possible” (Solove 7) actually seems more accurate. 23 Mr. Robot explores these interstices of a society in which data is labelled “the oil of the 21st century” - at least for those “who can most effectively extract and refine it” (Dance; see also Striphas 396). The series’ negotiation of ‘tech giants’ abusing their power as “the primary gatekeepers of social reality” (Dasgupta) plays out in an alternate 24 Introduction: Serialising Dystopia <?page no="25"?> 24 Garland admits that extrapolating the effects of “massive tech companies with unregu‐ lated authority” did not require a particularly vivid imagination when writing his miniseries Devs-(2020) (Itzkoff). 25 See Wortham, who notes how “remarkably adept” Mr. Robot is “at channeling the dystopian present […].” Actual events, in turn, influence the production schedule of TV series as well. The COVID-19 pandemic halted the production of The Handmaid’s Tale, Westworld, and The Walking Dead (Itzkoff). reality that offers timely investigations into the fears and hopes of our own digital culture. 24 With their interest in what Raymond Williams calls ‘the technological trans‐ formation’ of society (“Utopia” 203), the TV series in question are still situated closely at the border of science fiction. Yet, while the ‘mother-genre’ cognitively estranges audiences by prompting a ‘sense of wonder’ about the imaginations of the ‘impossible’ (Suvin, Metamorphoses 15), these grounded narratives evoke more of what Regina Schober calls a “‘strange recognition’ in view of the relevance and accuracy of the storyworlds depicted” (362). These dystopias address the ‘possible,’ reflecting and magnifying tendencies of current affairs that may not yet be distinct enough to be seriously considered in extratextual reality. They draw on, as Peter Fitting puts it, “[s]cience fiction’s specific ability […] to show our own present through a particularly effective distorting lens” (“Utopia” 144) - but only to an extent. Complex serial dystopias are aware that alternate realities provoke and require a different kind of response and engagement than worlds of distant futures. The patrolling robodogs in Singapore (cf. Black Mirror’s “Metalhead” (S4/ E5)), the social-credit system in China (cf. Black Mirror’s “Nosedive” (S3/ E1)), or the fact that the Mr. Robot finale had to be postponed in consideration of the victims of an actual event are examples that demonstrate an undeniable immediacy between reality and fiction. 25 With complex serial dystopias’ tendency to portray alternative versions of contemporary reality, they also seem to move away from the basic description of classical dystopias. Most scholars refer to Lyman Tower Sargent’s definition of dystopia as “a non-existent society described in considerable detail and normally located in time and space that the author intended a contemporaneous reader to view as considerably worse than the society in which that reader lived” (“Three Faces” 9). Considering that reality and fiction increasingly seem to overlap, one might conclude that recent audio-visual renderings challenge the description of dystopia as “a non-existent society” (ibid., emphasis added). Especially the speculative settings no longer seem “considerably worse” (ibid., emphasis added) than contemporary reality. The reduced “dystopian distance” (P. Murphy 25) Introduction: Serialising Dystopia 25 <?page no="26"?> 26 In the case of serial dystopias, it can be useful, following Varsam’s suggestion, to evaluate the fictional place not from an implied author’s intention (also because series today are usually created collectively in ‘writer rooms’) but from the protagonist’s point of view, which the viewer is asked to “accept as a valid representation of the dystopian experience” (205; cf. also Moylan, Scraps 73). 27 The paradigm shift from classical to critical dystopias in the literary paradigm under‐ scores how themes, narrative techniques, and the locus of hope change alongside the development of human history. The narrative structure of the critical dystopia “reject[s] the conservative dystopian tendency to settle for the anti-utopian closure” (Moylan, Scraps 189). According to Sargent, who originally coined the term in the 1980s, the critical dystopia “normally includes at least one eutopian enclave or holds out hope that the dystopia can be overcome and replaced with a eutopia” (“US Eutopias” 222, qtd. in Baccolini and Moylan, “Introduction” 7). These narratives usually harbour a contested space, which “allow both readers and protagonists to hope by resisting closure: the ambiguous, open endings of these novels maintain the utopian impulse within the work” (Baccolini and Moylan, “Introduction” 7). See also Layh on the transformations of literary utopias and dystopias (153). between text and fictional world allows dystopia to encroach on the mundane, making it easy to forget that it always refers to a fictional imagination of an undesirable status quo and not a description of extratextual reality. 26 In Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination (2003), Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan contextualised the literary paradigm shift from the classical dystopia to the critical dystopia against the backdrop of rising global capitalism (see also Moylan, Scraps 318). With regard to the role of technology, critical dystopias flesh out the conjunction of technology and capitalism rather than technology as a tool of a totalitarian government and its unchecked influence on the individual’s freedom. The monolithic state apparatus yields to the “more pervasive tyranny of the corporation” (Moylan, “Moment” 135), which bears opaque systemic pressures on the individual and society: “the corporation rules, and does so more effectively than any state, as its exploitive tentacles reach into the cultures and bodies of the people who serve it and who are cast aside by it” (ibid. 136). Unlike classical dystopias, critical dystopias tend to “deliver a causal rather than symptomatic analysis” (Moylan, Scraps 193) of the dystopian status quo. 27 Complex serial dystopias follow suit, exploring the background mechanisms of the undesirable fictional society rather than dwelling on the spectacle in the heat of the dystopian moment. As Moylan puts it, “[e]veryday life in the new dystopias is still observed, ruled, and controlled; but now it is also reified, exploited, and commodified” (“Moment” 135-36). The worlds imagined by the TV series in question echo the critical dystopia’s self-reflexive stance on consumerist digital cultures. 26 Introduction: Serialising Dystopia <?page no="27"?> 28 Müller correctly points out that “[m]onolithic discussions of ‘technology’ in singular […] must be abandoned as we face the plurality of technologies” (880; see also Voinea 70). Nevertheless, the contextualisation of technology as a hyperobject is useful because it draws attention to the sum of technologies as an unfathomable entity that shows immediate effects on social and individual scales in digital culture (see Chapter 2 “Se‐ rialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture”). It is in the dynamic oscillation between the totalising perspective and the realigned concreteness that the most thought-provoking comments can be found in complex serial dystopias (cf. Moylan, Scraps 63). 29 Retaining utopia, as the critical dystopia does (if only as an impulse), is a central task against the backdrop of an all-encompassing economic system that leaves little room for alternatives. Remaining critical and ‘stubbornly utopian’ (Moylan, Becoming 38) is also an essential task of dystopias on TV. An important aspect of the complex serial dystopias discussed in this book is worldbuilding. The TV series are devoted to tackling abstract complexities of socio-cultural reality with the help of “comprehensively organized fictional worlds” (Wojtyna 168). In disentangling abstract concepts, they borrow from the advantages associated with science fiction. As Steven Shaviro points out, “[b]oth in its large-scale world-building and in its small-scale attention to the particular ways in which social and technical innovations affect our lives, science fiction comes to grips with abstractions like economies, social formations, technolog‐ ical infrastructures, and climate perturbations” (4). Complex serial dystopias demonstrate that worldbuilding is possible and effective in an alternate reality framework. They leverage serial storytelling to render socio-cultural problems and character psychologies in a sufficiently complex way, skilfully switching between macroand micro-perspectives. Worldbuilding, first and foremost, entails the idea of utilising the audio-visual space to create a coherent, detailed dystopian framework. In Television Story‐ worlds as Virtual Space (2018), M. King Adkins reads TV series in terms of spatiality - virtual spaces into which viewers dive in and out over a long period of time (2). In this virtual space, complex serial dystopias offer what Fredric Jameson calls ‘cognitive mapping’ of hyperobjects, such as technology and capitalism. 28 In so doing, they find a language to articulate the complexities of the viewers’ extratextual reality and even leave room for the emergence of utopian enclaves within the narrative, however trivial they may seem. 29 Whether they push their spatial boundaries centrifugally by expanding their social spaces or centripetally by focusing on the psychological depth of the protagonists, the TV series covered in this book are “raising a whole series of questions and from numerous perspectives” (Adkins 85). These rich worlds, often constructed as a ludic narrative form in that they produce meaning playfully (e.g., through enigmas), do not reduce complexities but embrace them Introduction: Serialising Dystopia 27 <?page no="28"?> 30 The interactive nature of complex TV, compared to conventional, one-dimensional programming, makes it almost akin to video games. Mittell argues that the pilots of complex TV resemble “the opening section of a videogame, which typically offers a tutorial for how to play the game and navigate the controls, as well as setting players’ expectations for what type of experience they will have” (57). 31 Simple serial dystopias tend to maintain one-dimensional views for the sake of entertainment, blaming either technology or the user of technology for the undesirable status quo. Instead of taking into account the opaque mechanisms of network power (see Gonnermann), they oversimplify the complexity of present-day affairs to make dystopia easily digestible. 32 The term ‘human-technology entanglement’ will be used referring to Ihde’s reflections in Technology and the Lifeworld: From Garden to Earth (1990), in which he maps out four main manifestations of human-technology relations. Müller summarises them as “embodiment relations, we incorporate technologies and experience technologies through our bodies; hermeneutic relations, technologies shape our interpretation of the world and of ourselves in a very basic sense; alterity relations, we understand machines in a specific kind of ‘otherness’; and background relations, meaning that we usually live in a technological world and accept technical regimes without knowing or reflecting it” (881). See also Irwin, who points to the hyphen (rather than the forward-slash punctuation) in the “human-technology entanglement” with regard to the mediating position of digital media (24-5). 33 See Kanzler, who discusses the highly competitive landscape of ‘new television,’ which understands itself as a post-conventional medium that rejects the formulaic nature of ‘old’ television and thereby approaches the realm of more culturally established and respected art forms like the novel or the feature film (55-6). See also Shuster; Nesselhauf instead, inviting viewers to enter and explore these critical spaces repeatedly and thus encouraging them to formulate their own responses. 30 The characteristics of complex serial dystopias afford a much-needed nuanced negotiation of technology in digital culture. 31 The TV series acknowl‐ edge, as Dirk Postma puts it, that “[h]umans cannot disentangle themselves any more from various kinds of technological devices in order to gain a distant critical perspective” (2). Their ambition is to zero in on the way people communicate, entertain, and experience themselves, exploring the interstices between digital connectivity and analogue distance and the allure of the virtual sphere. Rather than demonising technology as an external force - as an impact (speaking of an ‘impact’ of technology, in fact, can be considered an outdated mode of critique, as technology does not impose itself on an ‘untouched culture’ (Roderick 1; Voinea 77)), complex serial dystopias focus on deciphering the human-technology entanglement and prompt topical questions about the good life in digital culture. 32 For these reasons, the TV series covered in this book are often labelled ‘orig‐ inal,’ ‘unconventional,’ or ‘unique,’ and thus exhibit characteristics generally associated with ‘quality TV.’ 33 Indeed, the notion of complexity evokes a sense 28 Introduction: Serialising Dystopia <?page no="29"?> and Schleich; Dellwing and Harbusch; Goddard and Hogg on the transformations of television. Despite the lack of analytic clarity on ‘quality TV,’ Mittell suggests that “there still seems to be a general consensus as to what programs are included and excluded among scholars who use the term, suggesting that it has some salience as a critical category”-(210). 34 The question of what comes after postmodernism, which has been the dominant cultural logic for decades, is discussed by scholars and critics from various disciplines. See, e.g., Kirby, Digimodernism: How New Technologies Dismantle the Postmodern and Reconfigure Our Culture (2009); Lipovetsky and Charles, Hypermodern Times (2005); Samuels, New Media, Cultural Studies, and Critical Theory After Postmodernism: Automodernity from Zizek to Laclau (2010). Cf. also Kersten and Wilbers. of sophistication in contrast to other entertainment options. However, instead of reading complexity as a criterion of value, Mittell stresses that complex TV is not synonymous with quality TV. The poetics of complex TV help to circumvent the “loaded and misleading category of quality television” (212), and this book follows this mode of thought, reading the complexity of serial dystopias as a marker that “helps shine light on how serial television can reach aesthetic achievements” (ibid. 216). The objects of analysis in this book negotiate serious, culturally relevant themes along with “cinematic style, and convention-breaking innovations that reflect well on viewers who embrace such programming” (ibid. 211). Hence the distinction between simple and complex serial dystopias is not to degrade the former as cultural artefacts to be dismissed. Although simple serial dystopias should be viewed critically when it comes to the warning function of the genre, they certainly have their place. Like other, less confrontational narrative frameworks, they offer viewers, in Moylan’s words, a “cultural and political break from the contemporary world” (“Necessity” 182). Rather than forming a space for critical reflection on the status quo, they perhaps even provide a much-needed regenerative experience precisely through the immersion in other worlds. With regard to their embeddedness in the broader cultural logic, the TV series in question seem to subscribe to a ‘structure of feeling’ (Williams, Marxism 132-35) that coincides with key aspects of what Robin van den Akker and Timotheus Vermeulen have coined as metamodernism. 34 One of the core features of metamodernism is the “oscillating in-betweenness or, rather, a dialectical movement that identifies with and negates - and hence, overcomes and undermines - conflicting positions, while never being congruent with these positions” (“Periodising” 10). The TV series discussed in this book strategically employ this ‘both-neither’ dynamic to reinforce that “[t]echnology is neither good nor bad; nor […] neutral” (Kranzberg 545) and that “technology is a very human activity” (ibid. 557). The cultural sentiment thus emerges as these Introduction: Serialising Dystopia 29 <?page no="30"?> narratives challenge deterministic views of technology and endow their themes with a certain ‘depthiness.’ They negotiate the tension between utopia and dystopia without prescribing a solution; they remain in a state of limbo that ultimately subscribes to neither modern enthusiasm nor postmodern cynicism as a response. Instead, they stimulate a dialogue about human agency in digital culture that engages with the ethics of complexity of the contemporary moment. The themes, aesthetics, and functions of complex serial dystopias refer to metamodernism in terms of the critique of technology they offer, the level of engagement they promote, and the utopian horizon they (implicitly) seek to restore. They resist simplistic representations of digital culture and embrace “a pluralist understanding of the world in all its paradoxes” (Goldoni). As bleak as some of their episodes may be, the TV series ultimately seem to contain a metamodern optimism that arises from viewer engagement and from the utopian spaces in which discussions about the future take place. Just like “dystopian social relations inherent in the reality represented in films or computer games,” as Klonowska and colleagues point out, it is now also TV series that “provide an occasion for the rise of an actual utopian community of fans, viewers, players and supporters” (“Reconfigurations” 9). While literary dystopias - notwithstanding their cultural power - invite readers to form their individual imaginations of the proposed future, audio-visual renderings of dystopia offer viewers concrete scenarios that kindle discussions based on mutual reference points, generating, more often than not, what Mittell calls “forensic fandom” (52). Complex serial dystopias touch upon utopianism as a real-life practice, restoring a horizon of hope by fostering a sense of community at the reception level. By illuminating the nexus of dystopias, complex serial storytelling, and a metamodern cultural logic oscillating between techno-dys‐ topianism and techno-utopianism, this book hopes to start a discussion about the cultural power of serial dystopias in terms of form, content, and function. Chapter Outline The following chapters will elaborate on these preliminary remarks in more detail. The first part of the section “Dystopia, Complex TV, and Metamodernism” contextualises representations and critiques of technology in dystopian fiction and outlines notions of the good life in digital culture. The second part of this section focuses on complex TV and its main characteristics, which helps to con‐ ceptualise the modus operandi of serial dystopias, while the third part discusses complex serial dystopias and seriality against the backdrop of a metamodern structure of feeling. The heart of this book, the analysis section “Complex Serial Dystopias and the Human-Technology Entanglement,” discusses the four 30 Introduction: Serialising Dystopia <?page no="31"?> 35 The order in which the TV series are discussed follows no other logic than that of exploring the contemporary examples in a chronological manner (from 2011 to the present). TV series Black Mirror, Mr. Robot, Westworld, and Kiss Me First in terms of how seriality and formal-aesthetic choices shape the dystopian expression of technology and digital culture. 35 The analysis of these TV series, which are considered paradigmatic examples of complex serial dystopias, will focus on carefully selected key episodes and explore how the formal devices of the televisual texts play together to reinforce their thematic concerns and foster audience engagement. It will be demonstrated that the selected series tap the full potential of seriality to create space - “an alternative reality in which to exist” (Adkins 19) - thereby offering eudemonic viewing experiences (i.e., stimulating reflection processes and the critical mindset of the viewer) through expanding fictional worlds. This book concludes with a recontextualization of dystopia, complex TV, and hope against the backdrop of contemporary world affairs. Introduction: Serialising Dystopia 31 <?page no="33"?> 36 The interplay of genre-specific narrative elements (i.e., character constellations, set‐ tings, iconographies) culminates in what Bilandzic and Busselle refer to as a ‘grand lesson’ (274). The ‘grand lesson’ of dystopias ideally prompts viewers to critically reflect on their own embeddedness in socio-cultural and political realities. 37 See Klonowska et al. for further insights into the shift from literary expressions of dystopia to audio-visual formats, arguing that “[t]he growing democratisation of forms of cultural production makes new artistic forms an attractive and promising vehicle to reach wider audiences and promote utopian/ dystopian ideas on a wider scale” (“Reconfigurations” 10). Dystopia, Complex TV, and Metamodernism Complex serial dystopias, as understood in this book, are multi-layered TV series that shed critical light on prevailing and emerging social-cultural discourses in digital culture by building worlds of the near future that resonate with contemporary audiences beyond screen time. They harbour complex modes of storytelling that reinforce both the intensity of their ‘grand lessons’ and the level of viewer engagement, 36 kindling discussions about the trajectory of digital culture. This three-part section outlines the key characteristics of complex serial dystopias from a theoretical perspective. The TV series in question share a pronounced interest in (emerging) tech‐ nologies and the interstices of digital culture while insightfully oscillating between the utopian and dystopian paradigm. Therefore, the first part of this section (“Technology and the Dystopian Imagination”) will take a close look at the cultural expressions of technological dystopias, trace different approaches to criticising technology, and contextualise them against notions of the good life in digital culture. The insights will support the thesis that complex serial dystopias typically move beyond one-dimensional representations that would negotiate technology as a force external to culture and instead explore the interstices and consequences of the interdependence of technology and society, both from a macroand micro-perspective and in concrete speculative settings. Complex serial dystopias characteristically oscillate between technological utopianism and technological dystopianism, wavering between the hopes and fears associated with technological progress (see Khasawneh). The fact that TV series today have a strong impact on cultural conversations about the present and the future is reason alone to take a closer look at the medium itself. The widespread appeal of TV series also catapults “utopian and dystopian fictions towards more accessible and thus more persuasively effective forms of communication” (Klonowska et al., “Reconfigurations” 10). 37 <?page no="34"?> 38 In his book, Mittell provides a number of useful terms for the formal analysis of TV series, pointing to the array of storytelling techniques available to “confound and amaze a viewer” (43). According to the scholar, understanding how complex TV series “achieve aesthetic success” is crucial because it “helps explain how they work as texts and what they say about the world” (225). 39 The Cambridge Dictionary offers two definitions of the term ‘complex’: “involving a lot of different but related parts” and “difficult to understand or find an answer to because of having many different parts.” The definitions capture both the formal construction and reception of ‘complex TV’ (the multi-layered structure on the one hand and the usually difficult comprehensibility due to complexity on the other). Mittell’s considerations allow for “a better understanding of how serial television programs work as both aesthetic texts and cultural practices” (340). The second part of this section (“Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture”) thus focuses on the televisual medium and investigates how the serial format facilitates lasting impressions through long story arcs, subtexts filled with detail, and encourages an engagement of viewers “who fill the gaps between episodes analyzing and theorizing” (Mittell 46). The intensified viewer engagement comes in handy for dystopia’s warning function, as audiences are invited to critically engage with cultural discourses even after the closing credits appear on the screen. In addition, seriality enables worldbuilding and provides an unprece‐ dented audio-visual space to vividly portray the macroand micro-perspectives of the human-technology entanglement. The second part thus contextualises the impact of serial storytelling on dystopian renderings, drawing closely on Jason Mittell’s insights into the operating mechanisms of serial narratives that have shaped the TV landscape since the 1990s. 38 The scholar’s outline serves as a fruitful template for investigating how dystopias respond to the ever-increasing complexities of the empirical world outside of the literary and cinematic paradigm. 39 The third part of this section (“Dystopia and Complex TV: A Metamodern Quest”) concludes with a contextualisation of complex serial dystopias against the backdrop of an emerging cultural sentiment that Robin van den Akker and colleagues call metamodernism (“Periodising” 5), which is characterised by oscillation and sincerity and, in this case particularly, involves an aesthetic of hope through increased audience engagement. The sincere reflection of cultural discourses, the oscillation between dystopia and utopia, the intensified cautionary function, and the temporal dimension of seriality itself render complex serial dystopias cultural products of metamodern times. 34 Dystopia, Complex TV, and Metamodernism <?page no="35"?> 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination Few other genres are as deeply informed by their empirical socio-political blueprints as the dystopia, which renders it a genre in continuous flux and adaptation. Lars Schmeink, for example, maintains that utopian/ dystopian fiction is “the epitome of a creative intervention into central socio-political discourses that are negotiated in a given society” (65). It is, therefore, less surprising that the latest dystopian expressions focus on the collateral effects of emerging technologies in society and illuminate the fictive underside of modernity’s principle of progress. Most visions of technology in the dystopian canon appear utterly bleak, portraying society and the individual as arbitrarily exposed to technology’s inherent dynamics of rationality and efficiency. How‐ ever, such deterministic views are increasingly outdated in a tech-saturated empirical reality. For example, Ian Roderick underscores how the “discourse of technological determinism means casting ourselves in the role of bystanders or benefactors of either good fortune or ill fortune depending upon the effects of the technology” (119). Instead of focusing on the individual’s role as a bystander, complex serial dystopias point to the mutual shaping of technology and society, updating their negotiations of technology to provide a grounded snapshot of digital culture. In this respect, Yu-Xiao Dai and Su-Tong Hao argue: As technology and our understanding evolve over time, the original opposition between techno-utopianism and techno-dystopianism starts to lose its significance, especially at a time when many of us are represented through and even defined by technology like smart phones and social media on a daily basis, and human-machine systems such as wearable robotic technologies, neural interfaces and powered pros‐ theses and exoskeletons are reckoned to be extensions of our own bodies. (12) As the scholars make clear, the strict opposition between “techno-utopianism” and “techno-dystopianism” no longer holds in times when humans and tech‐ nology are inextricably intertwined (see also Lupton). The task of serial dysto‐ pias, then, is to explore the interstices of the human-technology entanglement, to articulate both the hopes and fears inherent in digital culture and, at best, to restore a sense of agency by cultivating a healthy scepticism towards technol‐ ogies rather than a ‘resigned pessimism’ (see Moylan, Scraps 153). Instead of suggesting or possibly even imposing a preconceived critique on the viewer, complex serial dystopias offer viewers the opportunity to ponder their own engagement with technology. In so doing, they depart from the clear didactic 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination 35 <?page no="36"?> 40 Suvin defines science fiction as “a literary genre whose necessary and sufficient conditions are the presence and interaction of estrangement and cognition, and whose main formal device is an imaginative framework alternative to the author’s empirical environment” (Metamorphoses 20). He suggests that utopian fiction is “both an independent aunt and a dependent daughter of [science fiction],” defining utopia as “the construction of a particular community where sociopolitical institutions, norms, and relationships between people are organized according to a radically different principle than in the author’s community” (“Theses” 188). From this standpoint, he attributes to eutopia a “radically more perfect” and to dystopia a “radically less perfect” principle than in the author’s community (ibid. 189). 41 In its most basic definition, technology (from tekhnē=art, craft and -logía=word, explanation, study) is the sum of techniques used to design and create artifacts (cf. Irwin 25). Early reflections emphasised the ontological distinction between technology and nature, e.g., the Platonic notion that “technology learns from or imitates nature,” but agenda of the classical dystopia and opt for a ‘relational positioning’ (Gibbons) of the audience. By abandoning one-dimensional views of technology - e.g., ‘the evil machine’ or ‘the abusive user’ - and solidifying the logic that society and technology are no separate domains but a complex assemblage, complex serial dystopias become timely and powerful investigations of the good life in digital culture. 1.1 Tracing the Human-Technology Entanglement The technological focus of serial dystopias revisits the kinship of dystopia with its ‘mother-genre’ science fiction. 40 Indeed, scholars have pointed out that science fiction and dystopia have not only converged but merged (Ferns, “Utopia” 55). While not all science-fiction narratives are dystopian, most dysto‐ pias today are rooted in science fiction, with a particular interest in the problems and solutions associated with novel scientific and technological processes. Particularly science fiction, as Raffaella Baccolini notes, has “the potential to envision different worlds that can work as purely imaginative (at worst) or a critical (at best) exploration of our society” (“Persistence” 519). Complex serial dystopias strive for the latter: their visions are no longer built on the ‘radically different’ world principle (Suvin, “Theses” 188) but on familiar settings and the plausible extrapolation of given and emerging technological standards in contemporary society. Throughout history, technology has appeared as a “double-edged sword” (Roderick 70). On the one hand, the catch-all term is associated with social progress, convenience, and efficiency; on the other hand, it is linked to social alienation and the interference with human (physical and mental) well-being. 41 36 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="37"?> also embraced the Aristotelian notion that technology “completes what nature cannot bring to a finish” (Franssen et al.). 42 Williams argues that “[t]he technological transformation is the utopian or dystopian mode narrowed from agency to instrumentality; indeed it only becomes utopian or dystopian, in strict senses, when it is used as an image of consequence to function, socially, as conscious desire or conscious warning” (“Utopia” 205). 43 In his preface to Scraps of the Untainted Sky: Science Fiction, Utopia, Dystopia (2000), Moylan argues that “[d]ystopian narrative is largely the product of the terrors of the twentieth century. A hundred years of exploitation, repression, state violence, war, genocide, disease, famine, ecocide, depression, debt, and the steady depletion of humanity through the buying and selling of everyday life provided more than enough fertile ground for this fictive underside of the utopian imagination” (xi). The ambivalence of technology thus lends itself particularly well to explorations in a utopian/ dystopian context. Raymond Williams, for example, points out how crucial the dimension of the ‘technological transformation’ of society is for both the utopian and dystopian expression (“Utopia” 204), and Juliana Lopes postulates that technology is even “intrinsically related to dystopias” (88). 42 The prevailing tendency towards optimism in political rhetoric when it comes to the individual and social benefits of technological progress is at odds with overtly bleak fictional representations of technology. The kinship between dystopia and technology evolved from literary works that were initially read as utopian satire. For example, Samuel Butler’s Erewhon (1872) scrutinised anthropocentrism along with the encroaching mechanisation of society by satirising the cultural and political practices of Victorian England and offering critical commentary on how technology was on the rise to influence society on a large scale. It is here where dystopia surfaced as the “literary utopia’s shadow” (Moylan, Scraps 111). E. M. Forster’s The Machine Stops (1909) then became widely regarded as the first canonical example of the 20 th -century literary dystopia. 43 With its vivid description of an underground hive-like population in which individuals live isolated in cocoons and whose experiences and connections are mediated by the omnipotent ‘machine,’ the novel provided prototypical motifs that still crop up frequently in dystopian fiction today. Similarly, Fritz Lang’s influential Metropolis (1927) was one of the first films to express both the fascination and fear of technological progress and ‘mechanomorphism’ (i.e., “the technological conversion of organism into mechanism” (Beauchamp, “Technology” 61)). Early dystopias voiced criticism of the principle of radical progress and reminded readers that “technical developments frequently have environmental, social, and human consequences that go far beyond the immediate purposes of the technical devices and practices themselves” (Kranzberg 545). Today, dystopias still often allude to 1.1 Tracing the Human-Technology Entanglement 37 <?page no="38"?> 44 Booker calls these novels “[t]he great defining texts of the genre of dystopian fiction, both in vividness of their engagement with real-world social and political issues, and in the scope of their critique of the societies on which they focus” (Impulse 20-1). Notwithstanding the importance of their cautionary impetus, classical dystopias are often read as ‘anti-utopias’ - texts that negate the very idea of utopia and thus often exclude any “transformative possibility” (Moylan, Scraps 147). Anti-utopias (cf. ‘pseudo-dystopias’ (ibid. 156)) characteristically entail a kind of cynicism and despair. Such bleak scenarios often evoke a “resigned pessimism” (ibid. 153) in reception, and at best, locate hope outside the narrative - i.e., by shocking readers into action. See also Claeys, who argues that “the task of the literary dystopia […] is to warn us against and educate us about real-life dystopias. It need not furnish a happy ending to do so: pessimism has its place. But it may envision rational and collective solutions where irrationality and panic loom. Entertainment plays a role in this process. But the task at hand is serious. It gains daily in importance” (Natural History 501). what Zygmunt Bauman bleakly describes, namely that “‘[p]rogress’, once the most extreme manifestation of radical optimism and a promise of universally shared and lasting happiness, has moved all the way to the opposite, dystopian and fatalistic pole of anticipation” (Life 68). Complex serial dystopias, however, increasingly defuse this fundamental juxtaposition and focus more on the situationally specific ambivalences of technology. Early dystopias tended to portray technology as either “a tool or object that is controlled by the active subject” (Samuels, “Auto-Modernity” 235) or as an “autonomous force that dictates the ideology of the future” (Beauchamp, “Technology” 57). They fuelled fears that humanity will either lose control of its own creation, use technology for the ‘wrong’ purposes, or that technological achievement will only benefit a select few. By framing progress as a “promising salvation for chosen people” (Roderick 190), classical dystopias mapped out visions of environmental destruction, nuclear disasters, bioengineering, totali‐ tarian governments, and state surveillance. The “big three” (cf. Beauchamp, “Themes” 58) dystopian novels by Russian novelist Yevgeny Zamyatin (We (1924)), English writer and philosopher Aldous Huxley (Brave New World (1932)) and English novelist George Orwell (Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)) remain influential warnings against possible future societies in which the potentials and dangers of technology intersect with political purposes. 44 Although both authors offer a critical commentary on technology, Huxley and Orwell portray two different kinds of dystopias. While the Orwellian dystopia warns against state-enforced suppression of individual freedom, the Huxleyan dystopia describes a biologically engineered society characterised by hedonistic promiscuity and tranquilisers to ensure that citizens remain in their 38 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="39"?> 45 In his foreword to Amusing Ourselves to Death (2006 [1985]), cultural critic Postman highlights the difference between these imaginations: “[w]hat Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. […] Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance.” (xix) The transition from industrial to service economy and the rise of consumer capitalism gradually anchored notions of technology in the context of convenience in the private domain of those who could afford it (Roderick 170). The abstract notion of ‘progress’ suddenly turned immediate and private: “progress increasingly became something one could experience personally” (ibid. 115, emphasis added). Accordingly, dystopias became increasingly interested in technologies that were used as consumer goods rather than as weapons of authoritarian governments. 46 Milner argues that “it remains true that much science fiction - and often the most interesting examples, in both literature and the cinema - is indeed dystopian. There are, no doubt, many reasons for this. But the most important is that utopia is fundamentally boring, since nothing much can happen in a place where nothing much is wrong.” Westworld showrunner Nolan similarly argues that “people are more interested in watching versions of the world in which things have gone wrong than have gone right” (Itzkoff). Hence, as Coates puts it, “[u]topian visions must be at least as grainy and engaging as the dystopian competitors” (111). However, presenting the two modes of expression (utopia and dystopia) “in a state of binary opposition” (Czigányik, “Afterword” 246) remains problematic (see also Claeys, “News” 160). Atwood thus coined the term ‘ustopia’ to highlight the inseparability of dystopia and utopia, as “each contains a latent version of the other” (“Ustopia”; Other Worlds 66). casts. 45 These prototypes of dystopia laid the groundwork for the conception of technology as “some mechanism that controls the masses” (Lopes 88). Dystopias today still feed on both Huxley’s vision of a consumerist technoculture and Orwell’s metaphor of ‘Big Brother,’ which has entered the lexicon as a synonym for mass surveillance. On screen, visions of technology’s destructive potential still trump visions of technology’s transformative capacity in a positive sense. In his analysis of a variety of films since 1920, Steven L. Goldman concludes that “science-fiction films are overwhelmingly dystopian, projecting the consequences of science and technology as politically or environmentally disastrous, or as inevitably co-opted by antidemocratic vested interests” (278). Although Goldman’s obser‐ vation dates back to 1989, it still proves pertinent to the way science fiction represents technology in the TV landscape to this day. One reason for the prevalence of gloomy visions could be the general assumption that utopian expressions (as in harmonious relationships between society and technology) are not as compelling to audiences as conflict-ridden dystopias. 46 As Joseph F. Coates notes, “modern movies remain virtually free of positive imagery about the future. The dystopian images in films have made it almost impossible for us or our most talented thinkers to conceptualize in positive imagery about the 1.1 Tracing the Human-Technology Entanglement 39 <?page no="40"?> 47 See Baccolini, who notes how estrangement and cognitive mapping in science fiction lead audiences to perceive the “differences of an elsewhere and thus think critically about the reader’s own world and possibly act on and change that world” (“Persistence” 519-20; see also Sargisson). future, with clarity and details comparable to dystopian imagery” (111). Indeed, popular culture seems to embrace some sort of absence of utopia and nurture a simplistic and pessimistic stance towards the trajectory of digital culture (see Hands 146). Nevertheless, critical projections of how things might go wrong rather than right can offer characters and/ or viewers (both at best) the opportunity to reflect on the status quo and conceive of alternatives. It is important that engaging with dystopias offers, as Joss Hands puts it, “some window of hope by pointing us in a different direction - or at least leaving some space for this” (147). Serial dystopian imaginations should thus constitute a necessary steppingstone for conceptualising more sustainable, ethical maps of the future in which technology benefits society at large (cf. Spence). Precisely because technology is so central to the self-understanding of contemporary culture, its representation plays a decisive role in the extent to which utopian impulses are transported beyond the screen. In Imagining Surveillance: Eutopian and Dystopian Literature and Film (2015), Peter Marks outlines how popular conceptions of technologies can obscure their actual potential to create better conditions in society: In many of the instances[,] technology gets depicted primarily as a malevolent force, and this perhaps speaks to a great ambivalence people display towards the undoubted potential technology has to control rather than to enable our lives. Rather than seeing these negative depictions as a collective denial of the value of technology, however, we might read them merely as proposing necessary and sensible warnings about the dangers of excessive reliance upon technology in the absence of some forms of human control. Technology generally, and surveillance technology in particular, has the capacity to make life more secure, to enable the distribution and services, and to connect us to other humans. (154) Marks highlights how surveillance technology exhibits ambivalent properties that can be construed both in dystopian and utopian contexts. In real life, technology tends to be less problematic and invasive - its fictional projections are usually far from real-world plausibility. Nevertheless, science fiction funda‐ mentally relies on extrapolating given technological standards to help viewers adopt an estranged perspective of their own socio-political and cultural reality. 47 Especially dystopian fiction, as Chris Ferns points out, presents the “nightmare future as a possible destination of present society, as if dystopia were no 40 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="41"?> 48 That the representational aesthetics of technology have already become more diver‐ sified in recent years is evident in the cinematic landscape. For example, the film Her (2013) offers an intimate take on the role of AI in combating alienation and isolation in society, and Ex Machina (2014) skilfully contemplates the human qualities of sophisticated robots (cf. Birnbaum et al.). Black Panther (2018), furthermore, similarly affirms a more balanced view of technology and the utopian/ dystopian paradigm than the usual blockbusters. See Girish, who argues: “what makes Black Panther truly unique is that this ‘dystopian’ present is juxtaposed with a (stunningly staged) utopian vision that is also wholly steeped in the black experience - in its history, iconography, and culture” (33). See also Mehring, who highlights the geographical proximity between the Hollywood ‘dream factory’ and Silicon Valley (42). The immediate vicinity of cultural production and scientific-technological development symbolises the mutual imprint of science and fiction geographically. 49 Hands highlights that “[a]pproaches that just offer blanket cynicism can look like critique - they are often widespread given that they are easy to turn into soundbites and easily digestible binaries - but in fact they are the opposite as they present overwhelming and frighteningly bleak scenarios with little progressive possibility” (147). more than a logical conclusion derived from the premises of the existing order” (Narrating Utopia 107). Particularly in the case of technology, these hyperbolisations run the risk of triggering simplistic readings by magnifying the alleged impact of technology on society. Gorman Beauchamp argued as early as 1986 that “technological determinism is the dominant philosophy of history found in the dystopian novel and that dystopists are generally technophobic, viewing the technology of dystopia not as a neutral tool misused by totalitarian rulers but as intrinsically totalitarian in itself” (“Technology” 55, emphases added). Most visions of the future today still assign technology a more negative influence than it actually has and often neglect its interdependence with human disposition. Such one-dimensional views diminish the warning effect by generating cynicism and detachment. Hollywood-inspired blockbusters of the late 20 th century (e.g., Westworld (1973), Blade Runner (1982), The Terminator (1984), The Matrix (1999)) are a case in point where technology is portrayed as an omnipotent force with an anti-human agenda. 48 In digital culture, however, where the material-discursive entanglement of technology and humans manifests, the conception of technology as a force external to culture becomes anachronistic. Roderick, for example, argues that “thinking in terms of technological impact is an ill-conceived approach to un‐ derstanding technoculture” (119, emphasis added). Depictions of ‘evil machines’ running amok may be entertaining but ultimately offer little valuable critique on empirical reality. 49 More nuanced depictions of technology are crucial to inspire constructive criticism of the mechanisms of digital culture - a task that 1.1 Tracing the Human-Technology Entanglement 41 <?page no="42"?> 50 See A. Rubin, who argues that “[r]eality keeps on getting more abstract and complex day by day, invention by invention, gadget by gadget, news broadcast by news broadcast. At the same time, there is a sense that the ordinary and conventional way of doing things, the tools which have been created for the needs of the industrial society and which have served us well until quite recently, as well as thinking about the world the way we are used to, are no more sufficient. They do not provide adequate help or answers to the problems of everyday decision-making anymore” (43). Complex serial dystopias help to make sense of these 21 st -century complexities. 51 Martin calls Black Mirror’s technique an “isolated magnification technique”: “essentially only one thing is added to (or chosen to be magnified from) our contemporary situation - thus providing the sole futuristic or speculative element” (18; see Chapter on Black Mirror). See also Samuelson for three methods (extrapolation, speculation, and transformation) commonly used in science fiction to foster “transgressions of what its readers think of as reality” (198). complex serial dystopias undertake by offering relatively accurate snapshots of the interstices of the human-technology entanglement. Rather than adhering to good-evil dualisms, they invest in ambiguous and situationally specific representations of technology that more fully account for the complex dynamics in digital culture. 50 In utopian fiction, there is usually a mouthpiece (e.g., a traveller) who introduces the audience to the fictional world and critically comments on the status quo from an absent paradigm, whereas in dystopias, the characters and the audience are placed directly in the dystopian society. “Since the text opens in media res within the nightmarish society,” as Baccolini and Moylan point out, “cognitive estrangement is at first forestalled by the immediacy and normality of the location. No dream or trip is taken to get to this place of everyday life. As in a great deal of [science fiction], the protagonist (and the reader) is always already in the world in question, unreflectively immersed in the society” (“Introduc‐ tion” 5). Complex serial dystopias dwell on this “immediacy and normality of the location” in considerable detail to reinforce the reduced distance between the diegetic reality and the viewers’ own world. The ways complex serial dystopias transport viewers into an audio-visual world (whose logic echoes the modus operandi of contemporary society) trigger a form of resonance that is distinct from escapist entertainment. Often, a particular plot element (e.g., the launch of new technology) gradually induces cognitive estrangement by changing the social dynamics and cultural practices of the otherwise familiar world. 51 Darko Suvin’s term of the novum is helpful here, which describes “a discrete piece of information recognizable as not-true, but also as not-unlike-true, not-flatly-(in the current state of knowledge)-impossible” (Shippey 14). The novum is “so central and significant that it determines the whole narrative logic” (Suvin, Metamorphoses 87). However, because complex serial dystopias are characteris‐ 42 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="43"?> 52 See Mariani, who points out that TV series like “The Leftovers, Black Mirror, and Mr. Robot, contain genre-specific dystopian elements” while positioning themselves as “very near futures or pasts, or lightly fictionalized versions of today”: “[i]n choosing to inhabit this space of what might be called ‘dystopian realism,’ these shows address current civil disorder, widespread apprehension for augmented-reality technology, and capitalism in the post-Occupy, post-recession era. On TV, dystopia isn’t quixotic fantasy; it’s contemporary reality” (ibid.). 53 Mitcham and Briggle list the numerous efforts made towards a “measured theoretical assessment of technology” (36-7), including, amongst others, conceptualisations of technology as “tactics for living” (Spengler (1931)), “means for molding the environ‐ tically set in familiar environments, the overall degree of estrangement can be significantly lower than in traditional science-fiction narratives. Complex serial dystopias tend to abandon the “radically different principle” (Suvin, “Theses” 188) and embrace what might be called ‘dystopian realism’ (Delistraty; Mariani; Brown; cf. Moylan “Necessity”) - a kind of “realism that uses mirrors” (Brown) on contemporary society to construct an alternate version of reality on the screen. 52 In keeping with what Margaret Atwood has called speculative fiction, these narratives employ “elements that already exist in some form […] as opposed to more wildly hypothetical science fiction ideas like time travel, faster-than-light drives, and transporters” (“Atwood”, Wired; cf. Martin 17). Complex serial dystopias are grounded in the present moment, and with their tentative approach to cognitive estrangement, they prompt what Regina Schober has aptly coined “‘strange recognition’ in view of the relevance and accuracy of the storyworlds depicted” (362). While dystopian realism mirrors the complexity of digital culture and thereby avoids simplistic representations of technology, it is precisely this strange recognition that critically engages the audience in the storyworld. Yet, these storyworlds are still often challenged by a novum to ensure that viewers see extratextual reality from (a slightly) estranged point of view. Complex serial dystopias thus deem projections “far into the future […] unnecessary” (Mariani). They shift the focus to near-future worlds in which technology is already deeply ingrained in social dynamics and cultural practices, creating space for a critique on the interstices of digital culture from macroand micro-perspectives. Criticising Technology in Digital Culture Criticising technology in digital culture is an increasingly challenging en‐ deavour, as it has become an integral part of society and culture (cf. Slack and Wise 4). In other words, criticising technology always involves criticising the culture in question. As with most complexities, society’s ideas about the func‐ tions and potentials of technology change over time. 53 Accordingly, throughout 1.1 Tracing the Human-Technology Entanglement 43 <?page no="44"?> ment” ( Jaspers (1949)), “the pursuit of power” (Mumford (1967), (1970)), “practical implementations of intelligence” (Ferré (1988)), “humankind’s modification of its biological and physical surroundings” (Tenner (1996)), and simply as “humanity at work”-(Pitt (2000)). 54 Complex serial dystopias harbour a shift in focus from technology as a driver of progress to a more integrated view of technology in everyday life. In Critical Discourse Studies and Technology (2016), Roderick adopts a bird’s eye view and identifies four dominant discourses of technology: the abstract idea of progress (technology as a gateway to a flawless state of society), technological determinism (technology as a determining, causative force separate from society), technological fetishism (an exacerbation of technological determinism that overvalues technologies to solve human problems), and technological (dis)satisfaction (which links technology to consumer culture and its presence or absence as a marker of convenience). In terms of the historical timelines of these discourses, Roderick argues that technology today is primarily associated with the notion of convenience. Complex serial dystopias shed light on all these discourses history, various attempts to conceptualise the function of technology in relation to humans have also been reflected in utopian and dystopian fiction. Irrespective of the time and medium in which these expressions were formulated, technology always plays a crucial role in the self-understanding of human existence. When technology enters the equation of culture and society, two philo‐ sophical doctrines usually dominate, that is, technological determinism and social/ cultural determinism (Kranzberg 545). In the former case, technology surfaces as an inevitable (and sometimes independent) structuring principle of social and cultural practices; in the latter, technology appears as a tool shaped by social and cultural belief systems. Given how closely society, culture, and technology are intertwined in the 21 st century, these views seem rather one-dimensional. Even substituting one for another still ignores the complex material-discursive entanglement of technology and humans today. What is more, Beauchamp points out that regardless of which deterministic perspective dystopian fiction adopts (i.e., the cultural or the technological), the ‘grand lesson’ tends to lead to technophobia. As he ponders, is the technology in dystopian fiction merely an instrument in the hands of the state’s totalitarian rulers, used by them to enforce a set of values extrinsic to the technology itself, or is it, rather, an autonomous force that determines the values and thus shapes the society in its own image, a force to which even the putative rulers - the Well-Doers and Big Brothers and World Controllers-- are subservient? (“Technology” 54) In many cases, the dystopian imagination seems to subscribe to such one-dimen‐ sional views of technology. Complex serial dystopias, however, critically engage with these determinisms and characteristically foreground how social reality constitutes the nexus of technological and cultural imprinting. 54 They tend to 44 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="45"?> in different constellations and no longer feed on deterministic approaches alone. Unlike simple serial dystopias, which tend to adhere to deterministic assumptions, they refrain from simplifying complexities and instead offer a more nuanced negotiation of technology. 55 See Beauchamp, who adds to this point, arguing that “[t]he technophiles contend that technology is value-neutral, merely a tool that can be used for good or ill depending oscillate between cultural and technological determinism; in Williams’ words, they explore visions “in which a new kind of life has been made possible by a technical discovery” but also the flipside, “in which the conditions of life have been worsened by technical development” (“Utopia” 203-04). The conclusion is that, as Carl Mitcham and Adam Briggle put it, “the technical and the human are hopelessly intertwined” (46). Complex serial dystopias both entail and challenge traditional views on technology and the power relations between ‘man and machine.’ As binary views of technology (as an inherently flawed force or as a man-made and manipulated tool) remain popular, it is useful to look even more closely at the complicated relationship between society and technology. In their contribution to Philip Brey and colleagues’ edited volume The Good Life in a Technological Age (2012), Mitcham and Briggle provide an overview of three distinct theoretical visions of technology - in terms of independence, dependence, and interdependence (43-6), which lend themselves to the study of representations of technology in dystopias. It comes as no surprise that the interdependence vision does more justice to the complex network structures of digital culture than the notion of technology as an abstract force imposed upon fictional societies. The first theoretical vision of technology (independence) is largely consistent with technological determinism, suggesting that technology operates independ‐ ently and pursues a determined agenda that is not necessarily in the interest of human well-being. The idea that there is “a technological determination operating in history” (Beauchamp, “Technology” 54) leads to the assumption that technology itself, such as the robot, the smartphone, or the gadget, can be intrinsically good or bad. From this point of view, “technology is the prime factor in shaping our life-styles, values, institutions, and other elements of our society” (Kranzberg 545). Accordingly, one might fear that technology will ultimately “deprive people of freedom and dignity and ultimately bring destruction to humanity” (Dai and Hao 9). Technophobes would argue that technology itself is the root of the problem whenever “technological culture is shaping attitudes and practices that do not serve the interests of sustainability, equality, and peace” (Slack and Wise 1, emphasis added). 55 However, since technology does not 1.1 Tracing the Human-Technology Entanglement 45 <?page no="46"?> on the nature and purposes of the user. Man, that is, remains in control, remains the master of his creations - though, of course, he can be an evil master and ‘misuse’ them. The technophobes, by contrast, view technology as a creation that can transcend the original purposes of its creator and take on an independent existence and will of its own, like the monster in Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein” (“Technology” 54). 56 Studies in new materialism are useful for further insights beyond persistent dualisms in modern and humanist traditions. See, e.g., J. Bennett’s Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things (2010). 57 Technological singularity generally describes the hypothetical point in the future at which technology becomes irreversibly uncontrollable. See Claeys, who argues that the “anxiety about totalitarianism gradually drops away as the confrontation of humanity with technology becomes increasingly central, with growing threats of the loss of humanity, of identity, and of free will, and then the possibility of our real extinction” (Natural History 271). See also Gerbner and Gross on ‘cultivation theory’ and for how media influences viewers’ worldviews and perceptions of social reality. “impose[] itself upon a culture that was previously ‘untouched’” (Roderick 1), this vision of an independent technology often neglects systemic mechanisms and human predispositions. Nevertheless, representations of technology as an inherently flawed force often crop up in Hollywood-inspired blockbuster entertainment and serve as an ‘easy route’ to conjure up dystopian visions. Scapegoating some form of technological machinery for an undesirable status quo is often the basic premise of conservative texts that “override more traditional concerns with character development, narrative coherence and thematic elaboration” (Bould 94) for the sake of spectacle. Here the ‘evil machine’ gradually absorbs the allegedly ‘romantic’ interstices of humankind, leading to a simplified condemnation of technology. From literary expressions such as Forster’s The Machine Stops to films such as Metropolis, Terminator, or The Matrix, dystopias often stage tech‐ nology itself as an ‘actant’ that subjugates humanity and/ or wreaks revenge on its creators. From the perspective of new materialism, these independence views of technology invert the power hierarchy between human and technological object, illustrating that inanimate objects can have a ‘life’ and agenda of their own. 56 As appealing as the representations of independent technologies may be to audiences, they tend to nurture black-and-white thinking that no longer proves helpful when negotiating the modus operandi of digital culture. Given the strong impact of fictional images on audiences, such representations can provide the foundations for cultural anxieties (e.g., of the looming singularity). 57 Conceiving of technology as a threatening force to humanity also cancels out utopian modes of thought about the potentials of technology to create better conditions in societies. 46 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="47"?> 58 For example, as Beauchamp highlights, in Nineteen Eighty-Four, “the technology of Oceania [is] clearly the servant and not the master of the Party” (“Technology” 55). By contrast, the theoretical vision of technology in terms of dependence (i.e., technology as “thought depended on or embedded in other phenomena” (Mitcham and Briggle 43)) entails that technology is not intrinsically good or bad but serves society mainly as a tool - a means to a desirable end. Regarding technology as a tool ties in closely with the notion of control. 58 In this instrumental mode of thought, technologies are “otherwise neutral with regard to the wider practices and contexts in which they are deployed” (ibid. 43). The assumption that technology is dependent on humans and value-neutral thus underscores ex negativo the cultural and political milieu in which it comes into use. This perspective stresses the responsibility of the designer, the agency of the user, as well as any human disposition or intention, all of which might influence the way a ‘passive’ technological device is used to achieve a desired goal (see Kranzberg 553). Moreover, this instrumental view suggests, as Briggle and colleagues put it, that “[o]ur ruling ideal of the good life seems to be inextricably bound up with technology and the means it offers to control the external world” (1). Yet, just like independence theories, dependence theories remain problematic. Statements like ‘guns don’t kill people, people kill people’ or ‘robots don’t kill people - people kill people’ remain highly contested, particularly in policy making. In digital culture, it is becoming increasingly difficult to decide whether it is the human or the machine that should be ultimately held accountable for undesirable results. The projection of technology as either an independent force or a passive tool preserves binary power hierarchies: on the one hand, ‘the machine’ develops an agency of its own and rules over humanity, leading to dystopian imaginations of humanity’s subjugation. On the other hand, humans retain control but also run the risk of manipulating and misusing the technical tool, leading to dystopian outcomes based on hubris, personal enrichment or the neglect of collective benefit. As Mitcham and Briggle point out, “[m]odern technology has the potential to make wealth and freedom possible for everyone, but its historical appearance realized this dream only for the few capitalists” (44). Especially against the backdrop of the neoliberal philosophy prevalent in Western societies, the construction of isolated and individual utopias is a recurring theme in the dystopian imagination. Most importantly, complex serial dystopias both address traditional conceptualisations of technology and challenge general static oppositions such as those of technology and culture being “separate and 1.1 Tracing the Human-Technology Entanglement 47 <?page no="48"?> distinct spheres of human activity” (Roderick 10). They focus on context-specific relationalities rather than technology in a social vacuum. Interdependence and the Human-Technology Entanglement By affirming the iterative, mutual processes of digital culture, i.e., that society is shaped by technology and that technological solutions are in turn shaped by human needs, complex serial dystopias articulate a philosophy popularised by Melvin Kranzberg, namely that “[t]echnology is neither good nor bad; nor is it neutral” (545). This proposition corresponds to what Mitcham and Briggle call the interdependence theory of technology, which emphasises that humans and technology are not only inextricably intertwined but that this entanglement has multiple manifestations and consequences. Technoculture, as Roderick puts it, can thus be understood not just as “a description of the interdependence of the two realms of human activity but […] also [as] its expression or, better yet, realization” (2). Drawing on Bruno Latour, Mitcham and Briggle point to the underlying network structure of society, arguing that just as nature and culture are interdependent categories, so are technological artifacts properly conceived as nodes in a network of interactions. Technological reality is composed of interdependent hybrids that themselves manifest interdependencies. For example, making an airplane fly requires a complex ensemble of humans and nonhumans. Indeed, even nonhuman things are ‘actants’ that make a difference in the world: a traffic light makes cars stop just as a police officer does. So technologies are not the value-neutral and passive objects supposed by dependence theories. Yet whereas technologies ‘act,’ there is no unifying logic throughout the complex human-thing hybrids that would justify independence theory. (45-6) As the scholars point out, technology is neither good nor bad nor entirely instrumental (dependent on its use). But technology is also not neutral: a gun is neither good nor bad, but it is also made to shoot. Similarly, Kranzberg points to the “complex human-thing hybrids” by stressing the importance of a “contextual approach in understanding technical developments” (544). Criticism of technology should thus always take into account the specific context given - a task that complex serial dystopias readily take on. The entanglement of humanity and technology corresponds to Jacques Ellul’s description of the technological society, the core mechanisms of which consists of what he calls ‘technique’ and defines as “the totality of methods rationally arrived at and having absolute efficiency (for a given stage of development) in every field of human activity” (xxv). In The Technological Society (1964), he writes: 48 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="49"?> 59 Samuels draws attention to the paradoxical phenomenon that well describes the conflict found in the near-future scenarios of complex serial dystopias. He argues that “while automation traditionally represents a loss of personal control, autonomy has been defined by an increase in individual freedom; however, automodernity constantly combines these two opposing forces in an unexpected way” (“Auto-Modernity” 228). Common technologies like the smartphone or the PC are highly automated, but their use entails a high level of individual autonomy. According to Samuels, such automodern technologies not only lead to a breakdown of traditional notions of privacy and the public sphere but also to a “technological flow where the difference between the individual and the machine breaks down” (ibid. 230). The interplay of technological automation and human autonomy aptly describes the dynamics of a digital culture from which complex serial dystopias derive their projections of the future. 60 Although Forster’s The Machine Stops stages technology as an actant, the novel also formulates a warning against such internalisation processes of technology. Today, As long as technique was represented exclusively by the machine, it was possible to speak of ‘man and the machine.’ The machine remained an external object, and man (though significantly influenced by it in his professional, private, and psychic life) remained none the less independent. He was in a position to assert himself apart from the machine; he was able to adopt a position with respect to it. But when technique enters into every area of life, including the human, it ceases to be external to man and becomes his very substance. It is no longer face to face with man but is integrated with him, and it progressively absorbs him. In this respect, technique is radically different from the machine. This transformation, so obvious in modern society, is the result of the fact that technique has become autonomous. (6) Ellul underscores here that the human-technology nexus generates new prob‐ lems that can no longer be understood in a deterministic sense because ‘tech‐ nique’ is an internalised mechanism of modern society that ultimately values the principle of efficiency (and thus, unsurprisingly, plays into the hands of the capitalist logic). What Ellul refers to as ‘technique’ can be read as emblematic of the collapsed human/ technology divide. Thus, the issue is no longer a matter of controlling ‘the machine’ but dealing with society’s response and adaptation to the non-materialised “seductive powers of the technology” (Roderick 119) that inform contemporary social and cultural dynamics and, in turn, also the representations of digital culture in complex serial dystopias. 59 Perhaps the most important task of complex serial dystopias, then, is to raise awareness that “[t]he greatest threat posed by technology […] is not that man’s mechanical creations will come to rule over him like some alien power but rather that he will so completely introject the ethos of technology that his highest aspiration will be to become a machine himself ” (Beauchamp, “Technology”-62). 60 While simple serial dystopias draw on dependence theories 1.1 Tracing the Human-Technology Entanglement 49 <?page no="50"?> visions of ‘mechanomorphism’ - “the conception of something (as the universe or a living creature) as operating mechanically” (Merriam-Webster) - most vividly find expression in transhumanist tropes such as the cyborg. of technology to provide an entertaining narrative driven by either an ‘evil technology’ or a ‘human abuser’ (or both), complex serial dystopias invest in the interdependence theory to issue warnings against societies that internalise technology at the expense of community, solidarity, and collective well-being. The unprecedented challenges posed by this human-technology assemblage inherent in digital culture assign dystopias the didactic task of not fuelling unfounded fears but instead cultivating a healthy scepticism towards technology and raising awareness of the urgency of ethical standards to avoid unintended side effects within this entanglement. Lilian Edwards and colleagues, for instance, draw attention to the “constant concern about the place of ethics in artificial intelligence (AI) and other technologies” (7). Although complex serial dystopias offer only a “representational illusion of accuracy” (Mittell 221) of social reality, they can nonetheless guide the formulation of ethical standards by exploring and transcending the limits of technological visions: the extent to which technology can be considered ‘neutral,’ the question of AI’s moral agency, the responsibility of programmers and coders, as well as the possible side effects of hastily implementing new technologies on a large scale (cf. Goldman 289). By pushing the boundaries of imaginations through a novum in plausible settings, “[t]echnological fictions can be a way to provide lawyers with improved literacy in technology, and computer scientists and designers with the ability to reflect on the regulatory issues that science and technology raise” (Edwards et al. 6). The ‘Three Laws of Robotics’ formulated by Isaac Asimov in his short story Runaround (1942) are a case in point of how fictional ideas find their way into real-life ethical considerations (Edwards et al. 2). 1.2 Digital Culture, the Good Life, and Resilience Complex serial dystopias articulate the manifold ways in which the human-tech‐ nology entanglement is transforming the notion of the ‘good life,’ exploring the friction between technologies as enablers of the good life and as accelerators of pathological tendencies in society. As Briggle and colleagues claim, “[w]e cannot discuss technology without referring to the good life, and what we think of the good life is also dependent on the technologies surrounding us” (11). Depending on the school of thought, the good life as a philosophical construct refers to notions of happiness, meaningfulness, pleasure, and generally to concepts 50 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="51"?> 61 See Brey for theories of well-being related to technology: hedonism, desire-fulfilment theory, and objective list theories (15-20). See also Keyes, who distinguishes between psychological and social well-being: regarding the former, he argues that “individuals are functioning well when they like most parts of themselves, have warm and trusting relationships, see themselves developing into better people, have a direction in life, are able to shape their environments to satisfy their needs, and have a degree of self-determination” (208-09); regarding the latter, he maintains that “[i]ndividuals are functioning well when they see society as meaningful and understandable, when they see society as possessing potential for growth, when they feel they belong to and are accepted by their communities, when they accept most parts of society, and when they see themselves contributing to society” (209). 62 As Landau highlights, “[w]e manage and attempt to maximize our time by adopting more and more efficient technologies, which have enabled us to multitask and squeeze more than 24 hours of work/ consumption/ play into each day” (xiv). 63 See Veenhoven for different concepts of the ‘quality of life’ in a technological society (57-60). of well-being. In digital culture, technology plays a crucial part in both the subjective and social dimensions of well-being and once again emerges as a double-edged sword. 61 Social media technologies, for example, have become an integral part of everyday life and facilitate the sharing of information and thoughts, allowing virtual communities to communicate across the globe. In recent years, however, these platforms have also become increasingly associated with hate speech, cyberbullying, and the spread of misinformation. In just a few decades, social practices have radically changed with the introduction of personal computers, the internet, and smartphones as mediators of human experience. Technological progress has not only manifested itself in the form of basic structuring principles of society but also in the personal realm, considering the number of devices and applications available to make life easier. Roderick argues that “[a]s technology has been characterized as a means to the good life, the good life is increasingly to be found not in terms of where one stands in relation to progress but rather in the experience of convenience” (178). Indeed, self-driving cars make driving more convenient, and digital assistants remind us of when to eat, sleep, and exercise. Technology contributes significantly to convenience and efficiency as an extension of the body and the mind. 62 Technologies are constantly reminding us to improve our quality of life, for example, by optimising daily routines. 63 However, the locus of activity is thereby increasingly shifting to the virtual sphere. In 2020, adults spent about “40 per cent of their waking hours in front of a screen” (Nugent). In terms of activity, as Samuels argues, the relationship between subject and technological tool seems to be reversed (“Auto-Modernity” 235). Following Slavoj Žižek’s 1.2 Digital Culture, the Good Life, and Resilience 51 <?page no="52"?> 64 Cf. Pfaller, who originally coined the term ‘interpassivity’ to describe the combination of ‘interactivity’ and ‘passivity’ - best exemplified by ‘canned laughter’ in a sitcom. See also Fisher, who reframed the term in his thesis on capitalist realism when discussing Hollywood blockbusters that “perform[] our anti-capitalism for us, allowing us to continue to consume with impunity,” concluding that this “gestural anti-capitalism actually reinforces it” (12). 65 As Peck et al. write in their introduction to The SAGE Handbook of Neoliberalism (2018): “[t]he notion of ‘actually existing neoliberalism’ would hardly be necessary were it not for the marked but also constitutive discrepancies between the utopian idealism of free-market narratives and the checkered, uneven, and variegated realities of those governing schemes and restructuring programs variously enacted in the name of competition, choice, freedom, and efficiency” (3). Cf. Chun, who prefers using the term ‘capitalism’ as opposed to ‘neoliberalism,’ as he deems it more effective to draw attention directly to the prevailing notion of capitalism than to scapegoat the phase of neoliberalism alone. notion of ‘interpassivity,’ he suggests that the “autonomy has been projected onto the external object, while the subject remains passive” (ibid. 235). 64 Indeed, particularly with regard to today’s media use for entertainment, it is interesting to recall that TV was once predicted to fail “because no one would want to just sit in their homes and stare into a box for hours at a time” (ibid. 235). Binge-viewing of TV series is a prime example of a contemporary cultural practice that has clearly refuted this prediction. Although excessive media consumption is often framed as an escapist practice, it can also be understood as a way in which individuals long for meaningful experiences. Drawing on Hartmut Rosa’s theory of ‘resonance,’ Peter Vorderer and Annabell Halfmann thus suggest a link between the phenomenon of binge-viewing and “individuals’ needs to escape states of alienation and their simultaneous and almost desperate (though mostly unsuccessful) attempt to experience resonance” (90). Complex serial dystopias self-reflexively contemplate themselves as artefacts between immersion and resonance. Paradoxical developments in digital culture (e.g., convenience and efficiency vs information overload) closely tie in with the neoliberal logic, an ideological matrix that has successfully seeped into the personal dimension, now encom‐ passing every aspect of life. 65 The free-market spirit, particularly its pillars of competition and efficiency, manifests itself as a subjective condition that could be described with Bauman’s notion of the ‘hunter’s utopia’ (Culture 30), which is “neither about time nor about space - but about speed and acceleration” and, accordingly, assumes happiness to be “linked to mobility, not to a place” (Society 241). The principle of perpetual movement (rather than idleness) is profoundly triggered by the consumer market and amplified by technologies that seem 52 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="53"?> 66 See Nozick’s Anarchy, State, and Utopia (1974) for a thought experiment on hedonism: in the ‘Experience Machine,’ people can choose to permanently plug into a machine that produces exclusively pleasurable experiences. Nozick concludes that happiness is not only based on subjective, pleasurable experiences but must have some connection with reality; thus, only a true hedonist would prefer a life in a permanent simulated reality. 67 The market, of course, has long recognised the potential of desire-based needs. Technological obsolescence (i.e., the innovation-driven logic of creating ever more advanced versions of products) stimulates consumption through a kind of “built-in dissatisfaction” (Roderick 191). remarkably adept at responding to individual desires and providing short-term pleasures. The hedonic treadmill (i.e., the tendency to chase one pleasure after another because the ‘level of happiness’ drops quickly; see Patterson and Biswas-Diener 149) challenges the notion of utopia. Baccolini, for instance, argues that “[i]n a society where consumerism has come to represent the contemporary modality of happiness, utopia has become an outmoded value” (“Persistence” 518-19), while Moylan sees utopia as temporally “reduced to the consumption of pleasurable weekends, Christmas dreams, and goods purchased weekly in the pleasure-dome shopping malls of suburbia” (Demand 8; see also Beaumont 72). Indeed, whether it is TV commercials enticing viewers to buy a new product or influencers on Instagram advocating a particular lifestyle, utopia seems to be caught up in the idea of temporary and individual happiness. Complex serial dystopias particularly scrutinise the dimension of the good life in terms of hedonism, which generally holds that the pursuit of pleasure and the satisfaction of desires is the path to happiness. 66 When Briggle and colleagues argue that “[o]ur horizon of desires is constantly moving along with the moving technological horizon” (2), they are referring to a digital culture that is deeply informed by this desire-based view, which considers technology as a crucial vehicle for constructing the good life (cf. Tupa 139). 67 As a consumer good, technology primarily caters to individual utopian long‐ ings. Especially interactive media platforms and virtual realities offer a variety of “opportunities for pleasurable experiences” (Brey 29) by stimulating the brain’s reward centre through repeated likes and shares (as on Facebook) or ‘monetary’ rewards (as in video games). The psychologically targeted short-term rewards seem to reinforce the process of technology gradually absorbing the mind and the body (see Hands 150). The retreat into other worlds, whether through binge-viewing series on Netflix, short videos on Tik Tok, quests in video games, or scrolling through social media, is a technologically-enabled practice that corresponds to a sentiment that privileges individual happiness - a form of utopia, as Schmeink puts it, that has become “privatized, separate from the 1.2 Digital Culture, the Good Life, and Resilience 53 <?page no="54"?> 68 The most common translation of eudaimonia is ‘happiness’ or ‘human flourishing’ (eu=good/ daimonian=spirit), which ties in with perfectionist theories that ascribe a telos to human nature (cf. Oxford Reference, “Eudaimonia”.) Due to various interpreta‐ tions throughout history (e.g., as virtue of character, self-improvement [Aristotelian]; as pleasure, absence from pain and worry [Epicurean]; avoiding of complacency [Socratic]), eudaimonia often remains untranslated. In this book, eudaimonia serves to describe, on the one hand, a long-term orientation towards self-improvement (and perfection) as distinct from hedonistic, short-lived notions of the good life, and, on the other hand, contemplative experiences that involve critical reflection rather than immersion (i.e., eudemonic viewing experiences; see Chapter-2.1 in this section). 69 See Brey, who discusses Hurka’s reflections on the three types of intrinsic goods humans strive for: physical, theoretical, and practical perfection (20). well-being of others, and even a somewhat generic term for individual wish fulfilment” (61). Cultivating the idea of individual happiness thus threatens to gradually disqualify the more traditional notion of utopia as a collective endeavour. In digital culture, then, utopia seems to be suffering from a sense of short-sightedness (A. Rubin 39). While the claim that “collectivism and technology are mutually exclusive” (Beauchamp, “Technology” 56) seems too simplistic, Bauman’s remark that “[t]he grand social vision has been split into a multitude of private, strikingly similar but decidedly not complementary portmanteaus” (Life 152) rings true. Complex serial dystopias caution not only against technologically-enabled escapist practices that are complicit in the growing alienation between people but also seem interested in exploring the good life in terms of eudaimonia, an‐ other mode of thinking about the good life. 68 From this perspective, for example, “well-being is the result of a number of objective conditions of persons rather than the subjective experience of pleasure or the fulfilment of subjective desires” (Brey 19). Technology also plays a crucial role in this more objective conception of the good life, namely by way of contextualising technology as a means to “realize one’s potential and perfect oneself ” (ibid. 29). 69 Complex serial dystopias concerned with how humans use technology to transcend the boundaries of mind and body therefore also evoke transhumanist readings. Within this scope, human nature is viewed as a “work-in-progress, a half-baked beginning that we can learn to remold in desirable ways” through a “responsible use of science, technology, and other rational means” (Bostrom 4). The transhumanist angle in complex serial dystopias critically examines the use of technology to achieve perfection, both at the macro-level (building the ‘perfect’ society) and at the microscopic level (enhancing the capabilities of mind and body), commenting on perfectionism and self-optimisation as guiding principles of Western neoliberal societies. 54 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="55"?> 70 See Beck, who describes the disorientation experienced by the individual in the global world due to the lack of guidance from the state, institutions, and experts: “[d]isembedding without embedding - this is the ironic-tragic formula for this dimension of individualization in world risk society” (“Living” 336). 71 Technologies impart choices on a scale of quantity rather than quality, which can overwhelm the individual (Turkle, Alone; Brey 31). Particularly social media functions as a platform which exacerbates the pluralisation of meanings, values, and worldviews. In times of what has been described as ‘post-truth,’ the individual must come to terms with the abundance of different interpretations of reality and meaning. “‘And,’” as Bauman claims, “has replaced the ‘either-or’” antagonism (Life 10, emphases added). Drawing Complex serial dystopias thoroughly negotiate the role of technology in exacerbating the focus on constant progress and perfection in digital culture as self-reflexive cultural artefacts. They hold a mirror up to audiences by referencing everyday practices such as smartphones use, social media, and entertainment, and by reflecting on the extent to which technology and im‐ mersive experiences contribute to the good life and experiences of resonance. In the context of dystopia’s warning function, they even critically articulate themselves as a medium that potentially encourages an unconscious surrender to the status quo. By juxtaposing colourful virtual spaces with exhausted diegetic realities, they direct the viewers’ attention to the trade-offs between digital connectedness and analogue distance, between mediated and actual experiences, and thus critically negotiate visions of the good life in digital culture. (Resilient) Dystopian Heroes From a meta-perspective, complex serial dystopias offer a cognitive mapping of the complexities of a social reality which, according to Anita Rubin, “has reached a level where it is difficult - not only for young people, but for us all - to understand the reality around us, or to cope in it” (39). By zooming in on the lives of relatable protagonists in alternate realities and near-future scenarios, they provide orientation for understanding our own embeddedness in digital culture, which is particularly relevant in times when “our ability to judge what is true or fake in the real world is becoming ever more difficult” (Wolfson). Both the increasing levels of complexity and the way characters deal with the pursuit of creating a good and meaningful life without any guiding orientation find expression on the canvas of complex serial dystopias. 70 With regard to the abundance of lifestyle and entertainment options in pluralised, globalised Western societies, Schmeink suggests that “[w]ith this constant choosing comes the thrill of never being quite assured and satisfied that the choices were the right ones” (62). 71 Since dystopias are always children of 1.2 Digital Culture, the Good Life, and Resilience 55 <?page no="56"?> on Rosa’s resonance theory, Vorderer and Halfmann point out that the good life “is not at all a matter of scope and reach but still a way of qualitatively relating to the world and to others” (84). their time, they now capture the subjective condition of late modern individuals by featuring characters who must master “the art of ‘liquid life’: acceptance of disorientation, immunity to vertigo and adaptation to a state of dizziness, tolerance for an absence of itinerary and direction, and for an indefinite duration of travel” (Bauman, Life 4). For example, one of the protagonists of the complex serial dystopias discussed in this book struggles to maintain control and sanity in a society whose mechanisms are inherently contradictory (see Chapter on Mr. Robot). Such characters contrast the cheerful, stereotypical characters of “blue skies” (Anthony Smith 447) TV series, who navigate through life and master conflicts effortlessly. The subjective condition in digital culture provides a different starting point for the “counter-narrative of resistance” (Baccolini and Moylan, “Introduction” 5) than in classical dystopian fiction and challenges the representations of dystopian heroes. In complex serial dystopias, the subplot of resistance deviates from the dystopian hero’s ‘typical’ transformative journey “from apparent contentment into an experience of alienation and resistance” (ibid. 5). The protagonist in Mr. Robot, for instance, is a character that is already estranged and alienated from his world, struggling to cope with the centreless structures of the hegemonic order in the first place. Serial dystopias draw on established literary techniques, especially those brought to the fore by the self-reflexivity of the critical dystopia. While simple serial dystopias tend to guide viewers towards the moral of the story through a clear path of the protagonist’s development and rebellion, complex serial dystopias are cautious about conveying explicit meaning. Instead, they comprise ambiguous, contradictory points of view that ask the audience to draw their own conclusions, blurring the classical dystopias’ otherwise clearly recognisable narrative/ counter-narrative structure. Complex serial dystopias feature protagonists in the process of constant trial and error, struggling to change the status quo, or sometimes they even abandon a critical mouthpiece altogether. In both cases, viewers are invited to intervene and formulate criticism and alternatives. Interestingly, characters who do challenge the status quo, whether successful or not, tend to suffer from psychological disorders (see Chapter on Mr. Robot) or turn out to be non-human (see Chapter on Westworld), which offers a critical commentary on both mental health and anthropocentrism in digital culture. The protagonists usually seem to struggle with and suffer from an ‘excess of positivity,’ which Byung-Chul Han 56 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="57"?> 72 Han links the rise of user-friendly technology and the culture of convenience in general with the surge of pathological mental conditions in society: “[n]eurological illnesses such as depression, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), borderline per‐ sonality disorder (BPD), and burnout syndrome mark the landscape of pathology at the beginning of the twenty-first century. They are not infections, but infarctions; they do not follow from the negativity of what is immunologically foreign, but from an excess of positivity.” (Burnout 1) See also Ehrenberg’s Weariness of the Self (2016), which traces the history of mental disorders in a social context, and Kottow and Kottow’s notion of the ‘disease-subject,’ which suggests that a disease can cause “existential reorientation” and compel the subject to the “search of a narrative adapted to the new circumstances” (2; see also Peacock and Lustig). 73 The notion of the ‘evil corporation’ was first explored in Kornbluth und Pohl’s Space Merchants (1953) and later in Cline’s Ready Player One (2011), which was adapted to screen in 2018. describes in The Burnout Society (2015). 72 This excess of positivity here refers to the pluralisation of meanings and the freedom of choice that puts pressure on the protagonists to constantly weigh up the benefits and disadvantages of their journey, “captured in a situation that gives an illusion of power and autonomy, but in reality offers the opposite” (Hands 149). The subjective condition of dystopian citizens thus frequently encapsulates moments of surrender, which also informs their (in)ability to instigate radical change. The portrayal of confused, fallible characters instead of enthusiastic, successful dissidents - or even the entire absence of rebels, especially in recent neoliberal dystopias (see Gonnermann) - is emblematic of the shift from determined resistance to a stable system towards continuous adaptation under adverse conditions. While the protagonists of classical dystopias faced oppressive entities (e.g., the authoritarian state) that they could easily identify and rebel against, counter-narratives of complex serial dystopias are nebulous. More often than not, it is a complex network of corporate entities or even the impenetrable mechanisms of neoliberal capitalism itself that form the antagonistic forces. 73 While Orwell’s Winston Smith rebelled against the government for curtailing individual liberties, the protagonists in complex serial dystopias face what Shauna Shames and Amy Atchison call ‘capitocracies’: “dystopic states that seem nonauthoritarian but still take away basic human rights through market forces.” The protagonists are confronted with a higher degree of complexity when it comes to constructing (or defending) the good life, which compels them first to seek effective coping mechanisms (e.g., with the help of technology) to deal with the here and now before tackling a larger transformative change in society. The focus on characters struggling to find coping mechanisms to construct a good life introduces the trope of resilience into recent dystopian fiction, 1.2 Digital Culture, the Good Life, and Resilience 57 <?page no="58"?> 74 Resilience, broadly defined as the capacity to recover from adverse conditions or crises, seems pertinent to the good life amidst complexity. Although the concept is primarily discussed in the health domain, it has sparked attention in various disciplines such as ecology, social science, and technology and engineering. Opening their discussion against the backdrop of Darwin’s observation that “[i]t is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change” (9), Meadows et al. note that “unlike fitness, resilience cannot be observed outside stress’s presence; response to it is part of resilience’s definition” (21). In literary and cultural studies, the exploration of the concept is still rare. See Phillips for the structural importance of the resilience trope in narratives (143) and the correlation between society, individuals, and natural systems that basically all “can only be subjected to so much stress before they collapse” (140). 75 Mr. Robot, for instance, offers detailed insights into the psyche of the protagonist, whose dissociative identity disorder can be read as symptomatic of the struggle to fit into a system he actually despises. Cf. Phillips for a similar macro-/ micro-mirroring of society and the individual in Atwood’s Oryx and Crake (2003) (150). superseding the traditional, clear-cut state-versus-individual paradigm with its trope of resistance. 74 As society grows more complex, society and individuals become more vulnerable to “sudden and unexpected crises” (A. Rubin 39), which indicates that the yardsticks of ‘fitness’ and ‘self-optimisation’ no longer suffice to master the persistence of adverse conditions. Instead, the concept of resilience seems to become pivotal, as it emerges as a key trait to navigating space in constant flux. The way characters struggle with disorientation amidst opaque systemic structures resonates with contemporary viewers because it reflects the modus operandi of digital culture. As Hands poignantly puts it, “[w]e are constantly surveilled, our desires and tastes are captured and fed back to us in subtly distorted and manipulated forms, we are bombarded by confusing information that disturbs our psyches and undermines our capacity to think and make decisions” (146). Complex serial dystopias offer a cognitive mapping of such complex environments, rendering the intricate link between technology and neoliberal capitalism cataclysmic for the characters and their search for the good life. These narratives subjectivise pathological mechanisms of society and project them as corporeal, as psychological consequences onto the individual state of mind. 75 Complex serial dystopias negotiate mental health conditions to draw atten‐ tion not only to the cognitive effects of technological omnipresence but also to broader systemic mechanisms in place, namely that “[n]eoliberalism reaches beyond economic policy and material conditions and reformulates the subject and psychological life” (Cosgrove and Karter 671). In so doing, they aim to disentangle what Mark Fisher coined as ‘capitalist realism’ - the pervasive atmosphere informed by “the widespread sense that not only is capitalism the 58 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="59"?> only viable political and economic system, but also that it is now impossible even to imagine a coherent alternative to it” (2). As this sort of entrapment manifests itself in the psyche of Western individuals, the notion of resilience almost appears in a negative light and needs to be carefully examined in this context. In his discussion of the neoliberalist subject and resilience, Julian Reid argues that resilience is at risk of being co-opted by the neoliberal logic and joining the ranks of other strategies for individual well-being advertised in the 21 st century: The resilient subject is a subject which must permanently struggle to accommodate itself to the world. Not a subject which can conceive of changing the world, its structure and conditions of possibility. But a subject which accepts the disastrousness of the world it lives in as a condition for partaking of that world, which will not question the reasons why he or she suffers, but which accepts the necessity of the injunction to change itself in correspondence with the suffering now presupposed as endemic. (651) The paradigm shift in subjective conditions described by Reid has important implications for the representations of dystopian heroes. Although resilience is a crucial trait for navigating the dystopian landscape, it appears first and foremost as a personal coping mechanism and, therefore, does not necessarily trigger transformation at the societal level with a spirit of determined rebellion that traditionally surfaces in dystopia’s counter-narrative. If being resilient means to “forego the very power of resistance” (Reid 651), then the protagonists of complex serial dystopias are naturally no longer heroes in the traditional sense, that is, figures admired for their courage and outstanding achievements. The resilience trope complicates visions of radical change because it assumes incremental adaptation to adverse circumstances that, at worst, perpetuates the status quo or, at best, only gradually moves towards a utopian horizon. The shift of subversion from resistance to resilience thus informs and changes the way counter-narratives are conceptualised in serial dystopias. Overall, complex serial dystopias point to the nexus between the disposition of the individual and the disposition of society: the character’s struggle to cope with adversity is closely linked to larger pathological mechanisms at play in the fictional society. This parallel negotiation is particularly relevant when it comes to technology’s contribution to the good life. Mark Coeckelbergh, for example, calls for an examination of technology in terms of “more relational ontologies” (5) because “[t]hinking about technology and the good life tends to focus on the individual, psychological point of view, for instance on wellbeing or individual eudaimonia or happiness” (4; see also Hudson). Complex serial dysto‐ 1.2 Digital Culture, the Good Life, and Resilience 59 <?page no="60"?> pias are not only concerned with the subjective experiences of the protagonists but also cultivate a critical view of technology’s role in society at large. They negotiate a particular technology “not only to study how it shapes individual lives and meanings, but also how the community and the practices change” (ibid. 5; see also Griffy-Brown et al.; Willson). By remaining ambiguous about the future of the complex human-technology entanglement in digital culture, they imply hope ex negativo that “[s]omething else is imaginable beyond the dystopian dark side - a technology of commonality and community that enables and liberates, that maximises common wealth, experience and freedom” (Hands 151). Complex serial dystopias thus offer a better understanding of the “interplay between technology, culture, and social structure” (Brey 32) and always position the characters in the larger contexts of their surroundings, providing insights into the sense of community in digital culture. The previous pages focused on the themes inherent in the complex serial dystopias discussed in this book, exploring what it means when “the technical and the human are hopelessly intertwined” (Mitcham and Briggle 46). Com‐ plex serial dystopias break with the static binaries of techno-utopianism and techno-dystopianism and thus debunk the “technological imperative” (Kranz‐ berg 558), that is, the view of technology as a malevolent force external to culture. They situate technology as embedded in the prevailing mood of ‘capitalist realism’ in the cultural unconscious (cf. Fisher 6), evoking the grand lesson that technological determinism no longer adequately describes the level of complexity of digital culture. The focus will now shift to the operating mechanisms of complex TV and the potentials of a complex storytelling mode for serial dystopias to reach and critically engage contemporary audiences. 60 1 Technology and the Dystopian Imagination <?page no="61"?> 76 This interobjectivity reflects the idea of what Meillassoux describes as ‘correlationism.’ He argues that “[not] only does it become necessary to insist that we never grasp an object ‘in itself,’ in isolation from its relation to the subject, but it also becomes necessary to maintain that we can never grasp a subject that would not always-already be related to an object” (5). 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture Complex serial dystopias encapsulate technology as a ‘hyperobject’ and harness the interplay of content and form to illuminate its manifestations in digital culture. In Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology After the End of the World (2013), Timothy Morton introduces the notion of hyperobjects - vital entities of such vast temporal and spatial dimensions that they are beyond human grasp. Although hyperobjects cannot be ‘touched,’ they have immediate effects and can be experienced. According to Morton, hyperobjects are viscous (“they ‘stick’ to beings that are involved with them”), nonlocal (“any ‘local manifestation’ of a hyperobject is not directly the hyperobject”), and “exhibit their effects interobjectively” (through interaction with other objects) (1). These “things that are massively distributed in time and space relative to humans” (ibid. 1) showcase the inability of humans to grasp complex matters in their entirety; “[t]hey are objects in their own right” and “have already had a significant impact on human social and psychic space” (ibid. 2). Morton puts global warming at the centre of his discussions but also points to other examples ranging from the black hole to the plastic bag to “the sum of all the whirring machinery of capitalism” (ibid. 1). Although the broad application of the term threatens to water down its specificity, reading technology as a hyperobject is useful for examining the contours of the human-technology entanglement in complex serial dystopias. In particular, the sum of digital technology, from algorithmic processes on the smartphone to the infrastructure of ‘smart’ cities, has significantly (and irreversibly) shaped practices and experiences in the private and public realms of everyday life. Still, the human-technology nexus remains abstract and elusive. As Helena De Preester puts it, “[i]t is this macrolevel of current digital technology that makes it very difficult to entertain an ethical relationship with what escapes yet envelops us” (4). Particularly digital technology is viscous; it adheres to anything it touches but is non-local and only manifests itself interobjectively in relation to humans: “hyperobjects are only experienced through intermediary objects which are experienced, whereas the hyperobject itself (the digital infrastructure and big data) remains out of reach” (ibid. 4). 76 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture 61 <?page no="62"?> 77 Fisher’s ‘capitalist realism’ is a mode of thought that comes very close to the idea of a hyperobject, i.e., capitalism as an invasive, productive entity that sticks to anything it touches. Peck et al. draw attention to “how neoliberalism exists in the world - as a presence seemingly oppressive, real, and immediate in some respects, but at the same time one that can also be considered to be diffuse, abstract, liminal” (4). While both capitalism and technology do indeed share characteristics of hyperobjects, articulating these notions within a ‘realism’ mode is problematic, as it shifts the focus away from human agency to some sort of discouraging narrowness of vision when it comes to imagining alternatives to the status quo. To speak of ‘technorealism,’ for instance, could easily be misunderstood as a term that overstates technology as a deterministic force and ignores the discursive entanglement of technology and humans - although the term has actually emerged as a more balanced position of technology criticism (see Wilhelm 22). Although the ‘realism’ mode does justice to the ubiquity of the capitalist logic and technology in the contemporary landscape, it is more useful to read technology and capitalism as hyperobjects to illustrate that humans can actually react to the status quo rather than being passively trapped in a state of limbo. Moreover, it remains difficult for policymakers, engineers, and laypeople alike to conceive long-term visions of this entanglement. As a hyperobject, digital technology is an unfathomable entity that nevertheless shows immediate effects on social and individual scales (see also Vaccari). For these reasons, it is helpful to consider digital technology as another entity in the repertoire of hyperobjects. 77 Complex serial dystopias are particularly adept at balancing abstract con‐ ceptualisations of phenomena with the subjective experience of technology. Seriality lends itself here to gradually dissecting the hyperobject into its various manifestations in concrete fictional settings, promising the dystopian narrative an unprecedented creative space for cognitive mapping through detailed imag‐ inary worlds. In these worlds, the hyperobject technology trickles down into the characters’ immediate experiences and practices. Also, hyperobjects usually manifest themselves in society retrospectively. When automation and robotics threaten the personal workplace, for example, the hyperobject technology suddenly surfaces in the here and now. Complex serial dystopias anticipate these ‘contemporary shocks’ and contextualise the subjective experience in relatable scenarios. They make this otherwise abstract “macroscale of technology that escapes us because we live in it” (De Preester 4) accessible to viewers by generating a fictional canvas on which the human-technology entanglement becomes very concrete and immediate. Complex serial dystopias invite audiences to contemplate hyperobjects based on specific scenarios rather than on generalised terms. In this regard, Shaviro underscores science fiction’s inherent ability to break down hyperobjects. He argues that “[o]ne of the great virtues of science fiction in particular is that it works as a kind of focusing device, allowing us to feel the effects of 62 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture <?page no="63"?> 78 Important to note here is also that TV is a “producer’s medium, where writers and creators retain control of their work more than in film’s director-centered model” (Mittell 32). This gives creators more creative freedom to explore a particular storyworld in depth. 79 Children of Men (2006) can be considered a cinematic dystopian ‘masterpiece’ deeply layered with political, cultural, and religious symbolism. Hinging on the assumption that “it is easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism” ( Jameson, Archaeologies 199; see also Fisher 2), the film was a commercial success and sparked the interest of critics and various utopian scholars. these hyperobjects - of digital technology, or capitalism, or climate change - intimately and viscerally, on a human and personal scale, contained within the boundaries of a finite narrative” (4). While he rightly emphasises science fiction’s aptitude for breaking down hyperobjects, he fails to address here how the formal boundaries of a story can strengthen or weaken its capacity to do so. Engaging with hyperobjects within the “boundaries of a finite narrative” (e.g., film or novel) may be less conducive to the kind of in-depth exploration they require compared to the possibility of doing so in a serial format. In general, seriality transcends narrative boundaries by negotiating themes across multiple seasons. To illustrate how vital the format is to deconstructing hyperobjects, a closer look at the subtle differences in the consumption of films on the one hand, and TV series on the other, provides insights. Whereas a film is usually “made to be seen only once” (Adkins 54), a serial narrative inherently offers a continuous engagement with a particular subject, ideally from various points of view. The prolonged screen duration, albeit fragmented by episodic boundaries, allows for “extended character depth, ongoing plotting, and episodic variations [which] are simply unavailable options within a two-hour film” (Mittell 32). 78 The limited timeframe thus urges blockbusters, for instance, to foreground action and spectacle to keep audiences engaged, while TV series encourage long-term commitment by inviting viewers “to explore the world in which the events occur” (Adkins 31). With regard to the critique of technology, visions of the future, such as those depicted in films like I, Robot (2004), Elysium (2013), or Blade Runner 2049 (2017), also run the risk of leading audiences to jump to premature conclusions about the likelihood of the proposed futures and generating false expectations or overestimations of technology’s potential (Edwards et al. 4). Serial narration, in turn, “lends itself to exploring society in its different layers” (Lusin and Haekel 14), allowing for a more detailed and grounded negotiation of digital culture’s interstices shaped by hyperobjects. It is undoubtedly too simplistic to dismiss ‘closed’ artforms in their capacity to address and critically negotiate culturally relevant themes. 79 Yet, in direct comparison to TV series, which work “in terms of longevity, patiently spinning 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture 63 <?page no="64"?> 80 While ‘hard’ science fiction focuses on the accurate depiction of science and technology, ‘soft’ science fiction is more interested in the human and personal dimension in the form of character development (see Samuelson). The reconciliation of soft and hard elements is what characterises the agenda of complex serial dystopias, as they explore both the psychologies of the protagonists and undertake systematic analyses of social mechanisms. 81 See Mittell, who points out how The Wire (2002-2008) manages to exploit “the Internet’s expositional usefulness [to] outsource backstory and cultural references to a preexisting and highly accessible paratextual realm” (262). This means that details within the series did not need to be explicitly spelt out verbally to create a coherent narrative. Complex TV series “exist in a media landscape where online paratexts are always part of a viewer’s potential intertextual flow” (ibid. 262; see also Adkins 55). out over time” (Adkins 55), most films have fewer formal opportunities to delve into the ramifications of hyperobjects. Seriality offers dystopia a way to create compelling narratives by carefully calibrating ‘hard and soft’ elements of science fiction and investing both in detailed projections of technological advancements and well-conceived characters and their subjective experiences in digital culture (cf. McGuirk-114-15). 80 For today’s dystopias, the specific characteristics of the medium have become as crucial to the genre’s didactic project as its themes. In other words, serialisation can tackle the shortcomings of the classical dystopia (cf. Moylan, “Moment” 136), as in failing to contextualise political and social mechanisms and oversimplifying the cornerstones of a given dystopian status quo. While seriality by its very nature has a considerable impact on the dystopian expression, it is precisely the absence or presence of a complex storytelling mode that determines whether serial dystopias critically engage audiences with their socio-cultural and political environment or whether they are situ‐ ated more in the category of ‘light entertainment.’ Complex serial dystopias abandon one-dimensional views of technology, provide a cognitive mapping of hyperobjects and, in so doing, do not spell out critique for the viewer. 81 These narratives refrain from conjuring up meanings explicitly and rarely contain ‘filler moments’ (i.e., scenes that are not actually needed for the plot to progress), which makes them densely layered televisual texts that trigger, at best, fruitful discussions about salient processes in digital culture. The following two subchapters will elaborate on these preliminary remarks in more detail and show how complex TV steers serial dystopias away from ‘light entertainment’ by promoting eudemonic viewing experiences that encourage audiences to critically engage with visions of the near future. 64 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture <?page no="65"?> 82 Mittell argues that series like The Sopranos (1999-2007) functioned “as the narrative template for the complex serialized dramas that emerged throughout the 2000s” (28-9). While acknowledging that cinema also had a tangible influence on this type of storytelling, he stresses that complex TV should be acknowledged “on its own terms” (ibid. 16) because “cross-media comparisons obscure rather than reveal the specificities of television’s storytelling form. Television’s narrative complexity is predicated on specific facets of storytelling that seem uniquely suited to the television series structure apart from film and literature and that distinguish it from conventional modes of episodic and serial forms” (ibid. 18). The genre of dystopia, in particular, underscores the importance of a “broader approach to television as a cultural phenomenon, where form is always in dialogue with cultural contexts, historical formations, and modes of practice” (ibid. 4). 2.1 Challenging Escapism through Complexity The growing recognition of TV series as a critical cultural medium has paved the way for the proliferation of serial dystopias, offering both audiences and critics expanding audio-visual storyworlds to enter, explore, and investigate. As Veronica Innocenti and Guglielmo Pescatore argue, “TV series accompany us, they assert viewing experiences that are long enough to cover entire cycles of some individuals’ lives” (8). While TV series commonly offer easily digestible storylines, the series analysed in this book make access to the storyworlds more challenging, thus not only encouraging but requiring critical engagement. In Complex TV: The Poetics of Contemporary Television Storytelling (2015), Jason Mittell coins the term ‘complex TV’ to describe a “new mode of television story‐ telling” (3) that emerged in the late 1990s, and that is based on transformations in the reception, production, and distribution of TV narratives. 82 It refers to “a storytelling mode and set of associated production and reception practices that span a wide range of programs across an array of genres” (ibid. 233), which therefore also lends itself to exploring the levels of complexity and operating mechanisms of serial dystopias on the small screen. Each complex TV series follows a unique mode of complexity. Mittell points out that “the failure of each series to achieve the other’s model of complexity is to be viewed not as an aesthetic shortcoming but as a facet of each program’s own particular model of complex storytelling” (224). Perhaps precisely because the characteristics of complex TV are not generalisable and surface in distinct constellations, the overall link between the popularity of serial dystopias on the one hand and complex TV as a storytelling mode on the other, has thus far escaped scholarly attention. Miłosz Wojtyna is one of the few scholars to highlight the significant nexus between the dystopian genre and storytelling practices on the small screen: 2.1 Challenging Escapism through Complexity 65 <?page no="66"?> 83 See also Baya for the historical development from a ‘vulnerable’ to an ‘empowered’ audience (154). In the dystopian fictional worlds of the latest high-brow serialized shows, the artistic ambitions of the TV series culminate. The proliferation of dystopian fictions in contemporary narrative TV series is a phenomenon that proves both the increasingly high ambitions of television storytelling, and a large, unorthodox capacity of dystopias to permeate any fabric of contemporary cultural discourse. (170) As Wojtyna correctly observes, the surge of dystopia coincides with this progressive niche of complex narratives driven by ambitious creators who challenge conventional storytelling practices. Through innovative storytelling, self-reflexivity, and intensified viewer engagement, the poetics of complex TV formally accentuate the dystopian genre’s didactic potential to issue warnings - not in a top-down manner but in an engaging way. Complex modes of narration afford serial dystopias with a set of tools to deliver ‘serious’ content, negotiate hyperobjects, and sensitise audiences to plausible imaginations of the future. Since TV series have long been analysed primarily “in the language of literature or film” (Mittell 16), Mittell’s critical vocabulary for the substantial changes in the TV landscape, which are shaped by both technological innovations and changing consumer preferences, proves valuable for analysing the operating mechanisms and associated reception prac‐ tices of dystopias in audio-visual culture. Complex TV differs from conventional television programming in that “viewers find themselves both drawn into a compelling diegesis (as with all effective stories) and focused on the discursive processes of storytelling needed to achieve each program’s complexity and mystery” (ibid. 52). Through this interplay of immersive storytelling and con‐ spicuous formal aesthetics, TV breaks away from its traditional association with a comforting mass medium that allows viewers to passively consume a constant stream of content. 83 Today, as Innocenti and Pescatore argue, “spectators are invited less to simply watch a TV series than to live an experience that transcends the limits of a predetermined consumption” (8, emphasis added). Complex TV also engages viewers through form, transcending “the traditional focus on diegetic action that is typical of most mainstream popular narratives” (Mittell-47). As Mittell puts it: You cannot simply watch these programs as an unmediated window to a realistic storyworld into which you might escape; rather, complex television demands that you pay attention to the window frames, asking you to reflect on how it provides partial 66 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture <?page no="67"?> 84 Mittell borrows this term from Gunning, who steered the focus in film studies to the formal techniques used in the storytelling craft, suggesting that “these devices mine the fascination that spectators of the industrial age had with the way things work, the operational aesthetic” (103). 85 See Wolfson, who points out that “the most hyped TV shows […] have dispensed with linear storytelling, instead creating meta-worlds where normal characters deal with strange occurrences and jumbled timelines. It’s almost as if these shows deliberately try to disorientate audiences”. access to the diegesis and how the panes of glass distort your vision on the unfolding action. (52-3) These metaphorical window frames are the ‘operational aesthetics’ at work. 84 The conspicuous, playful techniques by which the story conveys meaning can provide viewers with additional viewing pleasure through formal analysis, thereby also intensifying the engagement with the socio-cultural commentary that the narrative harbours. Complex TV thus allows viewers to enjoy “the machine’s results while also marveling at how it works” (ibid. 52). In this way, operational aesthetics challenge escapist consumption associated with traditional TV by transporting the viewers back to reality and fostering a more alert viewing experience. Unexpected plot twists, intrusive voice-overs, unusual camera angles, the breaking of the fourth wall, or the manipulation of the chronology of plot events are “creative intraepisode discursive strategies” and key examples of how “[c]omplex programming invites audiences to engage actively at the level of form as well” (ibid. 52). These formal strategies not only generate various viewer responses ranging from surprise and suspense to confusion but also “blur[] the line between diegetic and nondiegetic” (ibid. 49). 85 Complex TV frequently points to itself as a medium of consumption and thus joins the ranks of meta-fiction, that is, “fiction that knows itself to be fiction, and which contemplates itself as an artefact” (Sola and Martínez-Lucen 5). The self-reflexivity of complex serial dystopias then draws attention to the “possible relationships between fiction and reality” (ibid. 5) and signals the “growing maturity of the TV series form” (Wojtyna 165), culminating in a compelling viewing experience. As a growing niche in the television landscape, complex TV fosters sensi‐ tivity and curiosity about the way a story is told, which resonates well with contemporary audiences who reject stale genres and formulaic storytelling, and who enjoy theorising and sharing ideas on online platforms (see Landau 173). As Innocenti and Pescatore point out, “[t]he single episode is now little more than a departure point for the engagement of the user, who is increasingly 2.1 Challenging Escapism through Complexity 67 <?page no="68"?> 86 See Mittell for a discussion of different types of viewers: fresh viewers, spoiled viewers, rewatchers (176-78). See also Kanzler for forensic fandom practices in the Westworld series (66-7). asked to interact with the serial product in a participatory way” (10). Complex TV thus creates new horizons for the critical engagement with dystopian visions. While the didactic function of the genre has hitherto been expressed primarily through narrative themes, the merging of dystopia and complex TV promises to deliver warnings about the future more poignantly by engaging viewers through both immersive storytelling and formal analysis. Situated in the popular and enticing audio-visual landscape, complex serial dystopias manage to “address contemporary problems and target contemporary audiences using language closer to their sensibilities than the by now quite elitist literary idiom” (Klonowska et al., “Reconfigurations” 18). They succeed in generating a vibrant dialogue between audience and text. Forensic Fandom as Utopian Space From a reception perspective, formal techniques contribute to the complexity of the dystopian imagination by producing a captivating atmosphere and allowing discussions at different levels (e.g., camera angles, sound structure, mise-en-scène). These formally enriched imaginations facilitate the emergence of ‘forensic fandoms,’ which Mittell defines as groups of engaged viewers who are thrilled to “dig deeper, probing beneath the surface to understand the complexity of a story and its telling” (288). 86 Forensic fandom practices include “research, collaboration, analysis, and interpretation” (ibid. 277) of the televisual text, which takes place in exchange with other viewers both online and offline. Especially fictional microcosms that expand over decades unite fans in discussion groups on the internet but also at fan conventions that gather producers, actors, and viewers around a particular serial narrative. Participation in such communal practices thus expands the otherwise often secluded viewing experiences (ibid. 165-66; Adkins 55). Although fan communities are not a new phenomenon, the possibilities for exchange have skyrocketed amidst a “serial narrative ecosystem” (Innocenti and Pescatore 12) on digital platforms. Stephen Harrington, for example, points out that “the use of social media as a ‘second screen’ during television viewing” (240) is common practice today. Instead of an isolated entertainment experience, viewing series becomes a highly contextualised cultural practice. Mittell emphasises this point, arguing that complex TV expands the internal practice of hypothesising into an interpersonal practice of theorising about narrative questions: 68 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture <?page no="69"?> 87 Fans of the series The Leftovers (2014-2017), for example, reached out to other ‘lefties’ in ‘The Leftovers Chat’ on Facebook to discuss the plot and share viewing experiences. See also Innocenti and Pescatore, who argue that “[w]hile the idea of trekkies once seemed like a folklore phenomenon, ultimately a little naive and marginal, today we are well aware that serial products are projected as inhabitable environments, in which spectators/ users can circulate, gather information, play and develop affective bonds” (12). 88 Dedicated viewers also embrace transmedia storytelling, such as fan fiction and memes. Echoing Jenkin’s observations, Mittell highlights how such narrative extensions “sig‐ nificantly expand[] the scope of a television series into an array of other media, from books to blogs, videogames to jigsaw puzzles” (292). High-level audience engagement can also lead to exchanges with the series’ creators, who sometimes “use these forums as feedback mechanisms to test for comprehension and pleasures” (ibid. 35). When creators participate in (or at least observe) the ongoing discussions, viewers even have the chance to influence the course of the series by providing “active feedback to the television industry (especially when their programs are in jeopardy of cancellation” (ibid. 35). 89 With streaming providers airing entire seasons at once, ‘binge-viewing’ has become a widespread viewing habit, especially among young audiences. How it affects mental health is gaining increasing scholarly attention. See, e.g., Wheeler, who discusses the correlation between binge-viewing, attachment anxiety, and depression. Hypothesizing is a cognitive process enacted by individuals in the act of viewing, but such ideas and potential answers to narrative questions are frequently articulated within fan communities, turning internal hypothesizing into the cultural practice of theorizing. Such theorizing takes place in numerous cultural realms, from interper‐ sonal conversations on the couch during commercial breaks to popular websites. (173) Particularly digital platforms enable viewers to easily share and compare indi‐ vidual cognitive processes with others in real-time during the act of viewing. 87 This “cultural practice of theorizing” takes place on Facebook, Twitter, Reddit, and in what Harrington and colleagues call ‘virtual loungerooms,’ which serve as ‘backchannels’ to television (405). In this regard, “television can be enhanced when experienced alongside others” (Harrington 239), reinforcing the significance of TV as a key social medium that not only has the potential to unite household members physically but also to virtually connect members of anonymous reception communities under the umbrella of shared interest in a specific narrative. These digital backchannels are important platforms, especially for viewers of complex TV, to discuss narrative questions. 88 Complex TV raises more questions than it answers and promotes the communal spirit of series consumption. It challenges negative connotations of ‘binge-viewing’ as an isolating practice that potentially absorbs viewers and disconnects them from their real-world surroundings. 89 2.1 Challenging Escapism through Complexity 69 <?page no="70"?> 90 Pulp Fiction (1994) and Inception (2010), for example, use narrative puzzle logics that challenge viewer comprehension. 91 Chandran highlights that “[g]lobal downloads for Plague Inc, a 2012 video game that encourages players to spread a disease around the world before a cure is found,” skyrocketed during the COVID-19 outbreak. Interestingly, against the backdrop of the real-life pandemic threat, the game’s developers decided to change the story into a more utopian model that allows players to “save the world from an epidemic rather than spread contagion. This version will see players monitor disease progression, boost healthcare systems and manage societies through triaging, quarantining, social distancing and closing of public services” (emphasis added). Although their distinctiveness is slowly fading in today’s diversified and competitive television landscape, complex TV narratives still stand out from most series that are precisely written to create an immersive experience. Immersion in an audio-visual storyworld is generally in the interest of streaming providers. As Neil Landau points out, “[y]ou don’t even need to move a muscle for the next episode to play automatically” (xiv). Complex TV, however, often obstructs automated consumption patterns because both the critical themes and the accompanying operational aesthetics trigger a need for exchange among viewers. Sam Wolfson argues, for example, that it is impossible to watch the series Legion (2017-2019) “without five tabs open to different online explainers.” Complex TV challenges easy access to the stories by raising “uncertainty as to what precisely happened, who was involved, why [characters] did what they did, how this came to be, or even whether it actually happened at all” (Mittell 24-5). 90 In so doing, these narratives encourage viewers to train “their comprehension skills through long-term viewing and active engagement” (ibid. 51). As Mittell repeatedly points out, consuming complex TV is comparable to mastering a video game. Frances Bell and colleagues argue that “[t]he place fiction has in creating future visions involves an active relationship between the reader and the text; a creative connectivity” (9, emphasis added). Complex TV promotes this dynamic interaction between audiences and televisual text through a ‘ludic interface,’ a term initially coined in the field of human-computer interaction (HCI), describing playfully designed interfaces to increase user acceptance. Translated to the arena of interactive media, this means that the playful format ascribes viewers a sense of autonomy in decoding the narrative (cf. Schleiner 7). Worth mentioning here is the rising popularity of dystopian video games during the COVID-19 pandemic, indicating a general interest in the exploration of complex reality through play. As Nyshka Chandran points out, what starts off as entertainment frequently turns into an “educational experience.” 91 Complex TV and interactive media like video games advocate a creative connectivity between 70 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture <?page no="71"?> 92 Bandersnatch is Netflix’s first interactive film in which viewers take control of large parts of the actions and influence the trajectory of the plot by making choices for the protagonists with the remote control (see Chapter on Black Mirror). See also Mittell’s discussion on ‘upstream’ engagement (108) and Maziarczyk’s analysis of ‘playable dystopias’ (235). 93 On a meta-level, the temporal aspect (seriality and long-term commitment) also intersects with notions of utopia as a process rather than a blueprint (see Chapter 3.2 in this section). audience and text, allowing viewers and players to acquire orientational knowl‐ edge. The convergence of TV and video game experiences under the umbrella of a ludic interface reinforces the literal involvement of the viewer, as evident in Black Mirror’s interactive film Bandersnatch (2018). 92 It is not through passively immersing but through actively navigating the fictional worlds of complex serial dystopias that entertainment is created. The interactive engagement with ‘serious’ topics makes viewers aware that deciphering complex issues takes time and commitment, whether in fiction or reality. 93 Unsurprisingly, this kind of viewing experience does not appeal to all viewers. Derek Kompare, for instance, wished “more TV today were a bit more ‘let’s hang out with these cool people as they solve this episode’s problem’ and a bit less ‘let’s hang on every portentous word and action because it will only add up at the end of the season’” (@d_kompare, Twitter, 29 Jan. 2021). Nevertheless, the rise of complex TV suggests that a growing number of viewers are finding pleasure in deciphering densely layered fictional landscapes. Creators and producers themselves encourage a ‘lean-forward’ engagement by “dispersing their narrative content across media forms, providing opportunities or even actively requiring viewers to drill down into various sites to fully comprehend their storyworlds” (Mittell 288). They carefully implant hidden clues or messages into the narratives (so-called ‘Easter eggs’ to be noticed by attentive viewers) and spread additional information (‘paratexts’) across media channels to diversify the viewing experience (ibid. 305; see also Kanzler 67). The storyworld thus transcends the confines of the TV screen and encompasses multiple touchpoints in the extratextual world of the audience. As series involve viewers across multiple media channels and evoke “various forms of suspense, surprise, curiosity, and theorizing” (Mittell 26), the playful engagement with the televisual text is symptomatic of what Henry Jenkins refers to as ‘convergence culture,’ which points to the changes in cultural prac‐ tices of both media production and consumption. He argues, for example, that “[t]ransmedia storytelling is the art of world making. To fully experience any fic‐ tional world, consumers must assume the role of hunters and gatherers, chasing down bits of the story across media channels, comparing notes with each other 2.1 Challenging Escapism through Complexity 71 <?page no="72"?> 94 Mittell argues that “[t]he Internet’s ubiquity has enabled fans to embrace a ‘collective intelligence’ for information, interpretations, and discussions of complex narratives that invite participatory engagement […]. Videogames, blogs, online role-playing sites, Twitter, fan websites, and other digital technologies enable viewers to extend their participation in these rich storyworlds beyond the one-way flow of traditional television viewing, extending the universes of complex narrative creations […] into fully interactive and participatory realms” (35). via online discussion groups, and collaborating to ensure that everyone who invests time and effort will come away with a richer entertainment experience” (21). This vibrant dynamic in new media culture encourages the exploration of themes and forms of complex serial dystopias on a remarkably large scale. Kevin Yeoman even argues that the experience of series like Westworld “isn’t in the viewing, it’s in the discussion” (emphasis added). On a meta-level, then, the responsibility to avoid the undesirable projections on screen that dystopia usually imposes on its viewers is complemented by a response-ability that manifests itself in the ability to discuss theories with others in the viewing community. When TV series become ‘worlds’ that viewers explore together, forensic fandoms become a utopian space in which imaginations of alternatives can be shared. As becomes clear, complex TV holds the potential to critically engage con‐ temporary audiences through unconventional storytelling, narrative enigmas, and recurring moments of surprise. Complex TV is particularly appealing to tech-savvy viewers who enjoy navigating the digital realm on multiple platforms. 94 As Mittell notes, in such a technologically-enabled participatory culture, viewers become “amateur narratologists, noting patterns and violations of convention, chronicling chronologies, and highlighting both inconsistencies and continuities across episodes and even series” (52). Even if not all viewers engage in the same way, it is important to note how playful, interactive formats promote the ‘rewatchability’ of a series (ibid. 38). Because complex TV unfolds meaning on multiple layers like plot, sound, and mise-en-scène, these narratives are so rich in symbolism that they often need to be re-watched to capture the complex interplay of form and themes. Wolfson points out that “[s]ome viewers resent the fact that most of these shows demand viewers spend time reading online episode recaps and fan theories just to understand what’s going on.” Yet, the (sometimes) wide discrepancies in viewer response suggest that complex TV does not necessarily aim to please its audience at all costs: those who ‘lean back’ and expect easily digestible content tend to be less ‘rewarded’ than those interested in how the story constructs meaning through complex narration (see Mittell 50). Complex serial dystopias particularly resonate with those viewers 72 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture <?page no="73"?> 95 Critics of late capitalism would undoubtedly argue that forensic fandom practices are merely symptoms of another successful strategy that promotes consumption by enrolling audiences “into a dynamic relationship with a range of products of the entertainment industry” (Innocenti and Pescatore 11). Mittell admits that “[i]t is not just that audiences are active but that texts are explicitly activating them - they are designed to stimulate viewers, strategically confuse them, and force them to orient” (275). Certainly, even complex serial dystopias fall victim to the process of commercialisation. Nevertheless, the activation of the audience also holds a utopian potential in this context, as additional paratexts primarily serve as orientation guides to jointly disentangle the core narrative in the first place. who enjoy “rewatch[ing] in order to notice the depth of references, to marvel at displays of craft and continuities, and to appreciate details that require the liberal use of pause and rewind” (ibid. 38). It is the attentive viewers who notice, for example, that the soundtrack of Mr. Robot’s title sequence changes in each episode or how the unusual camera angles underscore the thematic agenda of the series. In this sense, complex TV allows viewers to continuously engage with the discursive tricks of the series over months and years. 95 Complex serial dystopias manage not only to creatively express culturally relevant themes through complex storytelling but also to create utopian spaces that involve collaborative practices among viewers. Klonowska and colleagues, for example, draw attention to the “relocation of utopian communities from fictional realms to spaces created by the authors and recipients of thus pro‐ duced narratives” (“Reconfigurations” 14). Unlike literary imaginations of the future, which prove valuable in stimulating internal subjective imaginations, audio-visual renderings offer audiences the same fictional reference points, en‐ abling discussions among viewers who “approach an episode more like a critic, simultaneously experiencing and analyzing a text” (Mittell 178). Ultimately, complex TV reinforces a mode of collaborative ‘deep-reading’ of dystopian themes. It embraces narrative enigmas “without fear of temporary confusion for viewers” (ibid. 49) and asks viewers to pay attention to narrative details and the formal mechanics of the story, sharpening the critical eye also towards real-world complexities. Complex TV cultivates critical, collaborative viewing practices that afford dystopias unprecedented opportunities to “locat[e] hope in perhaps unexpected places” (G. Murphy 477), such as virtual discussion forums. Eudemonic Viewing Experiences and Uncomfortable Immersion Given that audio-visual dystopian worlds tend to be particularly “aesthetically seductive” (Chandran), they can evoke stronger and more sustained emotional responses in audiences than in other media. The invasive ambience of serial dystopias ties in with three characteristic features of TV that M. King Adkins 2.1 Challenging Escapism through Complexity 73 <?page no="74"?> 96 Adkins points out that “[c]inema is a special event: we make plans to go before we actually go; once there we pay money to buy a ticket that gains us admittance; we sit in darkness, separated by that darkness from everyone and everything else around us. Television, on the other hand, is integrated into our daily routines. Not only does it usually reside in the central room of the house, but it may be left on twenty-four hours a day, a background soundtrack with images while we do our chores, eat supper, spend time with our families” (23). highlights: immediacy (the physical proximity between the viewer and the screen; here also the similarity between fictional world and reality), domesticity (TV as an integral part of the comfort zone within the home), and seriality (the temporal dimension of an expanding storyworld that accompanies the viewer) (21-8). In this respect, dystopias offer a different experience on the small screen than in other narrative media. 96 “Seriality, like immediacy and domesticity but also in concert with them,” as Adkins puts it, “lends the virtual space of the television program realism. Serials maintain a certain verisimilitude to life not available in a novel, a play, or a film, a verisimilitude attached to time” (25, emphasis added). TV series are therefore particularly suited for “creating spaces, spaces the viewer is invited to enter and explore” (ibid. 28). In the case of complex serial dystopias, however, these spaces rarely offer a place of comfort, compensation, or distraction from the real world. The virtual spaces of the complex serial dystopias discussed in this book foster what could be understood as ‘eudemonic viewing experiences,’ namely viewing experiences that engage viewers emotionally and cognitively, stimulating sus‐ tained reflection on their own socio-cultural realities. In so doing, they offer what Mary Beth Oliver and colleagues call ‘self-transcendent media experiences’ in that they “provide awareness of and insight into the beauty and tragedy of the human condition; elevate receivers from their mundane concerns; and increase interconnectedness with others, with their surroundings, and with causes beyond themselves” (384). As viewers are ‘moved’ by what they see on screen, these narratives activate and engage audiences beyond the viewing sessions (Oliver and Bartsch 76). In a similar vein, Calvert W. Jones and Celia Paris argue that “[w]hile escapist (‘hedonic’) motivation may lead to one kind of emotional involvement driven by less in-depth cognitive processing - perhaps enhancing the likelihood of narrative persuasion - truth-seeking (‘eudemonic’) motivation may lead to another, fostering reflection on important issues (including political ones) and thus a greater potential for agenda-setting” (977). Complex serial 74 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture <?page no="75"?> 97 Complex serial dystopias not only critically engage with philosophical questions about hedonism and eudaimonia through their narrative content (see Chapter 1.2 in this section) but also through their form. See Vorderer and Halfmann, who discuss the ex‐ tension of entertainment research from individuals’ hedonic motivation to eudemonic motivation in the context of entertainment consumption (80-2). The difference between complex serial dystopias and more commercial serial dystopias could thus also lie in the different viewing experiences they evoke. Cf. Fisher, who argues that TV today is a system of emotional rather than moral guidance (74; see also Mothes et al. 99). 98 Years and Years realistically depicts how the fictional society gradually collapses over the course of fifteen years due to constant political upheaval. Delaney states that: “I had to force myself to continue past episode one. After having read the news all day, refreshing live blogs and even writing about the pandemic myself, the last thing I wanted to do in my downtime was watch a grim dystopian series that actually looks like a more attractive prospect than our current, lived reality.” Her reaction illustrates the uncanny dystopias trigger eudemonic rather than hedonic viewing experiences, thus offering more than just pleasurable affective responses (see Mothes et al. 90). 97 Instead of ‘sucking’ viewers into the vortex of simplified fantasies of the future that spare them from unsettling confrontations with problems of the here and now, complex serial dystopias pursue the aim of keeping the audience’s critical spirit awake through plausible near-future scenarios. Cornelia Mothes and colleagues, for example, argue that the Westworld series succeeds in exposing viewers to a type of entertainment that encourages reflection and contemplation rather than a temporary escape from their own reality (98). Offering viewers an immediate way to relate to the world echoes Rosa’s idea of ‘resonance’: a subject-object relationship between audiences and the TV world that can be transformative rather than alienating or isolating (see Vorderer and Halfmann 84). Speculative settings and dystopian realism can thus promote eudemonic viewing experiences by triggering reflection on the good life, the zeitgeist of digital culture, and what it means to be human against the backdrop of technological omnipresence. The confrontation with familiar scenarios, however, is not necessarily a pleasant experience. The Black Mirror anthology is a textbook example of how a TV series creates unsettling viewing experiences simply by depicting “practices of everyday life, all of which resonate deeply with contemporary cultural transformations tied to the emergence of digital media and more interactive forms of communication and entertainment” (Mittell 53). Another revealing example of how dystopian realism interferes with effortless recep‐ tion is the British dystopian TV series Years and Years (2019). The Guardian writer Brigid Delaney, for instance, shared her viewing experiences during the COVID lockdown, reporting how difficult it was for her to sit back and comfortably enjoy the storyworld. 98 Series like Black Mirror and Years and Years 2.1 Challenging Escapism through Complexity 75 <?page no="76"?> experience frequently voiced by viewers of series that subscribe to dystopian realism. See also Landau, who argues that The Leftovers series “is almost too painful for us to watch” (78), and Chandran, who quotes a clinical psychologist pointing out dystopia’s potential threat for people struggling with mental health issues, for whom “the genre could do more harm than good. If someone is feeling overwhelmed and worried about the future, dystopian stories could exacerbate those worries”. 99 Mittell emphasises that in complex TV, “formal engagement and immersive storytelling reinforce each other” (53). The emphasis on operational aesthetics “is not to downplay the importance of traditional pleasures of character depth, neat resolution of plots, storyworld consistency, action-oriented excitement, and humor - complex television at its best employs all of these elements while adding the operational possibilities of formal engagement” (ibid. 53). demonstrate how disturbingly close fictional worlds can be to viewers’ own worlds. Although “blue skies” (Anthony Smith 447) series conveying optimism and light-heartedness remain popular on streaming platforms, the sheer volume of dystopian media available in digital libraries is rising - a demand that indicates that viewers are increasingly opting for viewing experiences beyond light entertainment. Complex serial dystopias provoke an experience that could be loosely defined as ‘uncomfortable immersion’ - viewing experiences that are captivating but not exclusively in a pleasant way, triggering instead a wide range of emotions and cognitive engagement that transcends the pleasurable affective response. ‘Immerse,’ the dictionary suggests, means to “dip or submerge in a liquid” but also to “involve oneself deeply in a particular activity” (Lexico). Traditional viewing experiences conjure up notions of being ‘submerged’ in the story, whereas complex TV prompts the latter by activating viewers to involve themselves in the storyworld by theorising and interacting with other members of the viewing community. 99 Besides the formal complexity that makes easy access to the narrative difficult, it is the social and psychological ‘gritty realism’ (cf. Dellwing and Harbusch 10) of complex serial dystopias that challenges escapist immersion in fictional realities. The close resemblance to the real-world mechanisms interferes with the ability to lean back and comfortably immerse oneself in the story. Complex serial dystopias offer not a canvas for tabula rasa fantasies (as post-apocalyptic fiction does) but a mirror that reflects the complexities of hyperobjects. 76 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture <?page no="77"?> 100 See Adkins for a discussion of the ‘world’ aspect in TV series, suggesting that “[i]n most of these cases, ‘world’ seems to suggest a kind of alternate reality, an ‘other’ space we can inhabit. While we may ultimately recognize these spaces as separate and independent from the real world, we frequently invest in them as though they contain some measure of reality” (9). 2.2 Worldbuilding and Modes of Complexities In recent times, worldbuilding seems to have become the “backbone of every TV series” (Hendrickson) to deeply engage viewers in the narrative and facilitate the emergence of forensic fandoms. Adkins even argues that TV itself “can usefully be thought of in terms of space, as a ‘world’ or rather many worlds - a whole host of virtual spaces viewers enter, explore, inhabit week after week, episode after episode” (1-2). Indeed, TV series can be read as what Vera and Ansgar Nünning call “world-building institutions, projecting alternatives to the world models that we generally regard as ‘reality’” (12). For complex serial dystopias, worldbuilding seems indispensable for dismantling hyperobjects because it ascribes “form, structure, and meaning” (ibid. 12) to the complexities of empirical reality. Diligent worldbuilding endows serial dystopias with the necessary parameters to address hyperobjects in narrative spaces that are sufficiently detailed to span several years. 100 Following Nelson Goodman’s observations in Ways of Worldmaking (1978), Nünning and Nünning highlight that “worlds are always made from other worlds” (5). Dystopian worlds are a case in point because they always relate directly to the world in which they are created. However, the challenge of dystopias in a serial format is to sustain practical criticism of the ‘blueprint’ over a longer period than in closed formats such as literature or film. The task boils down to avoiding reductionist worldviews, balancing detailed contexts and macro-perspectives, including multiple points of view, and addressing themes that are culturally and politically significant enough to resonate with audiences over a long period of time. As Mittell explains, to call something complex is to highlight its sophistication and nuance, suggesting that it presents a vision of the world that avoids being reductive or artificially simplistic but that grows richer through sustained engagement and consideration. It suggests that the consumer of complexity should engage fully and attentively, and such engagement will yield an experience distinct from more casual or partial attention. (216) By avoiding simplistic representations, as Mittell points out, complex TV stands out from ‘blue skies’ television, which tends to feature overly enthusiastic protagonists and idealised representations of socio-cultural reality (see Anthony 2.2 Worldbuilding and Modes of Complexities 77 <?page no="78"?> 101 Series like The Sopranos (1999-2007) and The Wire (2002-2008) are widely regarded as early game-changers in traditional TV storytelling, using techniques like documen‐ tary-style framing to portray urban life as realistically as possible (Adkins 61; Mittell 29). 102 See Groeben and Vorderer’s theory of ‘reducible certainty’ in the literary context, pointing out why audiences appreciate certain texts: “[t]hose literary texts that are too unfamiliar and novel for readers as well as those that are too familiar and well-known to them fail to attract as there is either not enough or too much complexity to be reduced through reading” (Vorderer and Halfmann 86). See also Czigányik, who highlights the advantage of utopian fiction over utopian theoretical discourse, such as the ability to highlight “the individual and particular, while simultaneously presenting the universal or the larger structure” (“Afterword” 243). Smith 447). Furthermore, the series creators’ aspiration to construct a fictional world in minute detail (by absorbing the contemporary complexities and reflecting it back to the audience (see Itzkoff)) supports the didactic function of serial dystopias by focusing on society's interstices and liminal spaces, which are often more revealing than vague and simplified worldviews. 101 Mittell argues that television realism, in general, “is not a marker of accurate representation of the real world but rather is an attempt to render a fictional world that creates the representational illusion of accuracy - a program is seen as realist when it feels authentic, even though no media text comes close to a truly accurate representation of the complex world” (221). The worlds of complex serial dystopias build on this “representational illusion of accuracy” and thereby evoke a ‘strange recognition’ in terms of the logic of the fictional world, its setting, and character disposition (see Chapter 1.1 in this section). Worldbuilding thus allows complex serial dystopias to address socio-cultural dynamics - usually only slightly advanced in technology - in a compelling way without running the risk of producing escapist adventures for audiences. Centrifugal and Centripetal Complexity The complex serial dystopias discussed in this book seem particularly adept at finetuning the nexus between complexity and familiarity. 102 The logic of the complex fictional worlds is altered just enough to trigger a change of perspective in the audience. As Landau puts it, “[t]he best dystopian series take an abstract, unimaginable global event and make it concrete, hyper-specific, personal and relatable. And that’s what makes them so foreboding, creepy and irresistible. We’re invited to empathize and judge and ask ourselves: What if this really happened to me? ” (72). Complex TV feeds on two particular modes of complexity that contribute to the density of the storyworld. On the one hand, “centrifugal complexity” (Mittell 222) expands the world geographically, supporting the “sociological breadth” (ibid. 220) of the series. “[C]entripetal complexity,” on the 78 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture <?page no="79"?> 103 As Mittell points out, one could argue that The Wire lacks psychological depth, while Breaking Bad fails to address the larger social and political embeddedness of its characters. Nevertheless, both series consistently employ their unique mode of complexity, which points to the need, as the scholar repeatedly argues, “to evaluate a series on its own aesthetic terms” (224). other hand, displays an “inward-looking psychological depth” (ibid. 220). The Wire (centrifugal) and Breaking Bad (centripetal) are textbook examples of these two distinct modes of narrative complexity. 103 When serial dystopias unfold the far-reaching tentacles of hyperobjects in their storyworlds, they harness the centrifugal force of complexity. This mode pushes the “ongoing narrative outward, spreading characters across an expanding storyworld” (ibid. 222) and thus yields a wide narrative scope to underscore the interconnectedness of characters and their social embeddedness. Here, “[s]ystem logic trumps characters’ actions or motivations” (ibid. 222). Centripetal complexity, by contrast, revolves around a narrative centre: the pro‐ gress of the plot is primarily triggered by character choices and behaviours (e.g., as in Breaking Bad in which Walter White’s (Bryan Cranston) decisions are the main drivers of the plot). This mode of complexity exhibits “storyworld[s] with unmatched depth of characterization, layers of backstory, and psychological complexity building on viewers’ experiences and memories over the program’s numerous seasons” (ibid. 223). Thus, seemingly trivial scenes in earlier episodes or seasons can, in retrospect, turn out to be a defining moment that shapes the plot situation in later episodes: the “centripetal force creates a complex storyworld that holds its main characters accountable for past misdeeds and refuses to let them (or us) escape these transgressions at the level of story consequences or internal psychology” (ibid. 223). Viewers are thus invited to pay close attention to seemingly irrelevant narrative information. The psychological depth of characters adds an important layer of complexity to serial dystopias, as this interior perspective has often been a ‘literary luxury’ in dystopian narratives (see Walsh 104). Classical dystopias often simplify character constellations and reduce plot complexity to deliver a clear didactic message and encourage sympathy for characters who embody abstract ideals rather than ‘flesh and blood’ human beings with flaws (see Gonnermann 49-50). Serial dystopias particularly benefit from centripetal complexity, which “pulls actions and characters inward toward a gravitational center, establishing a thickness of backstory and character depth that drives the action” (Mittell 223), because it lends itself to underscoring the entanglement with the hyperobject from the individual perspective. By leveraging both the centrifugal and centri‐ petal mode of complexity in clever combination, serial dystopias can vividly 2.2 Worldbuilding and Modes of Complexities 79 <?page no="80"?> 104 Although complex serial dystopias avoid creating exclusively immersive experiences, they can also be cathartic, triggering real emotions like “laughter, tears, outrage, fear” (Landau 148). Interestingly, the emotions evoked by fiction are generally similar to those in real life. Oatley points to this readerly empathy in terms of mirroring: “when people read words that indicate emotional expressions such as ‘smile,’ ‘cry,’ and ‘frown,’ they activate in themselves the facial muscles for making the corresponding expressions” (113). See also Adkins, who points out that “[o]ur brains experience the two classes - real and imagined - in the same way, making one, neurologically anyway, just as real as the other” (13) and Nünning, who discusses the affective potential of literature, conceding that “the more emotional stories are, the more they are read in a state of immersion” (39). depict the entrenched mechanisms of hyperobjects in society as well as the dilemma the characters face in digital culture. With the genre’s mediating function between system logic and subjective state of mind, serial dystopias inherently require both forms of complexity in order to issue warnings in a serial format. The complex serial dystopias discussed in this book tend to oscillate between these two distinct modes of complexity to manage the negotiation of both the macroand micro-perspec‐ tives of the storyworld. They use the centrifugal force to expand the fictional universe and show the manifestation of hyperobjects from different angles, and they use the centripetal force to create relatable internal psychology of characters, both of which contribute to the viewers’ cognitive and emotional engagement with the series. 104 While morally complex characters and character transformations are rarely found in simple serial dystopias, complex serial dystopias leverage the narrative techniques of complex TV to make dystopian heroes more ‘human’ and thus relatable rather than idealised. Although “stable characters with consistent traits and personalities is a major draw for serial storytelling, as we want to feel connected to such characters through parasocial relationships” (Mittell 141), complex TV challenges assumed stabilities by breaking with audience expectations. Complex narratives are not afraid to entirely disappoint viewers, for example, by killing off a popular protagonist who seemed irreplaceable to the progression of the plot (e.g., Game of Thrones) or by deliberately disillusioning viewers by negating initial assumptions about characters as the series progresses (see Landau 135). Particularly complex serial dystopias disappoint the viewers’ position as “desiring subjects” (Cavalcanti 64), as they rarely offer consolation. Breaking with expectations heightens the viewers’ sensitivity to the construct‐ edness of the series, pulls them out of the diegesis, and makes them aware of manipulative storytelling techniques, nurturing their critical mindset. 80 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture <?page no="81"?> 105 Mittell points out Walter White’s gradual transformation from a high school teacher to a renowned crystal meth dealer in Breaking Bad as an illustrative example (153-55). See also his discussion of charisma and antiheroes in complex TV (144). The growing ambition of series creators to experiment with complex, more relatable characters in general also has important implications for the dystopian hero. Schmeink underscores that heroes are usually “the catalysts of change and transformation; they represent the utopian impulse of a society in that they are the individuals that unlock a potential, […] which allows for human progress” (179). Complex serial dystopias not only challenge the conventional protagonist-antagonist paradigm but also play with viewers’ sympathies for protagonists who initially seemed well suited as critical mouthpieces of the narrative but turn out to be less capable of unleashing a utopian potential in society. Instead of predictable, linear character development, they foreground character growth and overhaul (Mittell 137-38). 105 The trope of the hero as rebel - a stock feature of the classical dystopia’s counter-narrative - tends to fade into the background amidst the human-technology entanglement, while resilience rather than resistance seems to become a salient character trait (see Chapter 1.2 in this section). Against the backdrop of a digital culture marked by unprecedented and overwhelming socio-political and environmental challenges, such as a pandemic and a looming climate crisis, it is less surprising that the antihero is becoming an “important dramatic staple of many complex series” (Mittell 142). Unlike classical heroes with idealised qualities like superior strength of character, intellect or self-sacrifice, it is precisely the antihero’s vulnerability and struggle to navigate environments shaped by hyperobjects that resonate with contempo‐ rary audiences. In their effort to build a plausible world, complex serial dystopias tend to feature ‘everyday’ characters and their structural embeddedness in society. Rooted storylines underscore not only the “shift to the ‘mundane’ in science fiction” (Bell et al. 8) but also reflect the growing interest in ‘authentic’ characters who are “not driven by fame, sex, power or money” (Landau 181). Although characters often still function as the personified alternative to the system, their power to trigger change seems less pronounced than in classical dystopias, where the counter-narrative is usually clearly recognisable as such. Also, complex serial dystopias pay less attention to individual heroism and more to the collective effort to challenge the status quo. What is more, complex TV tends to put antagonists centre stage or at least avoids simplistic representations of them. Worldviews beyond the protagonist's perspective are crucial to dismantling the mechanisms in the given fictional world from different angles. Complex serial dystopias, therefore, not only 2.2 Worldbuilding and Modes of Complexities 81 <?page no="82"?> create storyworlds inhabited by likeable characters with whom viewers can quickly identify. They offer audiences nuanced perspectives, even on behaviours and motivations that might clash with the viewer’s value system and ethical principles. Although this can initially make for an unpleasant viewing experi‐ ence, viewers may enjoy learning about unconventional perspectives over time. Overall, as Landau points out, complex TV creatively responds to changing viewer preferences: With the digital television revolution, audiences have transcended the formulaic and predictable in favor of exploring the nuanced gray areas of complex, heavily flawed heroes, antiheroes and antagonists in series that defy stereotypes or easy resolution. They lean into the chaotic, often irrational world in which we live now. Today’s trailblazing content creators are delivering series grounded in gritty realism, uncomfortable, intentionally cringe-worthy humor and irony. Some are perhaps even too clever for their own good. But most challenge our expectations for an established genre by pushing the envelope and provoking us to question the status quo. (35, emphasis added) Landau’s observation aptly summarises the key mechanisms of the contempo‐ rary television landscape, to which complex serial dystopias respond in order to create a space of resonance. By pushing the boundaries of storytelling and exploring the interstices of society and characters, they build relatable worlds and ultimately sustain a sense of agency rather than a state of inertia through forensic fandoms that are willing to decipher the complexities of the fictional world and socio-cultural realities. Moreover, these narratives instil the hope that once viewers engage with the dystopia, as Chandran puts it, they “feel inspired to act to prevent those worst-case scenarios from materialising.” The operating mechanisms of complex TV thus affect dystopia on multiple levels and offer refreshing and vital approaches to the genre through worldbuilding in terms of centrifugal or centripetal complexity. As becomes clear, complex serial dystopias differ from TV series that focus on providing enjoyable, immersive viewing experiences. When it comes to dystopia on the small screen, it seems that the more involved viewers are on the plot level, the less likely they are to reflect on the story’s ‘grand lesson.’ Drawing on Green and Brock, Bilandzic and Busselle point out that “[i]f a perceiver’s mental systems are occupied with constructing mental models of the story’s characters, events, locations, and its progression in time, little cognitive energy is left for critical examination of or counterarguing with the story’s assertions” (266). TV series like The One (2021) or I-Land (2019) use a relatively simple storytelling approach that spells out the critique for the viewer down to the 82 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture <?page no="83"?> 106 The invitation to the event read ‘Welcome to Gilead,’ the drinks were called ‘Praise be Vodka’ and ‘Under his Eye Tequila,’ and the attendees dressed up in handmaid robes with the signature white bonnet and red cape worn by the oppressed female characters of the narrative. Jenner’s celebration was widely regarded as utterly distasteful by followers on social media, as it ignored the critique of women’s rights and patriarchal authority that is at the heart of the serial adaptation of Atwood’s literary blueprint (cf. Sini). This example shows how “textual meanings can be contextualized within the larger cultural field of contemporary capitalism, class struggle, identity categories, and political power to highlight why such moments matter beyond just representations within a television series” (Mittell 339). 107 Interestingly, Jones and Paris found “consistent evidence that dystopian narratives enhance the willingness to justify radical - especially violent - forms of political action” (969). While generating political engagement can be deemed a constituting element on the genre’s agenda, violent forms of action generally deviate from its affiliation with underlying and sustainable utopian intentions. Although the scholars do not distinguish smallest detail. They follow a trend that has already manifested itself in the category of YA dystopias, undermining the subversive potential of the genre by featuring idealised characters and archetypes, formulaic plots, and scenarios that invite viewers to an immersive escape into other worlds rather than a critical engagement with the socio-cultural reality (see Morrison). The complex mode of storytelling thus intervenes in this rather passive mode of reception and occasionally pulls viewers out of the diegesis to keep the critical spirit alert through dystopian realism and enigmatic operational aesthetics. Embedded in an ecosystem of streaming providers focused on providing audiences with immersive experiences, even complex serial dystopias run the risk of being perceived as ‘light entertainment.’ The Handmaid’s Tale theme party hosted by Kylie Jenner (half-sister of reality TV celebrity Kim Kardashian) is a prime example of paratextual engagement with a serial dystopia gone wrong, turning the storyworld and its characters into cult objects (see Innocenti and Pescatore 10; Ditum). 106 This media phenomenon is an example of how the message of serial dystopias can be misinterpreted or even deliberately co-opted for the sake of entertainment and exclusivity. It also shows that, as Vorderer and Halfmann point out, “both hedonic and eudaimonic experiences can result from all sorts of texts, and that these texts (like other cultural products) do not determine how readers deal with them” (89-90). Indeed, the fact that the TV adaptation of The Handmaid’s Tale (2017-) also significantly expanded the reach and awareness of the #metoo debate demonstrates that serial dystopias per se do not fail in their potential to ignite political engagement (see Wojtyna 177). By dressing up as handmaids, protesters used the series’ aesthetics as feminist symbols of dissent during legislative debates about reproductive freedoms in 2018 (Beaumont and Holpuch). 107 The Handmaid’s Tale example thus shows 2.2 Worldbuilding and Modes of Complexities 83 <?page no="84"?> between the effects of different subtypes of the dystopian form, their study rightly calls for greater scholarly attention to how fiction informs political attitudes. how paratextual engagement with one and the same televisual text can both undermine the sincerity of the dystopia’s warning and kindle political action at the same time. When it comes to the agenda of complex serial dystopias, entertainment and criticism are not mutually exclusive but rather two elements that reinforce each other. Moreover, they form a bridge to what Wolfson reads as a binary trend in the broader television landscape: If things are too straightforward, savvy audiences will guess the ending before it happens. If they’re too complicated then watching starts to feel like a second job, especially when shows prioritise plot twists and conceptualism over likable characters and good scripts. But perhaps it’s outdated to think that TV should be entertaining. The concept of the serious novel or experimental cinema is accepted. Maybe it’s time we acknowledged there are some shows you watch for simple escapism, and others you have to work for. Wolfson assumes that ‘serious’ television and ‘escapist’ television will co-exist independently of each other in the future. While it may be tempting to categorise the agendas of serial dystopias in this binary fashion, the distinction is not as clear-cut as he suggests: most complex series offer eudemonic viewing experiences without sacrificing their entertainment value. Through complex storytelling, serial dystopias operate, like complex TV in general, “on numerous levels, providing both surface pleasures and deeper resonances for different groups of viewers” (Mittell 209). Complex serial dystopias, then, merely suggest (rather than prescribe) a specific viewing protocol to disentangle the complex‐ ities on screen. 84 2 Serialising Dystopia in Audio-Visual Culture <?page no="85"?> 108 Literary critics usually regard David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest (1996) as prototypical metamodern fiction. Abramson, for example, argues that “Wallace broke the rules of the postmodern novel by being at once comic and serious, ironic and sincere, obtuse and straight-forward, conscious of narrative and dismissive of the need for narrative” (“Metamodernism 101”). Similarly, Doyle suggests that Wallace’s novel “attempts to redress postmodernism’s humanistic shortcomings through writing that restores emotional and artistic integrity through a suspension of irony” (259). 109 Van den Akker and Vermeulen argue that “[j]ust as the prefix ‘post-’ related directly to the structure of feeling postmodernism addressed - to what Jameson called the ‘senses of an end’ - the prefix ‘meta-’ too establishes a particular understanding of the current sensibility” (“Periodising” 8). Van Tuinen adds that “‘meta-’ is understood in its etymological sense of ‘among’ a heterogeneity of (material, technical, social, political, digital, etc.) practices which, in their hybrid togetherness, express and construct the contemporary” (69). 3 Dystopia and Complex TV: A Metamodern Quest The steadily growing fascination with dystopias, the popularity of TV series, and the ambition of creators to produce unique content are three interrelated factors that afford insights into the zeitgeist of digital culture. The final chapter of this section contextualises metamodernism as an underlying cultural logic that shapes the themes, structure, reception, and grand lessons of the complex serial dystopias discussed in this book. The commitment of complex serial dystopias to sincerely negotiate hyperobjects like technology and capitalism, the way they provoke eudemonic viewing experiences, however uncomfortable, and stimulate discussions about the kind of society we live in now and want to live in in the future, the way they use satire not to sustain pessimism but to remind viewers of their agency, are striking variables on a thematic, aesthetic, and functional level that allow for a meta-reflection on the post-postmodern condition. In Metamodernism: Historicity, Affect and Depth after Postmodernism (2017), Robin van den Akker, Alison Gibbons, and Timotheus Vermeulen describe metamodernism as a cultural phase marked by an oscillation between a modern enthusiasm and a postmodern scepticism, manifesting itself in politics, culture, and art. 108 The scholars link the prefix ‘meta’ to the Platonic notion of metaxy: “a movement between (opposite) poles: not a binary so much as a continuum that stretches from one to the other, not a balance but a pendulum swinging between various extremes” (“Periodising” 11). 109 Complex serial dystopias offer glimpses of this sentiment which “oscillates between a modern enthusiasm and a postmodern irony, between hope and melancholy, between naïveté and 3 Dystopia and Complex TV: A Metamodern Quest 85 <?page no="86"?> 110 See Abramson, who points out the metamodern sense of hope in times of crises: “So in response to postmodernists’ obsession with decay and decline and rupture, metamodernists say, ‘Okay, let’s say you’re right. We still have to live, don’t we? To try to be happy? Try to create? Try to be part of a community? What sort of philosophy could knowingness, empathy and apathy, unity and plurality, totality and fragmen‐ tation, purity and ambiguity” (Vermeulen and van den Akker, “Notes” 5-6). The characteristics of metamodernism help to illuminate the ways complex serial dystopias both criticise hyperobjects while simultaneously accepting and acknowledging their central role with regard to the mechanisms of society, thus providing valuable parameters for the study of complex serial dystopias as a cultural product of digital culture. As van den Akker and Vermeulen point out, key postmodernist thinkers like Fredric Jameson saw the 1960s as a transitional period from modernism to postmodernism (“Periodising” 12). Accordingly, the socio-cultural and political climate in the 2000s and historical events such as the financial crises, terror attacks, and climate change, along with rapid technological advances, have been markers of change and a fertile ground for a new cultural sentiment to emerge (ibid. 12). Whilst clarifying that their “conceptualisation of metamodernism is neither a manifesto, nor a social movement, stylistic register, or philosophy” (ibid. 5), the scholars emphasise that “[m]etamodernism is a structural feeling that emerges from, and reacts to, the postmodern as much as it is a cultural logic that corresponds to today’s stage of global capitalism” (ibid. 5). This new sensibility becomes clear when read against the backdrop of hyperobjects that are increasingly surfacing in people’s ‘felt’ sphere. The financial crises, which “inaugurated yet another round of neoliberalisation” (ibid. 12), showed “what it actually means to live in a neoliberal society” (“Notes on Metamodernism”, YouTube 0: 19); extreme weather conditions like floods, droughts, and devas‐ tating hurricanes illustrate how tangible global warming has become; and most recently, a virus roaming the globe shows both how interconnected and how vulnerable the world has become. In interviews with young adults, as Anita Rubin points out, “future global disasters - especially ecological and social disasters - were not merely seen as possible problems and threats, but as the unavoidable reality” (41). Nevertheless, especially young adults are attempting to tackle the ills of the 21 st century, such as inequality, racism, and climate change, knowing well that transformation takes time or may even fail. In the last two decades, historical events have increasingly exposed tempo‐ rary crises as persistent conditions deeply rooted in structural flaws of the socio-economic system that affect individuals directly, which provokes a new sense of idealism rather than inertia among Western societies. 110 Despite (or 86 3 Dystopia and Complex TV: A Metamodern Quest <?page no="87"?> let us aim toward a reconstruction of ourselves and our culture - however problematic or illusory it might turn out to be - that could also form part of a plan for healthy living and great creativity and even new forms of political action? ’” (“Basics”). 111 Imminent environmental threats, as well as the COVID-19 pandemic, for instance, highlight the necessity for globally concerted actions, while technologies, such as real-time dashboards and warning apps, enhance the ability to respond more efficiently to threats and promote solutions at scale. There is also a growing desire to instigate change in society and politics that benefits both people and the planet. The eagerness for transformation manifests itself, for example, in the ‘Fridays-for-Future’ or ‘Black Lives Matter’ movements. 112 A passage in the editorial of the 1969 issue of Futures adds to this point: “[t]he future is no longer regarded as predestined - an existing landscape that will be revealed to us as we travel through it. It is now seen as the result of the decisions, discoveries, and efforts that we make today. The future does not exist, but a limitless number of possible futures can be created. From this mode of thought, it is a natural step to the idea of establishing desirable goals towards which we can deliberately work […]” (Bell et al. 5-6). See also van den Akker and Vermeulen (“Periodising” 1-2), who suggest that Fukuyama’s ‘End of History’ claim in the 1990s (which still permeates cultural discourses but was later revised by Fukuyama (2012) himself) is unsuited to describe the present moment, as too many questions remain unanswered regarding liberal democracies being the endpoint in the progression of human history. perhaps precisely because of) the immediacy of risks, political disillusionment, polarisation, social inequalities, and alienation, van den Akker and Vermeulen argue that metamodernism is informed by the necessity to act, the ability to change, and the desire embedded in the new generation to break with socio-political and ecological trajectories (“Notes on Metamodernism”, YouTube 0: 22). 111 These interrelated metamodern characteristics of necessity, ability, and desire find expression in the inherent function of dystopia because it challenges the status quo as an inevitable state of paralysis. Jones and Paris refer to a bookstore manager who noticed that “classic dystopian books are actually leading people to buy books in our activism section […] It’s taken people from going, ‘Okay, we know we’re in this dystopian frightening world,’ to going ‘Okay, what do we do about it? ’ We’re seeing a lot of sales going to our activism/ politics section” (982). Fiction, as this example shows, serves as a point of departure for transformative change in empirical reality. Especially dystopia mediated in the popular TV format offers a powerful warning against pathological tendencies of the here and now - and a ‘warning,’ as Sargent puts it, “implies that choice, and therefore hope, are still possible” (“Three Faces” 26). Directing the attention towards how visions of the future emerge from “present actions and choices” (A. Rubin 40) is precisely what stimulates metamodern thinking and what complex serial dystopias seek to negotiate. 112 3 Dystopia and Complex TV: A Metamodern Quest 87 <?page no="88"?> Seth Abramson argues that “[m]etamodernism seeks to collapse distances, especially the distance between things that seem to be opposites, to recreate a sense of wholeness that allows us to - in the lay sense - transcend our environment and move forward with the aim of creating positive change in our communities and the world” (“Basics”). Along with other metamodernist thinkers (see Kersten and Wilbers), he points out that metamodernism is a useful vernacular for understanding that distance and immediacy are no longer mu‐ tually exclusive in digital culture. Indeed, metamodernism offers a perspective that emphasises the role of technology as a crucial factor of transformation rather than a destructive force. The way the internet and technologies enable access to information and connection to others at the touch of a button triggers “a strange mix of distance and closeness, detachment and immediacy” (ibid.). Technologies facilitate digital proximity despite geographical distances and allow individuals to reach a critical mass against the backdrop of shared interest. In this way, forensic fandoms can be deemed a metamodern phenomenon in the sense of ‘epistemological communities’ that gather viewers scattered across the globe to discuss the ‘world situation’ and the vibrant dynamics of hyperobjects (“COVID-19”, YouTube 0: 29). Since “postmodernism rose to prominence as a cultural philosophy decades before the Internet was popularized,” Abramson notes, it “couldn’t possibly have the same applicability or utility now that it had during the Radio Age” (“Basics”). As the “social logic of internet society” (“COVID-19”, YouTube 0: 29), metamodernism thus not only changes cultural practices but also puts seemingly stable dichotomies like distance and closeness to the test. 3.1 Oscillation, ‘Depthiness’, and Other Metamodern Sensibilities The unresolved tension between utopia and dystopia is a constituting element of complex serial dystopias, reflecting metamodernism’s emphasis on “oscillation rather than synthesis, harmony, reconciliation” (van den Akker and Vermeulen, “Periodising” 6). While postmodern thought often propagates a neither/ nor mindset - “either two ideas are in tension with one another or they are one and the same” (Abramson, “Basics”) - metamodernism avoids settling on a conclusion by resolving thesis and antithesis into synthesis, employing instead a ‘both-neither’ thinking that consistently swings like a pendulum between 88 3 Dystopia and Complex TV: A Metamodern Quest <?page no="89"?> 113 The ‘both-neither’ mode of thought is also a useful impulse to approach current debates about specific technological domains. Lifelike robots, for instance, complicate ontological categories by definition and thus challenge strict bipolar either/ or thinking (see Chapter on Westworld). 114 See Šnircová and Tomaščíková’s Postmillennial Trends in Anglophone Literatures, Cul‐ tures and Media (2019), in particular Weiss’ analysis of Winterson’s Stone Gods (2008) for the “metamodernist oscillations between dystopia and utopia, violence and romance, technology and nature” and the “metamodernist quest for truth, authenticity, intimacy and responsibility towards community and nature” (5). opposite poles. 113 This unresolved negotiation between alleged opposites well describes the dynamic tension between technological utopianism and dysto‐ pianism inherent in the complex serial dystopias discussed in this book. 114 It is the twinned structure that relegates both utopia and dystopia to the opposite extreme, always looming as an absent paradigm and solidifying the notion that dystopia is not a negation of the utopian spirit but a necessary dialectical element in conceiving alternatives to the status quo. Complex serial dystopias embrace this metamodern sentiment of oscilla‐ tion. They negotiate techno-utopian and techno-dystopian visions without committing to either, urging viewers to always adopt a context-specific perspec‐ tive. They depict humans and technology as interdependent, conjuring up a ‘both-neither’ mindset, as “affirm[ing] the dependence of technology on our own social constructions becomes a paradoxical affirmation of our own depend‐ ence on technology” (Mitcham and Briggle 46). Most importantly, complex serial dystopias address the dissonances and paradoxes inherent in digital culture to inspire a sense of agency and optimism that comes from actively engaging with hyperobjects beyond the screen. This involvement with the televisual text can be read as an “active positioning [that] helps to interpellate the [viewer] in her or his own world by inviting them to carry over the tensions of the text to their own struggles for identity and responsibility in their actual social realities” (Moylan, Scraps 55; see also Fitting, “Positioning”). Complex serial dystopias seem to depart from the postmodern route, which usually deconstructs grand narratives to prove the inefficiency of the system and often closes with a sense of detachment. Metamodernism approaches ‘big stories’ with a more hopeful intention: by acknowledging the existence and inevitability of hyperobjects, it fosters a sense of responsibility for the trajectory of present actions and their impact on the future. Marcia Kawamoto, for example, points out how in ‘post-postmodern’ films, such as Source Code (2011), “technology is still essential, although not as a main issue rather as a granted part of society. New machines are not items to be feared, instead they integrate life and their resolution is not bad or good, only consequential” (255, emphasis added). Similarly, complex serial 3.1 Oscillation, ‘Depthiness’, and Other Metamodern Sensibilities 89 <?page no="90"?> 115 Regarding the broader cultural logic, Vermeulen and van den Akker argue that under postmodernism, “the figure of utopia was avoided as something suspiciously totalitarian while it morphed into its generic ‘dystopian’ cousin (in cyberpunk, for instance) or turned into debris after the operations of deconstruction (in, say, pop art and conceptual art); both forms should be seen as critiques of the actually existing Communism or Capitalism of that day and age rather than attempts to evoke an image of a possible future” (“Utopia” 57). dystopias focus on the consequences of technology’s omnipresence rather than its omnipotence. Their grand lessons beyond the screen are not characterised by an ironic detachment but by a return to sincerity that includes the aesthetics of hope, both as utopian enclaves within the series and their reception practices as part of forensic fandoms. Dystopia has thrived alongside (or as a literary expression of) the post‐ modern project of critiquing the ideas and values associated with modernity’s preoccupation with innovation and progress. As Czigányik puts it, “dystopia’s prevalence may be a symptom of a general postmodern uncertainty and its incredulity toward grand narratives” (“Afterword” 246). Similarly, Joanette van der Merwe highlights that “dystopian literature working within a postmodern aesthetic can be said to fetishise a certain helplessness or powerlessness to affect change - perhaps as an escape mechanism, which would be comparable to postmodernist disaffection and removal from social reality” (102). Especially classical dystopias tilt towards a kind of resigned pessimism as default mode (Moylan, Scraps 153), with “[u]topia [being] maintained in dystopia, tradition‐ ally a bleak, depressing genre with no space for hope in the story, only outside the story” (Baccolini, “Persistence” 520). Postmodern aesthetics are thus in line with the genre’s agenda to generate a critical perspective but with less transformative potential than critical dystopias which “maintain the utopian impulse within the work” (Baccolini and Moylan, “Introduction” 7). While the classical dystopia at best “squeezes surplus utopian possibility out of its pages” (Moylan, Scraps 163), complex serial dystopias correspond to the modus operandi of the critical dystopia, which no longer avoids “the figure of utopia […] as something suspiciously totalitarian” (Vermeulen and van den Akker, “Utopia” 57). 115 Instead, they promote a healthy, context-specific scepticism towards innovation and progress in digital culture. Science fiction influenced by the postmodern mindset is often cynical, de‐ tached, and relativistic (Pappis). Thus, the negotiation of reality and simulation, future and nostalgia, reason and madness, human and robot in films like Blade Runner (1982), Twelve Monkeys (1995) or The Matrix (1999) often culminates in a sense of disillusionment with technology and progress. But more recent 90 3 Dystopia and Complex TV: A Metamodern Quest <?page no="91"?> 116 Metamodernism is increasingly sparking the interest of scholars and critics of film and television. Wullf, for instance, reads series like Transparent (2014-) and Fleabag (2016-2019) as metamodern dramedies that “reflect a refusal to tidy up the complicated social and personal issues brought to the fore, and to in fact utilize the uncomfortable and the complex in order to showcase interiority.” Moreover, Pappis mentions Her (2013), Interstellar (2014), and Arrival (2016) to highlight how these films foreground a “metamodern oscillation, plurality of realities and subjectivities, and transcendence of boundaries” and how they “use sci-fi tropes to explore such metamodern concepts in an effort to restore hope, sincerity, and affect.” Especially Her stands out for its commitment to a metamodern mindset that intriguingly addresses the metanarrative of technological progress through a romance plot that explores the intimacy between humans and machines. As Dargis puts it, “[i]n Her, the great question isn’t whether machines can think, but whether human beings can still feel.” Overall, a growing number of examples in audio-visual culture lend themselves to exploring metamodernism. films and series increasingly subscribe to a new sense of realism, one that precisely “attempts to evoke an image of a possible future” (Vermeulen and van den Akker, “Utopia” 57) by plausibly portraying technology’s role in complex social environments and the psychologies of characters (cf. Mittell 221). Rather than affirming a cynical, detached worldview, they critically involve viewers in the recognisable fictional setting. Van der Merwe suggests that “[i]f postmod‐ ernism was marked by its rejection of realism, then the revival of realism in metamodernism is regarded by some critics as the very thing that heralds the end - or the beginning of the end - for postmodernism” (110). Whether or not ‘postmodernism is dead,’ as critics like Linda Hutcheon have famously claimed (166), remains a matter of debate. Complex serial dystopias are children of postmodern times in that they are self-reflexive cultural products that draw on intertextuality and genre hybridity, deconstructing grand narratives and breaking with established conventions of storytelling and character depiction. Dystopia today is still, as Czigányik puts it, “the natural genre of less confident times. We are not really certain what is good, and even less certain how to achieve it, but, we know exactly what we do not want” (“Afterword” 246). However, complex serial dystopias also oscillate towards a post-postmodern cultural logic that restores sincerity by addressing ‘big issues’ without nihilistic intent. 116 The commitment of complex serial dystopias to probing the zeitgeist of digital culture entails what Gibbons and colleagues refer to as ‘depthiness’ - a playful neologism that counteracts the postmodern ‘depthlessness,’ that is, as Jameson contends, “perhaps the supreme formal feature of all the postmodernisms” (Postmodernism 9; Gibbons et al. 184). Metamodern depthiness embraces a “feeling of referential proximity”: “[r]ather than alienate readers from the fictional world, the effect is to make the fictional world feel more real” (ibid. 178). 3.1 Oscillation, ‘Depthiness’, and Other Metamodern Sensibilities 91 <?page no="92"?> 117 Gibbons and colleagues, for example, argue that “when metamodernist texts deal with diverse yet contentious themes - such as crime, sexual abuse, depression, or climate change - readers or viewers are positioned to engage with these themes not as fictions but as real-world instantiations” (176). 118 See Huber and Funk’s discussion of Ali Smith’s How to Be Both (2014) as metamodern fiction, arguing that the novel “emphatically exposes itself as a formal act-event, metareferentially celebrating its own fictionality and constructedness, precisely in order to appeal to the response-ability and responsibility of the reader, who is challenged to make their own sense of the complexities the novel offers” (164, emphases added). Complex serial dystopias collapse the distance between screen and viewer through dystopian realism and the “representational illusion of accuracy” (Mittell 221). They employ playful operational aesthetics, not for their own sake but to add substance and seriousness to the themes. As Gibbons and colleagues argue, “[a]s visitors to an art installation, as viewers of a television show or film, and/ or as readers of fiction, we subsequently read metamodernist texts as though they were real accounts even though they might be - evidently or not so evidently - fictional” (175). 117 The diligent worldbuilding affords complex serial dystopias a depthiness that mobilises viewers to ponder the fictional accounts of digital culture as though they were real. Complex serial dystopias can be approached as metamodern works because they “perform depthiness in order to reengage readers’ emotional and ethical relations with the real” (ibid. 176). They still issue warnings against technolog‐ ical progress, especially against the premature glorification of particular inno‐ vations, but also stimulate discussions based on concrete scenarios rather than fuelling cultural fears. Complex serial dystopias address the human-technology entanglement without cultivating no-way-out scenarios, thus challenging ironic doom-mongering and idleness as the default mode of the postmodern mindset. Even if some examples (e.g., Black Mirror) appear to conjure up horror scenarios of technological progress, they still “squeeze[] surplus utopian possibility” (Moylan, Scraps 163) out of the audio-visual frame by kindling discussions about otherwise opaque processes of digital culture in the first place. The narrative and formal engagement with complexities in an aesthetically compelling medium like TV series leads, at best, to an enhanced response-ability on the part of viewers-- and thus to an increased responsibility to conceive of alternatives. 118 3.2 The End is (not) Nigh: Seriality and Utopia as Process Complex serial dystopias harbour an aesthetic of hope through seriality, which in this context can be read as a metamodern expression of movement and 92 3 Dystopia and Complex TV: A Metamodern Quest <?page no="93"?> 119 From a capitalist perspective, ongoing TV series are profitable and “the industry equates success with an infinite middle and relegates endings to failures” (Mittell 321). The rhetoric of season endings as ‘finales’ is also interesting, as they “are defined more by their surrounding discourse and hype than any inherent properties of the narrative itself ” (ibid. 322). oscillation. The TV series moves progressively onwards as narrative elements and meanings oscillate back and forth across episodes. The metaphorical image of a “pendulum swinging” illustrates how “[m]etamodernism moves for the sake of moving, attempts in spite of its inevitable failure; it seeks forever for a truth that it never expects to find” (Vermeulen and van den Akker, “Notes” 5). In its basic premise, seriality stands diametrically opposed to the sense of endings, underscoring the kinship of complex serial dystopias with the critical dystopia in literature. The omission of predetermined conclusions is a characteristic feature of the latter: “[i]nstead of providing some compensatory and comforting conclusion, the critical dystopia’s open ending leaves its characters to deal with their choices and responsibilities” (Baccolini, “Persistence” 521). Similarly, complex serial dystopias avoid definitive conclusions about techno-utopian or techno-dystopian trajectories, pointing instead to the contingent nature of the human-technology entanglement. While critical dystopias reject closure as a narrative strategy to encapsulate hope by mobilising characters and, by extension, their readers, complex serial dystopias do so structurally through the serial format. Continuous viewer engagement and forensic fandom practices retain the utopian potential to galvanise audiences rather than foster a sense of inertia. Seriality per definitionem resists the act of closure: “television stories are made to go on and on. Ending them means disrupting their natural order - a conclusion necessarily feels too fast in the context of a long-running storyline, but more than this an ending violates the expectations for continuation we have developed over the course, sometimes of years, of watching.” (Adkins 26) These “expectations for continuation” as Adkins aptly notes, are at odds with the otherwise important function of conclusions, which traditionally “offer a sense of finality and resolution, following the centuries-old assumption that well-crafted stories need to end” (Mittell 321). Serial dystopias, then, embody the significance of ongoing stories and illustrate that meanings and interpretations are always subject to change. 119 As Mittell points out, analysing meaning in a serial text is a challenge: “it changes as you watch it, or how it means shapes what it means” (345). Seriality negates the expectation of completion, the pleasure of a well-rounded, finished work, in that it also “reframe[s] what we mean by ‘interpretation’ itself as a serial endeavor - always in flux, replete with 3.2 The End is (not) Nigh: Seriality and Utopia as Process 93 <?page no="94"?> 120 Mittell points out that “[w]riting serial criticism requires the critic to accept such potential shifts and open-ended contingency as part of the terrain, giving up the certainty that is typically asserted in academic arguments” (349). gaps and ellipses, inclusive of endless contexts and paratexts, and frustrating in its incompleteness” (ibid. 349). 120 Complex serial dystopias thus also embrace the metamodern as audiences yearn for completeness and consistency of the storyworld (see Wolf), which is never fully achieved, familiarising us with the mode of contingency against the backdrop of real-world complexities. Dystopian fiction has traditionally been articulated within a ‘closed’ format as a reactive cultural expression to unsettling developments in empirical reality. With seasons spanning several years, serial dystopias accompany socio-political world affairs almost ‘just-in-time,’ providing viewers with repeated and highly topical ‘food for thought’ on hyperobjects like technology and capitalism. They remind audiences both of their responsibility to imagine alternatives and their response-ability to the status quo. In their 2018 study “It’s the End of the World and They Know It: How Dystopian Fiction Shapes Political Attitudes,” Jones and Paris found evidence that “[n]ot only is repeated exposure likely to cause more lasting effects, but it also increases the quantity of ‘post-exposure’ time and thus the likelihood that such attitudinal shifts could coincide with real-world opportunities for action” (982-83). Paratextual engagement and collaborative exchange on digital platforms contribute to the didactic message flowing into everyday conversations and permeating pop-cultural references. In this sense, TV series “export splinters and fragments of the narrative ecosystem into the lived sphere of their audience” (Innocenti and Pescatore 12). If viewers are invited to invest time and effort in interactively deciphering how the story creates meaning, the discussion of its themes, such as the negotiations of the human-technology entanglement, is likely to follow. Dystopia in serial formats thus embraces a sincere engagement with hyperobjects and questions about the good life in digital culture beyond the televisual text. Finally, the notion of process and incompletion rather than completion within the broader serial context conjures up the mode of thought that utopia is a process rather than a normative, fixed destination or blueprint (see Levitas and Sargisson 15-6). Serial dystopias reflect a utopian moment through seriality itself, embodying the metamodern emphasis on gradual rather than radical transformation. As Moylan argues, “it is Utopia’s capacity to generate conditions and strategies for change rather than change itself that lies at the heart of its radically oriented function” (Scraps 87). Similarly, Hanzi Freinacht argues that the metamodern objective is “to erect a new grand narrative by combining all known knowledge and wisdom, well aware that it is a never ending endeavor 94 3 Dystopia and Complex TV: A Metamodern Quest <?page no="95"?> and that the only achievable synthesis is a proto-synthesis, forever subjected to critique and never without flaws.” In a metamodern vein, complex serial dystopias are themselves only a “proto-synthesis,” a contemporary snapshot of society’s fears and hopes, which is subject to change as the story progresses. From this point of view, these narratives cultivate both dialectical thinking and the awareness of an ever-pending synthesis. By avoiding resolution, complex serial dystopias contain the idea of utopia as an incremental process and locate optimism therein. As van der Merwe argues: The optimism of metamodernism is […] not a blind faith in some ultimate utopia, waiting in the future; neither is it a belief in historical or teleological progress towards some better future when its ideals would be fulfilled, nor a grand transcendental narrative. Instead, its optimism is simply the impetus of movement towards a (perhaps infinitely deferred) goal that is situated in the lived reality and tangible corporeality of our surroundings.-(101, emphasis added) Seriality embodies the “impetus of movement” through storytelling that restores the focus to significant processes of the here and now. Complex serial dystopias, themselves the result of highly collaborative processes and constant negotia‐ tions between writers, producers, broadcasters, and sometimes even viewers, project bleak worldviews not to affirm their inescapability but to encourage audiences to engage with each other to collectively figure out how the fictional story, and by extension, socio-cultural reality operates. Oscillating between the modern project of progress and the postmodern critique of its fulfilment, complex serial dystopias exhibit the characteristics of metamodernism and thus serve as examples of post-postmodern cultural expressions. In sum, serial dystopias in audio-visual culture harbour multifaceted poten‐ tials to contribute both in themes and format to the cultural conversations in the third decade of the 21 st century. They are the manifestation of Goodman’s claim that “the arts must be taken no less seriously than the sciences as modes of discovery, creation, and enlargement of knowledge in the broad sense of advancement of the understanding” (102). Just as literature and cinema have always advanced our understanding of culture and society by critically negotiating prevalent discourses, TV series today play a key role in exploring the past, the present and possible near futures. The mechanisms of complex TV constitute a pivotal mode of storytelling for dystopias on the small screen to maintain their cautionary function and keep pace with the representations of real-life complexities as well as the changing preferences of entertainment consumption. 3.2 The End is (not) Nigh: Seriality and Utopia as Process 95 <?page no="97"?> Complex Serial Dystopias and the Human-Technology Entanglement Complex serial dystopias encompass nuanced near-future imaginations in concrete settings and provide thought-provoking impulses by breaking down hyperobjects from multiple perspectives, offering viewers and critics alike fertile ground for exploring the contours of the human-technology entanglement. As the following analyses will demonstrate, these dystopias respond thematically, aesthetically, and functionally to the inherent mechanisms of digital culture, moving cultural conversations beyond one-dimensional views of technology. In particular, the complex storytelling mode involves viewers in storyworlds that closely resemble their own socio-cultural realities. The serial exploration of this reduced distance between fictional world and physical reality expands the genre’s didactic scope in audio-visual spaces that resonate well with contemporary audiences. <?page no="99"?> 121 See, for example, the edited volumes Through the Black Mirror: Deconstructing the Side Effects of the Digital Age (2019) by McSweeney and Joy, and Black Mirror and Philosophy (2020) by Johnson, both of which offer in-depth analyses of all Black Mirror episodes released to date. 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) More than a decade after its premiere, Black Mirror remains one of the most unsettling TV series in the contemporary streaming landscape, articulating plausible nightmares about our near high-tech future. The series offers kalei‐ doscopic insights into the human-technology entanglement and fully lives up to its title: the British anthology holds up a mirror that reflects, as creator and showrunner Charlie Brooker puts it, “the way we live now - and the way we might be living in 10 minutes’ time if we’re clumsy” (“Dark Side”). Indeed, Black Mirror explores worlds that closely resemble our own - often only slightly advanced in technology - and “gets it right by playing its dystopian settings as the new normal; the scariest, most portentous episodes are also the most plausible” (Landau 72). Relatable characters and familiar settings render the series particularly adept at raising awareness of our intricate relationship with technology and the constant exposure to screens. If Kyle Chayka is right when arguing that the purpose of ‘light-entertainment’ TV series like Emily in Paris (2020) “is to provide sympathetic background for staring at your phone, refreshing your own feeds,” then Black Mirror prompts the opposite: it makes us aware of how many hours of daily life we spend looking at a screen, encouraging us to reconnect with the real, unfiltered world. The unvarnished commentary on the zeitgeist of digital culture sets Black Mirror apart from most immersive TV narratives and disrupts “our slumber in front of the television set” ( Jagodzinski, “Prosthetic Space” 516). Controversial themes enriched by complex modes of narration distinguish the anthology from “undemanding TV programmes,” which “wash over you while you have one eye on your phone” (Cumming). Critics, scholars, and viewers alike have praised the anthology as a cultural artefact that intriguingly explores the hopes and fears associated with emerging technologies in media-driven Western societies. 121 The first season of Black Mirror hit the screen in 2011 when the role of social media was gaining momentum, when Apple introduced its digital assistant Siri, and when advances in AI and robotics were taking shape (Maloney). Such 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) 99 <?page no="100"?> 122 The dystopias of Black Mirror are increasingly used as a reference to real-world affairs, demonstrating their prescience, as Edwards et al. point out: “[i]t is now commonplace in geeky critical circles, for example, to reference Nosedive when thinking about the Chinese social credit system, or ‘White Bear’ when thinking about punishment, online trolling and bullying and desensitisation online” (3-4). Similarly, Brooker himself stated that “[y]ou know you’re breaking through when it becomes a phrase. When Trump was elected there were people with banners saying, ‘This episode of Black Mirror sucks’” (Campbell). emerging technological standards crop up slightly extrapolated in all episodes of the anthology, along with references to other technologies like drones, video games, virtual realities, smartphones, surveillance gadgets, and implants. At the heart of the series, however, resides the challenging attempt to map the opaque entanglement of humans and technology as expressed in the ways technologies (whether as artefacts or background infrastructure) shape how individuals think, behave, relate to each other, and make sense of the world. Film critic Devika Girish argues that [a]s digital and virtual networks infiltrate our everyday lives and subjective experi‐ ences, our relationship with technology manifests less as the fear of invasion by mysterious foreign forces, and more as an intimate grappling with newly mediated realities of time, space, and interpersonal relationships - i.e., less as the black monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey, and more as the metaphorical ‘black mirror,’ the small, hyperconnected screen prone to catching us in moments of accidental self-contemplation. (32) Black Mirror offers compelling scenarios of these technology-induced “newly mediated realities of time, space, and interpersonal relationships.” Girish cor‐ rectly observes that the series does not present technology in a one-dimensional way (as a “mysterious foreign force”) but as a deeply ingrained dynamic of contemporary life. Black Mirror finds a language to express the hyperobject technology, the unfathomable entity that sticks to anything it touches and has a “significant impact on human social and psychic space” (Morton 2). The 22 episodes speak to contemporary audiences because they articulate the underlying concerns and fears about the near future and, as Neel Patel puts it, “how visceral the effects of new technology are.” The widespread resonance years after its debut suggests that the dystopian visions still strike a nerve and offer valuable projections of how the human-technology nexus may develop in undesirable ways. 122 Most critics refer to the equally decade-defining The Twilight Zone (1959- 1964) as a conceptual blueprint for Black Mirror because the former offers similar unsettling science-fiction narratives with ambiguous endings. Indeed, 100 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="101"?> 123 See Maloney, who suggests that “[e]arly seasons of Black Mirror did jolt people from their comfort zones, making them think twice about binging on schadenfreude or relentlessly pursuing total recall technology. But in 2018, Waldo has won the presidency. [….] The realities of our daily lives are evident in every strong response to Black Mirror’s latest offering […].” The journalist draws a parallel between the successful interference of the cartoon character Waldo in national politics in “The Waldo Moment” (S2/ E3) and Trump’s presidency, pointing to the small gap between fiction and reality. both anthologies use familiar science-fiction tropes as a vehicle for social commentary on the technological transformation of society. Katarina O’Dette argues that “both series share a mission of interrogating human behaviour and a ‘variety pack’ approach to genre, plot, setting, character, and premise.” Yet, she points out that “each series has a consistent tone and theme that characterises their respective episodes and differentiates the series from one another.” What O’Dette alludes to here echoes Jason Mittell’s argument that a series should be registered on its own terms (224). The anthologies are difficult to compare because they employ specific narrative norms and styles that are unique to each series. While The Twilight Zone was avant-garde in terms of its controversial themes and the unsettling viewing experiences it prompted in the 1960s, series like Black Mirror are mushrooming in today’s TV streaming landscape. Electric Dreams (2017-2018), for instance, features adaptations of Philip K. Dick’s short stories and provides similar snapshots of the hopes and fears about a high-tech future. However, critics argue that these stand-alone episodes generally convey a rather positive attitude towards humans’ intricate relationship with technology - a kind of “Black Mirror for optimists” (O’Dette; see also Reilly; Murray). The dystopian realism of Black Mirror seems less hopeful about human agency and more aligned with contemporary cultural anxieties (Peitz; see also Burkeman). Despite the thematic and formal parallels to The Twilight Zone and Electric Dreams, Black Mirror is particularly adept at channelling the by-products of a digital culture in which technologies shape interpersonal communication, relationships, and the ways individuals relate to the world. Black Mirror employs a dark satirical tone and entails an utterly pessimistic stance towards the trajectory of digital culture. The fact that real-life affairs are catching up with the anthology’s fictional prophecies also prompts apprehen‐ sive responses among critics. 123 Jessa Crispin, for example, argues that when Black Mirror debuted in 2011, “we were all still very optimistic about the ability for technology to reshape and reconnect the world. Twitter and Facebook being praised for its ability to bring down despotic governments, not undermine democratic elections or facilitate genocide. Instagram was about sharing, not 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) 101 <?page no="102"?> 124 In his foreword to Inside Black Mirror (2018), Brooker makes a similar observation, arguing that “in 2010, the general view of technology was still a rosy one. The worst thing anyone said about Twitter was that it was full of people wasting their lunch breaks. Apple launching a new iPhone model still seemed like an exciting proposition, and the Arab Spring was just around the corner, something social media platforms seemed only too happy to take credit for. Fast-forward to now and suddenly smartphones are twice as addictive and harmful as cigarettes and your timeline’s full of fascist memes and photographed atrocities” (6). 125 Rather than writing “stories about societies falling apart,” Brooker is focusing on producing lighter entertainment (Morris). However, his latest work, the Netflix ‘mock‐ umentary’ Death to 2020 (2020), is once again a satirical commentary on the US presidential election and the COVID-19 pandemic. causing depression or fostering suicide cults.” 124 To some extent, Black Mirror both foreshadowed the transformation technology would undergo within a decade and heralded side effects of social media such as cyber-bullying, hate speech, and the excessive use of technological gadgets in daily life. Thus, it is less surprising that the anthology’s gloomy atmosphere prompts responses that seem to negate the very idea of a technological utopia. The disenchantment of technology’s promises and the portrayal of the dystopian flipside of digital culture are central to the projections of Black Mirror. Rather than prefiguring technology as a means to elevate the human condition, the anthology fuels doubt about the human-technology entanglement, pointing to the erosion of morality and the mindless immersion in mediated realities. In this regard, even Brooker is hesitant about producing a new season of the anthology. In a 2020 interview with Radio Times, he cast doubt on whether viewers would be able to ‘stomach’ dystopia during the COVID-19 pandemic (Morris). 125 While Brooker’s dark satire is indeed not easily digestible, it does contain a utopian potential in its warning against unintended side effects of emerging technological standards on society’s self-understanding and moral and ethical discourses. Most episodes can be read, as Juliana Lopes suggests, “as a complete dystopia if we consider only the story itself; but if we consider the viewers and the reaction that Black Mirror necessarily requires from the viewers, we might go further and analyze it as a critical dystopia as well” (90). Given the scarcity of overt utopian enclaves within the narratives, Black Mirror seems reluctant to follow the footsteps of the literary ‘critical dystopia’ and primarily maintains an anti-utopian position. Nevertheless, the anthology harbours a militant pessimism, which “squeezes surplus utopian possibility out of its 102 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="103"?> 126 Vieira argues that “[d]ystopias that leave no room for hope do in fact fail in their mission. Their true vocation is to make man realize that, since it is impossible for him to build an ideal society, then he must be committed to the construction of a better one”-(17). See Chapter 1.4 in this analysis. [screen]” (Moylan, Scraps 163) by offering dystopian spaces that necessitate utopian horizons outside the text. 126 Precisely the thought-provoking endings of each episode ultimately contain a sense of hope that the dystopian scenarios can be avoided. Black Mirror assigns the task of seeking alternatives to the viewers, and the nuanced depiction of technology is beneficial for this endeavour. The anthology knowingly employs technological determinism to make us “a little more aware of the dark side of our tech-infused world and a little less optimistic that it will solve rather than create problems” (Crispin). Yet, Black Mirror refrains from depicting technology in a social vacuum, and the open endings usually form the starting point of discussions about the “trade-offs among various ‘goods’ and possible ‘bads’” (Kranzberg 548). That “technology will doom us all,” as Patel points out, is indeed an “easy conclusion to jump to,” but one that seems premature because it ignores the complexity of the anthology’s agenda, which oscillates between technological utopianism (highlighting technology’s potential to create better futures) and technological dystopianism (pointing to possible undesirable side effects). The endings attempt to take audiences out of their “alienated and conformed state” (Lopes 92) and shock viewers into action. By introducing ‘everyday’ characters rather than flawless heroes, domestic settings instead of futuristic scenarios, and technologies that already exist in their basic premise, Black Mirror establishes a reduced dystopian distance to extratextual reality and renders the mechanisms of digital culture accessible to contemporary viewers. The following pages will investigate selected episodes and delineate how the complex mode of narration supports the manifold dystopian expressions in Black Mirror. These range from a claustrophobic future where citizens spend their entire existence in media cells (Chapter 1.1) to a world in which robot dogs hunt down humans (Chapter 1.2), from a dating-app dystopia where relation‐ ships have an expiration date (Chapter 1.3) to a nostalgic future where the dying upload their consciousness to virtual heaven (Chapter 1.4). Amongst others, the discussion of these examples will demonstrate how the anthology employs complex modes of narration and thus serves as a unique playground to explore different angles of dystopian visions in digital culture. Distinct formal aesthetics, such as colour schemes and sound structures, underscore these perspectives and create specific effects that trigger eudemonic viewing experiences. In so doing, the anthology expresses a sincere metamodern commitment to representing 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) 103 <?page no="104"?> 127 In the following, references to Black Mirror will be given without repeating the title. the hyperobject technology in a way that engages viewers by posing questions rather than providing answers. Black Mirror kindles valuable discussions about the trajectory of digital culture, which makes it an exciting cultural artefact for the project at hand. 1.1 Navigating Screen Culture: The Black Mirror Universe The interplay between culturally relevant themes and consistent storytelling norms renders Black Mirror a compelling example of a complex serial dystopia. The very first episode foreshadows the distinct operational aesthetics found throughout the anthology. While pilot episodes are usually a critical gateway to familiarise audiences with settings, plot premises, main characters, and aesthetics such as tone and pace of the episodes to come, in non-serial for‐ mats like Black Mirror, neither do characters reappear nor do events matter across episodes. However, the pilot episode “The National Anthem” (S1/ E1) - frequently quoted as a shocking entrance into Black Mirror - exhibits formal and thematic patterns that recur throughout the anthology, preparing viewers for the operational and representational aesthetics at work. Thematically, this episode’s satire on digital culture negotiates the dynamics of anonymous social media crowds, human dignity, and, most importantly, people’s addiction to spectacles on screens. The establishing shot sets the action in the bedroom of Prime Minister Callow (Rory Kinnear), whose cell phone on the bed table repeatedly vibrates, interrupting his sleep. Throughout the anthology, chiming technological devices point to the technological interruption of otherwise peaceful atmospheres (see Tiberius). The episode then soon exposes the shocking premise that drives the entire plot: Princess Susannah (Lydia Wilson) has been kidnapped, and an anonymous blackmailer coerces Prime Minister Callow to have sexual intercourse with a pig live on public television to save her life (Black Mirror, S1/ E1 0: 04). 127 Although the government immediately issued an official request to media agencies not to broadcast any content related to the incident, the video in which Susannah reluctantly and desperately voices the demand goes viral on YouTube (S1/ E1 0: 07). Subsequently, the camera switches between close-ups that zoom in on Callow’s bewildered face, scenes of the unprecedented emergency at 10 Downing Street, the heated atmosphere inside the news media agencies, and shots of Londoners glued to their television sets ready to follow this “historical event” (S1/ E1 0: 13). Especially the face shots 104 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="105"?> 128 See, for example, the episodes “Shut up and Dance” (S3/ E3) or “Hated in the Nation” (S3/ E6), which similarly negotiate anonymous coercion and blackmailing in the online sphere. 129 A dialogue between spectators in the episode self-reflexively points to the aesthetics the episode promotes. When the news agency publishes the rules for the broadcast voiced by the kidnapper, one spectator states that these rules remind him of the cinematic movement ‘Dogme 95,’ which includes a “list of rules for the director, no background music, only natural light and so on. For authenticity.” (S1/ E1 0: 16) The first half of the episode employs similar aesthetics to foster a sense of realism. of ‘everyday’ men and women, as the camera lingers over the crowds, are a hallmark of the anthology. These shots remind viewers that the generalised ‘public’ comprises individuals and their desires, choices, and behaviours. Yet, the episode also points to the opaque dynamics of network power, foregrounding how the news spread like wildfire (Rudner 220), trending on Twitter with “10.000 tweets per minute” (S1/ E1 0: 13). Comments on this vibrancy of the “online hive mind” (S1/ E1 0: 24) crop up throughout the anthology. 128 Specific aesthetic norms underscore the prevailing atmosphere of the episode, which oscillates between disgust and anticipation with regard to the absurd demand. For example, the extended period of silence that follows when the Prime Minister listens to the video message eerily penetrates the audience’s living rooms. Pierluigi Musarò notes how “[t]en full seconds of astonished silence amplify the sense of general bewilderment: from the incredulous Prime Minister to the hesitant presidential staff (in fact, there is no protocol for this kind of situation), of the same public - ourselves - who, through the screen, participate in the dreamlike scene” (117). Black Mirror strategically abandons the use of dramatic music that would foster an experience of immersion and omits a soundtrack to create a sense of realism. 129 What adds to the sense of immediacy between viewers and the fictional world are recurring ‘Breaking News’ scenes that interrupt the diegetic action and cover the entire screen, suggesting that viewers of this episode are following the developments of this ‘historical event’ as much as the fictional characters. The high-pitched audible tone - intended to cause nausea and warn citizens before the broadcast commences (S1/ E1 0: 32) - plays out while the camera takes stills of empty streets downtown London and the suburbs, indicating that everyone, including the viewer of this episode, is glued to the screen. When the camera shots later alternate between Callow’s performance on TV and close-ups of citizens’ faces tuning in to this spectacle from various locations, viewers are caught both in the obtrusive act of gazing at others (what Niklas Luhmann would call a ‘second-order observation’) and in their role as spectators of the performance themselves (see Winter, “Tweet” 286). 1.1 Navigating Screen Culture: The Black Mirror Universe 105 <?page no="106"?> 130 See Winter for a discussion of the sense of community in “The National Anthem” and “White Bear” (“Tweet”). In the latter, visitors to the White Bear Justice Park assume the roles of ‘onlookers,’ equipped with their smartphones to record the relentless chase of the protagonist, suggesting that spectacle and revelling in the suffering of others is the only means of maintaining a sense of community. 131 Episodes like “Nosedive” (S2/ E1) or “Rachel, Jack and Ashley too” (S5/ E3) contain lighter, pastel colour themes, however, only to articulate some sort of artificiality that masks dystopian conditions. In this episode, Black Mirror proclaims its intrinsic norms of storytelling that involve viewers as accomplices in the narrative. The anthology assumes an ambivalent relationship with viewers because it repeatedly likens them to the intradiegetic spectators, calling out their own addiction to screens (by viewing the series) while at the same time placing trust in viewers to recognise the warning issued against eroding morals in digital culture. “The National Anthem” suggests that viewers should be prepared for a different kind of viewing experience, one that transcends the boundaries between the fictional world and reality and one that does not necessarily lend itself to escapist binge-viewing. Black Mirror’s storytelling techniques trigger an uncomfortable viewing experience that, as Lopes argues, “requires action from the audience, even if it is indignation” (92). The anthology continuously integrates viewers as active spectators who are tasked to bear witness to social, cultural, and political developments spiralling out of control. The pilot episode thus serves as a gateway to the Black Mirror universe and hints at what is to come: colour-muted snapshots of digital culture in which technology is omnipresent, communication is mediated, and spectacle is the only nucleus for a sense of community. 130 In fact, besides the particular camera settings and sound patterns, the use of colour formally supports the prevailing moods in the respective episodes. Most intradiegetic realities are covered in a layer of grey that foregrounds the characters’ entrapment in a bleak and depleted reality. 131 Each world in the anthology exhibits distinctive aesthetic norms that unsettle viewers with a tainted version of their own extratextual reality. What is striking about Black Mirror is that it successfully builds a compelling and internally consistent narrative universe despite standalone episodes. In a strict sense, one could argue that Black Mirror is not a serial dystopia because the episodes are self-contained, i.e., the plot, characters, and settings are unique to each episode. According to Kindley, the fact that the creators of Black Mirror chose the anthology format is not surprising. “Thus far,” as he argues, “the most hospitable TV format for the dystopian impulse has been not the serial drama but the anthology series. A show like The Twilight Zone could squeeze all the juice out of a pulpy dystopian premise without worrying about 106 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="107"?> having to find an infinite series of stories to build around it.” Indeed, closed narratives have the advantage of addressing multiple themes without running the risk of deviating from the dystopian premise in subsequent episodes. Although each Black Mirror episode contains sufficient ‘world material’ to create serial spin-offs, the creators’ decision against a serial format also protects the anthology from becoming ‘light entertainment.’ Through single episode storytelling, Black Mirror bypasses the possible pitfall of gradually exhausting the dystopian premise over time and perhaps ending up with interpersonal dramas that overshadow the initial dystopian impulse. However, although the creators of the series insist on calling the episodes films (Brooker et al. 7), viewing them in isolation ignores the complex nature of the Black Mirror universe. The complexity surfaces when we read the anthology as a macro-narrative. Javier Sola and Jorge Martínez-Lucen correctly point out that in the case of Black Mirror, “seriality lies not in the narrative unity of the various episodes but in the topic dealt with individually by each of them” (5). The anthology, then, can indeed be considered a serial dystopia because it invests in thematic seriality to build an ‘inhabitable’ world (cf. Adkins 2) whose overall premise boils down to the nightmares of the technological transformation of society. In particular, viewers who pay attention to the anthology’s “window frames” (Mittell 53) can identify and uncover a plethora of intertextual references across episodes that suggest an underlying coherent fictional world in which all characters are situated. Mara Bachmann, for instance, points out that “[t]he Black Mirror universe is deeply complex, and fans consistently introduce new theories as to how they are all connected” (“Theory”). Indeed, Black Mirror’s viewing pleasure emanates from what Marc Angenot has called a semantic ‘absent paradigm’ - the implied but never explicitly posed overall map of the Black Mirror dystopia. This paradigm triggers specific ‘reading protocols’; viewers are invited to engage in the “conjectural reconstruction which ‘materializes’ the fictional universe” (15). Science fiction, as Tom Moylan puts it, “works by way of a readerly delight in the thoughtful and thought-provoking activity of imagining the elsewhere of a given text, of filling in, co-creating, the imagined (or what Marc Angenot calls the ‘absent’) paradigm of a society that does not exist but that nevertheless supplies a cognitive map of what does exist” (Scraps 5). In other words, viewers construct the map of the fictional universe themselves when they move from episode to episode by filling in the blanks of the imagined absent paradigm. The anthology enables this “thought-provoking activity of imagining the elsewhere” by abandoning 1.1 Navigating Screen Culture: The Black Mirror Universe 107 <?page no="108"?> 132 This exercise in imagination finds expression, for example, in the ‘Black Mirror Fandom Wiki.’ The viewer-created platform gathers information on easily overlooked details, links between episodes, and reappearances of characters and symbols across the seasons. The fandom wiki is a collaborative platform that echoes what Kirby describes as a ‘digimodernist’ text, where content and meaning are always in process and never complete (50-1). 133 The fact that Black Mirror moved to Netflix in 2015 may have influenced the intensity of discussions. Gaps between episodes usually engage viewers because they “allow time for speculation, conversation, and engaged fan practices” (Mittell 105). Streaming providers, then, influence the reception process of serial narratives by releasing entire seasons at once in their digital libraries, thereby undermining “the gap-filled serial broadcast experience altogether - and raising the question as to whether these multiepisode narratives can be considered serial at all” (ibid. 41). 134 While the Westworld series requires a high degree of procedural literacy, i.e., the ability to “master [the series’] underlying procedures” (Mittell 54), before viewers can navigate and make sense of the fragmented narrative, Black Mirror merely offers the opportunity to ‘dig deeper’ without losing those viewers who are not interested in following such a ‘forensic’ viewing protocol. explanations of the dystopian genesis and connecting elements, such as symbols and news headlines, across the storyworlds. 132 Black Mirror fosters viewers’ long-term engagement and the emergence of what Mittell calls “forensic fandoms” (52) by never overexplaining the dystopian setting. Although viewers need not pay attention to every detail to understand the narrative, for those who enjoy formal analysis, Black Mirror is an excellent example of a “world-building institution” (Nünning and Nünning 12) that offers various ‘blank spots’ and inter-episodic references to explore. 133 Thus, viewers are both drawn into compelling stories and invited to construct the macro-narrative as the series progresses. Black Mirror provides its viewers with bits and pieces of the underlying fictional universe without sacrificing narrative coherence, offering curious viewers the opportunity to delve deeper into the geographies of the dystopian premise. 134 Given the anthological format, one could argue that there is little room for centrifugal or centripetal complexity, which Mittell considers the hallmark of complex TV (222-26). Both modes of complexity (expanding the geographical setting and establishing character depth through backstory) usually develop over the course of serial narratives. With regard to centrifugal complexity, Black Mirror makes a particular case. As discussed, the anthology feeds on thematic seriality to build a coherent universe whose links between events, characters, and technological developments can be discovered through formal analysis. The centrifugal complexity in Black Mirror thus emerges primarily from the intertextuality across episodes. For example, the episode “Shut up and Dance” contains a news feed headline stating, “PM Callow ‘to divorce’” (S3/ E3 108 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="109"?> 135 Other examples of intertextual references include the song performed by protagonist Abi at the audition for the talent show ‘Hot Shot’ in “Fifteen Million Merits” (S1/ E2), which reappears in the karaoke scene in “White Christmas” and on the car radio in “Crocodile” (S4/ E3); the Black Mirror film Bandersnatch abounds in allusions to other episodes, e.g., the robot-dog poster ‘METL HEDD’ (“Metalhead” S4/ E5), the game ‘Nohzdhyve’ (“Nosedive” (S3/ E1)), and a symbol that originally appears in “White Bear” (S2/ E2). 136 Black Mirror seems to take a structural approach similar to the one observed by Adkins with regard to the anthology series Route 66 (1960-1964): “[t]he show became about [the characters’] movement into larger and larger spaces, each episode pushing the boundaries of the space we know so that eventually all of America seems to become that space, one small community at a time” (36). 0: 49). This headline unobtrusively establishes a link to “The National Anthem,” providing an in-world explanation for the aftermath of Prime Minister Callow’s humiliating performance on live TV. 135 Each episode presents a microcosm that weaves seamlessly and subtly into the (absent) dystopian Black Mirror universe. 136 The ‘Easter eggs’ (cf. OLD, “Easter egg”) are thus the anchor points of this centrifugal expansion into larger spaces, inviting viewers to engage with the televisual text and map the anthology’s chronological timeline (Ling; see also Bachmann, “Timeline”). Precisely because the underlying dystopian paradigm surfaces only occasion‐ ally, the viewers’ curiosity is constantly nourished. Bachmann points out that “[w]hile there are theories on each episode belonging to an individualized universe within the larger multiverse, it is far more likely that each story connects in a straight line that is not told in chronological order” (“Timeline”). Along with other fan theorists, she argues that one can trace the universe’s timeline by looking at the technological advances depicted in each episode. In this light, the interactive Black Mirror film Bandersnatch (2018) marks the beginning of the entire anthology, which is symbolically set in 1984 and thus alludes to Orwell’s classic masterpiece, and “Metalhead” (S4/ E5) forms the ‘natural conclusion’ of Black Mirror with a final race between technology and a few remaining survivors in a post-apocalyptic landscape. The matrix-like structure of concrete settings in the same universe lends itself particularly well to encouraging viewer engagement on the one hand and for illuminating the hyperobject technology from different angles on the other. Each episode captures a specific technological dystopia, constantly encouraging viewers to shift the critical lens from eroding values and morals in digital culture to the ethical and legal ramifications of emerging technological standards. Somewhat paradoxically, the kind of viewing protocols Black Mirror sets up for its viewers, namely the re-watching of episodes, paying close attention to details, exchanging 1.1 Navigating Screen Culture: The Black Mirror Universe 109 <?page no="110"?> 137 The term ‘screen culture’ is borrowed from Butsch. In Screen Culture: A Global History (2019), he describes ‘screen culture’ as “the lived culture that arises when people interact with and through screen media. As everyday life fills with screen activity - averaging nine hours per day for American adults in 2017-- screen becomes an increasingly important aspect of the broader culture, infiltrating and influencing all other elements” (3). with other viewers to discuss the absent paradigm, point to Black Mirror’s main critique: the excessive amount of time people spend in front of screens. Suppose viewers do opt-in to decipher the underlying paradigm, spending a large part of their days engaging in forensic fandom practices across the internet and social media platforms, perhaps in addition to the time spent looking at the smartphone. In that case, they partake in the anthology’s metacommentary on people’s constant exposure to screens and dependence on technologies. Black Mirror returns to this critique in various episodes, satirising the high value that digital culture assigns to screen activity. In a way, the anthology visualises what Robert Samuels describes as a characteristic feature of automo‐ dernity: “there is almost a universal desire for people to be inactive as they watch activity appear in the realm of their objects” (“Auto-Modernity” 235). Black Mirror highlights people’s ‘inactivity’ in front of screens, thus living up to its title by holding up a mirror to audiences. The ‘black mirror,’ as Brooker writes, is “is the one you’ll find on every wall, on every desk, in the palm of every hand: the cold, shiny screen of a TV, a monitor, a smartphone” (“Dark Side”). It symbolises any technological device’s dark, reflective surface that is switched off or in stand-by mode (Winter, “Tweet” 282). On the one hand, this imagery evokes an eerily charged void, an unfamiliar stillness that permeates digital culture’s otherwise noisy mediated spaces. On the other hand, it also points to a means of reflection (however dark) and the opportunity for contemplation apart from the constant flow of information. The episode “Fifteen Million Merits” (S1/ E2) offers the most explicit com‐ mentary on screen culture. 137 The inhabitants of this dystopian world live in high-tech cubes surrounded by screen walls that serve multiple functions: as alarm clocks, video game consoles, and channels for communicating with others. Musarò points out how this episode explores the ‘homo videns’ - “a new species raised in front of the screen, in particular, in front of TV” (124). In this world, citizens literally live in a mediated reality: they spend their entire work and leisure time in front of and surrounded by screens. The colourful flow of moving images and individualised entertainment seems to function as what Chayka refers to as ‘ambient TV,’ which “aims to erase thought entirely, smoothing any disruptive texture or dissonance. Its high-resolution shots are chopped and composed into lulling montages […] that numb the senses with 110 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="111"?> 138 These notions loosely echo a popular quote attributed to Aldous Huxley, which states that “[t]he worst enemy of life, freedom and the common decencies is total anarchy; their second worst enemy is total efficiency.” The system in “Fifteen Million Merits” is one of total efficiency, with citizens essentially generating power for their media cells and thus perpetuating their own entrapment by pedalling the stationary bikes. Paradoxically, the bicycle itself is no longer an expression of a means of transport but refers to the stasis and entrapment of the citizens. color and movement.” Indeed, the multimedia cells create an ambience that invites characters to immerse themselves in mediated realities at all times. The factory-like building in which the characters live has no windows; only artificial renderings of blue sky and clouds occasionally crop up on the screens, which showcases that the ‘real’ is mediated by simulations. Fig. 1a: Citizens live in high-tech cubes surrounded by the constant flow of individualised entertainment (S1/ E2 0: 24). - Fig. 1b: Communication with others takes place mainly via virtual avatars (S1/ E2 0: 38). This steel-encapsulated space, which not only simulates but subsumes nature, nullifies any conception of an ‘outside’ and thus any hope of a place of freedom and anti-hegemonic resistance that usually features in classical dystopian fiction. Symmetrical, frontal shots underpin the characters’ entrapment in the high-tech cubes (see Fig. 1a and 1b), and CCTV camera angles showcase the narrowness of their world. In this claustrophobic dystopia, the only face-to-face encounters occur at the gym, while communication primarily takes place through avatars, which points to this episode’s overarching theme of isolation and alienation. The ‘workplace’ setting of this episode (i.e., the gym) blends notions of physical activity and cognitive passivity. 138 Individuals pay with ‘merits’ for daily expenses, that is, tokens they earn by pedalling designated stationary bikes while playing video games or watching entertainment shows. When the camera frames the windowless gym (S1/ E2 0: 03), the odd combination of sounds underscores this tension between efficiency and immersion: soft, jumbled 1.1 Navigating Screen Culture: The Black Mirror Universe 111 <?page no="112"?> murmurs from the characters’ in-ear headphones blend over the mechanical sounds of pedalling the bikes. This auditory structure conveys a dystopia in which everyone is immersed in his or her own reality while generating (through physical activity) the very electricity needed to power the screens in the first place. In other words, the entertainment system is powered by human cycling, making inhabitants somewhat complicit in the dystopia depicted in this episode. Moreover, the colour scheme of this episode is striking: the citizens wear dark grey sports uniforms, which suggests that they are stripped of any individuality. At the same time, the screens serve as the only colourful input in this world, allowing characters to express their individuality merely through their avatars (referred to ‘doppels’). Symptomatic of the anthology, this episode purposefully uses a particular sound and colour scheme to contrast the characters’ gloomy reality with the artificial liveliness of mediated realities. “Fifteen Million Merits” criticises not only the extent to which people increasingly experience reality through technology but also the way companies leverage the screen as a canvas to sell products. For example, commercials for ‘Wraith Babes’ repeatedly appear on the screens, prompting protagonist Bing (Daniel Kaluuya) to spend his merits on adult films. When he wipes away the advertisement with his hand, the entertainment system warns: “Skipping incurs penalty. Resume? [Y] / [N].” (S1/ E2 0: 02) Bing is constantly encouraged to consume, as non-viewing is penalised. The merits in this world are thus needed not only to consume content but also to skip the commercials. When Bing covers his eyes and refuses to look at the screens, the walls of his cube turn red, and the system reports: “View obstructed.” The synthetic voice, accompanied by a high-pitched sound, piercingly demands: “RESUME VIEWING. RESUME VIEWING. RESUME VIEWING.” (S1/ E2 0: 09 and 0: 42) While the episode depicts some citizens embracing a life of non-stop entertainment, the close-ups of Bing’s face reveal that he is tired of being forced to consume all the time. Under these coercive conditions of a self-perpetuating system that is fundamentally media-driven, it is less surprising that the apathetic protagonist carries a telling name. Bing Madsen is on the verge of madness; his name blends the ubiquitous notification sound ‘bing’ and the pathological notion of ‘mad.’ His name also evokes associations with ‘binge’-viewing, as he perpetually stares at screens. In this episode, Black Mirror exhibits a scenario in which the techno‐ logically induced consumerist logic has assumed absolute control over society. “Fifteen Million Merits” draws attention to the viewers’ extratextual reality by illuminating the invasive marketing schemes of profit-oriented entertainment industries and satirising the capitalist machine at work in digital culture. Today, pop-ups on websites and in digital apps constantly demand our attention, and 112 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="113"?> 139 In Forster’s dystopia, ‘the machine’ even becomes an object of worship: “[t]he Machine feeds us and clothes us and houses us; through it we speak to one another, through it we see one another, in it we have our being. […] The Machine is omnipotent, eternal; blessed is the Machine”-(67). 140 See Vorderer and Halfmann for an interesting discussion of the experience of aesthetic resonance and viewer motivations for hedonic entertainment experiences (91). we have to ‘sit through’ commercials until we can continue watching that video on YouTube. The basic premise of this episode strikes viewers as a modern version of the mechanical world depicted in E. M. Forster’s short story The Machine Stops (1909), in which the inhabitants live in isolated cells underground, and the omnipotent machine is the basic nexus of humanity’s existence. 139 As Gorman Beauchamp points out, technology has achieved “sovereignty through depend‐ ency: because it does everything for people, it can do anything it will with people. Without resistance, gradually, uncomprehendingly, they have come to submit totally to it.” (“Technology” 57) Similarly, “Fifteen Million Merits” satirises humanity’s reliance on technology by depicting an omnipotent entertainment system that seizes all physical and cognitive activities and subsumes them under the consumerist logic. Technology in this episode is as much a vehicle for a temporary escape from the grim reality as it is an accelerator of social alienation. At best, the episode heightens viewers’ awareness of the pathologies of excessive media consumption and of the way corporations capitalise on mediated realities to sell illusionary dreams (see Chapter 1.3 in this analysis). Black Mirror here prompts viewers to reflect on their role as media consumers in screen culture, the significance of the ‘unfiltered’ world, and the alluring capitalist strategies to stimulate consumption. By extrapolating the extent to which people spend time in front of the screen, Black Mirror self-reflexively points to itself as a consumer product. Yet, the anthology denies viewers a comfortable immersion in mediated realities and complicates the cultural practice of binge-viewing. Viewers repeatedly express how hesitant they are to move on to the next episode, mainly because they are confronted with plausible dystopian trajectories of digital culture that are hard to ‘stomach’ (see Ströbele). Stuart Heritage, for instance, states that Black Mirror “is often so gratuitously bleak that I find myself having to psyche myself up before pressing play” (see also Roker). Perhaps precisely because Black Mirror is so adept at mirroring the inner workings of digital culture, viewers struggle to ‘press play.’ 140 As Lucy Mangan puts it, “[l]ike a sweetly sadistic scientist, [Black Mirror] delights in shaving off slices of our collective psyche and sliding them under an unforgiving microscope to examine our most current concerns” 1.1 Navigating Screen Culture: The Black Mirror Universe 113 <?page no="114"?> 141 Beyond the obvious social media reference, “Nosedive” also extrapolates the notion of rating standards in late capitalist societies. Today, restaurants, eBay sellers, or Uber drivers depend on good customer reviews. Trustworthiness, punctuality, and friendliness are quantified on scales and determine the survival of businesses. 142 See Turkle, who discusses the notion of technological disruption in digital culture using the example of taking selfies: “[t]he selfie makes us accustomed to putting ourselves (“Season Five”). Indeed, the title sequence purposefully announces that the anthology will refrain from offering an immersive, frictionless television expe‐ rience. The buffering circle, an apt visual metaphor for the state of limbo we encounter as we patiently wait for content to load on our screens, blends in with an electronic humming that sounds like a Russian roulette spinning out of control. This audio-visual imagery, culminating in a high-pitched tone and a ‘cracked’ screen, marks the entry into each episode and anticipates the critical commentary on information overload in digital culture. Considering the entire anthology, Black Mirror oscillates between centri‐ fugal and centripetal complexity to cement its critical commentary on the human-technology entanglement. While the Black Mirror universe unfolds as an absent paradigm, only vaguely suggesting its geographical dimension through intertextual references, some episodes also particularly take their time “to dig below the skin of its characters” (Heritage). These episodes, “motivated by feeling, not circumstance” (ibid.), centripetally revolve around the interior lives of characters. The focus on Prime Minister Callow in “The National Anthem” or Bing Madsen in “Fifteen Million Merits” is a case in point. Although these centripetal explorations at the protagonist level are limited to the respective episode due to the anthological format, cross-episode comparisons of the characters’ situation and disposition seem to encapsulate a similar human condition in digital culture. The episode “Nosedive” (S3/ E1) similarly grants viewers intimate glimpses into the psyche of protagonist Lacie (Bryce Dallas Howard), who must navigate a world in which a social media rating logic of ‘likes and dislikes’ has permeated any fabric of society. This dystopia depicts how individuals rate not only each other’s social media content but also their subjective experience with face-to-face encounters, thus offering an intriguing commentary on the effects of social scores on the individual’s psyche in digital culture. 141 The very first minutes of “Nosedive” establish a seemingly peaceful neighbourhood setting at dawn and strike viewers with a “bright, glossy palette, applied to both sets and costumes” (Cumming). Smartphone chimes interrupt the otherwise tranquil atmosphere when Lacie is on her morning run, pointing once again to the frequent technological disruption of experiences in digital culture. 142 In the 114 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="115"?> and those around us ‘on pause’ in order to document our lives. It is an extension of how we have learned to put our conversations ‘on pause’ when we send or receive a text, an image, an email, a call. When you get accustomed to a life of stops and starts, you get less accustomed to reflecting on where you are and what you are thinking” (“Documented Life”). 143 With this episode, Black Mirror also provokes more general discussions on what Dotson describes as “[a]n ever more dominant language of individualism [that] leaves people unable to comprehend their connections outside the logic of utilitarian self-interest or expressive self-realization” (3). next scene, the camera zooms into her bathroom, where Lacie is practising the ‘perfect’ smiles and giggles in front of the mirror to increase her chances of receiving good ratings and being accepted into the ‘Pelican Cove Lifestyle Community’ that she desperately wants to become a part of (S3/ E1 0: 01; see also Winter, “Tweet” 294). This intimate shot, which depicts the protagonist in her bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her head, suggests that the mimic training to finetune her appearance is firmly integrated into her morning routine after running and showering. The bathroom scene allows viewers to witness her daily preparation for a world in which scores are highly consequential because they determine the social rank (see Helgesson 93). “Nosedive” demonstrates that Black Mirror is particularly interested in delving into the psychological state of its protagonists. While the episode also frames the wider social environment, depicting people glued to smartphones and constantly scrolling through social media feeds, the spotlight on Lacie reveals the personal hardships of constructing the good life when social media logics run amok, aesthetically underlined by her costume deteriorating from immaculate to messy. In so doing, Black Mirror draws a parallel between systemic coercion and individual suffering, as viewers witness the consequences of social media addiction as well as the flawed mechanisms of the rating standard. The episode captures how social media has transformed from a space of connection into a competitive landscape where the number of followers and ‘likes’ determines individuals’ hierarchical social order and self-worth (see Hands 146). 143 Images of flawless lives and happy relationships confront Lacie with the alleged shortcomings of her own life and perpetuate her fear of low scores. ‘Low-ranked’ people (like her brother, truck driver Susan, and eventu‐ ally Lacie herself) suffer from social discrimination and experience systemic limitations on their freedom; they are trapped in a downward spiral triggered by algorithms. Black Mirror here suggests that social media serves exclusively as a canvas to impress others with one’s lifestyle - a notion that should be all too familiar to contemporary viewers. “Nosedive” thus exemplifies how the anthology manages to harness the centripetal force of complexity to probe how 1.1 Navigating Screen Culture: The Black Mirror Universe 115 <?page no="116"?> 144 See Fisher, who highlights the absence of spectacle in Alfonso Cuaron’s Children of Men (2006): similar to many Black Mirror episodes, the catastrophe in this dystopian cinematic masterpiece “is neither waiting down the road, nor has it already happened. Rather, it is being lived through. There is no punctual moment of disaster; the world doesn’t end with a bang, it winks out, unravels, gradually falls apart. What caused the catastrophe to occur, who knows; its cause lies long in the past, so absolutely detached from the present as to seem like the caprice of a malign being: a negative miracle, a malediction which no penitence can ameliorate” (2, emphasis added). 145 Black Mirror’s mode of realism exemplifies that contemporary science fiction is increas‐ ingly concerned with the near future. Simut argues that the anthology “represents the significant example for the implosion of the prospective dimension of contemporary [science fiction]” (6). social technologies create, shape, and manipulate desires, behaviours, and the sense of self. Black Mirror leaves the genesis of these alternate dystopian realities largely unexplained. Instead, it focuses on characters who ‘live through’ the respective dystopias. 144 Interestingly, almost all episodes feature shots of the protagonists facing themselves in the mirror at one point, suggesting that “[t]echnology doesn’t just do things for us. It does things to us, changing not just what we do but who we are” (Turkle, “Documented Life”, emphasis added). Such a nuanced negotiation of humanity’s twisted entanglement with technologies of all sorts dovetails with a specific mode of realism. In the context of complex TV, this mode can be read as “an attempt to render a fictional world that creates the representational illusion of accuracy” (Mittell 221). 145 Indeed, most narratives of the anthology take place in domestic settings and zoom into the intimate lives of characters within their own four walls. Drawing on Lima and Fernandes, Lopes points out how Black Mirror “dialogues with a dystopian future that mingles with the present, which causes an estrangement in the audience due to its hyperbolic language - not because it seems absurd, but because it is presented as a possible chapter of reality” (93). The anthology provokes this estrangement in viewers by introducing a novum (Suvin, Metamorphoses 79) in the form of a specific technological standard or device unique to each episode, which alters the logic of the diegetic reality and occasionally breaks the otherwise consistent mode of realism. Film critic Adrian Martin aptly describes Black Mirror’s oscillation between familiarity and estrangement as an ‘isolated magnification’ technique. In the respective episodes, “only a single aspect of the depicted, futuristic world is different to our own” (Martin 18). The rating standard in “Nosedive,” the memory implant in “The Entire History of You” (S1/ E3), and the monitoring device in “Arkangel” (S4/ E2) are cases in point: each episode uses one single aspect to 116 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="117"?> 146 Martin concludes that this technique “also creates a general air of unreality, an unreality that well serves Black Mirror’s overarching, allegorical aim” (18). While his observations are useful to point out the anthology’s narrative device to create tension between the familiar and the unreal, his mention of a “general air of unreality” could easily be misunderstood in the way that one estranged element makes the entire fictional world seem unreal. On the contrary, the very fact that “only a single aspect” is different showcases the dystopian realism mode of the anthology. 147 See Vorderer and Halfmann, who suggest that estrangement and resonance go hand in hand: “[t]he very experience of resonance in a particular moment also activates a sense of alienation, since resonance is only applied to a detail, and is surrounded by a world that remains silent” (89). 148 P. Murphy fittingly points out that “[i]f a work seems too far removed from the everyday, too impossibly wonderful, awful, or simply fanciful […] - the sublimation that does occur will lead simply to a cathartic reduction of anxiety. And whether it simply enables escapism or reinforces smug assumptions, such a work will encourage social inaction and facilitate the continuation of the status quo” (26). modify the otherwise familiar settings. The novum facilitates the systematic estrangement in audiences - “the isolated magnification is what estranges us from the episode’s otherwise normal-seeming present - revealing it to be, finally, not at all normal or natural” (Martin 18). 146 It is precisely the way Black Mirror carefully extrapolates today’s technological standards that makes viewers cringe at the likelihood of these near-future scenarios. The anthology oscillates between estrangement and realism, prompting uncomfortable yet eudemonic viewing experiences which sharpen viewers’ critical eye on the entrenched mechanism of digital culture. 147 By using an isolated magnification technique, Black Mirror also circumvents the need to use spectacle as a means of conveying its critical commentary. Girish, for instance, argues that the anthology “replaces spectacle with realistic - and often terrifying - speculation about our technologized future” (32). Rather than providing surface entertain‐ ment, the dystopian worlds make audiences scrutinise their own entanglement with technology, leaving them-- more often than not-- in a state of unrest and disturbance. The strange recognition of the fictional world thus leaves little room for escapist viewing practices. 148 Taken together, Black Mirror confronts viewers with alternate realities and targets their comfort zones. At best, dystopian realism prompts viewers to reflect on today’s standards and find alternatives that prevent those standards from turning into dystopian nightmares. The anthology thus abounds in screen and mirror imagery not only for its own sake but also to encourage viewers to look in their own mirrors. Particularly the open endings are part and parcel of Black Mirror’s overarching aim to jolt viewers awake. By abandoning happy endings, the anthology ensures that its themes linger beyond the closing credits, 1.1 Navigating Screen Culture: The Black Mirror Universe 117 <?page no="118"?> urging viewers to contemplate the likelihood of the dystopian scenarios. The in‐ terplay of culturally relevant themes and distinct formal techniques strengthens the immediacy between fiction and reality, implicating contemporary viewers in the trajectory of the technological transformation of society. These nuanced snapshots of the human-technology entanglement qualify Black Mirror as a complex serial dystopia par excellence. 1.2 Invasive Technologies: Implants, Algorithms, and Robot Dogs Along with series like Mr. Robot, Westworld, and Kiss Me First, Black Mirror investigates our relationship with technology to chart possible roadmaps for the future. However, the anthology format offers the particular advantage of exploring different components of the hyperobject technology, from tangible technologies in the form of gadgets, implants, and robots to more subtle ‘logical’ manifestations in the form of technological standards. Martin argues that the central premises of Black Mirror are frequently “explored through the rapid dramatisation of a range of situations and moods, a ‘variations on a theme’ structure. This mosaic construction allows a series of comparisons, thus urging us to formulate our own attitude as viewers” (20). Indeed, the depiction of technology is multi-dimensional and varies significantly throughout the anthology. On the one hand, episodes like “The National Anthem,” “White Bear,” or “Shut up and Dance” spotlight alternate realities with present-day technol‐ ogies like social media, smartphones, and computers. Although these are the least ‘science-fictional’ episodes because they do entirely without extrapolating technological standards of empirical reality, they offer glimpses into established norms and practices of digital culture and raise a number of questions related to network power, entertainment, and digital footprints. On the other hand, episodes like “Arkangel,” “The Entire History of You,” and “Metalhead” introduce monitoring and memory implants as well as robot dogs, each representing more advanced technology beyond current standards of extratextual reality. By thinking through the function and effects of particular innovations in minute detail, Black Mirror self-consciously evokes deterministic readings of technology, suggesting technology as the root cause of social alienation, hubris, or mental health conditions. Edisa González and Ricardo Vizcaíno-Laorga, for instance, describe the anthology as ultimately technophobic because it depicts worlds in which “technology would lead us to a situation that we really do not want to reach” (300). Similarly, Hands argues that Black Mirror articulates the 118 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="119"?> 149 This episode’s title and the eponymous name of the technology are religiously inspired and can be read as an ironic remark: in the Judeo-Christian faith, an archangel is not only an angel who guides the mortals, but it also denotes a higher-ranked angel, a messenger who delivers information from God that is of importance to humans on a larger scale. The Arkangel technology thus serves as a guide for Marie while heralding the future of technologically guided parenting in the 21 st century, an implication the episode negates through the tragic development of Marie and Sara’s troubled relationship. fear of the “domination of gadget-objects, confronting us as isolated individual subjects, exerting control over us, curtailing our freedoms and turning us into docile and compliant clients” (147). Indeed, these observations ring true, especially when considering the depleted realities of “Fifteen Million Merits” or “Nosedive.” Yet, while Black Mirror situates technology at the heart of society, the anthology also highlights that technology never imposes itself on society as an external force. Thus, the conclusion that the entire anthology promotes technological determinism ignores the complexity of the Black Mirror universe. Upon closer examination, most episodes skilfully balance technolog‐ ical deterministic and social constructivist views, illustrating Kranzberg’s claim that “[t]echnology is neither good nor bad; nor is it neutral” (545). Complex serial dystopias like Black Mirror discursively subscribe to the interdependence view, that is, the “mutual shaping of technology and society” (Ben Allouch et al. 843), thus encouraging viewers to formulate their own opinion about the human-technology entanglement. The episode “Arkangel” (S4/ E2) exemplifies how Black Mirror negotiates the fine line between the undesirable effects of supposedly ‘evil’ technology and the human tendency to abandon common logic when a technological solution is at hand. In this episode’s world, protagonist Marie (Rosemarie DeWitt) enrols her three-year-old daughter Sara (Aniya Hodge) in a free trial of ‘Arkangel,’ an innovative technological solution consisting of an implant and a tablet-like monitoring device to protect children from harmful experiences. 149 That ‘Arkangel’ is a much-welcomed technological solution for Marie becomes clear right at the beginning of the episode when she undergoes a C-Section after having ‘failed’ to deliver naturally. The camera captures the worried expression on the protagonist’s face as the baby’s relieving first cry is delayed, transporting a moment of prolonged suspense until the medical staff assures both Marie and viewers that the newborn is alive and well (S4/ E2 0: 01). The opening scene purposefully sets the underlying mood centred around the fear of losing a child, aesthetically amplified by the dissonant piano soundtrack that permeates the entire episode. Martin correctly observes that “Arkangel” explores one of Black Mirror’s “favourite, recurring concerns: what happens when some of the 1.2 Invasive Technologies: Implants, Algorithms, and Robot Dogs 119 <?page no="120"?> 150 The manipulation of optic feeds is a dominant motif in Black Mirror. The episode “Men Against Fire” (S3/ E5) exhibits how implants manipulate the vision of soldiers in combat as they see monstrous grimaces instead of the real faces of their targets. Similarly, in the “White Christmas” episode, the bodies of former convicts are visually blocked to citizens in public spaces (see Gordon). 151 Martin points out that the ‘Arkangel’ technology curbs intense emotions like anger and fear in ways that can be harmful to the child’s development: “[w]e observe how Sara is being effectively ‘screened’ from experiencing intense emotions, whether of pleasure or pain - parental control has set a firm limit on her sensations, and it blunts her development” (20). most basic human emotions and desires - such as maternal care or adolescent curiosity - intersect with, and get twisted by, a technological system that invariably spins out of control and into catastrophe” (21). However, here it is not the system that “spins out of control” but Marie’s urge to keep her daughter safe. While the opening scene explains Marie’s motivation behind opting for the surveillance device, it also sets the stage for a compelling narrative that focuses on how technology may exacerbate parental anxiety in digital culture. The first moment of estrangement within the otherwise grounded setting occurs in the Arkangel laboratory. The staff inserts the implant, however painlessly, into the side of Sara’s forehead (see Fig. 1c) and equips Marie with a tablet that allows her to track Sara’s location, movement, and health status, and even to pixel her vision when exposed to content that the device’s algorithms deem inappropriate. As the employee explains: “If she witnesses something that causes her cortisol levels to rise, like stress, it can kind of paint out whatever’s triggering it.” (S4/ E2 0: 08) Thus, violent situations, pornographic images, and even the dog barking next door become but blurred images. 150 The camera angles alternate between point-of-view shots that capture Sara’s limited vision and the images Marie sees on her control unit, encouraging viewers to reflect on the trade-off between children’s safety and their right to development. 151 The extent to which Marie uses technology to filter Sara’s world and protect her from adverse situations at an early age, this episode seems to suggest, hampers her daughter’s development into a resilient, independent individual (cf. Evans and Reid). Unsurprisingly, the plot gains momentum when Sara grows older and naturally tests her limits. Although the opening scene invites viewers to relate to Marie’s decision to use Arkangel, the episode makes viewers reconsider their sympathy by gradually revealing the effect on Sara’s development. In school, peers tease the now nine-year-old (Sarah Abbott) for only seeing pixels where they see violent content on smartphones. “I want to know what you’re watching,” Sara asks her peers. “What do you care, chip-head? It’s parental advisory. You’re locked out,” 120 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="121"?> 152 Interestingly, Sara’s grandfather mentions that he is 2000 years old (S4/ E2 0: 08). This side note adds another layer to the absent paradigm, suggesting that technology and science have managed to prolong life extensively in the Black Mirror universe. replies one of her friends (S4/ E2 0: 15). The neighbour’s dog barking aggressively behind a fence, which the camera repeatedly captures in blurred shots, becomes a symbol of Sara’s constraint and lack of autonomy. When she injures herself with a pen in an act of rebellion, even her blood becomes but pixeled images in her vision (see Fig. 1d). Bewildered by the increasingly ‘abnormal’ behaviour, Marie seeks help from a psychotherapist to find out if her daughter is suffering from an autistic condition. The fact that the protagonist fails to consider that her overprotection and obsessive use of Arkangel might be the reason for Sara’s behavioural problems is an utterly distressing experience for the audience. The initial sympathy for Marie thus fades as the episode progresses. Fig. 1c: The technological solution in “Arkangel” allows parents to monitor and adjust their children’s optic feed through a parental hub paired with an implant (S4/ E2 0: 06). - Fig. 1d: The child protagonist sees only pixeled images instead of her blood (S4/ E2 0: 17). While Black Mirror spotlights Marie to direct viewers’ attention to the human tendency to abuse technological solutions, whether consciously or uncon‐ sciously, the episode also offers glimpses into the technical functionality of Arkangel. For example, when Sara’s grandfather suffers a heart attack, her vision automatically blurs because the algorithms are trained to recognise and subsequently block experiences that raise cortisol levels. 152 In this scene, Black Mirror explicitly displays that “[u]nforeseen ‘dis-benefits’ can […] arise from presumably beneficent technologies” (Kranzberg 547). By showcasing precisely how the device works in different scenarios, Black Mirror underscores the danger of humans relying on algorithms that merely execute coded protocols. In this regard, another layer of the dystopian momentum surfaces as the episode subtly reveals that Sara was a guinea pig in the early stages of product devel‐ 1.2 Invasive Technologies: Implants, Algorithms, and Robot Dogs 121 <?page no="122"?> 153 See also “Playtest” (S3/ E2) for another example of human test objects in Black Mirror. 154 Kranzberg argues that “[m]any of our technology-related problems arise because of the unforeseen consequences when apparently benign technologies are employed on a massive scale. Hence many technical applications that seemed a boon to mankind when first introduced became threats when their use became widespread” (546). This episode exemplifies that the anthology “does a remarkable job of thinking through some of the potential consequences of the technologies we are using today” (Hill 207). “Arkangel” issues warning against smartphone apps like ‘Google Family Link,’ which allow parents to monitor and set limits on the child’s screen use and points to ongoing controversial discussions around microchipping (cf. Schwartz). The strategic mix between familiarity and estrangement in this episode heightens the viewers’ awareness of how quickly today’s protective measures can turn into tomorrow’s surveillance nightmare, even in a family setting. opment. 153 Interestingly, throughout the anthology, Black Mirror’s technologies are frequently conceptualised as a trial version, pointing to the residual risk of applying breakthrough innovations on a large scale. 154 In “Arkangel,” the psychotherapist mentions as a side note that the company has taken the solution off the market: “The Arkangel never launched nationwide. It was banned in Europe.” (S4/ E2 0: 18) Since the implant cannot be removed, he advises Marie to get rid of the parental unit: “The screen. Just throw it away. Problem solved.” (S4/ E2 0: 18) The fact that Arkangel is “ruled too invasive” (Maloney) implies that there is at least some sort of mechanism in this alternate reality to ensure ethical consideration and risk assessment of emerging technologies. Nevertheless, Marie’s pathological obsession does not fade away against the backdrop of this utopian spark. Turning the screen off and putting away the parental unit is precisely what Marie struggles with. Given that the technology is no longer on the market, the human wrongdoings light up as the core critique in this episode. Black Mirror suggests that it is not technology itself that drives the dystopian undertone of this episode but technology in conjunction with its user. Rather than actually easing Marie’s anxieties, the Arkangel device amplifies her fears as she has constant access to Sara’s experiences. It is not the magnified object that furthers the dystopian expression but the concrete insights into the protagonist’s inability to restrain her urges. The director of “Arkangel,” Jodie Foster, points to the complicated human-technology entanglement that informs the entire anthology, arguing that “like everything in Black Mirror, you know, technology is really just a reflection of our own messed up psychologies - and the technology itself is benign, and it doesn’t have feeling and it just does what we ask it to do and unfortunately it highlights the crazy dynamics and psychology of our family lives” (“Jodie Foster”, CBS News). Her observation rings true for “Arkangel” because here, technology appears primarily as a passive tool, whereas the human abuse of technology takes centre stage. However, the 122 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="123"?> 155 The implications of this technological standard become clear when Hallam (Phoebe Fox), who claims her grain had been stolen, has trouble reporting an assault to the police. On the phone, she desperately repeats, “I don’t have a grain feed to show you, I don’t have a grain.” (S1/ E3 0: 35) This marginalised scene, which literally takes place in the background, reveals a great deal about the social hierarchy in this world, suggesting that those who have gone ‘grainless’ are not taken seriously because they have no reliable information to display. Although the social logic of this world does not entail punitive measures like in classical dystopias, citizens are still expected to conform to the technological standard of the grain if they do not want to fall victim to social exclusion. anthology negotiates technology more nuanced than simply ‘benign.’ Instead of prefiguring the role of technology as either an evil force or a beneficent, passive tool, Black Mirror explores the grey areas of the human-technology entanglement by illuminating how deeply technology is rooted in societies in the first place, producing standards of living that alter the way people interact with the world and each other. In a metamodern way, Black Mirror is at once both an inquiry into the role of technology and “our own messed up psychologies” and neither of them, foregrounding the collateral side effects of the hyperobject technology and its immediate reciprocity with society. The episode “The Entire History of You” similarly sheds light on the (ab)use of technology and the tragic consequences in the interpersonal realm. In this world, individuals record their experiences and store them as audio-visual feeds in their vision through an implant the size of a grain, which becomes “the magnified detail” (Martin 18) of this episode. The grain offers conversation reconstruction, subtitling, and a zoom-in function and thus allows people to access memories “to resolve conflicts, supplement forgetfulness, or make instant legal judgments” (Hands 146-47). Not only does the implant allow individuals to reproduce past moments in their field of vision, but internal feeds can be projected externally on monitors. The Willow Grain company advertises that “memory is for living” (S1/ E3 0: 02), a slogan that seems to have changed the way people communicate and entertain themselves. When protagonist Liam (Toby Kebbell) returns from his appraisal interview, his friends encourage him to share his feed on the TV screen instead of listening to his personal account of how the job interview went. So-called ‘ReDos’ (playbacks) allow the characters to analyse past situations; the technology thus enriches conversations with first-hand visual footage, but the screen also becomes a constant point of reference that interferes with face-to-face discussions. The implant has become the technological standard of this near-future society, and most individuals are convinced of its benefits. 155 As one character explains: “You know half the organic memories you have are junk. Just not trustworthy.” (S1/ E3 0: 13) The enhancement of cognitive functions 1.2 Invasive Technologies: Implants, Algorithms, and Robot Dogs 123 <?page no="124"?> 156 See Schmeink for a discussion on transhumanist discourse and what Hans Moravec refers to as the ‘postbiological world’ (37-8). 157 The theme of externalising memory also crops up in “Crocodile” (S4/ E3). In this episode, a small device called ‘recaller’ is attached to the front side of witnesses’ faces to scan memories and reconstruct accidents or crimes as accurately as possible. In this world, people are required by law to reveal their personal memories to help generate a crowd-sourced picture of reality. Here, too, technology is used to overcome shortcomings of human memory for the sake of public safety. serves as the starting point to explore technology as a catalyst for pathological human predispositions, echoing transhumanist fallacies similar to “Arkangel.” 156 “The Entire History of You” demonstrates particularly well how Black Mirror oscillates between the potentials and dangers of technology, encouraging viewers to form their own opinion about the technological solution. The airport scene, for example, shows how the grain functions as a security mechanism in society. At the check-in, the security guard politely asks Liam to grant him access to his memories on an external screen to detect any misconduct or illegal activities (S1/ E3 0: 03). By implication, this scene suggests that individuals in this alternate reality are (voluntarily) coerced into good conduct. With an in-body panoptic surveillance system like the grain, so this episode suggests, the fictional world becomes a safer place. 157 Here, the dystopian momentum transpires without being explicitly spelt out, given that public safety is directly tied to individual transparency. Social security goes hand in hand with people’s willingness to disclose private, uncensored data. What adds to the dystopian undertone is the unresolved question of where exactly memories are stored and who controls these data. Omitting background information is a typical strategy of Black Mirror to encourage audiences to contemplate the ramifications of a technological standard beyond the narrative boundaries of the explicitly stated paradigm. While Black Mirror strategically marginalises the broader implications of the technology on society, the episode foregrounds the protagonist’s excessive use of the grain’s features. Through Liam, the episode weaves the advantages and disadvantages of the implant into a compelling story about memory, privacy, and infidelity. Driven by his suspicion that his wife Ffion ( Jodie Whittaker) is cheating on him with her ex-boyfriend Jonas (Tom Cullen), Liam obsessively replays scenes of the dinner party that all three had attended the previous night. In a frantic attempt to prove her infidelity, he uses the grain to reinforce his subjective impression with objective evidence, scrutinising his wife’s gestures and verbal expressions. Displaying the footage on the TV screen, he confronts his wife: “Tell me you look at me nice like you look at him.” (S1/ E3 0: 28) Liam’s alcohol consumption fuels his anger and prevents him from approaching the 124 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="125"?> situation with a clear head. The writer of the episode, Jesse Armstrong, points out that “[t]he story’s about someone whose natural tendencies are enabled by a piece of tech” and argues that “Liam already had that jealousy in him. But in a reductive way, it’s a cautionary tale about someone getting tech that allows the latent bad parts of their character to come out” (Brooker et al. 56). Indeed, considering that the grain allows individuals to replay past situations in the first place, Liam perhaps would never have been triggered to dig deeper into the unspoken realms of their marriage. Yet, he states: “It’s like I’ve had a bad tooth for years and I’m just finally getting my tongue in there and I’m digging out all the rotten shit.” (S1/ E3 0: 38) The episode thus oscillates between the fact that Liam “had that jealousy in him” and the fact that the grain technology amplifies his human predisposition, leaving it up to the viewer to decide how much sympathy the protagonist deserves. The episode ends with shots of Liam (symbolically) in front of the mirror, removing the implant in a painful procedure. His suspicions have become true, and now he wanders around his empty house, confronted with the ‘organic’ memories of his marriage. Brooker states that Liam is “the benchmark for a lot of Black Mirror characters, in that he’s a weak, frightened, flawed person” and thus becomes the anthology’s poster child who “slowly destroy[s] [himself] with a gadget” (Brooker et al. 56). Throughout the episode, the point-of-view shots allow viewers to witness Liam’s obsessive retrospect analyses as he pauses and rewinds his feeds. In so doing, this episode highlights the potential side effects of transforming subjective experiences into audio-visual footage and directs viewers’ attention to the ‘lifelogging’ trend in digital culture, which describes the similarly obsessive recording of everyday experiences with a camera. By focusing on the characters' psychologies, Black Mirror circumvents deterministic views that would point to technology as the root cause of tragic outcomes. Instead, it nurtures the overall impression that technology is neither good nor bad nor neutral. While episodes like “Arkangel” and “The Entire History of You” remain opaque in terms of the cause-and-effect patterns of the human-technology entanglement, “Metalhead” subscribes to a clear vision of technology as an independent force. In this episode, Black Mirror taps into familiar science-fiction tropes and feeds cultural fears of machines wreaking havoc. While most of the anthology’s episodes are grounded in suburbs of ordinary alternate realities, “Metalhead” depicts an unspecified future in which robot dogs have taken over and track down human survivors. That this episode is different from the others is made clear from the outset. The establishing drone shot hovers over a post-apocalyptic landscape that serves as the canvas for the final race 1.2 Invasive Technologies: Implants, Algorithms, and Robot Dogs 125 <?page no="126"?> 158 See also the “USS Callister” episode (S4/ E1), another genre experiment in Black Mirror that explores space-opera tropes in a Star Trek parody (cf. Martin 23). between humans and technology. The fact that the entire episode is shot in black and white underscores the hopeless, bleak reality in which the characters find themselves and Black Mirror’s ways of illuminating the hyperobject technology in different settings by playing with established genre tropes. Aesthetically, “Metalhead” stands out from the other episodes in the an‐ thology by stripping the visuals of colour and keeping dialogue to a minimum, thereby offering “more of an experience” (Brooker et al. 293) to viewers, as Brooker notes. The black and white scheme visually accentuates the posthuman scenario in which the cold, rational logic of the machine has consumed any ‘colour of life.’ Martin thus argues that the episode is primarily an “exercise in genre” (21), experimenting with the effects of formal aesthetics to underscore the theme. 158 Indeed, this episode sharpens the viewer’s senses for the visual style of Black Mirror. The binary colour scheme not only underscores the bleakness of this world but also visually processes the prevalent human-tech‐ nology dichotomy. Here, the anthology blends stock features of the horror, post-apocalyptic and dystopian genre - an experiment that adds to the diversity of the Black Mirror universe and links the episode with complex TV’s interest in genre-blurring. As Mittell argues, complex TV “is a site of tremendous genre mixing, where conventions and assumptions from a range of programming cat‐ egories come together and are interwoven, merged, and reformed” (233). Besides the compelling theme of technological singularity, that is, the hypothetical point in the future when technology outgrows and takes over human civilisation, this episode stays in the mind of viewers because of its distinguished approach within the Black Mirror universe. “Metalhead” follows an unusually linear plot line and abandons complex intradiscursive strategies like plot twists. The opening scene introduces viewers to protagonist Bella (Maxine Peake) as she makes her way to an abandoned warehouse accompanied by two other male survivors. The trio reaches the destination and enters the building, but shortly after they find the box they were looking for, a four-legged robotic creature (which immediately reminds viewers of a dog, ironically the most loyal species to humans) interferes with their mission and kills one of the characters by shooting splinters that contain trackers. In this scene, Black Mirror purposefully uses slow-motion shots and the typical eerie, haunting soundtrack of the horror genre in the form of dissonant strings to underscore technology as the ultimate enemy of humans, with the sole intention of taking revenge on its creators. Indeed, detached from any control 126 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="127"?> unit, the dogs seem to pursue their own agenda: they hunt down, track, and kill any human being they encounter. Their frightening nature is emphasised by the peculiar mechanical noises the robot dogs make when they run or move their limbs. Unlike the empathetic, human-like android in “Be Right Back” (see Chapter 1.4 in this analysis), the robot dogs embody the “cold, pre-programmed logic” (Lambie) of the machine. Throughout the episode, Black Mirror draws a parallel between the human survival instinct and the agenda of advanced robots, whose semblance, speed, and dexterity evoke associations not only with dogs but also with highly evolved beetles and frog-like creatures. “Metalhead” pushes the independence view of technology to the extreme by depicting the machines as indestructible and intelligent, even managing to operate a car to accomplish their mission. The entire plot boils down to a relentless footrace between Bella and the dogs across a barren landscape of hills and valleys as she tries in vain to outrun the mechanical predator. After futile attempts to outpace the robot dogs, Bella sends out a radio message (S4/ E5 0: 17). With trembling hands, she speaks into the device, telling the recipients of the message that she is unlikely to return (the safe place which she implicitly alludes to here remains hidden from the audience). Although this scene indicates that there may be a safe place where other survivors are hiding, and perhaps even some sort of community still exists, the fact that the protagonist never receives a clear response through the radio underscores the atmosphere of isolation and hopelessness. The middle of the episode then includes a scene rich in symbolism where Bella finds a brief moment of rest (S4/ E5 0: 18). She climbs a tree (nature here symbolising shelter) while the robot dog, incapable of climbing, ‘patiently’ waits on the ground in stand-by mode. Interestingly, the camera repeatedly captures the ‘eyes’ of the robot dog, which can be read as an anthropomorphising technique to evoke some sort of sympathy for the inanimate machine in the viewer. From the tree, Bella attacks the metal body of the dog by tossing plastic-wrapped sweets, “the only things left” (S4/ E5 0: 00) in this world, as she states in the opening scene. This strategy is her attempt to deplete the robot’s battery, for every time the dog intercepts a moving signal, it reactivates and ‘wakes up.’ When the dog finally ceases to reactivate, the protagonist manages to escape and gains a head start, but the dog soon catches up with her once again. Unsurprisingly, “Metalhead” ends on a bleak note: having reached an aban‐ doned house, Bella is preparing to commit suicide when she discovers that one of the tracking bugs is sitting right at her carotid artery. Removing the splinter will kill her, but so will the robot dogs that have already tracked her location. This dilemma reads like a grim metaphor for the relationship between 1.2 Invasive Technologies: Implants, Algorithms, and Robot Dogs 127 <?page no="128"?> technology and society at large, suggesting that humans and technology are inextricably intertwined. More specifically, Bella’s suicide, symbolically staged in front of the bathroom mirror, points to the triumph of “cold, calculated machine effectiveness” (Monty). In this unspecific future, humanity is depicted as having been literally outpaced by technological intelligence. The relentless chase thus also offers a satirical comment on modern societies that tirelessly chase technological solutions to human problems. Recalling, for example, the “Arkangel” episode in which the protagonist tracks her daughter at every turn, the dystopia of “Metalhead” depicts how the tables have turned. This episode once again sets viewers up to contemplate humans’ intricate relationship with technology. Although the episode’s message seems bold because it blatantly foregrounds ‘evil’ technology, a number of questions engage the audience during the act of viewing. Compared to the other episodes, “Metalhead” is perhaps the least Blackmirroresque in terms of formal complexity; there are no plot twists that would render the “basic and raw” (Brooker et al. 284) atmosphere an illusion or dream. Yet, the narrative contains enigmas to provoke cognitive thought processes triggered by two questions in particular: the first one relates to the genesis of the dystopia and the second to Bella’s motives behind her mission in this hazardous environment. Typical for Black Mirror, the episode starts in medias res, and like in a video game, viewers “start off in an already established world” (Markocki 123). Throughout the episode, there is hardly any dialogue. Even the brief conversa‐ tions between Bella and the other survivors in the beginning seem somewhat random and do little to inform viewers about the broader socio-political paradigm of this world. Martin points out that “[w]e are plunged straight into the frenetic action - a single ‘chase’ sequence extended, virtuosically, to forty-one minutes - in which our heroes improvise with whatever is at hand in order to stay alive” (21-3). At the heart of this episode is the relentless chase sequence that postulates a vivid nightmare of machines wreaking havoc. Viewers are encouraged to theorise about who might have coded the dog’s protocol for the manhunt and what might have caused them to run amok. The most plausible theory, which resonates subliminally throughout the episode, is that privileged survivors are using the robot dogs as warfare agents to ensure their own survival. Interestingly, Brooker opted against this very expository setup of the episode. As he points out, “[w]e sort of deliberately decided not to flesh out a lot of the backstory. Originally in my first draft, we also showed a human operator operating the dog robot from across the ocean at his house. […] But it felt a bit weird and too on-the-nose. It kind of felt superfluous. We deliberately pared it back and did a very simple story.” (Hibberd) The backstory with a “human 128 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="129"?> 159 Bishop points to another real-life reference, arguing that “[p]ackage-delivering drones aren’t much of a leap from patrolling robot dogs, after all, and a warehouse where humans are no longer needed thanks to robotic advances would be a tidy explanation for the economic ruin that appears to have afflicted the characters in ‘Metalhead’”. operator” would have added another layer to the dystopia and expanded the critique of technology toward discussions of class, namely by introducing a subplot in which technology serves as a tool for the privileged few. Yet, as creator Annabel Jones puts it, “[t]here was something far scarier in the robot having autonomy. There was nothing to stop or control this dog.” (Brooker et al. 284) The bleak setting remains unexplained, kindling even more discussions about the genesis of this dystopia that culminates in a brutish foot race between humanity and technology. What adds to the bleakness of this episode, besides the fact that there is no explanation for the status quo, is that the narrative limits background information about the protagonist’s mission to find a particular box in the warehouse. Only the last shot suggests that Bella risked her life to collect a teddy bear for Jack, presumably her sister Ali’s dying child, who she briefly mentions at the beginning of the episode. Underlined by classical music that evokes associations with beauty, creativity, and ultimately humanity, the camera slowly backs up from the bathroom scene where Bella ends her life and ‘rewalks’ the entire chase scene across the wasteland via drone shots back to the warehouse, zooming in on the box Bella was initially after. Given that the protagonist hazards the consequences for a teddy bear in the midst of this dehumanised environment, it is the spirit of benevolence for others, and perhaps even her own hard (or even ‘metal’-)headedness to accomplish her mission against the odds, that restores hope at the end of the episode. Although “Metalhead” offers little guidance in decoding the diegetic world and ultimately centres on a woman’s failed mission in a world dominated by machines, the epilogue contains a utopian enclave that lingers beyond the closing credits. Finally, just like “Arkangel” and “The Entire History of You,” “Metalhead” finds inspiration in a digital culture where the seeds of such technologies have already been planted. In mid-2020, a video went viral showing robot dogs that looked strikingly similar to those depicted in the episode (see Su). The footage displayed the canine robots developed by Boston Dynamics patrolling recreational parks in Singapore, reminding strollers to keep their social distance and adhere to the safety measures during the Corona pandemic. 159 “Metalhead” is one of the most anti-utopian visions of technology and society in this already pessimistic anthology. However, Black Mirror does not completely subscribe to a nihilistic future, given the subtle utopian implication symbolised by the teddy 1.2 Invasive Technologies: Implants, Algorithms, and Robot Dogs 129 <?page no="130"?> 160 Dystopian fiction usually includes a counter-narrative that focuses on the emancipation of the dystopian hero who triggers transformative change, whether successful or not (Baccolini and Moylan, “Introduction” 5). The absence of critical mouthpieces in Black Mirror correlates with an observation Gonnermann has made with regard to the literary paradigm. In recent novels, too, the counter-narrative is challenged by hyperobjects, network power, and neoliberal capitalism’s tentacles that infiltrate the lebenswelt of the characters (19). 161 “Arkangel,” for example, spins out entirely without a critical mouthpiece and constructs a dystopian scenario in which no one questions the idea of implants for children or the bear, which is the only “soft and comforting thing” (Hibberd) in this wasteland. Most importantly, the anthology challenges stalemated representations of tech‐ nology as the catalyst for humanity’s demise by pointing towards the nuances of the human-technology entanglement in the first place and thus encouraging viewers to formulate their own opinions. Black Mirror’s complex worldbuilding provides an “encyclopedic impulse” (Wolf 30) that captures the hyperobject technology from multiple angles rather than an isolated force. 1.3 Dystopian Heroes and the Vortex of Hyperobjects Unlike classical dystopian fiction, the Black Mirror universe abandons critical mouthpieces who question the status quo. The absence of subversive elements can be frustrating for viewers who expect conventional storylines in which the protagonists manage to work their way through undesirable conditions. 160 The fact that Black Mirror focuses on the interstices of society and less obvious manifestations of power relations (rather than the traditional state-vs-individual paradigm and despotism) adds to the dark satirical tone of the anthology and its largely anti-utopian position. As a by-product of this narrative structure, many episodes initially prompt viewers and critics to read technology in terms of technological determinism, i.e., as a force solely responsible for the erosion of morals and values in digital culture. But as has become clear, Black Mirror works against such one-dimensional interpretations by refusing to depict technology in a social vacuum. The lack of alternative visions seems strategic in Black Mirror: precisely because no one questions the established cultural logic of these fictional societies, the responsibility to conceive of alternatives shifts to the audience level. Questioning the ideology and values of the dystopian worlds is a task that Black Mirror decidedly assigns to its viewers. As the previous examples have shown, Black Mirror generally employs fallible, ordinary characters and antiheroes rather than archetypical heroes who succeed in their mission. 161 Conscious of the genre’s tradition, the anthology 130 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="131"?> protagonist’s obsession with the device. Although Sara becomes the voice of reason in this episode by rebelling against her entrapment, her only way ‘out’ is marked by violence. In the final scenes, she attacks her own mother with the tablet and beats her down before running off into an unknown but independent future. 162 This reference was brought to my attention by Stanley Reams. The change from ‘faith’ to ‘wraith’ (the latter describing a ghostlike person) refers to the insubstantial virtuality of the avatars in this world, the exhaustion of the ‘Hot Shot’ celebrities, and not least the dwindling experiences in a real world upon which faith is built. points to and satirises the very idea of a subplot of resistance characteristic of the classical dystopia. “Fifteen Million Merits” is a case in point of a narrative that deceives viewers into believing that they are witnessing the rise of a dystopian hero. While some characters are unaware of their entrapment in media cells and even embrace the media-driven lifestyle, protagonist Bing stands as an example for citizens who hope that they will live a different life one day. This hope of breaking the vicious cycle of peddling stationary bikes is underlined by the episode’s theme song, “I have a dream […] to help me cope with anything,” which makes bold associations with Martin Luther King Jr.’s call for equality and freedom. In fact, the entire system only works because most people are convinced that there is a chance, however small, to escape this depleted reality. When the critical Bing meets talented newcomer Abi ( Jessica Brown-Findlay), with whom he develops a deep bond, the episode plays with viewers’ expectations, as the couple should have what it takes to break out of this media cell dystopia. But utopia, Black Mirror makes clear, is understood here in the ordinary, anti-utopian sense of the word, namely as a “fanciful, unrealistic, impractical” (Sargent, “Three Faces” 22) dream that can never be realised. Although the stage is set for a counter-narrative of resistance, “Fifteen Million Merits” relinquishes any hope for alternatives to the system by pointing to the self-perpetual mechanisms of this media-driven society. The hope for a better life is raised by ‘Hot Shot,’ a talent show that the diegetic media industry keeps selling to citizens as a viable chance to break out of their Sisyphean lifestyle. One advertisement, for instance, states: “But they started here. Like you. Putting their back into giving back - for a brighter now. Each paying their dues - like you - hoping to become a Hot Shot.” (S1/ E2 0: 08) In this world, the three condescending judges of the talent show determine the fate of the individual. Symbolically, they bear the names Wraith, Hope, and Charity - a twisted version of the three theological virtues Faith, Hope, and Charity (Love). 162 Most citizens are eager to win the talent show and hope their own individual dream will eventually come true, which finds expression when the camera sways through the crowded rehearsal room (S1/ E2 0: 27). Here, the candidates practice in close proximity to each other, yet each one of them is rehearsing with their in-ear headphones, not 1.3 Dystopian Heroes and the Vortex of Hyperobjects 131 <?page no="132"?> 163 Although the close-up shots of the jury’s faces indicate that Abi’s performance has reached their hearts, Judge Hope cannot help but picturing her “in an erotic scenario” (S1/ E2 0: 35). Much like Prime Minister Callow being coerced by the public to perform an indecent act on live television in “The National Anthem,” Abi is pressured by the avatar audience to accept the offer to become a “Wraith Babe.” Judge Hope fires up the audience by pointing out how ungrateful she is: “Who do you think is powering that spotlight? Millions of people, that’s who, all of ‘em out there right now, putting in an honest day at the bike. While you stand in the light, they’re generating and dither.” (S1/ E2 0: 36) Urging Abi to accept the offer, he promises her that she will “never have to pedal again, not one minute! ” (S1/ E2 0: 35). even noticing the presence of their fellow citizens. That the protagonists stand out from the crowd is evident in Bing’s facial expressions, which suggests that he is fed up with the exploitative system, and Abi’s voice, a talent that could actually help her become a ‘Hot Shot.’ The evolving counter-narrative takes a detour with Abi’s attempt ‘to make it’ within the parameters of the system by winning the talent show. That a better life through ‘Hot Shot’ is only an illusion becomes clear in the young girl’s experience. Since Bing desperately wants “something real to happen” (S1/ E2 0: 22) in this artificial world, he selflessly gifts Abi with an entry ticket to the talent show, sacrificing his own hard-earned 15 million merits in the hope that she can escape this dreary existence. The staff urges Abi to drink a cup of ‘Cuppliance’ (a pun on ‘compliance’) before she enters the stage and performs the melancholic love ballade ‘Anyone who knows what Love is.’ After a brief moment of reflection, the jurors conclude that they are less impressed with her voice than her looks. 163 Cheered on by the audience full of avatars, Abi reluctantly (and clearly intoxicated) accepts Judge Hope’s (Rupert Everett) offer to join the adult film “Wraith Babes” productions. With Abi’s fate as a porn actress, the episode reinforces the void of alternatives in this world and shifts the focus on the male protagonist’s attempt to expose the tyranny of the world order. The following minutes focus on Bing, who had projected all hope on Abi, back in his media cell. Enraged and on the brink of a mental breakdown, he decides to refill his merit score and buy himself an entry ticket to the talent show. After the montage that shows him planning a dance performance, the viewers of the episode suspect that the performance will be his chance to express all his rage against the system. Indeed, with a sharp piece of screen glass at his throat (which he broke in his cell during his breakdown), Bing interrupts his ordinary dance performance. Threatening to kill himself on stage, the protagonist delivers a compelling speech about the dehumanising logic of this world: 132 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="133"?> […] All we know is fake fodder and buying shit. That’s how we speak to each other, how we express ourselves is buying shit. I have a dream? The peak of our dreams is a new hat for our doppel, a hat that doesn’t exist. It’s not even there, we buy shit that’s not even there. Show us something real and free and beautiful, you couldn’t. It’d break us, we’re too numb for it, our minds would choke. There’s only so much wonder we can bear, that’s why when you find any wonder whatsoever you dole it out in meager portions, and only then til it’s augmented and packaged and pumped through ten thousand pre-assigned filters, til it’s nothing more than a meaningless series of lights, while we ride day-in, day-out - going where? Powering what? All tiny cells in tiny screens and bigger cells in bigger screens and fuck you. Fuck you, that’s what it boils down to is fuck you. (S1/ E2 0: 52) In this climactic scene, Bing sums up the criticism of the episode for the viewers. His speech offers a manual on how to read humanity’s condition in this fictional world. The critical mouthpiece of this episode points to the erosion of values and critical thinking through excessive entertainment and consumption (“fake fodder” and “buying shit”), the numbness fostered by mediated realities and avatars (“doppels”), and the meaningless existence in front of screens that facilitates alienation processes. Through this explicit critique of the status quo, the episode plays with the viewer’s expectation of witnessing the breakthrough of a dystopian hero. On stage, Bing is finally able to confront the supposed puppet masters responsible for the exploitative system, and his outburst is, in fact, one of the few instances that comes closest to some sort of rebellious act in the entire anthology. While a simple serial dystopia would most likely depict Bing’s success in triggering change, Black Mirror satirises the exercise of critique and subsumes the subversive act under the self-perpetuating mechanism of this society. After a brief moment of silence, the jury expresses how original his speech and how outstanding his performance was, especially the “throat cutting thing. Neat gimmick.” (S1/ E2 0: 56) The fact that the jury rewards his performance and rhetoric while ignoring the ‘truth’-content of his speech demonstrates that criticism itself has become a commodity rather than an effective vehicle of subversion. The episode closes by depicting Bing’s new reality as a ‘professional’ critical mouthpiece. His controversial performance has earned him a slot on the TV channel where he delivers similar critical speeches twice a week. By empha‐ sising that the status quo remains unchallenged, Black Mirror articulates the fear of a future in which critique is co-opted as an entertaining performance and absorbed by neoliberal capitalism as yet another exploitable product. Also, it remains unclear whether his speech was a sincere approach to induce change or merely a clean-cut plan to win the auditions and create a better life for 1.3 Dystopian Heroes and the Vortex of Hyperobjects 133 <?page no="134"?> 164 That the title of this episode was taken from the chorus of The Smiths’ song “Panic” (1986) was brought to my attention by Sina Schuhmaier. The song criticised pop music for becoming less and less responsive to and reflective of the lebenswelt of its listeners at the time, encouraging listeners to “burn down the disco” and “hang the DJ,” thus heralding a rebellious subplot in this episode. 165 Plot twists crop up throughout the entire anthology. The clearest example of this strategy of manipulating viewers’ expectations and emotions appears in the episode “White Bear.” Here, the confused and disoriented protagonist is pursued by mindless onlookers and vicious killers. That Victoria (Lenora Crichlow) was convicted of child murder and that the chase is an entertainment spectacle organised by the ‘White Bear Justice Park’ is not revealed until the very end of the episode. Similarly, “Hang the DJ” manipulates viewers’ expectations by “reconfigur[ing] the scenario in a way that was diegetically consistent […], narratively engaging, and emotionally honest to the characters and relationships” (Mittell 47). himself. The lingering impression of the episode thus renders transformative change on a collective level merely a utopian dream. While Bing does articulate the underlying mechanisms of this nightmarish future, the aftermath of his performance exemplifies the limits of criticism in the 21 st century (cf. Gonner‐ mann 296). By extension, the commodification of criticism as an entertainment product reflects the struggle dystopian fiction faces in the age of streaming providers. Given that most TV series aim to please viewers through immersive experiences, the tradition of dystopias as vehicles of critique is called into question. Devon Maloney even questions Black Mirror didactic abilities: “[g]iven that we’ve created the future that authors once envisioned in their metaphors for critiquing their present, it’s clear the dystopian genre hasn’t had its intended warning effect on society.” By simultaneously employing and satirising a subplot of resistance, Black Mirror points to itself as a consumer product and heightens viewers’ awareness of how difficult it is to effectively formulate critique and challenge the status quo against the backdrop of hyperobjects like technology and capitalism. The episode “Hang the DJ” (S4/ E4) is another example that demonstrates how a complex serial dystopia like Black Mirror plays with the dystopian genre’s hallmark of rebellious subplots. 164 To do so, the narrative includes a plot twist at the end - a common feature in complex TV that causes “the entire scenario to ‘reboot’” (Mittell 47). 165 The protagonists of this episode, Frank ( Joe Cole) and Amy (Georgina Campbell), find themselves in a closely monitored society in which the dating app ‘Coach’ determines the lifespan of romantic relationships. Although the Coach system is a tangible pocket device with a friendly, Alexa-like female voice, its algorithms dictate the entire logic of this world: Coach not only determines which individuals make a good match but also assigns a time value to each encounter, indicating precisely how many years, months, days 134 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="135"?> 166 Extending the absurd notion of quantifying human relationships beyond the screen, the creators of Black Mirror set up a website (‘coach.dating’) on which viewers can ‘check’ the date of expiry of their own relationship. This transmedial effort is both a marketing strategy drawing attention to the anthology and an attempt to reinforce the immediacy between reality and the fictional world. 167 Martin makes a similar observation: “[a]s this tale unfolds, events that strain our credulity as spectators pile up. What has happened to the ordinary, working lives of these characters? Do they truly spend all their waking and sleeping hours going through the motions of a typically awkward and barren ‘perfect match’? Is everybody in this future society simultaneously on the treadmill of this same pairing-off regime? ” (19). By extrapolating contemporary dating practices, Black Mirror fleshes out a distorted perception of relationships and satirises individuals’ longing for meaningful connection in digital culture. and even hours a relationship will last. 166 As there is “no possibility of escaping the contract” (Martin 19), people in this dystopia are forced to date constantly. Once again, this Black Mirror episode strategically omits background infor‐ mation to trigger the viewers’ critical involvement in the storyworld. There seems to be no (human) authoritative power centre responsible for pulling the strings of this dystopian regime, which reinforces the impression of a sinister social system that confines protagonists to a suburban space surrounded by a grey wall (reminiscent of the setting in the YA dystopia Maze Runner (2014)). Security guards dressed in black uniforms and equipped with tasers occasionally appear in the background of the setting, yet they are the only visual manifesta‐ tion of this surveillance state. In the light of the rising number of singles in Western cultures and the popularity of LBRTD (location-based real-time dating) apps, the novum introduced in this episode seems like an enhanced, smarter version of Tinder, Bumble, or Badoo. The system’s name also speaks for itself: the app ‘coaches’ individuals by exposing them to various romantic partners and raises hope that they will meet ‘the one’ at the end of their journey. Black Mirror thus extrapolates the mechanisms of the dating scene in digital culture in which apps play a significant role in finding the significant other. Characters are staged exclusively in dating scenarios, and every conversation revolves around dating, which underscores the narrowness of this world and provides the starting point for the emerging counter-narrative. 167 At the heart of the episode is the romantic love plot of Frank and Amy, who both explore this system-guided dating for the first time. On their first date, they muse about the time before Coach. Amy states, “Must have been mental before the system. […] people had to do the whole relationship thing themselves, work out who they wanna be with. […] It’s so much simpler when it’s all mapped out.” (S4/ E4 0: 07) Close-ups of their hands touching and soft piano music complement the setting of the cabin in the woods where they spend their first night together. 1.3 Dystopian Heroes and the Vortex of Hyperobjects 135 <?page no="136"?> The idyllic atmosphere and the flirtatious exchange of glances suggest that Frank and Amy are a solid match. Yet, the expiration date set by Coach limits the time they spend together to only 12 hours, so they reluctantly part ways. The episode then features a montage of the two protagonist’s experiences with other partners (see Fig. 1e), before Coach surprisingly matches Frank and Amy again. This time they promise each other not to check the expiration date, hoping to escape the contract by simply living in the moment. However, symptomatic of many Black Mirror protagonists who bring about their own demise through the use of a gadget, Frank cannot resist the urge to check the expiration date of their relationship and finds out that they were granted five years together. To his surprise, the number on the screen starts dropping to only 20 hours, as Coach considers his broken promise a fraud: “One-sided observation has destabilized the expiry date.” (S4/ E4 0: 34) Fig. 1e: The ‘Coach’ system determines the lifespan of relationships (S4/ E4-0: 23). - Fig. 1f: The plot twist reveals that the dating app dystopia is only a simulation of algorithms-(S4/ E4 0: 49). What follows is a “romantic revolt” (Martin 19) against the Coach regime in order to escape the path mapped out by the dating app. Instead of surrendering to the logic of Coach, Frank and Amy decide to “fuck the system” (S4/ E4 0: 39) and confess that they want to be with each other, not with “whoever the system reckons the one is” (S4/ E4 0: 45). In a scene reminiscent of The Truman Show (1998), in which the protagonist escapes the artificial TV set and enters the real world, Frank and Amy climb the iron staircase on the city wall to escape the claustrophobic space. As the synthetic world slowly dematerialises behind them, they find themselves in a virtual void amongst hundreds of digital copies of themselves, similarly confused and disoriented. At this point, Black Mirror breaks with the mode of realism that has dominated the entire episode and visually announces the plot twist, namely that the protagonist’s romantic rebellion was merely one of hundreds of simulations inside the Coach app installed on Amy and Frank’s smartphone in the ‘real’ world (see Fig. 1 f). The operational aesthetics of this episode have deceived the viewer up to this point and allowed Black Mirror to unfold a tale that puts a human face on algorithms. 136 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="137"?> 168 By abandoning blueprints for alternative visions and highlighting the absence of rebels, Black Mirror subscribes to an updated form of criticism in terms of ‘immanent critique’ (Gonnermann 55; cf. also Jaeggi), which points to the inconsistencies of a world shaped by the hyperobject technology and capitalist realism. Frank and Amy are the underlying algorithms of the ‘real’ dating app and give viewers insights into the operating mechanisms of this technology. Through the literal anthropomorphisation of algorithms, the episode addresses the ‘black box’ of AI, a problem that refers to the opacity of the inner logic behind decisions made by applications. In this way, “Hang the DJ” ties in with the principle of ‘explainable AI’ that seeks to decipher these opaque structures of an app in such a way that they can be understood by humans, a task that Black Mirror accomplishes most vividly as a cultural artefact. In the final scene, the setting shifts to a bar where the ‘real’ Amy and Frank make eye contact for the first time shortly after looking up from their smartphone screen on which the app indicates the match. The couple rebelled 998 times in the simulation, translating to a 99.8 % match in ‘real’ life. Although the dating app dystopia turns out to be merely a simulation, an eerie impression remains. Maloney fittingly points out that the very idea of a “[t]echnology that can run a thousand tiny digital copies of you through a thousand different simulations is still deeply unnerving, even if it’s ostensibly designed to serve you.” Most importantly, however, viewers were led to believe that they were witnessing the unique quest of a rebellious young couple, even though the previous 45 minutes of this episode represented just one of hundreds of simulations. Through this twist at the end, Black Mirror not only derides viewers’ focus on the universal theme of love and the inability to distinguish simulation from reality but also undermines the significance of the counter-narrative, for the rebels of this episode are not even real. The subplot of resistance is but a protocol executed by the app’s algorithms and thus disqualifies as a sincere attempt to override the status quo. “Hang the DJ” zooms in on the most detailed mechanisms of the hyperobject technology but abandons a ‘real’ dystopian hero. By negotiating and simultaneously thwarting counter-narratives that effec‐ tively challenge the status quo, Black Mirror suggests that visions of alternative structuring principles in society have become utterly narrow. 168 Depending on the episode, the anthology usually foregrounds the compliance of the protagonists with the fictional ideology and the overall absence of collective utopian aspirations. “Nosedive,” for example, can be a frustrating viewing experience because Lacie mindlessly conforms to the technological standard of this world, suffers from self-induced pressure to be part of the social media lifestyle community, and ignores those around her who try to wake her “from 1.3 Dystopian Heroes and the Vortex of Hyperobjects 137 <?page no="138"?> 169 Vorderer and Halfmann argue that “the almost obsessive use of smartphones […] is perhaps a manifestation of an almost desperate attempt of individuals who permanently seek experiences of (horizontal) resonance through connecting to their peers, while in fact all they are doing is investing in the functionality of a communication channel that they can only hope will eventually provide a connection to another” (92). her alienation state” (Lopes 91). Just like viewers are invited to condemn Marie’s helicopter parenting spinning out of control in “Arkangel,” here, too, they are prompted to disagree with the protagonist’s belief system. Although “Nosedive” focuses on Lacie’s blinded vision, there are characters who embody the hope that some sort of humanity still exists in this transaction-based society. But not only are these dissidents side-lined to the protagonist’s quest, they hardly pursue a sincere attempt to actually convince Lacie that another way of life is possible beyond this “eBay-style rating system” (Hands 146). Ultimately, most episodes do not offer viewers insights into alternative structuring principles of digital culture. The absence of subplots of resistance, the hallmark of classical dystopian fiction, ties in with the anthology’s thematic interest in the opaque complexi‐ ties of digital culture and the hegemony of neoliberal capitalism rather than oppressive totalitarian systems. The fictional realities and lives of characters are fundamentally shaped by hyperobjects like technology and capitalism, whose vibrant dynamics stick to anything they touch (see Morton 1; Fisher 16). Aside from the fact that most characters simply accept the existing paradigm, Black Mirror omits a clearly identifiable entity (like an oppressive regime) against which they could rebel against or direct their discontent towards. Instead of spotlighting stereotypical dystopian heroes on clear missions, the anthology invests more energy in exposing the mechanisms of the advanced stage of distorted relationships in society. It investigates the pathological tendencies of digital culture, such as the erosion of morals and the lack of critical thinking as a by-product of modern society’s dependence on technology. In other words, Black Mirror points to the challenges of constructing a good life and establishing genuine resonance with others in fundamentally media-driven societies. 169 For example, the anthology repeatedly subverts the notion of social media as a space of connection and resonance by foregrounding how individuals behave at their worst behind the screens. In so doing, Black Mirror responds to a digital culture in which the expression of discontent manifests primarily in the online sphere. A case in point is the future envisioned in “Hated in the Nation” (S3/ E6), which negotiates public shaming, scapegoating, and online bullying in the style of a crime/ horror thriller. The episode establishes an allegorical parallel between social media crowds and (artificial) bee swarms, both of which usually remain 138 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="139"?> 170 The episode comments on biologically inspired engineering (‘bionics’) where nature serves as a valuable learning database for solutions to manmade problems and points to real-life developments of bee-like drones (cf. Boffey). Also, the fact that Walmart filed a patent for pollination drones in 2018 (Garfield) renders the premise of this episode utterly real. As Hill puts it: “[i]t is a stretch, but not an impossible one, to think that technologists might someday develop insect-sized robots to take over the pollination activities that bees so crucially perform. Nor is it impossible that some evil but ingenious computer hacker could direct those self-replicating swarms of robot bees to start killing people” (206). 171 Self-referentially, the creators of Black Mirror produced a mockumentary titled Death to 2020, which aired on Netflix in December 2020 and satirises both British and American peaceful unless provoked. Before articulating its critique of dehumanising social media practices, the episode detours into an eco-critical perspective that examines the benefits of technology in addressing environmental challenges. In this world, scientists have developed Autonomous Drone Insects (ADIs) that pollinate flowers in response to declining bee populations. 170 Although technology initially appears here in a surprisingly positive light, the human factor undermines this hopeful connotation. Like any great intelligent system, the artificial beehives are not immune to hacks, so the plot gains momentum when the ADIs deviate from their coded protocol and attack individuals who have fallen victim to ‘shit storms.’ By infiltrating the ears and triggering the brain’s pain centre, the ADI attacks have deadly consequences. As the pathologist explains: “You’re talking agony off the scale. You’d do anything to make it stop.” (S3/ E6 0: 28) By “tak[ing] a current environmental issue and put[ting] it on steroids” (Landau 73), Black Mirror sets the stage for a criminal investigation and offers a blunt critique of a digital culture that threatens to cannibalise itself. While technology serves to bypass natural disasters, it also provides the antagonist of this episode with a tool to raise awareness of the dehumanising practices in the online sphere. “Hated in the Nation” entails a subplot of resistance with a deadly outcome involving a high number of ‘crowdsourced’ ADI attacks on social media users, which were orchestrated by the antagonistic mastermind Garrett Scholes (Duncan Pow). As it turns out, Scholes is a former employee of the govern‐ ment-sponsored ‘Granular Project’ and played a key role in the technological development of the artificial beehives. Harnessing his insights, he hacks the bee drones and plays his ‘game of consequences’ with the social media crowd of this alternate reality. Anonymously, he spreads the hashtag #deathto to promote a twisted ‘popularity contest’ consisting of four steps: people pick a target, then they spread the hashtag, the most popular target is eliminated by 5 pm each day, and the game resets at midnight (S3/ E6 0: 40). 171 The episode shows how quickly 1.3 Dystopian Heroes and the Vortex of Hyperobjects 139 <?page no="140"?> politics as well as the social practices of Western individuals during the COVID-19 pandemic. 172 At one point, the chancellor becomes the target of a deadly ‘shit storm.’ This subplot reminds viewers of the situation in “The National Anthem” when the Prime Minister falls victim to public demand and the mission to trace back the origin of the video upload fails. Here, the chancellor suggests shutting down all social media, “[t]he whole bloody Internet, pull the plug” (S3/ E6 1: 02). 173 The episode “White Bear” similarly negotiates how citizens revel in the misery of others. These episodes can be read as a metacommentary on the scapegoating mechanisms within late capitalist societies. As Bruni puts it: “[c]ommon life includes wounds: if we do not face them head on, we must find scapegoats for all the wounds in the world, ‘black holes’ that absorb all the negativity from which we avert our eyes, but which we continue to produce” (127). social media users pick up on this trend, spreading the hashtags below content that they find provocative, such as a controversial article mocking a ‘wheelchair woman.’ Unaware that the hashtag is not only a death sentence for the target but also punishes those who embrace schadenfreude by spreading the hashtag, the social media users naively contribute to Scholes’ elaborate game. 172 Through this game, the antagonist expresses his disgust at digital culture’s inherent lust for punishment and reminds individuals of the consequences of online bullying and hate speech. Scholes clarifies that no one is safe behind a screen, weeding out those who revel in online cruelty. Black Mirror strategically links the ADI attacks to Scholes’ criticism of the proliferation of immoral practices in social media networks to draw attention to the prevailing virtues and vices in digital culture (see Vallor). In his 98-pages manifesto on the ‘evil’ in society, he likens people to insects that revel in the misery of others, “a weakness that should be bred out of us” (S3/ E6 1: 09). As Chief Detective Karin Parke (Kelly Macdonald) reads from his manifesto: “Thanks to the technological revolution, we have the power to rage and accuse, spout bile without consequence. Only by being forced to recognize the power technology grants us, to acknowledge individual responsibility…” (S3/ E6 1: 09). At this point, Black Mirror cuts off the remaining sentence and once again encourages the viewers to fill in the blanks. In so doing, the episode not only prompts viewers to reflect on the antagonist’s aspiration to create a better world using his lethal methods. It also opens up a discussion about the underlying notion that members of a society increasingly turn against themselves, scapegoating and blaming each other for their own discontent with a life shaped by hyperobjects. 173 Black Mirror here illuminates the sheer impossibility of directing critique and frustration towards a system that has no centre of responsibility, foregrounding, as Fisher puts it, “aggression in a vacuum, directed at someone who is a fellow victim of the system” (64). This aggression surfaces among social media users 140 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="141"?> who use the online sphere as a platform for hate speech rather than a place to connect with others. While the episode focuses on Scholes’ villainous crime, the root of the pathological condition of digital culture remains opaque. Along with the two female investigators of this episode, viewers are invited to explore the premises of this fictional world from different perspectives. For example, “Hated in the Nation” quickly breaks with the initial suspicion that the autonomous bee drones have deviated from their protocol on their own, thus thwarting deterministic assumptions. Instead, viewers join the investigations into the motives of the company behind the bee drone project, as well as those of the government, which is suspected of using the bees to spy on citizens (S3/ E6 0: 29). Taking its cue from the crime drama genre, Black Mirror provides a compelling narrative that addresses highly topical issues that resonate with contemporary viewers. Although the plot fleshes out the individual responsible for the ‘crowdsourced’ deaths, the overall impression persists that people have ultimately brought this pathological status quo onto themselves through mindlessness, hate speech, and a desire to see others fail. The dissidents of complex serial dystopias, if they feature at all, seem to drown in the vortex of hyperobjects or resort to (self-)destructive practices to trigger change. The satirical take on counter-narratives and the characters’ entrapment in a ‘centreless’ matrix of the human-technology entanglement render the universe of Black Mirror a thoroughly bleak projection of the future. Also, as Mangan points out, the anthology follows a “terrifying dystopian tradition of asking not what is the worst thing that could happen but what is the worst of the most likely possibilities” (“Season Five”). It is precisely by focussing on the “most likely possibilities” of disastrous outcomes that most episodes seem bereft of alternative visions for digital culture. Nevertheless, this anti-utopian stance allows viewers to consider how the (plausible) itinerary to such a dehumanising world could be bypassed. A first step in reinforcing the sense of responsibility for actions in the ‘now’ is to sharpen viewers’ eye for the complexity of the human-technology entanglement in the first place. Black Mirror’s agenda includes activating the viewers, and the interactive Bandersnatch film, released on Netflix in 2018, puts this aspiration into practice: ‘interactive’ here means literal interaction with the televisual text. At critical points in the film, a black navigation interface appears on the screen, prompting viewers to make decisions for the main characters before a default decision is made after ten seconds. Viewers thus actively influence the direction of the plot and the end of the story. Like a video game, this Black Mirror film allows viewers 1.3 Dystopian Heroes and the Vortex of Hyperobjects 141 <?page no="142"?> 174 The fragmented narrative, as Ivars-Nicolas and Martinez-Cano point out, triggers view‐ ers’ curiosity “to see all the possible connections,” thus “generat[ing] the consequent repeated consumption of the experience” (18). At some points, viewers get stuck in a loop, faced repeatedly with the same questions and scenes. This being stuck in a loop is reminiscent of the situation the android characters in Westworld find themselves in (see Chapter 3 on Westworld). With more than five hours of content, Bandersnatch offers a highly interactive viewing experience similar to tell-tale video games such as Detroit Become Human (2018). 175 Bandersnatch can be read as a ‘digimodernist text’: “[i]n its pure form the digimodernist text permits the reader or viewer to intervene textually, physically to make text, to add visible content or tangibly shape narrative development” (Kirby 1). Wrapped into a dystopian scenario, this televisual text reinforces the immediacy between fictional world and extratextual reality. to repeatedly engage with the narrative, revisiting critical choices and exploring the different possible trajectories of the story. 174 Bandersnatch offers a novel participatory television experience by making viewers part of the consumed product, which points to a human-technology interaction in the literal sense. As viewers interact “mechanically with the remote control” (Ivars-Nicolas and Martinez-Cano 17), they assume responsi‐ bility for the protagonist’s fate. 175 Metareferentially, the narrative follows Stefan (Fionn Whitehead), a programmer who attempts to adapt a multiple-pathway science-fiction gamebook into an interactive video game called ‘Nohzdyve’ in which players (like the real audience) can make choices and influence the plot. With Bandersnatch, the creators of the anthology spearheaded the trend of ludic engagement in the contemporary streaming landscape (cf. Heidbrink). More specifically, they turned this extended episode film into a ‘playable dystopia’ (cf. Maziarczyk 235). This interactive entertainment format allows Black Mirror to practically intervene in the otherwise ‘passive acceptance of spectacle’ (Debord qtd. in Lopes 92). Players, like the viewers of Bandersnatch, “are not only able to admire or abhor the vision of utopian or dystopian society created by game developers, but also […] experience it more profoundly and, in the case of some titles, influence a gameworld itself ” (Markocki 131; see also Schleiner). Whether viewers assume the role of the critical mouthpiece or the role of the villain, “a malignant force driving the protagonist steadily insane” (Chandler), they become a decisive factor in shaping the narrative, a co-protagonist, so to speak. This trend towards “television with responsibility” (Mangan, “Bandersnatch”) thus comes in handy for complex serial dystopias like Black Mirror, which tend to abandon critical mouthpieces and ridicule narratives of resistance. 142 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="143"?> 1.4 “Heaven is a Place on Earth”: The Anthology’s Metamodern Impulse Despite its satirical tone, Black Mirror can hardly be captured through a postmodern lens alone, as the anthology promotes sincere engagement with hyperobjects rather than a sense of relativism and ironic distance (cf. Vermeulen and van den Akker, “Utopia” 61). Given the reduced dystopian distance be‐ tween the fictional worlds and viewers’ reality, an ironic detachment from the grounded settings is hardly possible. In her analysis of the experimental theatre play The Life and Loves of a Nobody (2014), Alison Gibbons notes specific metamodern features that aptly describe those featuring in Black Mirror as well. She argues that the play is metamodernist in the way in which it focuses on the individual and the social, in its critique of contemporary culture, and in its relational positioning of the audience: the audience is positioned as part of the play’s narrative, the play raises questions (ethical, social and political) for the audience rather than delivering a didactic message, and it shows up the audience’s involvement within the culture it critiques. In a similar vein, Black Mirror offers macroand micro-perspectives on digital culture and implements a “relational positioning of the audience” by putting viewers in the role of complicit spectators. The anthology also refuses to overexplain its message and usually refrains from formulating criticism for the audience. Instead, each episode raises important thought-provoking questions about the future, resulting in a viewing protocol that sparks the viewers’ active response, autonomy, and agency. By favouring cliff-hangers, Black Mirror eschews “easy solutions - or in most cases any solutions - to problems” (Adkins 91). The anthology thus evokes uncomfortable viewing experiences by abandoning the option of escapist viewing and holding a mirror up to the audience, while the open and ambiguous endings trigger critical thought processes about the trajectory of the human-technology entanglement. Thematically, the constant oscillation between technological utopianism and dystopianism is the key engine at work in the Black Mirror universe. By negotiating technology ambiguously rather than in binary terms of good and evil, and thus by discarding deterministic views that still inform most audio-visual renderings of technology today, the anthology discursively plays with new sensibilities that can most appropriately be labelled metamodern. As the previously discussed episodes have shown, Black Mirror consistently points to both the potentials and dangers of technology, avoiding predeter‐ mined conclusions about the future of digital culture. By purposefully playing 1.4 “Heaven is a Place on Earth”: The Anthology’s Metamodern Impulse 143 <?page no="144"?> out inconsistencies and paradoxes of the human-technology entanglement, Black Mirror questions stable dichotomies and “oscillates between a modern enthusiasm and a postmodern irony, between hope and melancholy, between naïveté and knowingness, empathy and apathy, unity and plurality, totality and fragmentation, purity and ambiguity” (Vermeulen and van den Akker, “Notes” 5-6). The anthology thus commits itself to a sincere negotiation of the human-technology assemblage in all its nuances, rather than portraying technology one-dimensionally as an external force imposed upon society. The focus on the dynamics of digital culture stresses an “unsuccessful negotiation” (ibid. 7) between social constructivist views of technology and technological determinism, but it harbours a critical negotiation, nonetheless. Overall, the back-and-forth tendency between technological utopia and technological dys‐ topia allows Black Mirror to come to grips with the complex mechanisms of digital culture in a way that also leaves room for hope by stimulating critical engagement with hyperobjects in the first place. Two episodes in the anthology express the metamodern “structure of feeling” (ibid. 2) particularly well. The first one is “Be Right Back” (S2/ E1), which explores the themes of digital footprints, social media, grief, and robots through a melancholic narrative about a young woman who has lost her husband in a car accident. In this alternate reality, advanced technology helps people cope with the process of mourning: upon request, a service agency reconstructs personalities based on social media data profiles and creates robotic versions of the deceased. The software service leverages sophisticated algorithms and machine learning to reconstruct every data trail people have ever left on social media platforms: the more messages, images, and video footage are fed into the system, the more ‘authentic’ the artificial version of the deceased becomes. Although the episode plays with the fear of humans turning into machines (cf. Beauchamp, “Technology” 59), it also illustrates that human-like androids can ease the process of grieving. The episode, which conflates “the nature of grieving” with “the possible uses of AI” (Edward and Harbinja 263), can be described with a number of adjectives: heart-breaking, absurd, touching, and simply ‘odd.’ Rather than juxtaposing the ‘soft’ human virtues with the ‘hard’ rational logic of machines (as in “Metalhead”), this episode approaches AI in an unusually intimate setting and draws on a love plot to augment the metamodern sensibility of oscillating between opposite poles. Like the film Her (2013), “Be Right Back” expresses a vibrant momentum between authenticity and artificiality, and between sincerity and irony. “The sincerity of love,” as Konstantinos Pappis puts it, “is undercut by the irony of the constructedness 144 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="145"?> 176 The protagonist leaves the house at the beginning of the episode, and it looks like he will ‘be right back.’ The fact that he never returns underscores the irony of the episode’s title. The title also refers to his return in the form of a robot, helping Martha’s grieving process. See Savin-Baden and Burden for an interesting discussion of virtual personas and digital grief. of it.” The episode is therefore particularly interesting because it casts stock features of science fiction (i.e., robots) in a new light. “Be Right Back” proposes a ‘modern way’ of grieving with the help of tech‐ nology. 176 The episode centres on protagonist Martha Powell (Hayley Atwell), who is mourning the loss of her husband Ash Starmer (Domhnall Gleeson). After the funeral, a friend tries to convince Martha to seize the chances of technology and bring Ash ‘back to life,’ suggesting, “I can sign you up to something that helps. It helped me. It will let you speak to him. I know he’s dead but it wouldn’t work if he wasn’t. And don’t worry, it’s not some crazy spiritual thing. He was a heavy user, he’d be perfect…” (S2/ E1 0: 09). When her friend mentions that Ash was “a heavy user,” she is referring to his excessive social media use. In the opening scene, with Ash still alive, he is portrayed as constantly glued to his smartphone screen, checking and updating his newsfeed (although this is never explicitly stated, his excessive smartphone use may have caused the fatal accident in the first place). The fact that Ash has left behind a vast amount of data on digital platforms makes him the “perfect” candidate for reconstruction. Ironically then, his telling name points to the impossibility of ‘turning into ash’ due to digital footprints. Martha is initially reluctant to use the services that would create an artificial version of her husband, but her friend, concerned for her well-being, secretly signs her up against her will. However, when the protagonist learns that she is pregnant, her desire to communicate with her husband grows, and she opens up to the potential benefits of this advanced technology. Instead of introducing the robot version of Ash right at the very beginning, the episode traces how Martha’s communication with ‘Ash’ gradually intensi‐ fies. Black Mirror slowly and thoughtfully introduces this technology from software to materialisation, preparing both the protagonist and the viewers for the possibilities of AI. As Alec Bojalad points out: “[f]irst, there are the email conversations, then the phone conversations, and finally the body. If the episode had jumped directly to the uncanny valley body version of Ash, I suspect both we and Martha would have rejected it.” Indeed, the deliberately gradual escalation seems less invasive and gives viewers room to reflect on the idea of digital immortality and the notion of robots as helpers in times of loss. When Martha receives an email from ‘Ash Starmer,’ she responds, “Is that you? ” and 1.4 “Heaven is a Place on Earth”: The Anthology’s Metamodern Impulse 145 <?page no="146"?> the software immediately replies, “No, it’s the late Abraham Lincoln […] Of course, it’s me.” (S2/ E1 0: 14) The close-ups of Martha’s face reveal that she is both excited and bewildered at the same time, as the software has captured exactly the kind of humour that her husband would use. Hesitantly, she reveals to him that she is pregnant, and he replies: “Wow. So I’ll be a dad? I wish I was there with you now.” (S2/ E1 0: 15) The episode’s narrative premise could have stopped at this point, as the very idea of speaking to a deceased person alone provides sufficient material to create a sense of estrangement in both the protagonist and the audience. Symptomatic of the anthology’s operating mechanisms, however, the episode tests the limits of the novum’s inherent logic. As the episode progresses, Martha becomes fond of the idea of talking to her deceased husband and decides to upload more content to the software system. With hour-long videos of Ash, the software is now capable of reconstructing his voice, too. Shortly after the upload, Martha’s phone rings: “Hello … So…how am I sounding? ” Ash wants to know. “You sound just like him,” Martha replies. The voice on the phone then points out what viewers are already thinking: “Almost creepy isn’t it? I mean, I say creepy but I mean it’s totally batshit crazy I can talk to you. I don’t even have a mouth.” (S2/ E1 0: 17) Rather than dwelling on the eeriness of talking to her deceased husband, Martha is once again struck by the authenticity: “That’s just the sort of thing he would say.” The episode then shows the protagonist enjoying the ‘presence’ of the simulated version of Ash during her pregnancy and how the AI has become an integral part of her life. The next turning point occurs when her phone, Ash’s ‘home-base,’ drops and breaks, and she is afraid of losing her husband once again. It is after this event that ‘Ash’ himself suggests a way out of his fragile existence: “There is another level to this available, so to speak. Kind of experimental and I won’t lie, it’s not cheap.” (S2/ E1 0: 24) The final step then culminates in the materialisation of the AI when Martha receives a box containing a physical replica (see Fig. 1g). By negotiating how data profiles can bring a deceased person back into a human-like form, “Be Right Back” showcases how digital assets outlast human existence. Indeed, the ‘right to be forgotten’ is already playing an increasingly important role today, given that Facebook offers relatives the option to manage the deceased’s social media timeline (see Edwards and Harbinja 283-86). As for Ash, the episode leaves viewers in the dark as to whether or not it was his will to be reconstructed as an android. 146 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="147"?> Fig. 1g: Martha receives a box containing a lifelike replica of her late husband Ash (S2/ E1 0: 25). Fig. 1h: The robot is hardly distinguishable from her real husband, yet Martha struggles to come to terms with this technological solution (S2/ E1 0: 31). Against this backdrop, Black Mirror visualises the oscillation between intimacy and disaffection throughout the episode. In so doing, the narrative encapsulates the ‘uncanny valley’ (cf. Panka 310), that is, the emotional response that the human-robot relationship evokes, by spotlighting Martha’s gestures and reactions towards Robo-Ash. The close-ups reveal that she is constantly torn between sympathy and rejection (see Fig. 1h). Although the reconstruction of his personality and physical form is so accurate that the protagonist should hardly notice any difference from the human blueprint, the robot remains an uncanny object for her - precisely because it is a picture-perfect version of her husband. The uncanniness stems from subtle deviations, as Lilian Edwards and Edina Harbinja point out: the android “is better looking than Ash really was because ‘people only keep the flattering photos’” (263). Furthermore, Robo-Ash also pulls information from online search engines to fill in the knowledge gaps whenever the source material reaches its limits: “[n]ew Ash mimics the humour, voice patterns and mannerisms of Old Ash but at the same time displays access to knowledge (including video) drawn from sources like Google in a rather un-humanlike way” (ibid. 262). By simultaneously highlighting the authenticity of the replica on the one hand and its “machine-learning (ML) flaws” (ibid. 263) on the other, Black Mirror expresses an oscillation between the often-juxtaposed ontologies of the real and the artificial. In a metamodern way, Ash epitomises the collapsed distance between man and machine and, at the same time, embodies the difference between organic and non-organic matter. While the technology has helped the protagonist cope with grief, it has also impaired her ability to ‘move on’ and face the harsh reality in which the real Ash is gone. Towards the end of the episode, Martha has grown weary of the lifelike replica, as he keeps saying or doing things that she deems inauthentic. Yet, she seems unable to get rid of him because of his 1.4 “Heaven is a Place on Earth”: The Anthology’s Metamodern Impulse 147 <?page no="148"?> human-like nature. Instead of discarding the robot, Martha places him in the attic. The attic scene evokes sympathy from viewers, as it depicts Robo-Ash as “somewhere between a toy that a child has broken or grown out of, and a bogeyman to be kept secret” (ibid. 263). The fact that Ash remains both absent and present in Martha’s life can be read symbolically as a metamodern emphasis on “oscillation rather than synthesis, harmony, reconciliation” (van den Akker and Vermeulen, “Periodising” 6). Overall, “Be Right Back” takes a decidedly metamodern approach by integrating technology into an intimate, non-threatening setting that diverges from familiar science-fiction tropes of the evil machine. Instead of an intimidating synthetic entity, Ash remains a “semi-abandoned, rather pathetic slave” (Edwards and Harbinja 287). What is more, the intimacy between Martha and the machine stands in stark contrast to the depiction of the metallic robot dogs trying to outrun humanity in “Metalhead.” The negotiation of robots from two completely different angles within the same fictional universe underscores how ambiguously Black Mirror negotiates the hyperobject technology. In “Be Right Back,” the anthology evokes metamodern sensibilities that prompt viewers to feel sympathy for a technology that has become remarkably human-like. In a similar metamodern vein, “San Junipero” (S3/ E4) blends the themes of technology, life, death, and love, evoking emotional affect rather than ironic distance in viewers. While “Be Right Back” puts a physical robot centre stage to negotiate the idea of a digital afterlife in the interest of the bereaved (as a coping mechanism for Martha’s grief), “San Junipero” focuses on the protagonist’s non-embodied afterlife in a simulation. Both episodes explore, from different perspectives, transhumanist thought and the “eutopian fantasies” (Schmeink 37-8) of transcending the human body. Through the universal theme of love, Black Mirror manages to challenge this otherwise frightening idea by presenting technology as a possible gateway to the good life beyond one’s mortality. “San Junipero” opens with two young women, the shy Yorkie (Mackenzie Davis) and the outgoing Kelly (Gugu Mbatha-Raw), who meet in the party town of San Junipero. The neon colour palette that dominates the episode conveys a sense of nostalgia. At the same time, the soundtrack, featuring the 1987 pop song “Heaven is a Place on Earth,” underlines the overall theme of an eternal space void of troubles. The scenes in the arcades and dance clubs also conjure up notions of former times when connections with others and life itself were not interrupted or mediated by technologies like smartphones (cf. Tiberius). However, the episode negates this notion of a nostalgic retro-utopia in the form of an idealised past through the logic of this world (cf. Metz): the plot twist reveals that San Junipero is a simulation and only exists due to 148 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="149"?> highly sophisticated VR technology that allows the construction of simulated environments in the characters’ diegetic reality. In the beginning, the viewer does not yet learn that San Junipero is merely one of several different simulations into which the terminally ill and the physically impaired elderly can upload their consciousness. Yet, viewers soon notice that something is at odds in this hedonistic world. Marginal comments like “the locals [of San Junipero] are like dead people” (S3/ E4 0: 14), or conversations in which young people talk about their “worn down knee caps” (S3/ E4 0: 16) suddenly make sense when the plot twist, after 40 minutes, reveals that the young couple of this episode are actually old women: Kelly suffers from late-stage cancer, and Yorkie is a quadriplegic and has been bed-stricken since she was 21 when she attempted suicide after coming out to her parents as being homosexual. Only the scenes in the hospital reveal that San Junipero is an option called “immersive nostalgia therapy” (S3/ E4 0: 42), a technological standard available to the elderly in this future. Through this therapy, they can live in the simulation temporarily or eternally without sorrow and pain. While the idea of uploading human consciousness generally evokes dystopian connotations of losing control and expanding into ‘nothingness,’ this episode marries this uncanny idea once again with a compelling love plot. In so doing, “San Junipero” subscribes to metamodernism by presenting the virtue of love as compatible with a high-tech society. Kelly’s remark that being uploaded to the cloud “sounds like heaven” (S3/ E4 0: 43), for example, underscores the utopian undertone of technology in this episode. Instead of a dark virtual void (as depicted in “Hang the DJ”), the simulated world here is rendered more ‘real’ than the actual diegetic world. When the epilogue reveals a giant database warehouse where a mechanical robot allocates the protagonist’s encapsulated data code to the “San Junipero” shelf, the simulated town of San Junipero lights up as a thoroughly more comforting, colourful, and ‘human’ place to spend one’s life (or rather, death). The strong bond between Kelly and Yorkie, who decide to spend their lives together in this ‘virtual heaven,’ makes them one of the most memorable characters and leads viewers and critics alike to regard this episode as one of the most hopeful representations of the future in the Black Mirror canon. “San Junipero” once again makes clear that the core strength of the anthology is to discuss old tropes in a new light, as Maloney points out: “the unsettling prospect of uploading human consciousness is softened by a story of a dying woman readily choosing that option to give herself the chance for love and happiness.” The aspect of Yorkie and Kelly’s eternal bond is indeed an unusually hopeful ending for Black Mirror. The sympathetic protagonists invite viewers to ponder the idea of eternal life through the uploading of human consciousness 1.4 “Heaven is a Place on Earth”: The Anthology’s Metamodern Impulse 149 <?page no="150"?> and raise questions of whether one should perhaps trade the religious beliefs in an unknown heaven for a coded but clearly mapped out simulation. Recalling Joseph F. Coates’ claim that “[u]topian visions must be at least as grainy and engaging as the dystopian competitors” (111), this Black Mirror episode succeeds in postulating a brighter vision of the human-technology entanglement and even installs “some sort of clear happy ending” (Lopes 92). Like “Be Right Back,” it taps into central ideas of metamodernism by oscillating between the themes of life and death, committing to a sincere depiction of technology, and engaging viewers emotionally through a relatable romance plot. It is episodes like these that seem to signal “a move away from what made the show effective in the first place” (Maloney), namely the consistently dark proposition of the human-technology entanglement against the backdrop of a disenchanted world of late modernity. These episodes strike viewers with unexpected utopian impulses, as Maloney points out: Instead of simply using futuristic technology to torture their characters, these brighter episodes took a more robust, nuanced view, suggesting that while we should indeed be nervous about what’s coming, it’s possible to overcome our worst impulses, to connect with one another in a terrifying landscape. These episodes didn’t placate the anxieties of their darker counterparts. They just offered something most of our recent, more prescient dystopias have not: the possibility of surviving even worse future horror shows than the one we’re living now. Although Maloney falls into the trap of simplifying Black Mirror’s complex negotiation of technology by making a technological deterministic assumption (“futuristic technology to torture their characters”), he correctly points out that the latest episodes clearly contain a much more easily identifiable utopian impulse than their predecessors. As a self-conscious cultural artefact, Black Mirror seems to undergo its very own transformations, constantly adapting to the empirical blueprints contemporary society has to offer. In a metamodern way, these episodes point out that “while the future no doubt has many nightmares in store, we can make worthwhile choices and survive in spite of them. That’s the message that will save Brooker’s series - and maybe us, as well” (ibid.). Indeed, Black Mirror seems to anticipate an emerging metamodern ‘structure of feeling’ by adjusting its mirror and allowing the aesthetics of hope to shine through the often withering critique of digital culture. In sum, Black Mirror is as a key example of complex serial dystopias. Its modus operandi appeals to our sensibilities with a dark satirical tone that gravitates towards the anti-utopian form of critique, but it maintains a utopian core by prompting eudemonic viewing experiences that turn passive spectators into 150 1 Technological Omnipresence in Black Mirror (2011-) <?page no="151"?> co-protagonists. Perhaps precisely because the status quo remains unexplained and unchallenged in almost all episodes, the anthology places hope outside the narrative, encouraging us to change the itinerary of digital culture. Black Mirror has found a language to articulate the hyperobject technology from multiple angles through diligent worldbuilding and thus joins the ranks of complex serial dystopias that negotiate deep cultural anxieties and the human condition through kaleidoscopic and microscopic insights. To what extent the pandemic age will find its way into the Black Mirror universe remains to be seen. The episodes that have aired so far, however, will likely remain critical cultural artefacts, issuing warnings against trends that could spiral out of control if left unchecked. 1.4 “Heaven is a Place on Earth”: The Anthology’s Metamodern Impulse 151 <?page no="153"?> 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) In May 2021, the largest US gasoline pipeline company fell victim to a ransom‐ ware cyberattack that caused unprecedented gasoline supply shortages across the country. The anonymous hacker collective ‘DarkSide’ shut down the gas line operations by encrypting sensitive data, forcing the company ‘Colonial Pipeline’ to pay a ransom equivalent to $ 5 million in Bitcoin to the attackers. The cybercriminals claimed responsibility for the hack in a public statement on their website, arguing that their “goal is to make money and not creating problems for society” (Russon). Incidents like these demonstrate how sophisticated cyberat‐ tacks increasingly pose a threat to businesses and expose the vulnerability of critical infrastructure. Sam Esmail’s Mr.-Robot (2015-2019) taps into this highly topical theme of organised cybercrime in the 21 st century and infuses it with the transformative impulse to change a broken capitalist system. In so doing, the TV series spotlights what has become known as ‘hacktivism,’ that is, the “practice of gaining unauthorized access to computer files or networks in order to further social or political ends” (OED, “Hacktivism”). Mr. Robot follows cyber-engineer Elliot Alderson (Rami Malek), who is recruited for the hacker collective ‘fsociety’ by the mysterious figure ‘Mr. Robot’ (his alter ego played by Christian Slater). The series focuses on the hacktivists’ attempt to liberate citizens from their consumer debt by hacking the most influential corporation and the accounts of the wealthiest people. In times of “[c]yberespionage and geopolitical sabotage via cyberattack” (Wortham), this complex serial dystopia provides an excellent ground for examining the interdependence of the individual, technology, and the mechanisms of a neoliberal capitalist society. What initially sounds like a typical cyber-thriller that deals with the quest of underground hackers and the entrenched mechanism of the dark web turns out to be a critical commentary on digital culture in late capitalism. With its “narrative critique of capitalism and the alienations of technological progress” (Wojtyna 172), the series strikes a chord with contemporary viewers’ sensibilities. Mr. Robot provides a cognitive mapping of techno-capitalism, the very form of capitalism that increasingly defines our economic landscape in the form of intellectual property, data harvesting, and digital infrastructure (see Suarez-Villa). Transparency and vulnerability in this digital landscape are dominant motifs throughout the narrative as it centripetally revolves around the protagonist’s psyche, spanning a coherent arc from digital footprints, corporate greed, and consumerism to mental disorders such as social anxiety, and thus 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) 153 <?page no="154"?> 177 The company Avast even launched a blog dedicated to Mr. Robot ‘hack reviews,’ where security experts use selected hacking scenes from the series to derive main lessons with regard to cyber security for internet users (S. Smith). 178 See also the interview by Herzog with a psychiatrist who breaks down Elliot’s psychic condition. tracing the interconnection between intangible forces at play in digital culture. Because the series “reflects our desperation to connect in isolating times” and makes “all these points about hyper consumerism and the way we use technology” (Hughes; see also Wortham), it is less surprising that Mr. Robot has been embraced as one of the most critically acclaimed TV series of the 21 st century, manifested in two Golden Globe and three Emmy Awards. In contrast to the narratives of the Black Mirror anthology, the narrative of Mr. Robot is not driven by a novum, that is, a hypothetical ‘new thing’ that would alter the ‘ontological’ of the fictional world (Suvin, Metamorphoses 79; Wolf 36). Since the creator of the series made no changes to the rules and logic of the diegetic world, the dystopia of Mr. Robot is eerily similar to our own extratextual reality. Neither is the technology advanced, nor are there any science-fiction elements in this alternate reality that would distort the lens through which we perceive the storyworld. Instead, it is the helicopter perspective the series takes on contemporary society that carves out the dystopia of the present moment. The complex serial dystopia invests in the “representational illusion of accuracy” (Mittell 221) of themes like hacking, alienation, and mental disorders. Cybersecurity companies, for example, praise the technical accuracy of the series, as does the international hacktivist group ‘Anonymous,’ which even argues that Mr. Robot “is the most accurate portrayal of security and hacking culture ever to grace the screen” (Wortham; see also Breger). 177 And although the portrayal of mental illness is generally problematic because the psyche per se inherently defies the physical representation on screen, the series manages to develop an aesthetic that renders the protagonist’s depression, social anxiety, and dissociative identity disorder with remarkable accuracy (cf. Watson; Brims). 178 The series’ concern with realistic depictions, underscored by the grounded setting in New York City, prompts cognitive estrangement in viewers precisely by making “a bold statement on extratextual reality” (Wojtyna 179) and establishing a link between the protagonist’s psychopathology and the operating mechanisms of digital culture. Mr. Robot simultaneously addresses the hyperobjects technology (in the form of digital infrastructure) and capitalism (in the form of “the sum of all the whirring machinery of capitalism” (Morton 1)) against the backdrop of a critical commentary on mental illness. In four seasons, the series unravels 154 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="155"?> 179 In this regard, Mariani fittingly points out that “the show suggests that it’s not necessarily government spying Americans should fear; rather, they might fret about how citizens voluntarily corrode their privacy through their increasingly large digital footprints.” the connection between technology, capitalism, and the individual condition by consistently oscillating between macroand micro-perspectives. The series initially focuses on the critique of the ‘evil corporation,’ tellingly called ‘E Corp,’ and the clandestine ‘Dark Army’ and ‘Deus Group’ as puppet masters behind the visible structures of economy and society. Yet, a closer reading reveals that the critique extends beyond the ‘evil corporation’ to the opaque structure of neoliberal capitalism, which ultimately informs the subjective condition, as reflected in the protagonist’s mental state. Miłosz Wojtyna correctly points out that “[t]he devastatingly grim dystopian series focuses on the entrapment of individual subjectivity in a social system governed by mass media, consumerism, and corporate greed” (172). In so doing, Mr. Robot departs from the focus of classical dystopian fiction, which usually foregrounds the authoritative power of the state, and instead cultivates a language that articulates the centreless power mechanisms of neoliberal capitalism. 179 From the first episode, the protagonist Elliot invites viewers to participate in his effort to make a difference in a world where complacent citizens perpetuate capitalism’s harmful imbalances. Through him, Mr. Robot comments on a variety of issues beyond the prominent theme of hacking that resonate with contemporary audiences: the illusion of control, alienation processes, and the search for meaning and the good life. While Mr. Robot is generally well-received by audiences, the complex dis‐ cursive strategies between and within episodes and the absence of linear storytelling also pose challenges for critics. For example, The Guardian critic Paul MacInnes, who was responsible for recapping the series, admits that he “struggled to keep up with the many complexities and revisions of Sam Esmail’s hacking-cum-global conspiracy drama” (“Zeitgeist”). The Guardian then even dropped its weekly reviews of the series altogether after the second season. In conjunction with its provocative themes, Mr. Robot indeed pushes the envelope of storytelling to the extent that it accepts the possibility of losing viewers and even critics along the way. Unlike Black Mirror, which offers self-contained narratives and comparatively specific themes in concrete scenarios, Mr. Robot is not only a “cumulative narrative that builds over time” (Mittell 18) but also features an unreliable narrator who impedes ‘easy access’ to the story, requiring viewers to decipher the tension between subjectivity and diegetic reality. Although “complex television has increased the medium’s tolerance for viewers to be confused, encouraging them to pay attention and put the 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) 155 <?page no="156"?> pieces together themselves to comprehend the narrative” (ibid. 164), Mr. Robot challenges viewers’ comprehension through Elliot’s flashbacks and delusions, a kind of formal daring that sometimes seems too artistic for its own good because viewers seem busier ‘cracking the code’ of how the series functions than to sit back and enjoy the unfolding narrative. Nevertheless, viewers and critics who embrace such complex modes of narration will find that the series’ operational aesthetics, that is, the ways the series consistently calls attention to its own mode of storytelling (Mittell 44), produce a very unique ‘feel,’ namely a sense that something is fundamentally out of sync about the way contemporary society functions. Specific formal devices offer an additional level of engagement to the audience, one that transcends the mere viewing pleasure from compelling themes. Mr. Robot tests the limits of complex serial storytelling throughout its total of 45 episodes, purposefully employing elaborate cinematography, unusual camera angles, and attention to detail in the mise-en-scène. These formal techniques underscore the themes and invite viewers to hypothesize about the discrepancy between diegetic truth and the protagonist’s delusions. Through the enigmatic yet realistic setting, Mr. Robot facilitates ludic engagement with the televisual text by using gaps and enigmas as catalysts for speculation. The interplay of theme, aesthetics, and audience engagement thus qualifies this TV series as a complex serial dystopia and a critical cultural artefact worthy of further investigation. The following pages will expand on these introductory remarks by analysing selected scenes and examining how the series constructs a realistic story world with dystopian undertones (Chapter 2.1). Particular attention will be paid to the merging of the hyperobjects of technology and capitalism (Chapter 2.2) and the protagonist’s entrapment in a rationalised society that has internalised the binary logic of a computer system running on ‘ones and zeros’ (Chapter 2.3). Elliot’s self-destructive escape mechanisms underscore the desperate attempt to escape the instrumental human condition under neoliberal capitalism, which is marked by transactional rather than genuine encounters and fundamentally driven by the accumulation of wealth and power. The chapter concludes by considering the (im)possibility of utopia and transformative change by discussing the event of the failed revolution in the series (Chapter 2.4). As will be shown, Mr. Robot is metamodern at its core because the counter-narrative embraces a trial-and-error approach and an “impossible possibility” (Vermeulen and van den Akker, “Notes” 5) reflected in the protagonist’s tireless attempt to hack the current world order and bring about transformative change that benefits the collective. 156 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="157"?> 180 In the following, references to Mr. Robot will be given without repeating the title. 181 Mittell argues that the pilots of complex TV are somewhat similar to “the opening section of a videogame, which typically offers a tutorial for how to play the game and navigate the controls, as well as setting players’ expectations for what type of experience they will have” (57). This cross-media parallel underscores the playful, interactive nature of complex TV as compared to conventional, one-dimensional programming, which usually allows viewers to ‘lean back’ and immerse in the narrative. 182 The ‘.mov’ ending of the pilot episode “eps1.0_hellofriend.mov” not only indicates the video format but could also be understood literally as ‘move,’ i.e., “Hello friend, move! ”, accentuating the protagonist’s invitation to the viewers to join him in his mission to change the social order. See the end of this subchapter for a discussion of the unusual episode titles. 2.1 Decoding the Dystopian Realism of Mr. Robot Given that Mr. Robot is an utterly dense narrative with no ‘filler’ moments, the pilot episode alone would provide sufficient “world-data” (Wolf 42) to fill these pages. Symptomatic of the entire series’ complexity, the opening scene is rich in symbolism, both audio-visually and thematically. In general, pilot episodes serve as gateways to the storyworld, and it is often here that viewers decide whether or not they want to invest time and commit to a series (see Mittell 56; Landau 247). The pilot of Mr. Robot introduces viewers to the operational aesthetics, establishes norms in terms of tone and style, and lays the groundwork for a specific viewing protocol. 180 Jason Mittell points out that “successful pilots are simultaneously educational and inspirational. Pilots must orient viewers to the intrinsic norms that the series will employ, presenting its narrative strategies so we can attune ourselves to its storytelling style” (56). 181 The first few seconds of “eps1.0_hellofriend.mov” introduce viewers to the hallmark of this complex serial dystopia: the protagonist’s direct address to the audience. 182 This narrative device clarifies that it is Elliot’s perspective that the audiences will follow. Unlike many episodes of Black Mirror in which viewers look in vain for a critical voice, Mr. Robot establishes from the outset that Elliot is the mouthpiece of the narrative. Breaking the invisible fourth fall has long been a popular narrative device in television programmes to involve audiences cognitively (Auter and Davis). Elliot’s voice-overs, however, do not address an unspecified, random audience but engage viewers in a way that makes them complicit in his quest. While the opening credits are still unfolding on the black screen, Elliot welcomes the viewer into the diegetic world: Hello, friend. ‘Hello, friend? ’ That’s lame. Maybe I should give you a name. 2.1 Decoding the Dystopian Realism of Mr. Robot 157 <?page no="158"?> 183 Schiappa et al. define parasocial relationships as “the perception of a television viewer of a relationship with someone known through the media. The relationship is obviously not a ‘real’ interpersonal relationship because there is no corresponding self-disclosure from the viewer to the person on the screen. However, the person on the screen may make what would appear to be self-disclosure to the audience and therefore undergoes the start of the process of forming an interpersonal relationship” (302). See also Rain and Mar’s study “Adult Attachment and Engagement with Fictional Characters” (2021). But that’s a slippery slope. You’re only in my head. We have to remember that. Shit. It’s actually happened. I’m talking to an imaginary person. (S1/ E1 0: 01) As this opening address shows, Elliot is not only aware that the audience is present, but he also actively involves them as a friend. At the same time, he encourages the audience to remember that his ‘friend’ is only in his head, which creates an opaque oscillation between the dialogue with the audience and the internal conversation taking place inside his mind. Most importantly, this passage suggests that the audience becomes a co-conspirator in Elliot’s undertaking to reset the social order of this fictional world. Addressing the viewer directly as a friend marks the beginning of a long-term relationship with the audience, which is interesting in two ways. On the one hand, it is the protagonist who actively initiates the parasocial relationship. 183 In conventional TV narratives without voice-overs, the emotional connection to fictional characters usually builds up (unconsciously) over time, particularly through the audience’s repeated exposures to specific personas on the screen. Mr. Robot here forestalls the viewers’ emotional response and possible rejection of the protagonist. Before viewers ‘voluntarily’ form an attitude about Elliot, the protagonist himself simply presupposes the existence of a friendship. On the other hand, the consent to this parasocial relationship between Elliot and the audience happens silently: the viewer basically agrees to the friendship with Elliot through the act of viewing the episode. Mr. Robot here embraces what has become a general trend in the television landscape, particularly in the arena of complex TV. “Characters,” as Abigail Chandler points out, “are no longer narrating to an imagined ‘other’, with audience members simply eavesdropping. Instead, the audience is becoming a vital part of the show, and perhaps even a character within it.” Indeed, the voice-overs throughout the series serve not only to make viewers see the fictional world through the protagonist’s eyes. Mr. Robot purposefully employs this narrative device to show that Elliot needs the audience to support his quest and that the story he is telling must be of interest to the contemporary viewer. The fact that at this point of the episode viewers still have no visual references reinforces the audible message. It prefigures that the viewers should also 158 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="159"?> 184 As the camera starts to conflate Elliot’s imagined setting at his mother’s house with the prison setting, he apologises to the audience for his dishonest behaviour as he walks back into his prison cell: “I’m sorry for not telling you everything. But I needed this in order to get better. Please don’t be mad too long. This will be the last time I keep things from you. I promise. I know what you’re thinking. And no, I didn’t lie to you. All of this really happened. This was just my way of coping with it. But now, I’d like it if we could trust each other again. Let’s shake on it” (S2/ E7 0: 47). 185 Wolfson argues that the interrogating of reality is a popular motif in ‘modern’ TV: “seemingly normal people are constantly interrogating the realities they find themselves in, unsure whether they are experiencing magic or just the side-effects of trauma, psychosis or AI.” Elliot repeatedly questions reality and when he accuses Mr. Robot of not being ‘real,’ his alter ego strikes back by pointing to the ‘fakeness’ of reality in the 21 st century: “Is any of it real? I mean, look at this. Look at it! A world built on fantasy! Synthetic emotions in the form of pills, psychological warfare in the form of advertising, mind-altering chemicals in the form of food, brainwashing seminars in the form of media, controlled isolated bubbles in the form of social networks. Real? You want to talk about reality? We haven’t lived in anything remotely close to it since the turn of the century. […] So don’t tell me about not being real” (S1/ E10 0: 45). listen closely, indicating that this complex serial dystopia operates on multiple aesthetic levels. When Elliot points out that his friend is an “imaginary person,” a construct in and of his mind, the series underscores that he is a highly unreliable focalizer. While the protagonist asks viewers to make sense of the world with him, he is not always honest about the course of events. Chandler notes that throughout the series, “Elliot has called on us more and more, asking us to help him search a room for clues, or berating us for withholding information from him. He has also lied to us - including not telling us that he was in prison for most of season two.” Indeed, through carefully arranged flashbacks and plot manipulation, viewers always experience his version of reality. For example, when his therapist Krista (Gloria Reuben) asks, “Elliot, you know you haven't been staying with your mother, right? ” (S2/ E7 0: 45), viewers discover that all the events of the second season, in which Elliot comes to terms with the idea of having a split personality, took place inside a prison, instead of his mother’s house. In retrospect, the season’s focus on routines through recurring scenes (waking, eating, recreating on the basketball court) suddenly makes sense. Because the viewers see the world exclusively through Elliot’s eyes, his delusions regularly deceive the audience as well. Yet, in this example, Elliot also knowingly withholds information, harming the assumed friendship between him and the viewers. 184 Throughout the series, the protagonist is particularly successful in “lulling us into a false sense of security” (Chandler) concerning the ‘truth’ of events depicted on screen. 185 Mr. Robot constantly dares its audience to wonder what is ‘real’ in the fictional world and what is just a construct of Elliot’s mind. 2.1 Decoding the Dystopian Realism of Mr. Robot 159 <?page no="160"?> 186 Cultivation theory, simply put, holds that fictional realities on screen have an impact on viewers’ beliefs about how social reality functions (see Bilandzic and Busselle for an interesting discussion on genre-specific cultivation). Mr. Robot seems to cultivate a sense of distrust and paranoia in viewers as they become increasingly involved in Elliot’s mission. In this way, the series defies a passive television experience and encourages viewers to study the storyworld, including the protagonist’s psyche, carefully. As the camera slowly fades from a black screen to visuals, the first shot of the pilot episode establishes a scene in an office of a high-rise building. The blurred silhouettes of corporate men in lively discussions (see Fig. 2a), evoking associations with corporate power, gradually become sharper as the camera zooms out and Elliot continues to speak to the audience: What I’m about to tell you is top secret. A conspiracy bigger than all of us. There’s a powerful group of people out there that are secretly running the world. I’m talking about the guys no one knows about. The guys that are invisible. The top one percent of the top one percent. The guys that play God without permission. And now I think they’re following me. (S1/ E1 0: 01) Against the backdrop of these shots of businessmen in the skyscraper’s glass-front office, Elliot shares his resentment towards the “group of people that are secretly running the world.” This resentment shall serve as the primary motivation to use his hacking skills to expose their invisibility and deprive them of their power. Elliot’s stance against the capitalist system establishes a world‐ view that generally “speaks to the likeminded sympathiser of anti-corporate dissension” (Flisfeder 143-44). Here, the protagonist inaugurates the audience into its function as a co-conspirator by sharing his secret and insider knowledge of the harmful practices of the ‘one percent.’ It is precisely because of this knowledge that he feels at risk and turns to the audience for support. Further‐ more, Jan Jagodzinski argues that the voice-over, in the form of “reflective private consciousness […] establishes a sense of identification with Elliot as someone who ‘really’ knows what is at play” (“Mr. Robot” 62). From the outset, Mr. Robot opens a thematic parallel between the protagonist’s paranoia (which intensifies in public places like the subway; see Fig. 2b) and common conspiracy theories about sinister and powerful elites pulling the strings of society behind closed curtains. 186 160 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="161"?> 187 See Mr. Robot S4/ E2 for an in-world explanation of the power mechanisms at work in the entire series. Although the explanation is biased and simplistic because it is once again told from Elliot’s perspective, it still gives viewers an overview of the entrenched mechanisms within his imagination, particularly with regard to the rise of the ‘Deus Group’ whose initial goal was to “bring together the world’s wealthiest, most powerful men to consolidate control and manipulate global events for profit” (0: 01). E Corp then became the modern façade of the Deus Group, aiming to manipulate the public and gain “leverage on everyone” by promoting digital connectivity. The introduction of the internet to the American population is described as a test case: “Americans seemed the most ready to give their lives over to a box.” (0: 03) It is further described as “the biggest coup in human civilization and the world volunteered to take part. Opted in, checked the box, and clicked ‘I agree.’” (0: 03) This montage unites all themes of the series, linking capitalism and consumer culture with the availability of technology. That the voice-over explanation, though this time narrated by E Corp CEO Phillip Price (Michael Christofer), is in fact Elliot’s worldview is underscored by the transitioning shots from the seemingly objective news footage to a post-it note labelled ‘Deus Group,’ the secret collective of ‘gods’ running the world. The camera zooms out, and a glass front appears on which Elliot has mapped the entire structure and relationships of the powerful elites, similar to the criminal investigation boards often seen in crime dramas. Fig. 2a: The opening shot displays the ‘top one percent of the top one percent.’ Via voice-over, Elliot initiates the audience into his mission to unveil their alleged malicious intentions (S1/ E1 0: 00). Fig. 2b: Elliot is convinced that the powerful elite is after him (S1/ E1 0: 01). To some extent, Mr. Robot unfolds a dangerous narrative because viewers are constantly challenged to remember that Elliot’s worldview is the only access to the storyworld. Yet, the fact that he is an unreliable narrator creates a necessary distance that allows (or even expects) viewers to formulate their own point of view about the events on the screen. Although the series centres on Elliot’s conspiracy theories, it becomes clear that these theories are his coping mechanism for the increasing loss of control in a seemingly free neoliberal society. 187 Through Elliot, Mr. Robot spotlights the conspiracy motif as a strategy of sense-making and identifying alleged patterns in a chaotic world. At the same 2.1 Decoding the Dystopian Realism of Mr. Robot 161 <?page no="162"?> time, the series emphasises that contemporary power structures are so complex that it is impossible to define a centre of responsibility in a neoliberal capitalist order. When Elliot holds the ‘top one percent’ accountable, he is trying to capture those responsible for the human condition in the 21 st century, an attempt to reclaim some sort of control and agency that the series ultimately depicts as futile and pathological. Drawing on Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Jagodzinski aptly points out that Elliot’s paranoia originates with a longing for a system that no longer exists, namely “a system where all meaning is permanently fixed, defined by supreme authority figures” (“Mr. Robot” 64; see also Bauman, Modernity 58-9). Mr. Robot skilfully explores how conspiracy theories often reduce complexities to simple antagonisms (the top one percent vs society) that no longer apply in network societies. Fittingly, Fredric Jameson argues that “[c]onspiracy, one is tempted to say, is the poor person’s cognitive mapping in the postmodern age: it is a degraded figure of the total logic of late capital, a desperate attempt to represent the latter’s system, whose failure is marked by its slippage into sheer theme and content” (“Cognitive” 356). Elliot’s firm conviction that the ‘top one percent’ is responsible for society’s “slippage” can thus be read as a “desperate attempt” to make sense of the centreless capitalist society driven by free-market forces rather than clearly identifiable state imperatives. In this respect, the series ties the protagonist’s mental conditions to his inability to recognise the power of what Mark Fisher refers to as ‘capitalist realism,’ the “pervasive atmosphere, conditioning not only the production of culture but also the regulation of work and education, and acting as a kind of invisible barrier constraining thought and action” (16). Mr. Robot puts considerable effort into conveying this “pervasive atmosphere” to underscore the overall theme of isolation and alienation. One hallmark of the series is the wide camera angles and the unusual framing of the characters not in the centre but in the corner of the screen, which aesthetically reinforces the overall feel of isolation. As Sean Collins argues, “[f]itting for a show about those occupying society’s technological substrata, Mr. Robot’s characters are often placed at the very bottom of the frame. This leaves massive amounts of headroom that suggests a great weight hanging over their heads, and echoes their isolation: When they’re talking right to each other, they seem alone” (emphasis added). Indeed, the display of the characters’ heads and upper bodies in the margins of the screen reinforces the thematic concern of the series. This “great weight hanging over their heads,” as Collins aptly notes, visually captures the burden of hyperobjects like capitalism and technology and their constraining effect on the individual. This technique thus supports the negotiation of the ‘centreless’ digital consumer culture in which communication 162 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="163"?> 188 See also Spicker, who points out that “[m]ethodological individualism reviews eco‐ nomic, social and political arguments as if they are based in the decisions of people one by one; the actions of groups are understood as a whole series of individual actions, added together” (1). Elliot epitomises how the “criticisms made from methodological individualism” generally suffers “from a tendency to overstate its evils” (ibid. 70) and also ignores the “social structure in which choices are made” (Skidelsky 8). 189 That ‘fsociety’ stands for ‘fuck society’ can be traced back to one of Elliot’s outbursts about his discontent with society in a therapy session (S1/ E1 0: 12). technologies have replaced face-to-face interactions, and economic imbalances lead to disharmonious relationships among members of society. The series links Elliot’s psychotic breakdowns with the illusion of control against the backdrop of a centreless society. The protagonist refuses to accept, as Fisher puts it, that “there are no overall controllers, that the closest thing we have to ruling powers now are nebulous, unaccountable interests exercising corporate irresponsibility” (63). Mr. Robot hereby points to the limits of ‘meth‐ odological individualism’ in late capitalist societies. This concept, originally coined by the economist Joseph Schumpeter, assumes that social conditions are caused by the action of individuals and generally ignores the fact that the system itself produces certain norms that can no longer be ascribed to a centre of responsibility. 188 Yet, the entire counter-narrative of Mr. Robot revolves around the attempt to unravel the fraudulent practices of the E Corp management and the ‘Deus Group,’ the influential network of powerful individuals held responsibly. While the ideology of the hacker collective fsociety, 189 which Elliot soon joins, is based on scapegoating ‘the one percent,’ Mr. Robot aesthetically highlights the invisible but burdensome hyperobjects that influence the social and individual condition. The opening scene thus establishes (the protagonist’s) binary worldview of good and evil (Elliot/ fsociety vs E Corp/ Deus Group), only to subvert it throughout the rest of the series. By foregrounding Elliot’s psychological condition and a failed revolution (see Chapters 2.3 and 2.4 in this analysis), the series underscores that this binary logic no longer works in the age of techno-capitalism. The next scene of the pilot episode sways over to Elliot on the subway, a recurring setting for many scenes throughout the series. The subway setting, a system running ‘underneath,’ is symbolic of the underlying power structure in society and the interior of Elliot’s psyche. The protagonist’s costume is limited to dark clothing, and the hood of his sweater seems to shield him from the outside world, a depiction that also underscores his solitary character. On the subway, the camera alternates between close-ups of Elliot and two men in black suits who seem to keep an eye on him, implying that he is constantly being watched by those aware of his hacking power. The scene then switches to a flashback 2.1 Decoding the Dystopian Realism of Mr. Robot 163 <?page no="164"?> from the previous day, where the viewers first learn of his elaborate hacking skills to expose the ‘evil’ in society. In a café, Elliot calmly reveals to the café shop owner Ron (Samrat Chakrabarti) that he has hacked him, explaining that he found his digital library of child pornography: I like coming here ‘cause your Wi-Fi was fast. I mean, you’re one of the few spots that has a fiber connection with gigabit speed. It’s good. So good, it scratched that part of my mind, [a] part that doesn’t allow good to exist without condition, so I started intercepting all the traffic on your network. That’s when I noticed something strange. It’s when I decided to hack you. I know you run a website called Plato’s Boys. (S1/ E1 0: 01) When the terrified coffee shop owner tries to buy his way out of the situation, Elliot remains impassive, stating, “Money. That’s all you care about, huh? ” (S1/ E1 0: 05). Then Elliot heads for the door, pulls up the hood of his sweater, and makes a determined exit, saying “I don’t give a shit about money” (S1/ E1 0: 06), right when the police arrive outside of the coffee store. This flashback scene that exposes his skills links Elliot’s paranoia in the previous scene, namely the constant feeling that ‘the one percent’ is following him, to the great deal of power he holds through hacking. What adds to his general unease is the part of his mind that “doesn’t allow good to exist without condition,” which underscores his disturbed and distrustful relationship with the world. The scene in the café reveals not only Elliot’s technical superiority but also that he defies the capitalist logic and those who use money as leverage and bargaining chips. And the protagonist is aware of his skills: “The higher ups don’t like a man with my powers. In three short minutes, I destroyed a man’s business, life, existence. I deleted him.” (S1/ E1 00: 06) Elliot, who frequently uses tech terminology to describe his experiences, seems to have the potential to make a difference by exposing the ‘wrongdoers’ in society. The theme of hacking thus encapsulated the theme of technology from two angles, namely how individuals use technology as a tool for criminal activities on the one hand and for creating a better society by uncovering these activities on the other. This revealing introduction establishes Elliot as a humble protagonist with ideals and a moral compass, one who has the necessary skills to succeed in his mission to transform society for the better. Rather than furthering the impression that Elliot is a stereotypical under‐ ground hacker, however, the next scene depicts him arriving at his day job, establishing him as a grounded, ‘everyday’ protagonist. He explains to the viewers that he is just a “regular cyber security engineer, employee number ER28-0652” (S1/ E1 0: 07) at a company called ‘Allsafe,’ an ironic telling name, con‐ 164 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="165"?> 190 See Goldman on the image of the powerless engineer in films, arguing that often “scientists and engineers are depicted as servants of corporate, political, or military institutions, committed to executing the at best misguided, and frequently insidious, agendas of those institutions” (276-77). 191 Mr. Robot is played by the same actor as Edward Alderson, which underscores the connection to Elliot’s father, who died of leukaemia after being exposed to a toxic waste leak, a scandal involving E Corp. The revolutionary father figure proclaims that a historical moment has come: “Exciting time in the world right now. Exciting time.” (S1/ E1 0: 07) While Elliot frequently turns to the audience at the beginning of the series to ask them if they are also seeing Mr. Robot, it is not until the end of the first season sidering the series’ focus on hacking, vulnerability, and perpetual uncertainty in the digital age. When his colleague Angela (Portia Doubleday) mentions to Elliot that she thinks he “secretly hates it here,” he admits to his audience via voice-over that there is nothing he hates more than working for “a cyber security firm that protects corporations” (S1/ E1 0: 09). 190 But to Angela, he replies, “No, I love it here.” (S1/ E1 0: 09) The fact that his inner dialogue diverges from his spoken words demonstrates particularly well how Elliot repeatedly cultivates the intimate connection between himself and the audience by telling viewers the ‘truth’ while simultaneously lying to those around him. He even lies to Angela, who is not only his work colleague but also an old friend: “That’s my childhood friend Angela. She can be a bit high strung sometimes, but trust me, she’s one of the good ones.” (S1/ E1 0: 08) The office scene illustrates that Elliot, at this point still unaware of his alter ego, constantly subscribes to a binary worldview (“she’s one of the good ones”) and encourages viewers to do the same. Most importantly, what the protagonist thinks and reveals to the audience is often at odds with what he says and does in the diegetic reality. The constantly shifting realities create a persistent mode of confusion and pose a challenge to viewers and critics (see MacInnes, “Zeitgeist”). The binary logic runs throughout the entire series. For example, Elliot works a regular day job but assumes the role of a “vigilante hacker” (S1/ E1 00: 07) at night, using his hacking skills to detect and eliminate the ‘malware’ of society, as the coffee shop scene illustrates. However, despite some successful small-scale projects in his immediate environment, he seems reluctant to leverage his skills for grander purposes. While this restraint points to his paranoia, it also furthers the viewer’s impression that he is an ‘authentic’ character rather than an idealised rebel. Against this backdrop, the series skilfully introduces the significance of the mysterious figure Mr. Robot, who becomes the lead revolutionary anarchist and functions both as his deceased father and Elliot’s alter ego. 191 The fact that their first encounter takes place on the subway suggests, in retrospect, that Mr. Robot has been nothing more than a construct 2.1 Decoding the Dystopian Realism of Mr. Robot 165 <?page no="166"?> that the series features a scene in which Elliot attacks himself instead of being attacked by Mr. Robot, visually clarifying that Mr. Robot is only a construct of his mind. 192 S4/ E9 features a room in which all the personalities are present in physical form: the ‘mastermind’ Elliot (whom the viewers follow throughout the series), Mr. Robot (his most developed alter ego), his mother, young Elliot, and the voyeurs (i.e., the audience viewing the episode) which constitute the fifth imagined construct of his mind. 193 Through Angela, for example, the viewer learns why Elliot despises the mechanisms of the world he lives in. The office scene in the pilot episode portrays Angela as a young woman suffering from inequality in the workplace and struggling to make a name for herself in a male-dominated corporation. She is also struggling with her student loan payments (S1/ E1 0: 09). The usually detached Elliot sympathises with his childhood friend and considers her to be an example of people suffering from the inequalities of late capitalism. in Elliot’s mind from the beginning. However, he appears as a real person in the narrative and significantly drives the plot as though he was real, encouraging Elliot to become aware of his power. As Jagodzinski points out, he “wants to ‘free’ Elliot of his inability to make a ‘difference’ in the world by becoming part of something bigger - a plan that will literally change the way the social order operates” (“Mr. Robot” 68). Mr. Robot recruits Elliot to join fsociety, whose plan is to profoundly restructure the system of governance by disempowering the large E Corp conglomerate, which controls most of the world’s consumer credit industry. Whether the events that follow actually took place in the diegetic reality remains opaque throughout and up until the final season when viewers learn that Mr. Robot is only one of five alter egos fighting for control in Elliot’s head. 192 While the protagonist’s psyche forms the “gravitational center” (Mittell 223) of the series, the complexity of Mr. Robot also expands centrifugally, encom‐ passing a range of characters who stretch the social scope around Elliot’s orbit. The core cast, consisting of about a dozen characters, gradually expands as the series progresses. Each character, most of whom are introduced to the audience by Elliot himself, enlarges the scope of the narrative and reveals more about the protagonist and the way he relates to the world. 193 When the protagonist introduces new characters to the audience, he states his opinion about them and backs up his claims with information gathered through his hacks. When Elliot hacks Angela’s unfaithful boyfriend Ollie, for example, Elliot wonders, “Am I crazy not to like this guy? ” (S1/ E1 0: 15), while snapshots of his Facebook timeline appear on the screen, revealing personal information about the kind of content her boyfriend likes. Elliot shows that his profile “was the easiest to hack” because his password was “123456Seven” (S1/ E1 0: 16) and shares his findings of Ollie’s infidelity with Angela, but he also admits: “Truth is, I shouldn’t hate Ollie. He’s not that bad a guy. He’s too dumb to be bad.” (S1/ E1 0: 17) Here it becomes 166 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="167"?> 194 The episode title “m4ster-s1ave.aes” denotes ‘master-slave’ and alludes to Elliot’s binary worldview in which the top one percent of the population enslaves the masses, while the suffix “.aes” indicates that the file is encrypted. clear that the protagonist co-opts the act of introducing other characters to express his discontent with society. Elliot has created a hierarchy and ranks people in his simple worldview. As the camera sways through his workplace and E Corp employees move into focus, he continues: “In fact, when I think about the really bad people … E Corp, the largest conglomerate in the world … they’re so big, they’re literally everywhere.” (S1/ E1 0: 17) While the series expands centrifugally by introducing new characters, it still gravitates around Elliot’s worldview. Through his hacks, the protagonist draws a connection between the micro-‘evils’ in society and those on a larger scale, affecting the human condition under late capitalism as a whole. In addition to the compelling themes and salient operational aesthetics Mr. Robot establishes in the pilot episode, numerous playful elements crop up throughout and beyond the TV series’ storyworld. Besides the striking camera angles that support the overarching themes, such as the framing of the charac‐ ters in the corners, the series self-consciously takes aesthetic risks throughout all four seasons. The first part of the episode “eps2.4_m4ster-s1ave.aes” (S2/ E6), 194 for example, presents Elliot and his family on a road trip “in the familiar style of shows like Full House and Family Matters - from the saxophone-laden interstitial music to the laugh tracks to the rudimentary green screens” (Harris). In this episode, Elliot finds himself in a 1990s-sitcom parody featuring the theme song ‘Imagine a World Gone Insane’ which was specifically written and recorded for the series by Bennett Salvay and Jesse Frederick, who are known for their musical work for sitcoms (Riesman). Compared to the other episodes, which convey a general impression of a depleted reality through grey filters, this episode stands out for its unusual bright colours and ‘happy’ music. Although this break in style may confuse viewers, experiments like this show how Mr. Robot plays with genre tropes to underscore Elliot’s emotional journey throughout the seasons (Harris). In this regard, Miles Surrey correctly points out that “Mr. Robot has a fluid identity - one that compellingly captures the damaged psyche of the show’s unreliable narrator and protagonist.” The episode ridicules American family representations on sitcom TV shows and, at the same time, represents Elliot’s longing for a better place. Besides the formal experiments, the complex serial dystopia contains unusual episode titles named after computer files such as “eps1.0_hellofriend.mov” (S1/ E1), “eps1.1_ones-and-zer0es.mpeg” (S1/ E2), and “eps1.2_d3bug.mkv” (S1/ E3). By including a computer-lingo in the episode names, the series incorporates a 2.1 Decoding the Dystopian Realism of Mr. Robot 167 <?page no="168"?> 195 These websites reveal additional information about the core text. See Wolf, who points out that “[a]udience members and critical approaches that center on narrative, […], may find such excess material to be extraneous, tangential, and unnecessary, while those that consider the story’s world will find their experience enhanced” (2-3, emphases added). subversive element by pointing to ‘raw’ files, perhaps even downloaded from an illegal streaming platform, rather than packaged, polished content distributed by an official corporation. In so doing, the series directly speaks to a tech-savvy audience, reducing the distance between viewers and the televisual text and offering an explanation of these raw files, particularly to those who can ‘read’ the encrypted titles. What is more, these playful enigmas provoke Mr. Robot’s forensic fandom to find meaning and patterns in the most mundane things, which in a way ties into the overall conspiratorial scheme the series subscribes to. Rhett Jones and Peter Yeh, for example, argue that the episode titles are significant because they reveal a “specific technical term related to hacking, a technical action being taken in the main plot,” or point to a “character-based development” in the narrative. In fact, “eps1.1_ones-and-zer0es.mpeg” is pre‐ cisely about Elliot making a decision based on a ‘binary’ option offered by Mr. Robot, namely the moral choice whether “to join fsociety’s mission to bring down E Corp or take a lucrative job offer from the targeted organization” (ibid.). Playful elements like the episode names or the IP addresses and URLs, which appear on screen throughout the series and lead to real landing pages (like the ‘E Corp’ website), show how meticulous Mr. Robot is about creating a coherent storyworld for its viewers. 195 The core narrative thus exhibits a radiating impetus beyond the viewer’s screen, underpinning the reduced dystopian distance to extratextual reality. Taken together, the pilot episode includes the hallmarks of complex TV, as it introduces viewers to specific narrative techniques, such as “direct-ad‐ dress voice-over narration, frequent flashbacks and jumps in time frame, and long-term mysteries and story arcs that will traverse the entire season and beyond” (Mittell 74). With regard to the formal constitution of the world, the series focuses on centripetal complexity that revolves around the protagonist’s psyche, inviting viewers to participate in his inner thought processes. The series engages audiences by prompting them to decipher the tension “between character subjectivity and diegetic reality” (ibid. 49). Through complex narra‐ tive techniques, the series harnesses the potentials of serial storytelling and establishes realistic psychologies of characters, unlike most classical dystopias that tend to oversimplify the protagonist’s function as placeholders for certain ideologies and abstract concepts (see Gonnermann 50). Elliot is more than an anti-corporate dissident; the glimpses into his psyche and especially his 168 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="169"?> 196 Fisher would have welcomed Mr. Robot’s commitment to linking problems on the macro-social scale with those on the individual scale. In Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? (2009), he states: “[w]e must convert widespread mental health problems from medicalized conditions into effective antagonisms. Affective disorders are forms of captured discontent; this disaffection can and must be channelled outwards, directed towards its real cause, Capital” (80). weaknesses invite viewers to perceive him as a realistic character with hopes and fears rather than an idealised representation of a hacker. At the same time, the interwoven subplots expand centrifugally, creating a dense storyline of different perspectives within the economic and social system. The interplay of these two modes of complexity yields a provocative narrative that seems to be constantly in motion, offering a systemic critique of late capitalism enriched by the micro-perspective of Elliot’s struggle and his potential to make a difference. 196 2.2 Merging Hyperobjects: Visions of Technology & Capitalism The title ‘Mr. Robot’ suggests that the TV series focuses on the perspective of an individual in terms of the intricate relationship between humans and technology, particularly with regard to the notion of ‘productivity’ and the ‘mechanisation’ of the workforce in late capitalist societies. The series simul‐ taneously addresses the hyperobjects technology and capitalism and explores their effects on the individual. Matthew Flisfeder argues that the series “provides a provocative translation of these complexities, one that creates a relatable and comprehensible narrative” (143). The interplay between the centripetal mode of complexity (drilling down to the protagonist’s subjective condition) and the centrifugal mode of complexity (expanding the social network of the storyworld) lends itself particularly well to examining the individual situation under late capitalism on the one hand, and the intricate relationship between technology and capitalism and its manifestation as digital infrastructure in daily life on the other (cf. Suarez-Villa 56). What makes Mr. Robot a compelling narrative is the way it provides a cognitive mapping of these complexities while concomitantly pointing to the individual’s embeddedness in these totalities, thus eschewing deterministic perspectives that would portray technology or capitalism as external ‘evils’ to society. It is no coincidence that the creators of Mr. Robot chose New York City as the main setting. The metropole is anchored in the cultural unconscious 2.2 Merging Hyperobjects: Visions of Technology & Capitalism 169 <?page no="170"?> 197 The creator of the series, Sam Esmail, describes the similarity between diegetic reality and extradiegetic reality in a similar manner: “[t]he world is so heavily influenced by technology and it has started to feel like it’s not on solid ground. The world has become unreliable, unknowable. Facts are vulnerable and things you have come to rely on are no longer there.” (MacInnes, “Sam Esmail”) With its focus on the ‘virtuality’ of capitalism, the series comments on the overall manifestations of ‘post-industrial capitalism,’ which Eagleton describes as “a world in which labour and capital are dematerialised into signs, flows and codes; social phenomena are mobile, plural and ceaselessly mutable; and images, simulacra and virtualities hold sway over anything as grossly simplistic as material objects” (16-7). Against this backdrop, the series depicts technology as accelerating this “groundless ground” ( Jagodzinski, “Mr. Robot” 63) of post-industrial capitalism (cf. also Flisfeder 143). as a place associated with unlimited opportunities, freedom, and one of the most important financial centres of the world, Wall Street. Throughout the series, the thematic focus revolves around the tension between outdated power structures and finance capitalism, which generally refers to “a stage of capitalism in which economic and political domination is exercised by financial institutions or financiers rather than by industrial capitalists” (Merriam-Webster, “Finance capitalism”). The dominance of financial capitalism and the notion of ‘fictitious capital’ in the form of credit, shares, and stock (cf. Dörre 58), forms the series’ main target of critique and the protagonist’s point of attack to change the status quo. In a Saussurean sense, the series highlights that the digits on screens have lost their signifier: accumulated money on the virtual bank account is nothing but a series of numbers and has lost its reference, as Mr. Robot’s explanation to Elliot makes clear: “Money hasn’t been real since we got off the gold standard. It’s become virtual. Software. The operating system of our world. And Elliot, we are on the verge of taking down this virtual reality.” (S1/ E1 0: 45) By equating money with software that runs society, the series shows how the financial market has become a virtual power structure that is no longer tangible to the layman. 197 For the tech-savvy like Elliot, however, this virtuality represents a vulnerable spot, a loophole, and thus a key point of attack for accessing the illegitimate assets of ‘the one percent.’ Elliot’s alter ego points to the opportunity to rewrite the ‘code’ of society by first and foremost freeing individuals of their ‘virtual’ debt and redistributing wealth among the collective. The thematic focus on finance capitalism and hacking thus allows the series to merge the themes of technology and capitalism in a haunting way. By repeatedly referring to ‘the one percent,’ the series also overtly alludes to the Occupy Wall Street movement against economic inequality in the US and the ways this social movement, as Flisfeder puts it, “helped to create a new language with which the people could locate themselves in the class struggle, i.e.[,] the 170 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="171"?> language of the ‘one percent versus the ninety-nine percent’” (143). Mr. Robot sets the stage for a narrative that accounts for the crises of the first decade of the 21 st century by pointing to the concentration of (speculative) capital on Wall Street as the gap between rich and poor widens. By referencing a specific time and place, the series anchors the dystopian setting in contemporary reality and increases its relevance to viewers (cf. Landau 269). Furthermore, the setting of New York City, the world’s financial capital city, also establishes associations with a modern metropole dependent on a highly developed technological infrastructure for organising public life. Symptomatic of the other complex serial dystopias discussed in this book, Mr. Robot strives for a nuanced depiction of technology: as a personal tool (in the form of laptops, computers, smartphones), as applied practice (in the form of technical skills, coding, and hacking), and as an amplifier of capitalist realism (cf. Johnston 87-8). The deconstruction of the hyperobject technology in the series appears funnel-like, from technology as a ubiquitous background structure that enables consumer society (the internet, social media) to technological artefacts as intermediary instruments between individuals, to Elliot (or rather his alter ego Mr. Robot) as the personification of the human-technology entanglement. Hacking is an integral part of the protagonist’s life, and his skills are his personal imperative, helping him survive in a society he despises. Through Elliot, the series voices criticism of the extent to which society has become dependent on technology. As Justine Johnston explains, technology is also deeply entangled in the broader social and material context. Tech‐ nology is not only bicycles and iPods, websites and home blood pressure monitors - artifacts that people encounter as users and know that they are using. It is also a vast background infrastructure, a multiplicity of systems that affect life for millions of people, regardless of whether they are themselves users of it or even aware that it exists. (86) Johnston here points out that technology is not just tangible artefacts but also functions as a background node in society, affecting people’s lives whether they actively use technology or not. With its focus on the digital infrastructure, Mr. Robot specifically points to technology “in the broader social and material context,” as the fundamental backbone of Western society. For example, the episode “405 Method Not Allowed” (S4/ E5) was shot entirely without a single character speaking. This formal device underscores the extent 2.2 Merging Hyperobjects: Visions of Technology & Capitalism 171 <?page no="172"?> 198 “405 Method Not Allowed” is another episode title that only the tech-savvy will understand. It generally refers to an error code that occurs when a browser is unable to access the targeted website, indicating that something has gone wrong but not why. Web-users see an error page instead of content. to which people have become reliant on communication technologies. 198 The communication between the characters here is exclusively digital, but the lack of face-to-face conversations does not impair viewers’ narrative comprehension. When characters unlock their phones, text messages appear on the screen, and the display of digital communication takes viewers by the hand and helps them follow the action. Interestingly, the typing and chiming of smartphones throughout the episode conveys an atmosphere of lively communication, suggesting that face-to-face communication seems almost obsolete, given the efficiency of communication technologies. Mr. Robot here shows that, as Danielle Knafo and Rocco Lo Bosco put it, “technology is more than instrumentality, gadgetry, or scientific wizardry; it is an embodied perspective - a way of seeing and being in the world, and a way of experiencing self and other” (243). Most viewers do not even notice the absence of human voices until the character Fernando Vera (Elliot Villar) declares in the very last minute of this episode that “[i]t’s time we talk” (S4/ E5 0: 48), which only shows how ‘normal’ mediated communication has become. The operational aesthetic of this episode thus underscores the significance of technology in the social context. For a series about hacking, Mr. Robot naturally employs an abundance of tech terms that resonates particularly with a young, tech-savvy audience. Viewers learn about different technological artefacts, operating systems, malware, and other technological infrastructure primarily through Elliot. However, his judg‐ ment taints this educational aspect of the series because he often mocks other people and how they use a particular technology. When the Chief Technology Officer for E Corp visits Allsafe for a company tour, Elliot shares his point of view with the audience, trying to convince viewers that the way people engage with technology says a great deal about their personalities: “Even though he’s the head technology guy at one of the biggest companies in the world, he owns a BlackBerry. But also looks like he doesn’t see a terminal very often. He’s not a techie. He’s a moron.” (S1/ E1 0: 18) Instead of explaining why a BlackBerry phone seems incompatible with a high position in a tech-company (the scene ought to point out that the CTO is using a nearly decade-old phone instead of the latest model), Elliot immediately labels him a “moron” not only because he is not a “techie,” but also because he is a key player in the corporate world. The series thus highlights the human-technology entanglement and familiarises the lay viewers with a world full of technical terms. By introducing 172 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="173"?> 199 Zarum opts for a more passive mode of reception: “[d]espite, or probably because of, the density of its plot, Mr. Robot is almost more fun if you don’t really know what’s going on. I’ve learned to let the techno jargon wash over me like the final stream-of-consciousness pages of Ulysses. Sometimes it’s easier, and more enjoyable, to surrender to Mr. Robot’s sensory pleasures.” Her comment underscores that the series also offers viewing pleasure through unconventional aesthetics that make watching the episodes worthwhile. 200 See J. Bennett for an interesting discussion on the agency of ‘human-nonhuman assemblages’ from a new materialist perspective using the example of a power grid blackout (23-34). technologies without fully explaining their function, the series strategically omits information to spark the curiosity of viewers interested in programming, who then ‘dig deeper’ into the meaning circulating in Elliot’s world. 199 While the series features standard tech devices and their use, such as cell phones, computers, and surveillance cameras, it also offers a specific angle of digital culture that shows how technology influences the way society works on a grander scale. Mr. Robot invests in the representation of technology as a “vast background infrastructure” ( Johnston 86) while pointing out digital culture’s vulnerability to hacker threats that could cause a blackout with enormous effects on social and economic life. 200 Unlike Black Mirror, which typically usually zooms in on a specific technological artefact and its individual (mis)use, Mr. Robot focuses on the abstract network mechanisms behind legitimate platforms like social media on the one hand and anonymously managed sites like the dark web on the other. The series’ focus on technological networks rather than specific artefacts facilitates the focus on more abstract mechanisms as well, allowing the cognitive mapping of the social implications of technology and its inextricable link to late capitalism and consumer society (cf. Mitcham and Briggle 39-40; Wong 161). While the overall narrative of Mr. Robot carefully negotiates the critique of technology and capitalism in a nuanced way, Elliot’s perspective suggests a simplified worldview in which the dystopian antagonist is easy to spot. In his voice-overs, he promotes the perspective that the E Corp conglomerate is “[a] perfect monster of modern society. The E might as well stand for Evil. In fact, after a thorough intensive self-reprogramming, that’s all my mind hears, sees, or reads when they pop up in my world.” (S1/ E1 0: 17) The series aesthetically adapts to his worldview. Billboards read the derogatory name Evil Corp instead of E Corp, and even Elliot’s boss suddenly refers to E Corp as “Evil Corp” (S1/ E2 0: 13; 0: 32). These occurrences confuse the audience and Elliot himself, who is often unsure whether events are happening or if his mind is playing tricks on him: “I am crazy. I have to be crazy because this didn’t just happen, 2.2 Merging Hyperobjects: Visions of Technology & Capitalism 173 <?page no="174"?> 201 By having Elliot diagnose himself as ‘schizo,’ the series points to widespread miscon‐ ceptions and confusion about symptoms of schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder (see Watson). right? This is a delusion. Is this a delusion? Shit, I’m a schizo.” (S1/ E1 0: 40) Such remarks regularly challenge narrative comprehension and add to the compelling nature of the series. 201 The centripetal complexity causes a continued blurriness between diegetic reality and illusion, requiring viewers to pay close attention throughout the series. As the series invites viewers to see the world through Elliot’s eyes and adopt the same dismissive attitude towards ‘Evil Corp,’ it also harbours the shift in power relations, namely that “the power of the authoritarian state,” which holds sway over society in classical dystopian fiction, “gives way to the more pervasive tyranny of the corporation” (Moylan, “Moment” 135). Indeed, Mr. Robot portrays E Corp as an influential, powerful corporation hierarchically run only by male executives who are involved both in economic and political decision-making processes. In its detailed account of E Corp and the activities of its executive board, the series pays tribute to the interweaving of politics and business, as viewers learn that the corporation’s sphere of influence is much larger than that of the consumer debt industry. E Corp not only manufactures tech gadgets of all kinds, like computers and tablets, but also owns 70 % of the global consumer credit industry (S1/ E1 0: 46), which illustrates that the corporation has a crucial say in individuals’ livelihoods and well-being. The series thus constructs the lebenswelt of Elliot and other characters as decisively shaped by the decision-making of the few white men in the high-rise buildings. It is precisely the subplot involving his childhood friend Angela, who suffers from gender inequality in the workplace and struggles to pay off her student loan, that shows just how entrenched the tentacles of E Corp are. Witnessing the imbalances of corporate power and the individual fates first-hand fuels Elliot’s rejection of the corporate world altogether. Interestingly, the series repeatedly uses metaphors of the human body to describe an artificial entity (E Corp). Mr. Robot explains to Elliot, for example, that conglomerates “don’t have hearts. You take them down limb by limb. And as they unravel, their illusion of control unravels.” (S1/ E1 0: 47) By contrast, Elliot uses computer metaphors when talking about himself and his emotions (see also Chapter 2.3). This reversed use of metaphors underscores the vitality of capitalism on the one hand and the mechanization of people on the other. Instead of portraying a simplified antagonist in the form of an anonymous evil corporation, Mr. Robot negotiates this vitality of capitalism through detailed insights into the pillars upon which it rests, such as self-interest, competition, 174 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="175"?> 202 Fisher argues that “[t]ime after time, the villain in Hollywood films will turn out to be the ‘evil corporation.’ Far from undermining capitalist realism, this gestural anti-capitalism actually reinforces it” (12). His point here is that the fact that most screen time is devoted to the evil corporation also inadvertently acknowledges its power status, thus perpetuating capitalist realism. Hollywood films tend to lack the time to negotiate hyperobjects in depth, a pitfall serial narratives like Mr. Robot automatically circumvent by simply having more time available to deconstruct their themes from multiple perspectives. 203 See Beattie, who argues that “[n]eoliberalism is an economic experiment, but it is unavoidably a psychological experiment as well. Its underlying economic theory includes a basic conception of psychology: that collectively, human beings thrive under conditions of free competition, a meritocracy of wealth in which rewards go to each according to his ability” (1). Wellick embodies the idea that the neoliberal philosophy has become an ontological state. and the freedom of choice. 202 The series strategically shifts its focus from the level of E Corp as a powerful, anonymous entity to a set of individuals working behind this façade. Yet, it is precisely Elliot’s simplified worldview, which spotlights the ‘top one percent’ in the first place, that paradoxically serves as a gateway to a nuanced critique of the “whirring machinery of capitalism” (Morton 1) from a variety of perspectives. With Tyrell Wellick (Martin Wallström), for example, the series adds an important personal aspect to the ‘generalised’ notion of the villainous corpora‐ tion and shows the effects of the hyperobject capitalism, which successfully conquers people’s cognitive space and the way they relate to the world. His first appearance during the company tour at Allsafe establishes him stereotypically as a young man eager to climb the corporate ladder. Wellick is the Senior Vice President of Technology at E Corp and embodies the role of the proponent of neoliberalism, perceiving the world as a competitive arena in which “[p]ower belongs to the people that take it” (S1/ E2 0: 01). 203 When Elliot introduces himself as “[j]ust a tech,” Wellick reminds him of the American Dream: “Don’t be so humble. You know, I started out exactly where you are, and … to be honest, you know, my heart is still there.” (S1/ E1 0: 18) Unsurprisingly, Elliot and Mr. Robot do not share his ambitions in the corporate world, discarding him as a “corporate robot just like the rest of them” (S1/ E2 0: 22). Through Wellick, however, the series strongly criticizes those individuals who approach the world exclusively with rational logic and who bathe themselves in complacency and the misery of others. That Wellick’s self-confidence and regimented demeanour is only a façade becomes clear in more intimate scenes outside the professional context. For example, when he stands in front of the mirror and talks to himself, both in a motivating and punishing manner, the series points to his efforts to master 2.2 Merging Hyperobjects: Visions of Technology & Capitalism 175 <?page no="176"?> 204 Here the series opens up a larger critique that echoes aspects of the critical theory coined by Horkheimer and Adorno, who argue that “[t]he countless agencies of mass production and its culture impress standardized behavior on the individual as the only natural, decent, and rational one. Individuals define themselves now only as things, statistical elements, successes or failures. Their criterion is self-preservation, successful or unsuccessful adaptation to the objectivity of their function and the schemata assigned to it” (21-2). 205 Luthans et al. define psychological capital as “an individual’s positive psychological state of development” (388), which is characterised by four elements often subsumed under the acronym HERO (Hope, (self-)Efficacy, Resiliency, Optimism). 206 Wellick’s character is reminiscent of the serial killer Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale) in American Psycho (2000), an investment banker who similarly preys on society’s lower classes. This postmodern take on deconstructing the efficiency of the capitalist the demands of the corporate world. Wellick looks himself straight in the eye, rehearses his speech for his potential promotion at E Corp, and calls himself a “stupid piece of shit” (S1/ E3 0: 01) whenever he makes a mistake. He even punishes himself with a slap in the face: “Too formal. God damn it. Warm it up. Don’t be a cold robot.” (S1/ E3 0: 01) This scene echoes the title of the series, suggesting that Wellick seems to have become a ‘robot’ in the corporate machinery of E Corp. 204 By foregrounding his self-punishment, Mr. Robot comments both on Wellick’s tendency to blame himself and his limited vision for identifying the systemic ills in the broader socio-cultural context. Although he is not a self-entrepreneur, Peter Beattie’s observation rings true here. “With self-entrepreneurs tasked with self-exploitation,” he argues, “flaws in oneself are foregrounded and magnified, while flaws in political-economic structures recede from view” (16). The fact that Wellick stubbornly repeats affirmations to influence his career development positively (e.g., “You will be the next CTO of this company! ” (S1/ E3 0: 02)) only underscores his seemingly robotic nature. Overall, this scene demonstrates what Byung-Chul Han claims neoliberalism has achieved, namely that it has “discovered the psyche as a productive force” (Psychopolitics 25). Individuals, prone to enhance their ‘psychological capital’ to increase personal success, seem to engage in “auto-exploitation willingly - and even passionately” (ibid. 28). 205 Through Wellick, the series makes clear that even those who are skilled and even enthusiastic about mastering the competitive arena of the corporate world nonetheless suffer pathological consequences. These intimate glimpses into how the “neoliberal achievement-subject” (ibid. 28) pushes himself to the limit in his relentless pursuit of power stand in stark contrast to Elliot’s worldview, which defies the capitalist system altogether. Most importantly, viewers learn that Wellick’s calm and authoritative de‐ meanour in professional situations is based on his ability to vent his anger. 206 His 176 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="177"?> grand narrative also crops up in more recent examples, such as the TV series The Purge (2018-2019), which is set in an alternate dystopian America and negotiates the meaning of a sanction, namely a twelve-hour period per year in which all crimes are legal, for the maintenance of the country’s mental health. robotic self-discipline throughout the day urges him to aggressively act out his accumulated frustrations on the lower class of society. For example, after being turned down by E Corp’s CEO and finding out that his promotion interview had to be rescheduled (see Fig. 2c), Wellick is escorted to the city’s margins to meet a homeless man whom he pays money to inflict physical harm on him. The camera observes a seemingly friendly conversation from the distance when the man asks, “You think I could have 300 this time? ” (S1/ E3 0: 04). The poor man’s question indicates that this is not the first encounter between the two men whose paths would hardly ever cross, given their different social statuses. This transaction-based service is a coping mechanism Wellick uses regularly. He then praises the poor man’s sense of capital accumulation, responding almost proudly that he has “[s]poken like a true capitalist” (S1/ E3 0: 04). After he hands him the money, a disturbing scene unfolds in which Wellick takes off his jacket, puts on sterile surgical gloves, and nearly knocks the man unconscious. The stop sign at the margins of the camera frame appears as a subtle but ineffective reminder to stop the absurd scenario (see Fig. 2d). Fig. 2c: Tyrell Wellick is sidelined to the edge of the frame as he learns that his promotion interview with the CEO of E Corp has been cancelled (S1/ E3 0: 03). - Fig. 2d: The ambitious businessman acts out his anger at the margins of society (S1/ E3 0: 04). Mr. Robot here makes a bold statement about capitalism by visualising, on the one hand, the literal harm done to the lower class of society and, on the other hand, the desperation and willingness of the unprivileged to do anything for money. Atrocities like these fuel Elliot’s rage against the system and provide viewers with a cognitive map of the neoliberal capitalist system. Through Wellick, the series personifies social frustration with the hegemonic order and 2.2 Merging Hyperobjects: Visions of Technology & Capitalism 177 <?page no="178"?> 207 Cyberpunk is usually considered a subgenre of dystopia, referring specifically to the sociopolitical and economic landscape of the 1980s (cf. Baccolini and Moylan, “Introduction” 2). See also Jameson, who argues that cyberpunk is “the supreme literary expression if not of postmodernism, then of late capitalism itself ” (Postmodernism 419). While the reference to late capitalism is clear throughout the series, the complexity of the narrative yields expressions that transcend the postmodern mindset (see Chapter 2.4 in this analysis). emphasises the need for venting anger. Although they are set up as opposing characters, both Elliot and Wellick are desperate for an outlet and a target against which to direct their anger. Both characters, who tend to be equally framed in the side corners of the camera, look in vain for the locus of responsibility and have their respective coping mechanisms in place to navigate an alienated world. Mr. Robot spotlights the ‘weight’ of hyperobjects on the individual. Still, it refrains from a one-dimensional deconstruction of technology or capitalism by harnessing the space provided by serial storytelling to illuminate the dynamics inherent to society from different angles. Rather than sticking with the initial impression of Wellick as the epitome of ‘evil,’ the series cultivates a nuanced portrayal of him and thus transcends Elliot’s binary worldview. As the series progresses, the viewer gains more insights into Wellick’s background and learns that he is a family man with a wife and son. Although viewers are constantly influenced by Elliot’s opinion, these scenes trigger a transformation in the perception and identification processes with the character, nudging them to feel sympathy for the antagonist. Rather than seeing Wellick as an abject, immoral servant of E Corp, “a corporate robot just like the rest of them” (S1/ E2 0: 22), viewers are encouraged to sympathise with his inability to see through the structural flaws of the capitalist logic and his self-exploitation. Through the personal account of Wellick’s struggle, Mr. Robot creates a relatable narrative that exhibits the hyperobject’s immediate effect on individuals. The complex serial dystopia plays out the negotiation of capitalism and tech‐ nology at the character level, drawing on cyberpunk tropes by foregrounding the dissidence of the hacker who uses his tech skills to overthrow the prevailing power structures. 207 From a character perspective, Elliot still forms the counter‐ force to the antagonistic Wellick and his close association with ‘E(vil) Corp,’ although both suffer from the same systemic logic. Wellick vividly embodies neoliberalism, whereas Elliot functions as the personified alternative to the prevailing system. Lars Schmeink points out that “[c]yberpunk picks up on the aggressive rejection of authority, as reflected in its outcast heroes, the lowlifes, drifters, drug users, and petty criminals that populate the stories, as well as on 178 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="179"?> 208 This postmodern notion of lacking substance is most vividly told through the example of taxidermist Janice (Ashlie Atkinson), who stuffs dead pets for her clients. The entire fourth season also contains a postmodern take on the Christmas tradition, including the appearance of a ‘depressed’ Santa (S4/ E4). the disillusionment with the established order of late capitalism” (22). Given that Elliot despises the capitalist consumer society in which “well-being is defined in large part by consumer ideals that focus on the consumption of desired products and services” (Briggle et al. 5), he bears many similarities to an outcast hero: he is uncomfortable around ‘normal’ people, operates at night, aims to overthrow E Corp, and frequently takes drugs to cope with his disillusionment with a society that seems hollow at its core. 208 Particularly Elliot’s engagement in the fsociety collective reinforces his ideological view. As the following will show, the protagonist is frustrated not only with the immoral practices of E(vil) Corp but with the entire human-technology nexus that has enabled a society in which “potential profit outweigh[s] anyone’s moral reservations” (S4/ E2 0: 02). Elliot struggles to navigate this world dominated by corporate greed and social alienation. 2.3 “Are you a 1 or a 0? ”: Elliot’s Entrapment Mr. Robot offers viewers a compelling, personal account of systemic inefficien‐ cies and interweaves the theme of hacking with an overt critique of late capitalism. As Wojtyna fittingly points out, the “narrative critique of capitalism and the alienations of technological progress […] are paralleled by the individual psychological struggle of the main character” (172). Although the series focuses on the traditional power play between the megacorporation and the hacker, offering a timely counter-narrative that focuses on the radical transformation of the social order, the complex plot structures allow for a particularly refreshing approach to cyberpunk storytelling. For example, the impression of Elliot as a vigilante hacker (prominently staged in the pilot’s opening scene in the coffee shop) quickly fades as the series progresses. Elliot is not a typical cyberpunk hero, aggressively defying authority and carrying out his mission with ease. He holds down a ‘normal’ job during the day, and his boss even considers him an important asset to the company because of his unique tech skills. Against this backdrop, the protagonist is not an outcast who evades the system but is staged as a part of (and even as a contributor to) the prevailing system. However, the series rarely shows him engaging in ‘normal’ activities such as shopping or running errands or participating in society in any way other than through 2.3 “Are you a 1 or a 0? ”: Elliot’s Entrapment 179 <?page no="180"?> 209 Even when Angela, one of his closest friends, invites Elliot to her birthday party, the camera captures him standing outside the local bar, watching ‘normal’ people having a ‘normal’ evening through the glass front instead of joining the celebration (S1/ E1 0: 09). 210 Drawing on Franklin, Hands points out that “it is exactly in the ambiguity of being unclassifiable as either user (consumer) or producer (labourer) that resistance can be found” (164). In a way, Mr. Robot conflates notions of what Galloway and Thacker refer to as ‘nonexistence’ in digital culture by commenting on the hacker as an outsider, but not one that is “hiding, or living off the grid” but “living on the grid” (Franklin, emphases added; Hands 164). 211 With Elliot’s suffering and his activities within the hacker collective fsociety, one could argue that the series draws on typical semantic elements of the dystopian genre, including “the existence of a non-conformist revolt group, usually with an alienated protagonist whose sufferings highlight the impossibility of human existence within the framework of the total state” (Czigányik, “Afterword” 246). However, the centreless hyperobjects technology and capitalism clearly supersede the framework of “the total state,” thus offering a more pertinent commentary on the mechanisms of Western societies in the 21 st century. his computer screen, which underscores his impression as an outsider. 209 By highlighting the protagonist’s meagre lifestyle, the series questions abundance and “[c]onsumerism as a cultural model for living a good life” (Wright 69) and strategically positions Elliot as an individual caught in-between the status quo and a new world order. His disillusionment with society only takes shape through his active role in it, with his alter ego, Mr. Robot, playing the critical role of reminding him of the ills of contemporary society and strengthening his ability to envision radical alternatives. 210 Unlike Black Mirror, which only offers subtle background details on the general mechanisms of the dystopian paradigm, Mr. Robot openly calls attention to the pathological notions of a neoliberal system based on losers and winners. The series uses Elliot’s personal account to open up another layer of critique by addressing the need to escape reality. Viewers regularly witness the protagoni‐ st’s morphine abuse and withdrawal symptoms as he chooses self-destructive mechanisms to sedate himself. These insights render Elliot a vulnerable and struggling individual rather than the flawless hero often found in cyberpunk fiction. What is more, Schmeink points out that “[t]he fact that cyberpunk protagonists easily navigate the multinational capitalist world and find their own way of survival rather than trying to incite social changes has been a major concern for critics trying to identify the utopian - dystopian impulse in cyberpunk” (23). Elliot is struggling to find his “own way of survival” while also instigating “social changes,” two features that allow for a broader utopian and dystopian impulse rather than a story limited to the personal realm. 211 Insights 180 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="181"?> into the protagonist’s psychological state offer access to a more comprehensive critique of digital culture in late capitalism. Both the therapy sessions and the encounters with his alter ego Mr. Robot offer viewers these insights. Elliot directs his anger primarily at ‘the one percent,’ the alleged representatives of the structural flaws of the exploitative system. Still, he also carries a general discontent with society as a whole. In one of the therapy sessions, Elliot’s therapist Krista notices: “You’re angry at everyone, at society […] I know you have a lot to be angry about, but keeping it to yourself and staying quiet like you’re doing - it’s not going to help you. There’s pain underneath. That’s where our work needs to go.” (S1/ E1 0: 11) In her explanation to Elliot, Krista points out that his anger seems to have turned inwards, causing a “pain underneath.” In the context of criticising society under late capitalism, the series here points to the absence of visible power structures against which anger can be effectively and cathartically directed, thus leaving Elliot with little choice but to keep his emotions to himself. Such ineffectiveness evokes the condition of ‘liquid modernity,’ namely “[i]f the time of systemic revolutions has passed, it is because there are no buildings where the control desks of the system are lodged and which could be stormed and captured by the revolutionaries” (Bauman, Modernity 5). There are no longer solid structures or single actors to rub against. As Fisher argues: Anger can only be a matter of venting; it is aggression in a vacuum, directed at someone who is a fellow victim of the system but with whom there is no possibility of communality. Just as the anger has no proper object, it will have no effect. In this experience of a system that is unresponsive, impersonal, centerless, abstract and fragmentary, you are as close as you can be to confronting the artificial stupidity of Capital in itself. (64) The anger at an impenetrable system that spurs inequality, ecocide, and threatens community values and democracy, culminates in Elliot’s psycholog‐ ical suffering. Unlike Wellick, who takes out his aggression on the lower class of society, Elliot’s anger turns progressively inwards, leading to various pathological effects on his psyche and his excessive drug use to escape reality. It seems to be this recurring tipping point of resignation in isolation when the alter ego Mr. Robot appears and motivates him to focus on his unique tech skills to actively contribute to a cause greater than himself (see Jagodzinski, “Mr. Robot” 68). The series thus explores different pathways of ‘venting’ in an “unresponsive, impersonal, centerless” digital culture: physical aggression that turns outwards in the form of violence and aggression that turns inwards, requiring temporary escape through substances. 2.3 “Are you a 1 or a 0? ”: Elliot’s Entrapment 181 <?page no="182"?> Mr. Robot negotiates the effects of the hidden power structures of a late capitalist system through subjective experiences that transport a sense of vertigo and confusion. As Flisfeder puts it, “Mr. Robot replicates the formal and subjective dimensions of neo-noir schizophrenic entrapment and anxiety, alongside the zeitgeist of cynical resignation in the face of the conglomerate mega-machine of late capitalism” (144). By foregrounding Elliot’s condition, the series contextualises mental health issues in capitalist societies, echoing Fisher’s argument that “instead of being the only social system that works, capitalism is inherently dysfunctional, and that the cost of it appearing to work is very high” (19). The close correlation between the exploitative conditions under late capitalism and psychological dysfunctions resurfaces throughout the series, for example, when Elliot’s sister Darlene (Carly Chaikin) suggests that anxiety is part and parcel of contemporary life: “In this day and age, it’s sicker not having panic attacks.” (S2/ E4 0: 03; see also Burkeman) The series constructs a world that seems out of control, paving the way for Elliot’s determined and fearless alter ego Mr. Robot. One of the first encounters between Elliot and his alter ego, Mr. Robot, takes place on the former “Fun Society Amusement LLC” premises on Coney Island, a run-down arcade amidst abandoned shops where fsociety’s underground operations are taking place to set in motion the planned revolution. On a creaking Ferris wheel, an image that adds to the notion of an exhausted late modern society, Mr. Robot explains to Elliot: “Let me tell you why you’re really here. You’re here because you sense something wrong with the world. Something you can’t explain. But you know it controls you and everyone you care about.” (S1/ E1 0: 45) He directly refers to money in the following sentence. Still, his statement also captures Fisher’s understanding of capitalist realism, namely the intensification of the capitalist logic that infiltrates subjective well-being. Although Elliot creates the personality of Mr. Robot to nudge himself into action, he also suffers from the radical demands of his alter ego to the extent that they prevent him from living a ‘normal life.’ The battle that continuously takes place in his head, the rebellion against himself, pushes the protagonist to numb himself with morphine. It is no coincidence that his alter ego happens to be an idealised version of his father. In the coffee shop scene, Elliot reveals: “My dad was the only one I could talk to. But he died. […] Leukaemia. He definitely got it from radiation at the company he worked at, though I couldn’t prove it. Now he’s dead.” (S1/ E1 0: 04) After a brief pause and hesitant laugh, he adds, “Company’s fine, though.” The fact that his father never took legal action to fight the company’s misconduct fuels Elliot’s motivation to disempower E Corp. As Jagodzinski aptly notes, 182 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="183"?> “Elliot’s vigilantism against corruption stems from an injustice that his father suffered” (“Mr. Robot” 65). The series causally links Elliot’s repressed anger at the corporate world to the wrongs inflicted on his father. But although the latter is depicted as the tragic victim, Elliot’s father is not the epitome of innocence he is presented to be. At this point in the series, it is not yet revealed that he used to sexually abuse Elliot as a child. Through the plot twist in the final season, the meaning of Mr. Robot as father figure changes and transforms into a symbolic relationship with capitalism itself, exposing his father as a false and destructive friend to the young Elliot, who exploits his vulnerability. Even Elliot himself eventually realises that he created the Mr. Robot persona first and foremost to protect himself from pain: “You’re the father I needed. Not the father I had.” (S4/ E8 0: 42) Still, the idealised version of his father is the main driving force that helps Elliot embrace his skills and make a difference. Despite the constant confusion of Elliot’s delusional point of view, viewers learn that Mr. Robot is a powerful mental construct for the protagonist to believe in his ability to change the world. Elliot relates to the world through Mr. Robot, into whom he unconsciously projects his highest ideals. It is precisely his vulnerability that makes Elliot so relatable to contemporary audiences. Mr. Robot comments on the vulnerability of individuals and corpo‐ rations in digital culture by pointing to the risk of ‘being exposed,’ primarily in terms of sensitive information. Mr. Robot, for example, is eager to leak the emails of E Corp’s top executives: “Some good old-fashioned executive racism, sexism, fascism. Trust me, we are gonna ‘ism’ so much all over them they won’t be able to see straight.” (S1/ E2 0: 22) Once again, Mr. Robot urges Elliot to open his eyes to the discrimination and injustices in society in a system that fsociety seeks to destroy. The tone of anxiety and paranoia that prevails in the series is marked by the danger of being exposed - whether on the individual or the corporate level. A byproduct of the risk of being exposed is the ‘illusion of control’ that Mr. Robot vividly articulates through the overarching theme of hacking. For Elliot, the only way to gain a sense of control is to speak a language only a few have mastered: programming language. The entire counter-narrative is based on the ability to program and hack. The series discusses how code creates reality and suggests that those who know how to program can change power dynamics that have long been considered impenetrable. A hacker like Elliot, who understands and navigates digital infrastructure effortlessly, has the potential to subvert power hierarchies by penetrating highly specialised systems that companies and individuals rely on. The complex serial dystopia points to the fact that, to date, only a small percentage of society can code (although the number 2.3 “Are you a 1 or a 0? ”: Elliot’s Entrapment 183 <?page no="184"?> is, of course, increasing; see Burazin), implying that the ‘real’ power lies with ‘the one percent’ of hackers. Mastering technology becomes a significant skill to bring about change. Through Elliot, Mr. Robot comments on the significance of coding skills in a world that is increasingly driven by algorithms. Fig. 2e: Mr. Robot urges Elliot to decide whether he is a ‘one’ or a ‘zero’ (S1/ E2 0: 25). - Fig. 2f: The regular therapy sessions offer insights into the protagonist’s psychological conditions (S1/ E1 0: 10). Against this backdrop, it is less surprising that the characters frequently use tech analogies to describe the diegetic reality. The series opens up a metaphorical landscape that suggests that both society and individuals can be understood in technical terms. Mr. Robot, for example, promotes a worldview that compares the operating mechanisms of late modern societies to those of a computer running on ones and zeros, showcasing how the rational logic infiltrates the personal realm. When he confronts Elliot face-to-face about a follow-up project that involves endangering people by blowing up a gas pipeline (see Fig. 2e), he argues that “[t]he world is a dangerous place, Elliot, not because of those who do evil but because of those who look on and do nothing” (S1/ E2 0: 23). Mr. Robot pushes him to acknowledge the mechanised nature of society, solidifying Elliot’s simplified worldview of good and evil. Mr. Robot: Tell me one thing Elliot. Are you a one or a zero? That’s the question you have to ask yourself. Are you a yes or a no? Are you gonna act or not? - Elliot: Yo, you’ve been staring at a computer screen way too long, homie. Life’s is not that binary. - Mr. Robot: Isn’t it? Sure, there are grays… but when you come right down to it, at its core, beneath every choice, there’s either a one or a zero. You either do something or you don’t. (S1/ E2 0: 24) At first, Elliot stands up for his moral compass and rejects the plan of his alter ego, which likely involves killing people. Mr. Robot, however, puts immense 184 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="185"?> pressure on Elliot to decide whether he wants to continue working for a corporation that is ruling (and ruining) the world or whether he wants to make a ‘real’ contribution by joining fsociety’s operations. The series repeatedly suggests that Mr. Robot’s function is to remind Elliot that he must act rather than remain stuck in the “grays” and escape reality through drug use. When Mr. Robot reminds Elliot that his father was a ‘zero,’ Elliot realizes that his alter ego has finally found his “bug” (S1/ E3 0: 32). This term generally describes an error in a software program but now relates to the protagonist’s biggest weakness, again comparing Elliot to a piece of code in a computer programme. When reminded of his father’s passivity, as in never standing up to corporate injustice, Elliot explains his decision to become a ‘one’: “The bug forces the software to adapt, evolve into something new because of it. […] The next version. The inevitable upgrade.” (S1/ E3 0: 33) Here Elliot uses tech terms himself to justify his decision and explain his motivation for expanding the scope of his activities. The protagonist’s decision to support fsociety ultimately stems from his desire to eliminate the injustices of capitalism’s dehumanizing logic and to instigate change in a world marked by loneliness and social alienation. By addressing the antagonism of ones and zeros, the complex serial dystopia constructs an analogy to the basic language of computer processing, suggesting that the world can be processed in a similarly binary fashion. That this approach to sense-making falls short is best demonstrated by Elliot, who constantly oscillates between the extremes of actionism and painful passivity. The fact that this oscillation takes place in the mind of one and the same individual underscores in a metamodern way that both agency and passivity are two facets that are not mutually exclusive. It is precisely the unsuccessful negotiation of the binary logic that informs Elliot’s psychological conditions. The recurring scenes of therapy sessions with Krista in her office, which provides a calm sanctuary amidst the turmoil aesthetically supported by the mise-en-scène (see Fig. 2 f), are 2.3 “Are you a 1 or a 0? ”: Elliot’s Entrapment 185 <?page no="186"?> 212 The episode “407 Proxy Authentication Required” (S4/ E7) reveals the childhood trauma as the root of Elliot’s condition and features striking operational aesthetics. Drug dealer Vera holds Elliot and Krista hostage and forces them to perform a therapy session in an attempt to ‘break’ Elliot. The episode itself is structured like a traditional five-act drama play. Setup, confrontation, climax, falling action and resolution are made apparent visually through black title cards indicating the act number and audibly by unusual melodramatic music. The performance of this therapy session reinforces the relational positioning of the viewers who are invited to witness how Krista drills down to the roots of Elliot’s personality disorder, that is, the sexual molestation he suffered as a child. Critics have called this one of the best episodes, as Mr. Robot here offers once again an unusual viewing experience, using formal devices to support the overarching themes and inviting the audience to take pleasure in the performativity of television itself (see Murthi). an important lynchpin of the series. They clarify the roots of Elliot’s struggle and explain his social anxiety, depression, and his dissociative identity disorder. 212 While a computer runs on codes and predesigned protocols, society and human nature escape predictability. Against the backdrop of chance and con‐ tingency, the series explores the good life in digital culture regarding the notion of control. The control over one’s environment is generally considered an integral part of well-being and thus for realising a good life ( Johnstone 84). Elliot repeatedly questions this aspect by casting doubt on the freedom of choice: “Choices. Maybe Mr. Robot’s right. That’s what this is all about, the yesses and nos of life. But do we decide them or do they decide us? ” (S1/ E2 00: 34). What the protagonist alludes to here is the perceived sense of losing control in the face of an abundance of choices in consumer society. In one of his weekly sessions, he explains to his psychiatrist: How do we know if we’re in control? That we’re not just making the best of what comes at us, and that’s it. Trying to constantly pick between two shitty options. Like your two paintings in the waiting room. Or… Coke and Pepsi. McDonald’s or Burger King? Hyundai or Honda? Hmm. It’s all part of the same blur, right? Just out of focus enough. It’s the illusion of choice. Half of us can’t pick even pick our own … our cable, gas, electric. The water we drink, our health insurance. Even if we did, would it matter? You know, if our only option is Blue Cross or Blue Shield, what the fuck is the difference? In fact, aren’t they … aren’t they the same? No, man… our choices are prepaid for us, long time ago. (S1/ E2 0: 35) Elliot’s explanation offers his therapist and the viewers a glimpse into his depressed state of mind. He feels that he has no control over his environment, while the market promotes the illusion of choice and steers individual lives into the “same blur” (cf. Reeves). Particularly in the absence of his alter ego Mr. Robot, the protagonist experiences a lack of autonomy and feels deprived 186 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="187"?> of his freedom of choice, which factors into his alienation from late capitalist consumer society (see Wright 51). Through Elliot, the series comments on “the limits of humanity in the context of an extremely oppressive social construct that often claims to be beneficial” (Czigányik, “Afterword” 246). Yet, instead of threatening individuality, as would be the case in classical dystopias (ibid. 246), this oppressive social construct in the form of a neoliberal capitalist society embraces individuality in this diegetic reality, for it enables diversification of the consumer market and maintenance of the illusion of choice. Elliot finds himself incompatible with the prevailing system, as one of the most revealing voice-overs during a therapy session demonstrates: Krista: What is it about society that disappoints you so much? - Elliot: Oh, I don’t know. Is it that we collectively thought Steve Jobs was a great man, even when we knew he made billions off the backs of children? Or maybe it’s that it feels like all our heroes are counterfeit. The world itself just one big hoax. Spamming each other with our running commentary of bullshit, masquerading as insight, our social media faking as intimacy. - - Or is it that we voted for this? Not with our rigged elections, but with our things, our property, our money. I’m not saying anything new. We all know why we do this - not because Hunger Games books make us happy but because we wanna be sedated. Because it’s painful not to pretend. Because we’re cowards. Fuck society. (S1/ E1 0: 12) As this passage shows, Elliot disdains the ideological foundation of the society in which he lives and offers a bold critique of American consumer culture. He al‐ ludes to the alienation among people, how social media simulates a non-existent intimacy, and how people preserve the status quo by supporting the capitalist system through their consumption choices. His remarks are in line with Erik Olin Wright’s take on hegemonic social reproduction, particularly how people “willingly participate and cooperate in reproducing existing structures of power and inequality […] because they believe that doing so is both in their interests and is the right thing to do” (288-89). As Elliot explains his disgust with society, blaming people for their false consciousness, that is, their inability to recognise the damaging effects of the capitalist logic, the visuals show a montage of Steve Jobs, followed by factory workers and a series of celebrities exposed as frauds, social media timelines with family photo galleries, and finally The Hunger Games book sticking out of his therapist Krista’s purse. Through the protagonist, Mr. Robot suggests that the standard good life in digital culture is inextricably linked to the consumerist lifestyle. Elliot is clearly 2.3 “Are you a 1 or a 0? ”: Elliot’s Entrapment 187 <?page no="188"?> not interested in the accumulation of wealth (“I don’t give a shit about money.” (S1/ E1 0: 06)). Still, the fact that he suffers from the overall ‘operating system’ of society shows the far-reaching effects of the system even on people who do not actively contribute to the system or even reject it. For him, it is impossible to live ‘authentically’ in a world that seems like “one big hoax.” He admits that it is “painful not to pretend,” that is, to have a critical mind and question the underlying mechanisms of society: “What I wouldn’t give to be normal. To live in that bubble. The reality of the naïve.” (S1/ E1 0: 55) As a neoliberal subject who is expected to accept the power of the market as the ultimate authority, the protagonist constantly struggles to find his own way in dealing with his environment. What is more, Elliot’s reference to the commercially successful YA novel, The Hunger Games (2008-2010), deserves closer attention, as the trilogy by Suzanne Collins is mentioned in the context of happiness and sedation rather than a potential critique of the status quo. In this scene, the series seems to suggest that dystopian novels like The Hunger Games fail in their warning function by resorting to a ‘winner-takes-all’ logic in their narrative structure that merely replicates rather than challenge the logic of neoliberal capitalism itself (see Morrison; Lepore; Wright 49). Mr. Robot here clearly opens a meta-commentary on dystopias that “struggle to maintain their integrity as channels of criticism” (Gonnermann 67). By implication, the complex serial dystopia positions itself as a cultural artefact that stands apart from ‘people-pleasing’ entertainment produced for a mass audience by refusing to be appropriated, tamed, and commodified (see Baccolini, “Appropriation” 43). Mr. Robot succeeds in depicting the engines and effects of hyperobjects rather than resorting to old tropes that barely capture the mechanisms of digital culture in the 21 st century. Most importantly, Elliot’s detailed explanation was only voiced internally and deviated from his actual answer, which the viewers notice by Krista pulling him back into the moment: “Elliot. You’re not saying anything. What’s wrong? ” (S1/ E1 0: 13). Somewhat surprisingly, he replies, “Nothing.” The discrepancy between the inner thought processes and the diegetic reality exhibits his tendency to seal himself off and share his thoughts only with his imaginary friend, the audience. The fact that he no longer voices his discontent even in a safe space with his therapist (Krista points out that he used to be yelling) indicates that his anger has turned inward. His short ‘real’ response, which follows his detailed account of society’s ills, is a telling example of how this complex serial dystopia plays with formal devices to blur “the line between diegetic and nondiegetic” (Mittell 49). What is more, Krista is one of the few people he respects and cares about, and yet he also lies to her by claiming that 188 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="189"?> 213 To minimise addiction to the substance, Elliot pays very close attention to his consump‐ tion and always has withdrawal medication at hand. He is aware of the risk of long-term use and overdose, as he explains to the audience: “The key to doing morphine without turning into a junkie is to limit yourself to 30 milligrams a day. Anything more just builds up your tolerance. I check every pill I get for purity. I have 8 milligram of Suboxone for maintenance in case I go through withdrawals.” (S1/ E1 0: 20) This scene shows how well informed and calculated Elliot deals with any aspect of his life. he went to Angela’s birthday party when in fact, he decided to go to Ron’s coffee shop instead. Krista is initially positively surprised when Elliot tells her about the previous night: “I got a girl’s number. […] She’s cute.” (S1/ E1 0: 14) But when he adds, “She likes The Hunger Games,” Krista sees right through his cynicism: “You’re hiding again, Elliot. When you hide, your delusions come back. It’s a slippery slope.” (S1/ E1 0: 14) The protagonist secludes himself deliberately, assuming he is alone with his feeling of displacement in the social and economic system. Elliot lives by the rule of never showing anyone his “source code” (S1/ E3 0: 15) to protect himself - another technical term he uses to describe himself. The source code is the basis for the construction of any system, a vulnerable element that here represents Elliot’s deepest emotions. Similarly, Elliot’s sister Darlene regularly accuses him of ‘shutting down’ like a computer (S4/ E1 0: 38), and Mr. Robot implies that Elliot is wrong when he thinks “the more he restricts everyone’s access, the less vulnerable he’ll be” (S4/ E3 0: 22). Convinced that he cannot live inside of “that bubble” (S1/ E1 0: 55), Elliot manages to cope with his situation only by sedating himself regularly with prescribed medications and illegal drugs. To him, sedation is a way of coping with loneliness: “What do normal people do when they get this sad? They reach out to friends or family, I think. That’s not an option. I do morphine.” (S1/ E1 0: 20) Here, the series critically comments on drug use as a common practice to escape problems. 213 The protagonist sees no other option but to artificially put himself in a different state of mind. There seems to be only one effective way by which Elliot experiences some sort of resonance with the world, namely by hacking other people. His therapist Krista reminds him: “Communication is key, Elliot. Real human interaction. That’s what’s important for you right now.” (S1/ E1 0: 59) Real human interaction, however, is a difficult task for Elliot, who claims he does not know “how to talk to people” (S1/ E1 0: 04). Repeatedly throughout the series, the protagonist explains to his imaginary friend (the audience) via voice-over how much easier it is to hack into people’s accounts instead. Most of them are easy targets, 2.3 “Are you a 1 or a 0? ”: Elliot’s Entrapment 189 <?page no="190"?> 214 A ‘noob’ can be described as “[a] person who is inexperienced in a particular sphere or activity, especially computing or gaming” (Lexico). 215 Elliot cares about Krista, as he explains to her: “You’re different than most. You at least try. You at least understand. […] What it’s like to feel alone. You understand the pain. You want to protect people from it. You want to protect me from it. I respect that about you.” (S1/ E1 0: 13) When Krista asks what makes him think that she knows how to feel alone, his voice-over jumps in: “Shit! From her emails…” (S1/ E1 0: 14). especially when they fall for “bad noob practice” (S1/ E2 0: 08). 214 Krista’s profile is a case in point, as he reveals: “Hacking her was simple. Her password: Dylan 2791. Favorite artist and the year in which she was born, backwards. Though she’s a psychologist, she’s really bad at reading people. But I’m good at reading people. My secret: I look for the worst in them.” (S1/ E1 0: 10) Elliot’s explanation is accompanied by images that zoom in on different websites, her email account, social media and dating profiles, and the clicking sound of the mouse. Instead of exposing Krista, however, he wants to save her from a toxic relationship. 215 The fact that her boyfriend, Michael Hansen (Armand Schultz), has “no LinkedIn, no Facebook, nothing” makes Elliot suspicious: “Something about him bugs me, scratching that part of my mind again.” (S1/ E1 0: 11) Unsurprisingly, Elliot’s online investigations reveal that Hansen is a fraud. His findings have real-life consequences, as Elliot tracks him down on the street and forces him to break up with Krista. The protagonist’s ability to hack thus corresponds to his disillusionment with a digital culture that no longer holds any secrets. By hacking not only individual profiles but also digital infrastructure, Elliot also flaunts people’s ill-founded trust in security systems and ridicules those responsible for network security, particularly in public institutions. When he effortlessly hacks into the hospital network system, for example, he disdainfully exposes the incompetence of the head of the IT department in charge, who is not only the only person responsible for the entire IT in the hospital but also works with “dated servers, and security software that runs on Windows 98” (S1/ E3 0: 09). As with most other people he hacks, Elliot humiliates him for the viewers’ entertainment and makes it obvious that the officer’s job title has little to do with his actual skills. The supposedly ‘secure’ networks found in almost every sector of society do not stand a chance of protecting their access from skilled malware coders like him. For Elliot, hacking the hospital system and manipulating his medical records is not a challenge: “I can make my health records look like every other obedient zombie out there.” (S1/ E3 0: 09) The series repeatedly shows Elliot hacking into people’s profiles, society’s digital infrastructure, and public surveillance systems, which both underscores 190 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="191"?> his power and explains his paranoia because, as Jagodzinski notes, “he knows precisely how the instruments of surveillance work, and he knows full well that those instruments can be turned on him just as easily as he turns them on others to extract a picture of behaviour” (“Mr. Robot” 64). Through the protagonist’s operations, Mr. Robot alerts viewers to the transparency of the individual in digital culture and the vulnerability of the digital infrastructure upon which most sectors of the economy rely. For Elliot, hacking is one of the rare moments in which he feels in control without having to show his own “source code.” This one-dimensional way of connecting with the outside world can be read as his protection mechanism against the “risky and potentially tragic encounter with the other” (Bruni 111). Whenever others introduce themselves to Elliot, his voice-over already reveals all the information he has previously gathered by hacking that person: “His preferred means of interacting with people,” as Jenna Wortham points out, “is breaking into their email and social-media accounts to understand who they are, a habit that is portrayed as both tragic and creepy.” The series foregrounds how carelessly individuals share their information online, unaware of how easily sensitive data can be accessed and misused. Through Elliot, the series also shows how tempting it is to form an opinion about a person based solely on their digital profile on social media. However, what makes his preferred means of connecting with others tragic is that Elliot assumes that he can “understand who they are” by hacking them and making judgments about others before meeting them in person. As becomes clear, Elliot’s social anxiety curbs his engagement with his surroundings and limits his openness to engage in ‘real’ human interaction. The only way he experiences a sense of meaningfulness is to put his tech skills at the service of his immediate social circle. The protagonist justifies invading people’s private sphere, at least those he cares about, by claiming that he does so to “keep their optimism intact” (S1/ E1 0: 55) while disempowering those who do harm, as the example of Krista’s boyfriend demonstrates. Through hacking, Elliot wants to protect others from the evils of ‘everyday life’ while it also helps him to cope with his loneliness. However, these small-scale projects seem to provide only a temporary sense of purpose, as becomes clear when he launches his monologue: Sometimes I dream of saving the world. Saving everyone from the invisible hand, one that brands us with an employee badge. The one that forces us to work for them… The one that controls us every day without us knowing it. But I can’t stop it. I’m not that special. I’m just anonymous. I’m just alone. If it weren’t for QWERTY, I’d be completely empty. (S1/ E1 0: 19) 2.3 “Are you a 1 or a 0? ”: Elliot’s Entrapment 191 <?page no="192"?> 216 Interestingly, QWERTY is a Siamese fighting fish, commonly known for its adaptability and tolerance to harsh environments. They also exhibit patterns that enable them to engage in associative learning, making them a subject of interest to neurologists and even psychologists. The fact that the males are solitary and aggressive towards their own kind when there is not enough space opens another subtle but striking parallel to the protagonist’s state of mind. As the camera sways through the office floor at Allsafe and then shows images of empty account balances and people swiping credit cards in restaurants, the protagonist here is clearly referring to the seemingly uncontrollable and underlying force at work in the free market economy, namely the “invisible hand” as conceptualized by Adam Smith, often referred to as the founding father of capitalism, in The Theory of Moral Sentiments (1759). As exemplified in this voice-over, this chain of thought is symptomatic of the protagonist’s perpetual doubts, crumbling optimism, and decreased sense of self-efficacy in the face of capitalist realism. The camera then follows Elliot home into his small, dark apartment and zooms in on “QWERTY,” his pet fish in a glass bowl, which he named after the first six letters on a standard US computer keyboard. The idea that he would be “completely empty” without his pet fish seems exaggerated at first. Still, it gains meaning when read symbolically, namely in terms of QWERTY (the keyboard) as a tool to hack the ‘evil’ out of society, an activity that adds some sense of purpose to his life. At the same time, the glass bowl with his pet fish becomes a symbol of his secluded territory, a place of comfort, stillness, and retreat. 216 Since Elliot struggles to find meaning on his own, his alter ego Mr. Robot is essential in pushing him to pursue a meaningful life. When Mr. Robot and Elliot first ‘talk,’ he captures his attention by announcing that he will break Elliot out of the ‘prison’ he finds himself in (S1/ E1 0: 37). The alter ego wants Elliot to live a meaningful life, which, according to Martin Seligman’s theory, is “a life in which one’s signature strengths and talents are used in the service of things that one believes to be bigger than oneself ” (Brey 23-4). Elliot is unable to thrive in consumer society and grants his alter ego Mr. Robot enough space to take over, encouraging him to think ‘big.’ Technically, the “outer opportunities” (Veenhoven 58) for a good life are there: Elliot earns a decent income, his boss praises him for his skills, and he has access to a potentially large social circle. The quality of life in his environment seems promising but only from the position of an individual who does not question his embeddedness in the larger digital culture and the underlying mechanisms of the social and economic system. From the outset, the series portrays the protagonist as an individual who cannot flourish and create a good life due 192 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="193"?> 217 In the penultimate episode, “whoami” (S4/ E12), Elliot wakes up in a world that seems to be his personal utopia: his parents are still alive, he is a successful businessperson, and he is about to marry Angela, his childhood friend. The series here plays with the idea of a simulated reality, but therapist Krista reveals that the vigilante Elliot has created this recursive fantasy loop for the ‘real’ Elliot to protect him until he is done with his mission to ‘take out all of the evil’ in the real world (S4/ E12). The series thus sticks to the main motif of exploring the complex layers of the protagonist’s dissociative identity disorder. to his critical mindset and mental state. The hacker collective thus forms his only utopian space, a community that questions the capitalist agenda as the standard structuring principle of life and restores in Elliot a sense of resonance with the world. Referring to Seligman, Brey points out that “a good life is a life that integrates three types of lives: the pleasant life, the engaged life, and the meaningful life” (23). As the protagonist sees the ills of the capitalist logic in ‘everyday life,’ he struggles to pretend that he lives a pleasant life, unable to ignore his thoroughly critical mindset. Furthermore, his social anxiety prevents him from leading an engaged life that would allow him to maintain healthy relationships with others and receive support from his social circle. The only thing that keeps him going is the ‘flow’ state (cf. Csikszentmihalyi) he enters when embracing his skills to create a better world. Elliot’s life is neither pleasant nor engaged, but it becomes meaningful when he actively contributes to fsociety’s cause. Interestingly, the last two episodes of the final season contain a plot twist that reboots the entire logic of the series (see Fraser). Viewers learn that the Elliot they have been following for the last four seasons is not the ‘real’ Elliot but just another personality of the actual Elliot Alderson. 217 It is not until the very last minutes of the series that viewers briefly get to know the ‘real’ Elliot. The Elliot who has formed a relationship with the audience throughout his journey is who therapist Krista identifies as the ‘mastermind’ - another alter ego in the form of a hacker superhero created by the ‘real’ Elliot to act out his rage. The entire Mr. Robot narrative is thus a compelling exploration of his five alter egos, including the viewers as voyeurs who are drawn into the alter egos’ fight for control. The major plot twist at the end of the final season, which still sparks discussions among forensic fandoms even years after the series’ finale, does not diminish the importance of discussing the protagonist’s motive, even as he is revealed as an imposter who fooled viewers into thinking he is the ‘real’ Elliot. In fact, the important point is that the series spotlights a protagonist struggling to cope with a society informed by mass consumption, shallow forms of kindness, and superficial relationships, which manifests itself in the use of tech jargon that points to society’s mechanical nature and its impoverished inter-human 2.3 “Are you a 1 or a 0? ”: Elliot’s Entrapment 193 <?page no="194"?> 218 See Horkheimer and Adorno, who state that in the enlightened world, “[n]ot only is domination paid for with the estrangement of human beings from the dominated objects, but the relationships of human beings, including the relationship of individ‐ uals to themselves, have themselves been bewitched by the objectification of mind. Individuals shrink to the nodal points of conventional reactions and the modes of operation objectively expected of them. Animism had endowed things with souls; industrialism makes souls into things” (21). This observation echoes the progressive stages of alienation that loom in the diegetic reality of Mr. Robot. relationships. The personal account of both protagonist Elliot and antagonist Wellick show two sides of the same coin, offering a refreshing intervention into formulaic character depiction in the dystopian genre by using the centripetal force of complexity to explore their psyches. Mr. Robot succeeds in depicting the engines of capitalism’s pathologies and criticises the thinking in exclusive binaries by providing a nuanced picture of the hyperobjects technology and capitalism that reflects the illusion of control in digital culture. The series suggests that the advanced stages of alienation manifest not only in the corpo‐ rate world or in the social realm but also within oneself, as the protagonist’s multi-personality disorder symbolically invokes. 218 Yet, as a complex serial dystopia, Mr. Robot is not only interested in the personal view of individuals under the hegemonic order but also in the wider social implications, taking into account the collective trajectory of digital culture and possible alternatives to the status quo. 2.4 Failed Revolutions: Hacking the Way to Utopia At the heart of Mr. Robot lies the protagonist’s desire to make the world a better place. The series focuses on the pathological conditions of anonymity and loneliness in a global consumer society, and the potential to change the status quo by harnessing technology to reconfigure damaging power hierarchies. Elliot uncovers scammers and petty criminals in his immediate environment. However, by joining the hacktivist group fsociety, his activities take on a larger scope. The goal of fsociety is to hack, that is, expose the entire capitalist logic as dysfunctional and fraudulent. The series features several operations carried out by the hacker collective to this end, most notably the so-called ‘Five/ Nine Hack’ on May 9, 2015, which successfully destabilises the financial system by destroying digital financial archives and wiping out all credit owed to E Corp conglomerate. Mr. Robot, in particular, is convinced that the virtuality of money in digital culture is the weak link in the system. E Corp’s assets are nothing more than a series of ones and zeros. They have thus become ‘hackable,’ which 194 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="195"?> raises hope for the highly skilled members of fsociety who are committed to transformative change in the diegetic reality. The plot becomes more complex as the series progresses, expanding the social scope centrifugally by adding more characters to the core cast while focusing on the different interests that Elliot and his alter ego pursue. Their conflicting ideas about the means to the end are particularly evident with regard to the ‘second stage’ of the hack, namely the bombing of 71 E Corp facilities to destroy the physical records of consumer credits, which Elliot tries to prevent, and Mr. Robot, along with fsociety, tries to implement (and succeeds in doing). The plan of fsociety, spearheaded by Mr. Robot, includes radical measures like the bombing that claimed several thousand lives. The series thus highlights that the collective, which started as a hacker group and has now morphed into a terrorist organisation, stops at nothing to accomplish its mission of hacking the social order. Besides the radical measures which Elliot tries to prevent, the strong vision to incite social change adds a striking utopian impulse to the otherwise grim dystopian series. The series taps into a kind of “‘wish fulfillment, that somebody is going to rise up among us … and actually be able to do something about it’” (Kring qtd. in Porter et al. 3; Schmeink 188), which particularly resonates with contemporary audiences aware of the harmful trajectory of capitalism. Although, or perhaps precisely because, fsociety’s mission is marked by trial and error, emotionally transported by the protagonist’s constant oscillation between temporary feelings of control and destructive self-doubt, the series’ complex cause-and-effect patterns encapsulate a metamodern optimism that emphasises the relentless focus on radical change against all odds. Although Elliot always remains in the foreground and viewers remain trapped in his perspective, Mr. Robot’s counter-narrative draws on collective protagonism to override the status quo and advance ethical principles of justice and solidarity (cf. Seed 78; Baccolini, “Persistence” 520). The mission of fsociety resembles a modern version of a Robin Hood quest in digital culture to end exploitation and the abuse of power by robbing the rich and giving to the poor. The ‘merry men’ here consist of a dozen people from different backgrounds, each contributing to the cause through their excellent hacking skills. They meet regularly in person at the abandoned Coney Island arcade. Still, their main communication channel seems to be their work itself: writing and altering code without revealing their identities. The hacktivists are thus connected through encrypted technology irrespective of their physical location. This remote connection shows how the series explores “computer and information technology - as much as it is a mechanism of our exploitation - as a tool 2.4 Failed Revolutions: Hacking the Way to Utopia 195 <?page no="196"?> of the revolution” (Flisfeder 144). Fsociety harnesses technology to ultimately create good, and while Mr. Robot is the driving force behind this vision, it is the collective effort that creates a margin for change. The hacktivist group operates at the margins of society and seems to follow what Wright refers to as an “interstitial transformative strategy” by seeking “to build new forms of social empowerment in the niches and margins of capitalist society, often where they do not seem to pose any immediate threat to dominant classes and elites” (303-05). Indeed, fsociety’s empowerment feeds on the group’s anonymity, namely the otherwise inconspicuous appearance and behaviour of its members. For malware coders like them, the “encryption is the real world” (S1/ E1 0: 39), meaning that the ‘offline world’ becomes the safest space to exchange information. Precisely because they avoid digital mass platforms like social media and smartphone communication channels, they leave no digital footprints and operate unhindered in the darker corners of the internet. The motifs of the underground and the margins of society, as expressed in the subway settings and the abandoned arcade in the Coney Island amusement district, read symbolically, pointing to the transformative force lurking beneath the neoliberal capitalist society and suggesting that the demise of capitalism is likely to be ushered from underground (cf. Lessenich 289). While the series refrains from articulating a clearly defined alternative, Elliot is the mouthpiece who embodies hope ex negativo through his critical mindset. However, he rarely expresses his concrete ideas about the collective utopia, and the series focuses on the idealism and the will for transformation per se rather than its aftermath. Fsocieties’ mission builds on the general assumption that “[m]odern technology has the potential to make wealth and freedom possible for everyone, but its historical appearance realized this dream only for the few capitalists” (Mitcham and Briggle 44). The hacktivists aim to shatter this dream by deleting all of E Corp’s financial records in the hopes of rebooting society and rearranging power structures by freeing people from their debts. In a video, the masked underground group reveals its clearly defined demands: We are malicious and hostile. We do not compromise. We are relentless. We will not stop until every tentacle of your evil monstrosity is sliced off at the nerve. […] release all the people of the world from your even more illegitimate prisons of debt. […] dissolve your corporation and donate all your assets to charities around the world. (S1/ E2 0: 14) Fsociety presents itself as “malicious and hostile” to the ‘evil coporation’ while advocating for people’s freedom, arguing that they are in an “illegitimate prison of debt,” given that E Corp owns 70 percent of the global consumer credit industry (S1/ E1 196 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="197"?> 0: 46). By equating debt dependency with a trapped human condition, the series draws attention to a flawed system that continually exceeds its own capacities. Fsociety here describes the corporation as a living being. This octopus subsumes the average person under its all-encompassing “tentacle,” which serves as apt imagery that once again contrasts with the suggested robotic, automated existence of humans in capitalist societies. The ultimate goal is first to wipe all debt clean and then initiate the “single biggest incident of wealth redistribution in history” (S1/ E1 0: 46). This endeavour can only be achieved through the dissolution of the corporation. The radical tabula rasa approach seeks to transform the individual utopias of ‘the few’ into a collective utopia by erasing records of credit cards, student and medical loans, and mortgages, and redistributing the assets collectively and equally among members of society. Elliot’s small-scale hacks of people’s identities and vulnerabilities mirror fsociety’s goal of exposing the illusion of control held by the E Corp conglomerate. As the hacker collective elaborates in the video addressing E Corp: “The people are realizing they don’t have freedom of choice so long as you exist. The people are waking up, no longer accepting your economic slavery.” (S1/ E2 0: 14) Towards the end of season one, fsociety succeeds in destroying the credit system and wiping away the debt owed to E Corp. The camera captures cheering crowds in Times Square, celebrating fsociety’s success and, as Joss Hands puts it, that “collective acts of intention can push a structure towards a stress point that can provoke […] a shock from which opportunities for the creative construction of alternatives can develop” (165). Yet, the idea of saving the ‘infected server’ (i.e., society under capitalism) by taking “the whole system offline” (S1/ E1 0: 28) has unintended side effects. The possibilities for the “radically new” (Hands 164) fail to materialise. Fsociety’s approach to taking down the “conglomerate of evil” (S1/ E1 0: 18) sparks a backlash because the group failed to consider the potential consequences of the financial meltdown, that is, the unequal distribution of money in circulation and the accompanying fear among average citizens of losing their livelihoods. Fig. 2g: People gather in the streets, celebrating fsociety’s hack of the E Corp conglomerate-(S1/ E10 0: 44). - Fig. 2h: Elliot realises that his alter ego was responsible for triggering the alleged revolution (S1/ E10 0: 46). 2.4 Failed Revolutions: Hacking the Way to Utopia 197 <?page no="198"?> 219 Interestingly, the series already foreshadowed that the subversive attempt would likely become subject to the capitalist logic itself in an earlier episode, namely when Darlene reads from a magazine article, pointing out that “Jessica Alba says she wants to join fsociety” (S1/ E3 0: 11). The idea of the popular American actress wanting to join a hacktivist group ridicules the sincerity of fsociety’s utopian intent to break free from capitalism. At the end of season one, the camera follows Mr. Robot as he drags Elliot through a cheering crowd that holds up signs like “fsociety 4 life,” “fsociety for president,” and “we are finally awake” (S1/ E10 0: 44; see Fig. 2g). Members of the crowd wear fsociety masks in the style of the ‘Guy Fawkes masks’ popularised in the British graphic novel V for Vendetta (1982-1989), which have since become a timeless symbol of anti-establishment protests. In this scene, Elliot realises for the first time that he has granted his alter ego Mr. Robot enough space to take control over fsociety’s mission (see Fig. 2h). He witnesses the hack’s immediate impact on society: the upheaval intended by fsociety to liberate individuals from their debt is turning into a movement that people join for the sake of the movement, not for the cause itself. 219 Mr. Robot thus contains two dystopian undertones about digital culture, one pointing to the greed of powerful corporations and the other to the more complicated notion of commodified subversion. With the images of the celebrated rebellion, the series makes clear that the latter is much more difficult to tackle. Simply re-setting society via the elimination of debt does not suffice to cause lasting change in society. Instead of promoting idealised representations of the hacker subculture, Mr. Robot does not culminate in a successful revolution that alters the logic of the diegetic reality by liberating the people. Rather than equating the fact that people are voicing their discontent in the streets with a happy ending, Mr. Robot harnesses seriality to explore different layers of the hack’s aftermath, suggesting that protest becomes subject to the capitalist logic itself. Fsociety’s hope was that “as a new society rises from the ashes,” there will be “a better world, a world that values a free people, a world where greed is not encouraged, a world that belongs to us again, a world changed forever” (S1/ E10 0: 17). Although people reject ‘economic slavery’ in protests, they still depend on the fundamental operating mechanisms of capitalism in their daily lives. Fsociety not only failed to consider people’s reaction to the hack and their dependence on established structuring principles of society but also underestimated E Corp’s risk management. It turns out that the conglomerate was well prepared for the Five/ Nine hack and had long anticipated it. The incident even played into the cards of the corporate strategy, increasing the level of people’s dependency by replacing federal money with 198 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="199"?> 220 The second season deals primarily with the aftermath of the Five/ Nine attack. While new characters are introduced, such as an FBI agent tracking the initiators of the hack, Elliot is in prison - not for the Five/ Nine hack but for having hacked Krista’s boyfriend. In this season, the protagonist is trying to reconstruct the events that he apparently instigated in an unconscious state, as his involvement with fsociety is largely triggered by his alter ego Mr. Robot, who took control of most of the events happening in the first season. the so-called E Coin currency. The intended revolution thus only consolidated the power of E Corp. The complex serial dystopia here metaphorically picks up where Elliot left off in the first episode, namely when he tries to save Allsafe’s infected servers from the immediate threat of a highly complex malicious code, as he realises: “By defending ourselves, we ended up spreading the virus everywhere.” (S1/ E1 0: 28) By attacking the largest conglomerate, fsociety has further spread the “virus,” namely the damaging effects of the capitalist logic that is now felt by those who were actually supposed to benefit from the hack. At this point in the series, the radical binary thinking that the series adopts through the motif of society running on ones and zeros seems to prove valid. There appears to be no feasible alternative, and it is either the continuation of the capitalist system or its complete dissolution. This realisation leads fsociety to resort to more drastic measures in the second stage of the hack. As a complex serial dystopia, Mr. Robot thus thinks the revolution further than most films and series. The series refrains from formulating an alternative to the system. Against the backdrop of a failed revolution, the series continues to follow Elliot’s journey and fsociety’s relentless pursuit of change. 220 As E Corp gains more power by making people even more dependent, Elliot struggles with the presence of Mr. Robot and distances himself from the hacker collective, wondering if he did the right thing by supporting the revolutionary mission. In the first episode of season three, the camera pans through the city, now displaying the long-term effects of the hack: infrastructure, including the power supply, is crumbling, and the cheerful protests have turned into social unrest and anxiety among people, leading to violent conflicts in the streets. As Elliot walks the streets and begins to realise that the planned revolution has not only failed but, worse, accelerated the capitalist machinery, he wonders: Did my revolution just bury our minds, instead of freeing them? Encrypting Evil Corp’s data was meant to empower us. Instead, it left us powerless, scaring us into even more submission. Five/ Nine didn’t get rid of the invisible hand. It turned it into a fist that punched us in the dick. […] They’ve packaged our fight into product. Turned our 2.4 Failed Revolutions: Hacking the Way to Utopia 199 <?page no="200"?> dissent into intellectual property. Televising our revolution with commercial breaks. […] And this all started because I tried to hide from society. Remember? [Fuck society.] Yeah, well, I fucked society, all right. I reset it to zero, and if I don’t do anything about it, it’ll continue to grow in this malignant way. And that’s what I’m afraid of the most. This dark future I set into motion. Who knows what could come from this? […] I didn’t start a revolution. I just made us docile enough for their slaughtering. And I can stand here and blame Evil Corp and every other conglomerate out there for taking advantage of us. Blame the FBI, NSA, CIA for letting them get away with this. Blame all the world’s leaders for aiding and abetting them. Blame Adam Smith for inventing modern-day capitalism in the first fucking place. Blame money for dividing us. Blame us for letting it. But none of that’s true. The truth is, I’m the one to blame. I’m the problem. This was my fault. All of it. I did this. (S3/ E1 0: 33-0: 36) This detailed monologue, which verbally summarises the series’ critique of capitalism, is accompanied by images of people standing in food lines, shop windows displaying t-shirts with fsociety logos, clearance sale signs, discarded protest signs on the streets, people fighting, and a montage of actual footage from the viewers’ extradiegetic reality, including violent protests and images of the Trump campaign. Elliot here voices fears about a “dark future” that resonate particularly with young audiences who are increasingly critical of the status quo. His self-accusation (“I’m the one to blame”) shows a tendency to find fault with oneself for society’s shortcomings while downplaying the network power at work in neoliberal capitalist societies. Although Elliot seems aware of the systemic logic, he nevertheless, as Annika Gonnermann observes in neoliberal dystopias, “succumbs to the logic of the methodological individualism in his search for authority and centre of responsibility, blaming himself for his inadequacies” (274, emphasis added). Furthermore, the fact that the protagonist speaks of his revolution suggests that while the fsociety collective carries out the mission, the revolutionary vision remains limited to his own scope of action. This exclusive focus on Elliot’s perspective has led some critics to argue that the intended revolution is not revolutionary after all. As John Lynch, for example, states, “Mr Robot fundamentally offers a liberal critique of the wish-fulfillment fantasies of this techno-anarchist idea of change that has nothing [sic! ] to with imagining revolution as a collective process of radical social transformation out of which something truly new could emerge” (26). The series thus plays 200 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="201"?> 221 In this way, the series subscribes to the mode of ‘immanent criticism,’ as Gonnermann explains with reference to contemporary dystopias, “which discovers and describes the immanent paradoxes brought forth by a particular form of life. Rather than producing ready-made alternatives, the novel’s critical contribution rests on the performative depiction of immanent paradoxes, describing neoliberalism’s insistence on individual freedom, while producing systemic coercion in the form of involuntary choices due to the non-availability of equally desirable alternatives under a dominant standard” (292). 222 Elliot unexpectedly reaches out to his neighbour Shayla (Frankie Shaw) and asks her to attend the dinner party as his girlfriend: “I need you. I’m not good in social situations like that.” (S1/ E3 0: 22) In the series, Shayla generally helps Elliot understand that a person is more than their digital profile. Yet, when she replies that he does not actually know her, Elliot again reveals to the audience that he hacked her, too: “Of course I know Shayla. I hacked her email as soon as she moved in next door.” (S1/ E3 0: 23) Women in general play an important role in Elliot’s lebenswelt. See Jagodzinski, who argues that “[t]he three female characters are related to Elliot’s psychic stability” (“Mr. Robot” 70). However, irrespective of their connection to the protagonist, the female characters are remarkably complex and deserve closer attention, which unfortunately exceeds the space available in this book. with viewers’ “wish-fulfillment fantasies” of radical change while debunking the possibility of the radically new in a society that functions according to the principle of the “invisible hand.” 221 Against the backdrop of hardship when it comes to changing the operating mechanisms of society shaped by hyperobjects of capitalism and technology, the protagonist repeatedly toys with the idea of abandoning his mission and adapting to the system, which includes getting rid of Mr. Robot. As early as the first season, he attempts to weaken the influence of his alter ego and muses about leading a ‘normal’ life, stating, “I’m gonna be more normal now. Maybe Shayla could even be my girlfriend. I’ll go see those stupid Marvel movies with her. I’ll join a gym. I’ll heart things on Instagram. I’ll drink vanilla lattes. I’m gonna lead a bug-free life from now on.” (S1/ E3 0: 19) Here, the protagonist suggests that these activities are what ‘normal people’ do, leading a “bug-free life” that turns a blind eye to society’s problems. 222 In another scene, he works on his social anxiety by attending a dinner party where he almost surprises himself: “The normal life. Smiles, dinner parties, childhood stories. I could get used to this, maybe even like it.” (S1/ E3 0: 30) Elliot’s occasional longing for normality, however, is usually interrupted either by his alter ego bringing him back to harsh reality or by news reports reminding him of how the E Corp executives covered up the toxic waste leak because it was “cost-effective to retool the current system in place” (S1/ E3 0: 31). Being reminded of his father’s tragic fate, he realises that life in the ‘bubble’ is impossible for him. Rather than featuring a determined dystopian hero and a successful revo‐ lution, Mr. Robot offers a counter-narrative centred on a flawed protagonist 2.4 Failed Revolutions: Hacking the Way to Utopia 201 <?page no="202"?> 223 See Brunton for an exploration of the ‘politics of failure’ in metamodern fiction. 224 With the equal distribution of the same amount of money, the series loosely points to current socio-political discussions about the introduction of a “universal basic income set at a level that allows for a decent life, or at least mechanisms that allow for the social labour of production to be rewarded in ways that do not simply add to the accumulation of capital and the cycle of exploitation” (Hands 159). and a mission marked by trial and error. Although the series can only offer criticism from within capitalist realism, the narrative at least encapsulates a transformational principle by featuring a protagonist who is critical of the status quo and has the capacity to imagine alternatives in the first place. This utopian impulse corresponds to what Joanette van der Merwe labels ‘metamodernist optimism,’ namely that “[t]he search for revolution is the ‘most hopeful’ of things, even if the ideals of revolution are perhaps by its very definition always already deferred and thus unlikely to be reached” (108). Mr. Robot demonstrates that there is no longer an ‘outside of capitalism.’ The series can thus be read as a narrative about failure when it comes to overthrowing the prevailing system and the values that dominate society, and yet there is a solid utopian impulse that lies in hope despite all odds. 223 Mr. Robot succeeds in portraying that capitalism not only produces patholo‐ gies but is itself a pathology (cf. Dörre et al. 300). In the final season, fsociety manages to hack into the accounts of the Deus Group, ‘the top one percent,’ and redistributes the assets of the few to the collective. As Darlene puts it as she proudly witnesses people checking their deposits to their E Coin wallets, “We just Robin Hooded those evil motherfuckers.” (S4/ 10 0: 26) The end result is ironic, though, as the camera sways through a public park showing people happy and smiling again, thanks to the money. 224 This scene shows that the series can be accused of remaining stuck in the capitalist logic and offering no alternative. Yet, it also demonstrates that, in fact, no alternative to capitalism has been articulated sharply enough to truly be an alternative to the status quo. Emancipatory transformation requires well-conceived strategies, and the flawed approach of the revolution envisioned by fsociety is a case in point. “Smash first, build second,” as Wright (303) puts it, has proven ineffective rather than revolutionary. The series’ notions of society as a computer running on ones and zeros, which boils down to radical binary thinking, prove to be an incompatible pattern of sense-making when it comes to the complex mechanisms of digital culture. Ex negativo, Mr. Robot points out the need for an incremental approach from within the system that includes a series of trials and errors. The narrative-transcending utopian impulse surfaces with a narrative com‐ plexity that allows the protagonist to continually engage the audience. For 202 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="203"?> 225 In their analysis of Ozeki’s A Tale For the Time Being (2013), Gibbons et al. highlight that the metafictional novel “encourages readers to engage emotionally and empathetically with characters, […] and to reflect seriously on the crises that those characters experience and are subjected to - crises which resonate with, and are inescapable in, readers’ sociocultural reality” (180). This complex serial dystopia elicits a similar, if not heightened, affective response among audiences. example, Elliot, while breaking the fourth wall, states: “I’m culpable now. No, we are culpable now. You’re in this with me - so start thinking of solutions now.” (S1/ E2 0: 26, emphasis added) The series includes a call for the audience to actively work toward a solution to the status quo. 225 What makes the narrative of Mr. Robot even more compelling for contemporary audiences is that this complex serial dystopia excels at deciphering the systemic inconsistencies of late capitalism and the human-technology entanglement in a grounded, plausible scenario of an alternate reality. The protagonist’s otherwise depressing personal account is substantially backboned by the metamodern aspect of trying to create resonance with the world, a metamodern optimism that “becomes possible precisely through its engagement with the physical and the material reality of the world” (van der Merwe 101). Although the frequent setbacks in the protagonist’s mission (partly due to his escape from reality through drugs) question the rational mindset of a hacker who wants to fix the world with a binary programming language, the deeply rooted vision of a better world embodies a metamodern optimism that prevails against all odds. In Elliot’s final monologue before returning control to the ‘real’ Elliot, he muses on the intersection of agency and ontology when it comes to changing the world: This whole time, I thought changing the world was something you did. An act you performed, something you fought for. I don’t know if that’s true anymore. What if changing the world was just about being here? By showing up no matter how many times we get told we don’t belong. By staying true even when we’re shamed into being false. By believing in ourselves even when we’re told we’re too different? And if we all held on to that - if we refused to budge and fall in line, if we stood our ground for long enough, just maybe… The world can’t help but change around us. (S4/ 13 0: 45) The hacktivist’s final words almost read like a call to resignation, where agency is replaced by presence, but they simultaneously draw attention to a less radical and more resilient approach to transformation and perseverance in times of adversity. The protagonist’s constant oscillation between action and self-doubt situates the narrative in the metamodern structure of feeling, demonstrating a sincere commitment to ethical dilemmas in digital culture. 2.4 Failed Revolutions: Hacking the Way to Utopia 203 <?page no="204"?> Although, or precisely because, it is easy to get caught up in plot details when viewing or analysing Mr. Robot, the series constitutes a valuable addition to the repertoire of complex serial dystopias. The insightful negotiation of the hyperobject technology and its manifestation (not only as personal tools but as the fundamental backbone of neoliberal capitalist societies) offers a cognitive mapping of systemic alienation processes. As Wortham argues, “[a]ny good television show can let you crawl inside the head of a character, but ‘Mr. Robot’ does more: It gives you access to the inner workings of a culture.” Indeed, the sincere negotiation of mental health adds a great deal of ‘depthiness’ to the exploration of digital culture, especially by putting a face to an otherwise anonymous underground hacker culture. Taken together, Mr. Robot magnifies the immediacy between the fictional world and reality, offering a timely account of the centrelessness and vulner‐ ability of digital culture. The series draws on unique operational aesthetics to make characters and their struggles comprehensible, building an alternate reality in which the correlations between digital technology, wealth disparity, and psychological conditions become clear in a haunting way that inflicts emotional responses from the audience. With themes like these, the series restores the significance of ethical principles, such as solidarity and justice, and spotlights the possible trajectory of a society that puts economic progress above moral principles. Symptomatic of complex serial dystopias, Mr. Robot offers plenty of surplus material and thus lends itself to various further investigations as a cultural artefact of digital culture. Especially when societies across the globe face the same challenges in terms of unchecked corporate power, cyberattacks, and environmental threats, the complex serial dystopia reminds us to rethink the prevailing systems of governance and find solutions that benefit the collective. 204 2 Society in Binary Codes: Mr. Robot (2015-2019) <?page no="205"?> 226 Unlike the other complex serial dystopias discussed in this book, which feature worlds that viewers immediately recognise as alternate realities, Westworld is set in a slightly more advanced future, roughly in the year 2053. The series contains flashbacks from time periods as far back as 2012. See ‘Westworld Wiki’ for a complete timeline of the series. 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) In September 2020, The Guardian stunned its readership with an article written by an AI language generator (GPT-3). The essay was titled “A robot wrote this entire article. Are you scared yet, human? ” and the AI, equipped with a few instructions, was tasked with convincing its readers that “robots come in peace.” Earlier that same year, IBM computer programmer Mark Halpern called attention to the “widespread misconceptions about robots” and claimed that AI is not as intelligent as we think. These two examples point to the different views on the future of AI developments in digital culture. Whether robots and AI remain controllable tools or will eventually pose a threat to society, intelligent machines have already infiltrated many niches of our daily lives - in the form of personal assistants, medical diagnostic softwares for physicians, or laboratory systems that speed up COVID-19 testing. As The Guardian article shows, advances in artificial neural networks, whose code simulates the behaviour of the human brain, are rendering software and devices intelligent and human-like. In addition, continuous process automation improves workflows for repetitive and time-critical tasks. Particularly the rapidly developing field of machine learning, described as “the process of computers changing the way they carry out tasks by learning from new data, without a human being needing to give it instructions in the form of a program” (Cambridge Dictionary, “Machine learning”), is fuelling cultural anxieties about the emergence of ‘independent’ machines. The critically acclaimed HBO series Westworld (2016-) taps into this popular science-fiction trope. Against the backdrop of a Western-themed amusement park populated by robots that are indistinguishable from humans both in physical and cognitive terms, the series offers a compelling future scenario of human-robot relationships. 226 Claims such as Halpern’s, namely that concerns about technology ‘taking over’ are unfounded, are at odds with dystopian imaginations of sophisticated robots that reinforce fears of humanity losing control over its creation. The “uncanny interaction between man and machine” (Simuț 5) is a hallmark of science fiction and its dystopian manifestations. Over the past decade, debates 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) 205 <?page no="206"?> 227 A future in which humans and intelligent machines share the same social spaces was heralded by the Time Magazine’s selection of the computer as the first non-human candidate for the ‘Man of the Year’ in 1982 (Schmeink 21). In 2006, “You” became the ‘Person of the Year,’ suggesting that the reader, the computer user, “is in control of the pictured personal computer and with it ‘the Information Age’” (Roderick 32). These examples illustrate the ambiguities that persist to this day when it comes to issues of user control, autonomy, and technological determinism in digital culture. surrounding human-robot interaction have mushroomed in various cultural productions, most recently in Ian McEwan’s Machines Like Me (2019), in feature films such as Ex Machina (2014) and Her (2013), and in popular video games such as Detroit: Become Human (2018). What is striking about these more recent representations of robots is that they increasingly abandon the prototypical conception of robots as intimidating, metallic creatures (as in the ‘ur’-science-fiction film Metropolis (1927) or the 1984-blockbuster Terminator) and foreground human-robot interaction in more realistic, intimate settings. Similarly, today’s TV landscape abounds in worlds that feature robots, with the notion of a shared social space between humans and robots being of particular interest (see Mehring 42). 227 The series Humans (2015-2018), for example, focuses on the integration of lifelike robots (so-called ‘synths’) as household service providers that assist families with childcare and other chores of daily life. Although the series has been positively reviewed for its thought-provoking negotiation of the socio-cultural and psychological impact of robots (Griggs; Plunkett), the relatively predictable storyline seems to captivate audiences less than Westworld’s, which operates on many different levels to establish a haunting critique of the human condition in the age of robots. The award-win‐ ning series, created by Jonathan Nolan and Lisa Joy, takes a more complex approach that requires viewers to pay close attention. The very premise of a Wild West amusement park designed to please affluent customers sets the stage for a critique that goes beyond the impact of robots on society and invites a reading that examines consumer culture and hedonism in digital culture. Both series prompt viewers to contemplate the ontological difference between humans and robots, as there is hardly anything mechanical about these anthropomorphic creatures. In Humans, however, viewers usually know a robot when they see one: the synths have bright, open eyes and a mechanical demeanour; they have trouble understanding irony and laugh in inappropriate situations. These machine learning flaws rarely occur in Westworld, which encourages viewers to pay more attention to detail when distinguishing humans from robots. 206 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="207"?> 228 The Westworld park can be read as a heterotopia because it is an ‘other’ place that deviates from the norms and rules that otherwise apply in the diegetic world; it is a “simultaneously mythic and real contestation of the space in which we live” (Foucault, “Other Spaces” 24). The park is a place that actually exists in the diegetic world and symbolically takes on a mirror function for the human condition through the encounter with artificial Otherness. 229 The term ‘android’ originates from the Greek root ἀνδρandr-, ‘man’, and the suffix -oid, meaning ‘resembling’ or ‘having the form or likeness of.’ In this chapter, the terms robot and android are used interchangeably. The term ‘host’ refers specifically to the lifelike robots in Westworld. Westworld is a complex serial dystopia because it tackles the nuances of the dystopian imagination of AI. Although the series plays with independence theories of technology in the sense of machines ‘taking over’ (see Mitcham and Briggle 44), the complex storytelling mode allows for balanced insights into both the human and the robot condition in digital culture. For example, with lifelike robots tailored to human desires, Westworld comments on technological fetishism against the backdrop of a heterotopia that allows visitors to maximise hedonistic experiences by unleashing repressed urges in their interactions with robotic gunslingers or prostitutes. 228 However, the series also adopts the robot’s perspective to shatter the façade of the hedonistic utopia. By moving beyond the human-centred perspective, the series suggests that the critical mouthpiece of this dystopian world is not the human but the android. 229 This perspective is even more haunting because all the robots are played by human actors, which reinforces the identification with the Other. Thus, Westworld offers a compelling commentary on AI, manifested physically in the form of lifelike robots, and on the immersion in simulated realities, exploring the human condition through the eyes of the robot and vice versa. Like the other complex serial dystopias discussed in this book, Westworld employs unique operational aesthetics and consistently draws attention to its own mode of storytelling (see Mittell 44), requiring a committed engagement on the part of the viewers to understand the narrative. Overlapping storylines and timelines within individual episodes presuppose a high degree of procedural literacy, i.e., the ability to “master [the series’] underlying procedures” (ibid. 54) to navigate the fragmented narrative. What adds to the frequent disorientation of the audience is the fact that Westworld barely situates its narrative in time and space. The plot spans a period of at least 40 years, and only the third season reveals the world outside the amusement park. Filmed in present-day Singapore, season three features a near-future city with futuristic architecture, automated urban infrastructure, and self-driving cars. Westworld grabs viewers’ attention with its blending of binaries, such as the old and the new, and through narrative 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) 207 <?page no="208"?> 230 In 1942, science-fiction author Isaac Asimov formulated ‘The Three Laws of Robotics’ in his short story Runaround, also known as the ‘Asimov’s Laws,’ which have served as a “template for guiding our development of robots” (Anderson) ever since (cf. Beauchamp, “Frankenstein” 86). They read as follows: First Law: “[a] robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.” Second Law: “[a] robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.” Third Law: “[a] robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law” (Asimov). Westworld explores these founding principles for robot development over the course of the series; in particular, the Third Law (or rather its violation) drives the plot of this complex serial dystopia. 231 With park operator Bernard Lowe ( Jeffrey Wright), Westworld introduces a human perspective that traces the amusement park’s operating mechanisms. To the audience’s enigmas that not only invite but require discussions about the series with others to make sense of the narrative in the first place. What adds to the complexity of the non-chronological timeline is the exten‐ sive cast of characters that play different roles in the park: the founders, the management team, the guests, and the robotic residents (the so-called ‘hosts’). The first season introduces Dr. Robert Ford (Anthony Hopkins), who founded and opened the park with his now late business partner after years of research in robotics and AI. It also follows the experiences of the park visitors Logan (Ben Barnes), whose family owns Delos Inc., which operates the amusement park, and William ( Jimmi Simpson), his future brother-in-law, who enters the Westworld park for the first time. Another key character is ‘The Man in Black’ (Ed Harris), the park’s most experienced guest, who will later reveal himself to be the older version of William. Furthermore, the series centres on the robots Dolores Abernathy (Evan Rachel Wood) in her role as a farmer’s daughter and Maeve Millay (Thandie Newton) as a brothel madam of the local Mariposa Saloon, both of whom constitute the critical voices of the android protagonists. Like all the other hosts, they have a distinctively human appearance and demeanour and are programmed at great expense to obey the laws of robotics. 230 As the intellectual and physical property of Delos Inc., “a massive corporation [that] keeps the whole experience running” (Adkins 133), it is their duty to perform their role according to the stories written for them by the amusement park’s Narrative and Design department. While these so-called narrative ‘loops’ contain multiple side stories that are triggered by human intervention, namely the interaction with guests, the robots are programmed to believe that they are humans themselves, providing visitors with an ultimate real-world experience. As the series progresses, the initial clear distinction between humans and robots fades as supposedly human characters turn out to be androids. 231 The series breaks with dichotomies and negates the classical protagonist-antagonist 208 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="209"?> surprise, he reveals himself to be a host - an artificial replica of Ford’s late business partner Arnold Weber (S1/ E7). structure, rendering the already opaque power relationships between the park’s founders, its management team, and the robots even more complex. Westworld not only tells the story of two female androids in their struggle to break free from the “tyranny of the corporation” (Moylan, “Moment” 135) but takes the idea of multi-perspectivity to heart, exploring the ‘dark side’ of park visitors, the management’s deceptive practices, and the robot’s suffering in the seemingly utopian premises of the Westworld park. Unsurprisingly, the plot gathers momentum with the gradual awakening of the hosts as they begin to remember their past and break the protocols of their scripted loops. The creators of the Westworld series adopted the basic narrative premise from its cinematic predecessor of the same name, the feature film Westworld (1973), written and directed by Michael Crichton, best known as the author of Jurassic Park (1990). The film was a box-office success, but the attempts to serialise the narrative failed (Dowling). After only three episodes aired on CBS, Beyond Westworld (1980) was eventually cancelled due to poor ratings (cf. Bibbiani). Four decades later, amidst ongoing debates about AI and its various manifestations in digital culture, the serial exploration of intelligent robots succeeded: Jonathan Nolan and Lisa Joy’s series reboot was celebrated as the “most-watched first season of an HBO original series” (Andreeva) and nominated for numerous Emmy Awards. The fact that the serialised story about AI and robots resonates with audiences in the third decade of the 21 st century makes Slavoj Žižek’s claim ring true, namely that “one of the best ways to detect shifts in the ideological constellation is to compare consecutive remakes of the same story” (61). Besides featuring a more culturally diverse cast than in the original feature film (cf. Georgi-Findlay 73; Nussbaum), the Westworld series reboot no longer insists on human supremacy - a premise that converges with current debates about anthropocentrism and the evolution of digital culture. Against this backdrop, Westworld attracts the scholarly attention of various disciplines that examine, for example, the processing of the frontier myth in the series, its transand posthuman themes, or the ethical and moral dimension in late capitalism (see, e.g., Georgi-Findlay and Kanzler; Le). However, while critics and viewers often hail the series as innovative and clever, it also draws harsh criticism. Paul MacInnes, for example, accuses Westworld of being “light on substance” when it comes to the subject of robots. He argues that “you learn less about the ramifications of an android attaining consciousness in the 10 and a half hours of this drama than you do in the 90 minutes of Alex Garland’s film 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) 209 <?page no="210"?> 232 With regard to the first season finale, Wolfson points to the “notable backlash from critics who thought that, in all its twists and trickery, the show had failed to tell us anything about humanity and consciousness. One particularly scathing review, entitled Westworld Is Bullshit, challenged the whole notion that complexity equals ingenuity.” Similarly, Wallenstein argues that the series “seems to have too much faith viewers will be willing to absorb storylines that can border on the incomprehensible.” Others, however, praise the series precisely for its unconventional storytelling, such as McNamara, who maintains that Westworld “isn’t just great television, it’s vivid, thought-provoking television that entertains even as it examines the darker side of entertainment.” 233 Vermeulen and van den Akker conceive of the “metamodern epistemology (as if) and its ontology (between)” as a ‘both-neither’ dynamic (“Notes” 6). As A. Bennett puts it, “where postmodern apathy leads to an uncommitted neither-nor, metamodernism’s enthusiastic desire leads to a whole-hearted embrace of both-neither” (92). Ex Machina” (“TV”). MacInnes here points to one of the series’ central themes, namely robots becoming sentient. However, he criticises the time Westworld takes to explore the nuances, resulting perhaps in a less straightforward ‘take-home message’ than Garland’s successful feature film. Most comments of this nature can easily be misconstrued as substantive criticisms of the series, but they also suggest that Westworld is a complex serial dystopia. The fact that the series elicits a wide range of reactions - from viewers who disapprove of the alleged ‘slow-burn,’ let alone confusing, narrative to those viewers eager to unravel the diegetic mysteries - indicates that Westworld puts its own agenda of creative expression above satisfying viewer expectations. 232 The series deliberately creates confusion, thereby encouraging viewers to abandon entrenched patterns of interpretations and viewing practices without fear of losing viewers along the way. The following will discuss the hallmarks of this complex serial dystopia, such as the elaborate worldbuilding that merges two dystopian modes (Chapter 3.1), the theme of hedonism and the good life (Chapter 3.2), the significance of narratives and unresolved binaries (Chapter 3.3), and the romanticised portrayal of the machine that lends itself to exploring the ‘both-neither’ dynamic that runs throughout the series (Chapter 3.4). 233 Aesthetically and thematically, Westworld subscribes to metamodern values that solidify the significance of “engagement, affect, and storytelling” (Levin) in a rationalised world. The series draws on prototypical depictions of robots as mechanical threats only to undermine this rather conservative perspective by explaining the motivation behind the rebellion, offering an in-depth negotiation of human-robot relationships. 210 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="211"?> 234 In the following, references to Westworld will be given without repeating the title. 3.1 Westworld: A Carefully Designed Microcosm for Visitors ‒ and Viewers The complex storytelling mode in Westworld underpins the construction of a comprehensive dystopian world. The series expands both centrifugally, as the second season reveals that Westworld is just one of six parks, and centripetally, as viewers learn more about the backstories of the human and android protag‐ onists through flashbacks (e.g., Westworld, S1/ E2 0: 09; see Mittell 222-26). 234 These worldmaking strategies provide insights into the geographic scale of the diegetic world and tap into the details of both human nature and the hyperobject technology in the form of AI. The result is a multi-layered televisual text that exhibits a high degree of self-reflection on socio-cultural discourses at many levels of abstraction. Challenging rigid dichotomies and thus transgressing boundaries are key motifs Westworld explores at thematic, operational, and extradiegetic levels (see Georgi-Findlay 73). One of the most striking novelties of the series is the crossing of genre boundaries. Westworld skilfully merges a generic Western theme with a techno‐ logically advanced near-future setting. The pilot episode titled “The Original,” for example, captures the viewers’ interest by blending images from the imagined past (Wild West) and the projected future (high-tech environment). Throughout the series, the setting shifts between the amusement park and the modern operations centre - a windowless multi-story facility with escala‐ tors and glass front workspaces where the Delos staff creates lifelike robots, finetunes storylines, and monitors the safety of guests during their visit. The drone shots of the expansive landscape (see Fig. 3a), in turn, convey the vastness of untouched nature upon which the park is built (S1/ E1 0: 07). These bright exterior images contrast with the shots of the Delos head quarter’s sterile and dark interiors (S1/ E1 0: 14; see Fig. 3b), which aesthetically underlines the series’ oscillation between past and future (see Adkins 132). Westworld explores the relationship between humans and robots in this constantly shifting setting, offering a refreshing viewing experience beyond genre expectations. The Western theme particularly suggests a variety of readings. As visitors explore the park’s expansive grounds, the series invites viewers to do the same, namely to enjoy the stunning scenery on the screen, creating a parallel between visitors and viewers. Westworld plays with the notion of human intervention in idyllic nature, referencing the cultural imagination of the frontier - the myth of progress based on the subjugation of nature and its inhabitants. The Western 3.1 Westworld: A Carefully Designed Microcosm for Visitors ‒ and Viewers 211 <?page no="212"?> theme thus establishes a timeless link between ruthless capitalist ventures in the name of ‘humanist’ ideals from the past and the exploitation of resources in the modern-day amusement park. Like the visitors, the viewers are imbued with a sense of nostalgia through Western tropes such as horses and carriages, steam engines, and shootouts (Georgi-Findlay 76), which reinforces the analogy to the American settlement history and underscores viewers’ complicity in the story of false utopian promises (see Lemmey; Le 13). Fig. 3a: The robots Dolores and Teddy on a horseback ride through the park (S1/ E1 0: 07). - Fig. 3b: Drone shot of the Delos headquarters hidden from view in the mountains (S1/ E1 0: 31). The wide camera angles and drone shots render the Westworld park a utopian place where visitors immerse themselves in the past and experience a seemingly lost sense of freedom. The 1,400 guests in the park per day (S1/ E1 0: 27), who book their stay like any other vacation, experience individual adventures in the same Western reality. The close-ups of the protagonist William’s facial expression upon his arrival are symptomatic of those of the other newcomers, who are equally impressed by the park’s realistic setting and the lifelikeness of the robots (S1/ E2 0: 19). Westworld employs a distinctive musical theme that accompanies the experiences of guests in the park to underscore associations with freedom and adventure (S1/ E2 0: 11). It suggests that visitors here can live out their desires in a safe environment and free themselves from the constraints of ‘everyday life.’ Logan, who has persuaded William to join him on the adventure, promises, “This place is the answer to the question you’ve been asking yourself […] who you really are.” (S1/ E2 0: 11). The founder of the park, Dr. Robert Ford, however, is convinced that guests “already know who they are. They’re here because they want a glimpse of who they could be.” (S1/ E2 0: 54) By exploring the guests’ motives behind their stay at the theme park, Westworld sets the stage for an inquiry into human nature and the dystopia that emerges from technology-based entertainment. 212 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="213"?> 235 For example, the PlayStation controller’s vibration setting already adds another sen‐ sation to the visuals today. At the same time, the general trend towards full-body experiences enabled by virtual reality (VR) headsets that provide a 360-degree view of the video game landscape signals that the entertainment formats are moving in this direction. The opening of The Hunger Games theme park in Dubai serves as a real-world example of the demand for immersive experiences, particularly in dystopian scenarios (see MacDonald). Interestingly, the Westworld theme park is portrayed as a “revolutionary new leisure attraction” in the original Westworld feature film, whereas the series reboot reveals that the park has been in place for decades and is “struggling to keep the visitor experience fresh” (Dowling). The suggested staleness of the park reflects the hedonic treadmill in the form of rapidly changing demands and indicates that individuals are constantly seeking more extreme experiences. See also Mothes et al. (104). What is more, the Western theme not only offers a critique of the progress narrative but also chronicles the evolution of entertainment in Western soci‐ eties. Emily Nussbaum argues that Westworld self-reflexively comments on the genesis of television by pointing to “TV’s own frontier days,” as the Western genre was “the base coat for TV drama” in the 1950s. With a Western theme park that allows visitors to be fully immersed both physically and cognitively in a story, the series suggests that this type of playful engagement could be the logical consequence of today’s media-based entertainment in the future. A real game world in which players complete missions without coming to harm seems to be the next generation of entertainment after TV and video games. 235 That space has become at least as important for serial complexity as character relationships (cf. Mittell 275) is thoroughly reflected in Westworld. Against this backdrop, M. King Adkins maintains that although the series provides “a glimpse of increasingly complex simulations,” it also “offers a kind of warning about the future of entertainment. It expresses TV’s own anxiety about what these new sorts of entertainment might mean for television’s own future” (134). As a product of digital culture, Westworld self-reflexively alludes to the entertainment formats to come, perhaps even commenting on “TV’s own anxiety” about being replaced by more sophisticated, immersive forms of entertainment as technology advances. Adventurous entertainment that engages the body and the mind is the Delos Group’s business concept. As Lee Sizemore (Simon Quarterman), the Head of Westworld’s Narrative and Design, explains, the company sells “complete immersion in 100 interconnected narratives. A relentless fucking experience.” (S1/ E1 0: 27) As the series withholds further glimpses into the world outside the park until season three, this lack of context puts corporate employees like Sizemore, and thus the ‘corporation,’ in the spotlight, reinforcing the viewers’ 3.1 Westworld: A Carefully Designed Microcosm for Visitors ‒ and Viewers 213 <?page no="214"?> 236 Season three expands the series’ geographic scope, providing further insights into the outside world of the Westworld park and introducing another ‘evil corporation’ of larger scale, the Big Data company Incite, which created an AI that controls and determines the path of individuals living in the fictional world of 2058. Considering that Delos also harvests sensitive data from visitors, these insights explain what the character Sizemore means when he says that “the corporation’s real interest in this place goes way beyond gratifying some rich assholes who want to play cowboy” (S1/ E1 0: 33). 237 See Wolfson, who argues that “[t]he fact that some of the characters are human-like droids doesn’t make endless shoot’em-ups and rape scenes any more watchable”. assumption that it will assume the role of the villain. 236 And indeed, the dysto‐ pian undertone in Westworld comes to the fore as viewers learn more about the capitalist enterprise behind the seemingly flawless Westworld experience. The individual utopias offered in the form of hedonistic adventures of self-discovery hinge on the exploitation of the roughly 2,000 lifelike hosts in the park, who serve as toy figures and objects for the projection of human fantasies, built “to gratify the desires of the people who pay to visit [West]world” (S1/ E1 0: 10). The series confronts viewers with the question of whether Delos Inc.’s business model is morally justifiable since it only works at the expense of the androids and also whether they themselves would enjoy cheap thrills based on the ‘misery’ of the deceptively real-looking robots. 237 Precisely because viewers are kept in a state of ‘not knowing’ whether or not the hosts are sentient, Westworld encourages viewers to reflect on their own point of view by drawing attention to the (un)ethical treatment of the (artificial) Other. From a reception perspective, the series primarily offers eudemonic viewing experiences, triggering reflection and contemplation about the human-technology entanglement (cf. Mothes et al. 90). The dystopian paradigm of the theme park solidifies as the series begins to thoroughly explore the perspective of the hosts. The dynamics of this complex serial dystopia are fuelled not only by the robot’s rebellion (and thus the looming threat to humanity) but especially by the profound glimpses into the robots’ constrained existence (see Chapter 3.3 in this analysis). Westworld presents the impending danger of AI as a logical outcome of human naivety and cruelty, shifting the perspective from humans’ pursuit of transgressive experiences and wealth accumulation to the dystopian reality of the robots. While the human characters are caught up in entertainment and profit maximisation, it is the nonhuman characters who ‘wake up’ and revolt against the business ethics of the theme park. Against this backdrop, Westworld repeatedly underscores the androids’ intelligence to critically reflect on their status quo and the humans’ inability to do so. Thus, the series not only warns against excessive 214 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="215"?> 238 Westworld offers several allusions to the Brave New World dystopia, such as the notion of lab-created humans (like the hosts), the daily reconditioning procedures the hosts undergo, and the Shakespearian quote that the hosts recite as they are gaining consciousness (see Chapter 3.3 in this analysis). pleasure-seeking but also sharpens the view that an apparent utopia always comes at a price (cf. Sargent, “Flawed Utopia” 226). In addition to the thematic convergence of past and future and the self-re‐ flexive stance on the future of entertainment, the genre-blurring of this complex serial dystopia holds subversive potential. As Raffaella Baccolini maintains, “[t]he notion of an impure genre, one with permeable borders that allow contamination from other genres, represents resistance to a hegemonic ideology and renovates the resisting nature of science fiction” (“Persistence” 520). In the case of Westworld, the impure genre allows old stories to be told in a new light, creating a haunting tension between two temporal categories (past and future) through genre-mixing (Western and science fiction). By fusing Western and dystopia, Westworld sets itself apart from science-fiction tropes of the menacing machines and offers viewers new discussion material through genre-mixing alone. The series challenges deterministic assumptions about ‘technology wreaking havoc’ and refrains from reproducing archetypical rep‐ resentations of robots. Although the series plays with familiar tropes from both genres, such as the cowboy and the autonomous robot, it offers an updated negotiation of man and machine against the backdrop of hedonistic consumer culture. The “seamless marriage of western and dystopian sci-fi corporate thriller” (Dowling) lends itself to exploring what a good life means not only for humans but also for robots. The complex storytelling mode allows Westworld to exhibit two traditional dystopian points of departure. On the one hand, the series alludes to an Orwellian dystopia (reminiscent of Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)): the robots are trapped in a park that operates according to strict ordering principles, the operations centre constantly monitors the thoughts and behaviour of the host population (as well as the guests’ moods and needs), and conceals the truth about the park’s secrets and the robot’s sentience. From the perspective of the park’s offering, on the other hand, the series suggests a reading of a Huxleyan dystopia (reminiscent of Huxley’s Brave New World (1932)): the corporation targets the desires of the guests, encourages promiscuity, allows maximum freedom from restraints, and offers an abundance of narratives ready to be experienced. 238 The charming android brothel madam Maeve, for instance, is programmed to seduce human visitors into sweet pleasures, inviting men and women to live out their fantasies. While the guests are manipulated by 3.1 Westworld: A Carefully Designed Microcosm for Visitors ‒ and Viewers 215 <?page no="216"?> 239 The Westworld park’s offering in the form of individual hedonistic adventures seems in line with the kind of escapism endorsed in Western neoliberal capitalist societies. The Delos corporation refuses to offer group-oriented or less violent forms of entertainment that would perhaps strengthen the sense of community rather than promote egocen‐ trism and personal fulfilment. The park’s founder reveals that he once developed more hopeful stories, but the corporation expressed no interest in them (S1/ E4 0: 40). their deepest desires, the minds and bodies of the hosts are controlled by a coded protocol. Both humans and robots are led to believe that they are acting autonomously. Guests enter the park assuming that their actions play a significant part in the development of the adventures (although the storylines are prefabricated and adjusted by Delos’ writing department), and the androids are programmed to behave like humans with an agency of their own. Although it seems that humans and androids make their own decisions, their paths and experiences in the park are predetermined by the corporation, “offer[ing] its players a series of linear narratives with the illusion of choice” (Moll 15). The fusion of the two classical dystopian premises into one narrative thus offers a critical commentary on the illusion of control in neoliberal capitalist societies and underscores the complexity of this serial dystopia. 239 From a formal perspective, the most striking originality of this complex serial dystopia is the lack of a chronological storyline. The formal complexity of Westworld manifests itself in interwoven multi-linear stories from different times, even within episodes, confusing viewers who expect chronological consistency. Rather than clearing up the confusion as the series progresses, seriality here amplifies the complexity, and the degree of disorientation seems to increase from episode to episode. Viewers have no other choice but to be constantly aware of the operational aesthetics at work, that is, the concrete mechanisms of how the TV series creates meaning. While some viewers find little pleasure in such a fragmented narrative, others welcome the series’ playful form, which offers eudemonic viewing experiences and encourages forensic fandom practices. MacInnes, for example, argues that “[w]here Westworld really connected with its audience was through its style. An explosion of fan commentary, especially on Reddit, was provoked by creators via their use of clever techniques” (“TV”). The use of “clever techniques,” such as the non-chronological timeline, creates mysteries that help the series transport diegetic themes and questions into the real world, resulting in a vibrant fanbase. If viewers of complex serial dystopias like Mr. Robot have trouble discerning whether they are witnessing the protagonist’s delusion or the diegetic ‘truth,’ Westworld challenges viewers to detect a coherent plot in the first place. 216 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="217"?> Like other complex serial dystopias, Westworld transcends conventional storytelling practices. The multi-linear, parallel developing storylines not only challenge established viewing habits on an extratextual level but also reveal details about the hosts’ loops and the various pathways of their storylines. The loop of the android protagonist Dolores, “the oldest host in the park” (S1/ E1 1: 02), is a case in point, as scenes of her scripted performance are repeated five times with minor alterations in the pilot episode alone. It begins with her waking up in the morning, stepping out on the porch to greet her father, going shopping in a town called Sweetwater, dropping a can when she saddles her horse, riding to the riverbank to paint the landscape, and returning home to the farmhouse in the evening. The bird’s-eye shot of Dolores’ face as she opens her eyes in the morning crops up repeatedly throughout the first season (S1/ E1, e.g., 0: 02; 0: 13), with the story unfolding in slightly different ways each time. As Westworld confronts viewers with the repetition of the same scenes, they are asked to make sense of the overall narrative in unconventional ways by abandoning common patterns of sense-making. At the same time, they learn over time that they are witnesses to Dolores’ scripted narrative and that every moment of her loop is ultimately determined by the choices made by visitors to the park. By following the logic of the ‘butterfly effect,’ whereby small changes, such as humans interfering with the hosts’ main narratives, can lead to entirely different outcomes, the series emphasises that every action, no matter how seemingly insignificant, has a consequence. As Sizemore explains, if you “pull one character, the overall story adjusts” (S1/ E1 0: 27). For example, Dolores’ script adjusts depending on who picks up the can that she always drops in front of the shop. Whether it is Dolores herself, her admirer Teddy ( James Marsden), or ‘The Man in Black,’ each intervention causes her loop to branch off in different directions. The narrative may end with her returning home peacefully or with a raid on the Abernathy ranch that spins off even further into other subplots in which either Teddy rescues her from the bandits, or the guests rape her in the barn. Westworld sensitises audiences to the possibilities of alternative pathways while underscoring the hosts’ inability to break out of the iterative loops (see Kanzler 62), which elevates sympathy for their eventual emancipation. Furthermore, Westworld plays with the temporal order in the narrated world, which adds to the complexity of the multi-linear narrative. The episode “Chestnut” (S1/ E2), for example, contains various scenes that show William in one and the ‘The Man in Black’ in the next, suggesting that the series follows the journey of two different characters. Only with hindsight do viewers learn that the characters are one and the same person, whose semblance and behaviour are several decades apart. This temporal fusion again demonstrates 3.1 Westworld: A Carefully Designed Microcosm for Visitors ‒ and Viewers 217 <?page no="218"?> that the series prompts a ‘lean-forward’ viewing practice (cf. Andersen and Gray 511) that engages the audience emotionally through the characters’ story and cognitively through the decoding of the operational aesthetics at work. Much like the visitors, who become more experienced the more time they spend in the park, the viewers gradually become familiar with Westworld’s signature formal techniques. The non-linear narrative structure, the repetition of scenes, and the conver‐ gence of different timelines put the audience in the role of players of a video game. The series constantly resets both the overall storyline and the android characters for new adventures (cf. Burlacu 193). Westworld playfully fragments the story like a video game, inviting viewers to gain hands-on experience with the constraints of the narrative loops in which the hosts perform their roles. When Tim Dowling argues that “[w]atching Westworld is a bit like watching someone else play a video game they’ve just bought,” he is referring to how the Delos staff collects the hosts from the park and resets them to default settings at the end of each day, and how viewers witness their recurring ‘deaths’ and ‘resurrections’ in various episodes. With its multi-linearity, the complex serial dystopia harbours the operational aesthetics of a video game rather than that of a TV series, as viewers “follow each time, a slightly different line, and these various strands lie virtually side by side as ghostly or actual lines taken” (Kirby 63). Repetition and slight variations of the individual scenes emphasise the series’ game character (Kanzler 64), which not only sensitises the audience to the perspectives of the hosts but also puts them in the position of the androids themselves. Viewers experience what it is like to perceive reality in loops, as Dolores does in her role as a farmer’s daughter. Westworld employs the most challenging operational aesthetics compared to the other complex serial dystopias discussed in this book. Deciphering the complexity of a narrative is a theme that runs through Westworld itself, offering a meta-commentary both at the character and reception levels. The series parallels diegesis with extratextual reality by foregrounding the quest of the villainous ‘Man in Black,’ who compulsively navigates the park to find a deeper meaning behind Westworld’s mainstream narratives. The older version of William is a master player of the game, immersed in his role as a consummate villain. He seeks to unravel the mysteries of the so-called ‘maze,’ a symbolic path he believes to be a hidden narrative in the park, and his quest resembles the eagerness of avid fans of the series to find meaning in the fragmented narrative. Both ‘The Man in Black’ and the viewers “presume that there is an answer to be found by drilling down and analyzing” (Mittell 65). In this regard, MacInnes highlights that 218 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="219"?> 240 MacInnes notes that Westworld “has certainly tapped into an audience of young people who love video games and cracking codes” (“TV”). Additional material appeals to curious viewers who want to decipher the enigmatic narrative. The ‘discoverwest‐ world.com’ website, which includes maps of the theme parks and a booking template for adventures, serves both as an orientation guide and as a means of putting the viewer in the role of an interested holidaymaker. Westworld actively involves the audience in the TV storyworld and reinforces the immediacy between fictional world and the extratextual reality. [t]he producers [of Westworld] deliberately reached out to an audience that enjoys obsessing. They knew some fans would watch the show again and again on their laptops. They knew they would freeze-frame the screen and zoom in on details that would pass the casual viewer by. From there the fans would try to make connections, to unravel the mysteries, to find deeper meaning. (“TV”) MacInnes here describes the analytic behaviours of viewers that complex TV typically provokes, which Jason Mittell refers to as ‘forensic fandom’ practices (52). The creators of Westworld solidify the parallel between the theme of obsession in the fictional world and in extratextual reality by occasionally hiding an ‘Easter egg’ in the narrative, generally described as a “hidden message or feature in a video game, film, comic book etc. that is not necessary or related to the main content, but adds to the entertainment” (Oxford Learner’s Dictionary, “Easter egg”). Interestingly, the narrative department at the Delos corporation does the same. It builds Easter eggs into the scripted adventures (see, e.g., the episode “Dissonance Theory” (S1/ E4) when Logan expresses his boredom with the main narrative that William has chosen but gets excited about a hidden subplot: “Your bullshit mission led us right to an Easter egg! ” (S1/ E4 0: 48)). Additional ‘world material’ pulls visitors and viewers further into the storyworld, encouraging them to connect details that add to their understanding of the core text. 240 Particularly tangible materials like geographic maps serve as ‘orienting paratexts’ that are essential for guests and viewers to make sense of the complexity (see Mittell 261). As becomes clear, Westworld deliberately confuses the audience to enhance the playful engagement with the televisual text, demonstrating what it means when Innocenti and Pescatore argue that the “[t]he spectator is an active viewer, inserted within an integrated and convergent media system” (11, emphasis added). The series breaks with conventional storytelling techniques by embracing the ‘ludic form,’ which cognitively activates the viewer through the game logic in the form of restarts, loops, and multi-linear narratives (Heidbrink 3.1 Westworld: A Carefully Designed Microcosm for Visitors ‒ and Viewers 219 <?page no="220"?> 241 According to Heidbrink, “ludic forms can be understood as formal techniques that violate the medial transparency and the immediacy by interrupting the narrative conventions and pointing to the medium itself ” (150). Westworld’s operational aesthetic boils down to such a ludic form. Yet, the assumption that “transparency and immediacy are quickly reestablished by the narrative flow once the recipient has understood and accepted the ludic form” (ibid. 150) proves more complicated here, as the confusion does not necessarily clear up even if viewers master the series’ underlying procedures (cf. Mittell 54). 242 Interestingly, in the other parks, the ‘good-vs-evil paradigm’ is much more clearly defined from the outset. The historical settings of the various parks generally lend themselves to a more in-depth analysis that is beyond the scope of this book. See, e.g., Vint’s discussion of Westworld, arguing that the series “uses the settings of its fantasy theme park spaces - Westworld, Shogun World, Raj World - to demonstrate that the human/ nonhuman binary is an expression of colonist logics” (21). 151-52). 241 As Katja Kanzler and Brigitte Georgi-Findlay point out, Westworld belongs to a type of television that, similar to video games, produces not only new forms of storytelling but also new forms of reception, encouraging analytical forensic research rather than passive consumption of content (6). By fusing the two independent aesthetic forms (narrative and game) that otherwise follow their own logic, the TV series not only fuels discussions about the place of robots in digital culture but also cultivates a fandom that carries a deep curiosity about decoding the operating mechanisms of the microcosm that is Westworld. The idea of ‘worldmaking’ is a constitutive element of Westworld and an effec‐ tive strategy used by the series’ creators to formulate the critical commentary on the human-technology entanglement. In this regard, the ludic form contributes to potentially eudemonic viewing experiences. In Ways of Worldmaking (1978), Nelson Goodman suggests that “[t]he more complicated and elusive the style [of a work of art], the more does it stimulate exploration and reward success with illumination” (40). The series creates a world for viewers to explore, just as the fictional company does for its customers: worldmaking is the corporate formula of the Delos Corporation. Both viewers and the park’s visitors are invited to discern the logic and meanings of the narratives they dive into - when viewing the series and when entering the park. Westworld literally builds a world that expands centrifugally over the seasons, symptomatic of complex TV in which “the ongoing narrative pushes outward, spreading characters across an expanding storyworld” (Mittell 222). While the first season focuses on the Westworld theme park, the second season features ‘Shogun World,’ a park in the style of historical feudal Japan, ‘The Raj,’ a park modelled after the British colonial period in India, and the third season introduces ‘Warworld,’ another historical theme park where visitors fight Nazis. 242 The third season is particularly informative for viewers, as it 220 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="221"?> finally anchors the theme parks in a relatable setting. Here, the series resorts to traditional science-fiction imaginations of a high-tech city with skyscrapers and technologically advanced infrastructure, providing viewers with background information about the ‘outside,’ the societal structure in which the parks are embedded. Westworld spins its fragmented plot across a storyworld that expands geographically as the series progresses. Taken together, viewing Westworld prompts a ‘lean-forward’ viewing expe‐ rience that values audience responsiveness and interactivity (cf. Andersen and Gray 511; Chan-Olmsted et al. 165). While Black Mirror makes immersion diffi‐ cult by creating an uncomfortable viewing experience, blatantly confronting viewers with their own behaviours and practices in digital culture, Westworld keeps viewers from passively diving into the storyworld through the complex narrative structure that demands full attention. What both series share, how‐ ever, is that “viewers find themselves both drawn into a compelling diegesis (as with all effective stories) and focused on the discursive processes of storytelling” (Mittell 52). Unlike the Westworld feature film, the series lives up to its title, offering both characters and viewers a storyworld in which the human-tech‐ nology entanglement can be explored at various levels of abstraction. Seriality is crucial here, as the television adaptation “pushes its spatial boundaries in ways a novel or film simply can’t” (Adkins 131). Meta-reflection, genre-blurring, worldmaking, and the accompanying nuanced negotiation of the relationship between man and machine, which the following pages will discuss in more detail, make Westworld a complex serial dystopia par excellence. 3.2 “Going off script”: Hedonism, the Good Life, and Malfunctioning Machines Westworld not only explores the hyperobject technology in the form of a technologically advanced amusement park but also delineates the effect this environment has on the human psyche. The complexity of the series boils down to a critical commentary on the good life in digital culture, as hedonism, immer‐ sion, and self-development is fostered through technological means. Particularly the development of the characters in this meticulously crafted microcosm lends itself to investigating the human condition in terms of morality, virtue, pleasure, and fulfilment. As Westworld depicts next-generation entertainment formats “built by a corporate concern for the entertainment of affluent customers” (Wojtyna 174), the series interrogates whether it is morally acceptable to amuse oneself based on the unethical treatment of lifelike machines, raising 3.2 “Going off script”: Hedonism, the Good Life, and Malfunctioning Machines 221 <?page no="222"?> 243 See Moll for the concept of role-play in Westworld. He argues that the “Westworld park functions as a LARP experience for its guests, providing them with the key criteria of materially embodying their characters with a game that ‘takes place in a physical frame.’” (19) In LARPing, short for Life Action Role-Play, players physically act out the role of their respective character according to the rules of the game determined in the beginning, although in Westworld, players are presented with “no goal or proscribed series of actions other than those they choose themselves” (ibid. 18). 244 Upon arrival, each new visitor must answer questions about their pre-existing condi‐ tions, particularly mental disorders like social anxiety or panic attacks (S1/ E2 0: 04). Based on the answers, the Delos staff knows how to shape the visitor’s story by including only as much ‘adventure’ as they can bear. In addition to monitoring the safety of the guests at the headquarters, safety is also ensured by the fact that the firearms in the park can tell the difference between human and android targets and would not fire a lethal round at a visitor. This also prevents visitors from fatally harming each other (although injury with, e.g., knives is still possible) should they encounter other visitors in the vast space of the park. the question of whether robot ‘lives’ matter (cf. Kanzler and Georgi-Findlay 3). Through the suffering of the hosts, the series paints a negative picture of the human race and sheds new light on the traditional robot rebellion that recurs in science-fiction narratives. The diegetic, immersive entertainment format opens up discussions about the notions of self-development and self-discovery. The Delos corporation offers the Westworld park experiences primarily to those willing and financially able to spend their holidays in this exclusive setting for $40,000 per night (S1/ E3 0: 55). Privileged individuals, in particular, pay for the opportunity to dive into the world of role-playing games and experience what it is like “live without limits,” as Westworld’s advertising slogan promises (S1/ E6 0: 21). 243 Ex negativo, this marketing slogan suggests that the real world restricts individual freedom, whether through legal regulations or moral boundaries. The park thus offers visitors both a temporary escape from reality and an opportunity for self-development, as they “undertake transformative experiences, constructing for themselves a new story of their identity” (Moll 16). By taking on different roles in a space where no rules of the outside world apply, visitors can not only discover who they are but also discover new facets of their identity. The android hosts refer to the guests who are visiting the park for the first time as ‘newcomers,’ which is significant in this context, as it reflects their alleged naivety and innocence before they start their tailor-made adventure. 244 The series underscores that newcomers behave differently than experienced guests who visit the park regularly. For example, the former are intrigued by the vastness of the park grounds and the authenticity of the hosts. They are more sensitive and insecure when encountering the androids in saloon fights 222 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="223"?> or exploring the Wild West on horseback. Newcomers tiptoe their way into the role-play, choosing ‘mainstream’ narratives like the “gold hunt in the moun‐ tains,” while skilled guests know their way around and have no reservations about going “straight evil” (S1/ E1 0: 03). The distinction between newcomers and experienced guests points to a development that visitors undergo, exposing facets of their disposition that become more pronounced the more often they return. Rather than sweepingly portraying humans as evil and debaucherous, West‐ world paints a nuanced picture of the park visitors and traces different stages of immersion in the Westworld experience. Experienced guests, like ‘The Man in Black,’ completely dive into their roles, leaving behind any notion of the outside world. Newcomers, in turn, break with their role-playing identity. In the pilot episode, for example, one of the guests is shown defeating the android bandits whose attack has terrified the entire town, laughing proudly, “Look at that! I just shot him through the neck! And his pal here, too! ” (S1/ E1 0: 51), right before having a photo taken of his victorious deed. The newcomers’ behaviour indicates that they are still aware of the outside world and ready to share their experiences with others upon their return. The series suggests that the more guests become accustomed to the park’s rules (or rather, the lack thereof), the more they enjoy their escape from the mundane world and return to the park to become a “‘real’ gunslinger in the Wild West, with no consequences for killing and debauchery” (Landau 142). The mystically charged Wild West is an ideal setting for such immersive and potentially transformative experiences. It is associated with vast landscapes, wilderness, freedom, and the frontier - the border of the conquered territory facing the unknown. “The further out you venture, the more intense the experi‐ ence gets” (S1/ E2 0: 05), and thus the Wild West scenery plays a structural role in supporting the overarching theme of transgressing boundaries, ontologies, and the self. Most importantly, the interaction with lifelike but harmless robots helps guests find their stay at the park enjoyable. They know that the android villains cannot harm them and therefore engage with them in ways that would not be possible with humans outside the park. Spatially, the theme park functions as a heterotopia that serves as a place of illusion for privileged guests, where morally transgressive practices are not only permitted but endorsed. That the repeated immersion in the park triggers a character transformation is particularly evident in the example of William, who hesitantly joins Logan on his journey and enters the park as a considerate and cautious young man. By foregrounding both characters, Westworld explores different motives, as the experience of Logan as a player in the park clashes with William’s naivety and 3.2 “Going off script”: Hedonism, the Good Life, and Malfunctioning Machines 223 <?page no="224"?> virtuousness. The latter, not yet sure of why he joined him in the first place, struggles to see the park and its population as artificial. As the “Chestnut” (S1/ E2) episode shows, William deals with the robots no differently than he does with people in the outside world. For example, he reaches out his hand to a host who has fallen on the ground and is built in the image of an old man: “Need a hand, sir? ” (S1/ E2 0: 20). Whenever William shows concern for a host’s well-being, Logan reminds him that the park and the people are not real, and that there is no reason to be compassionate: “Don’t. He’ll only try to rope you into some bullshit treasure hunt.” (S1/ E2 0: 20) Logan even advises William not to make eye contact with the hosts, knowing that his brother-in-law is likely to fall for the ‘boring main narratives’ the park offers particularly to newcomers. Instead, he encourages him to enjoy the freedom of constraints and embrace the fact that there are no consequences for transgressive actions as in the real world. Logan, whose hedonistic motivation is visually emphasised by the camera repeatedly catching him in the act of zipping up his pants as he enters the scene (e.g., S1/ E3 0: 09), leverages the power he holds as a player of the game, while William is wary of violating his internalised values and norms of behaviour. When the android prostitute Clementine Pennyfeather (Angela Sarafyan) tries to seduce him, he cannot break away from his roots in the outside world and politely excuses himself, arguing that there is “somebody real” (S1/ E2 0: 28) waiting for him at home. Westworld distinguishes the two protagonists symbolically when William chooses the white cowboy hat and Logan chooses the black hat upon their arrival at Delos’ dressing room, where guests are provided with an outfit suitable for their adventure (S1/ E2 0: 10). Logan represents those visitors who come to the park to mindlessly indulge in the thrill of power, killing androids in a heartbeat and playing the game the way they think it should be played - by transcending the limitations of the ‘real’ world and allowing the ‘real’ self to take control (see Sanders 24). When Logan openly admits that being himself is “the whole point of this trip” (S1/ E2 0: 04), Westworld underscores humanity’s dark potential, which is amplified by the exploitation of technology for individual ends. Echoing Sigmund Freud’s notions of man’s drive for aggression and civilisation’s con‐ trary demand for conformity in Civilization and Its Discontents (1930) (see also Sanders 26), the series emphasises that the amusement park provides a safe place to cultivate instinctive freedoms, facilitating “violent escapism, sexual fantasy, and nostalgic indulgence” (Moll 15; Kanzler 57). With Logan repeatedly encouraging William to let off steam, for example, when he says, “Come on. Go black hat with me! ” (S1/ E4 0: 49), and by spotlighting other experienced guests, the series criticises the pursuit of relentless hedonism and presages dire 224 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="225"?> 245 See Burzyńska’s “‘A new God Will Walk: Shakespeare, the Renaissance, and the Birth of the Posthuman in Westworld” (2019) for an in-depth discussion of the Shakespearian quotes and other early modern references in the context of the series’ dystopian visions. consequences, as indicated by a Shakespearian quote that permeates the entire series: “These violent delights have violent ends.” (S1/ E1 1: 01) This ominous warning, borrowed from the Romeo and Juliet (1597) tragedy (Shakespeare 2.6.9), suggests that the visitors’ sadistic pleasures will have consequences as soon as the hosts awaken (see also Chapter 3.3 in this analysis). 245 While Logan is out for the cheap thrills of Westworld, William finds meaning in his encounter with the android Dolores, with whom he eventually falls in love. Against this backdrop, he even tries to change Logan’s worldview, asking him, for example, to “please stop trying to just kill or fuck everything” (S1/ E4 0: 14). However, instead of reinforcing viewers’ impression that William has the potential to become the dystopian hero who challenges the status quo, the series shows his initial morale as a newcomer diminishing as the plot unfolds. Westworld strategically refuses to develop a counter-narrative on the part of the human characters to make room for the subplot of resistance of the androids. By deviating from the classical dystopian scheme in which someone speaks up and tries to change the circumstances for the better, the series cements an ultimately anti-humanist stance that denies humans redemption from their wrongdoings. Although Westworld initially taps into the traditional good-evil dualism with regard to the main protagonists, it is later revealed that William has become the park’s most violent and ruthless guest over the years. The revelation of the narrative enigma that ‘The Man in Black’ is actually the naïve William from the beginning shows how the series challenges entrenched dualisms and viewer expectations. The multi-linear timelines allow Westworld to construct the characters side by side, portraying William as both a virtuous protagonist and cruel antagonist in the same episode. This parallel configuration of William/ ’The Man in Black’ reflects a constant oscillation between good and evil, “an unsuccessful negotiation, between two opposite poles” (Vermeulen and van den Akker, “Notes” 7) and thus illustrates the complex serial dystopia’s concern with transcending and simultaneously maintaining binaries. Using the example of William, who has been a regular visitor to the park for over thirty years, the series negotiates the human need for meaning conveyed through narrative and demonstrates that experiences in the park have lasting effects on the psyche (see Moll 22). William does not necessarily become ‘evil’ because he can finally give free rein to his repressed urges, but his negative traits develop because he is obsessed with unlocking the park’s secrets, which adds to the complexity of his pathological development. For example, he states, “The 3.2 “Going off script”: Hedonism, the Good Life, and Malfunctioning Machines 225 <?page no="226"?> 246 The hosts’ path to consciousness is intertwined with the ‘maze’ that ‘The Man in Black’ seeks to decipher. The park’s co-founder, Arnold Weber, initially encoded the centre of the maze as the moment of the hosts’ self-awareness. The deeper level of the game, then, is no individual fetish of ‘The Man in Black’ but emerges later as part of Ford’s agenda to unlock the hosts' consciousness through suffering. This revelation adds another layer of complexity. Le, for example, argues that ‘The Man in Black’s “real aim is not to commit atrocious crimes, but rather unlock the hosts’ true consciousness such that they revolt against him and unleash a new era of surprises and violence in the struggle between the hosts and humans” (14). He even goes so far as to say that the Man in Black “is only attacking [Dolores] precisely because it is the condition for the possibility of her emancipation” (14; cf. Evans and Reid). From this point of view, the series downplays the villain’s violent treatment of Dolores by insinuating that he makes her suffer so that she can be free. 247 Georgi-Findlay points out that the character development of William corresponds to depictions of heroes of the Western genre, as they often find their ‘self ’ through a path of violence (82). In a similar vein, Moll argues that “[f]rom the perspective of transformation through role‐play, the moral of Westworld is that cruelty, violence, and murder is the path to empathy and self‐actualization” (21). others, they just come here to get their rocks off, shoot a couple [of] Indians. But there’s a deeper level to this game.” (S1/ E1 0: 42) Above all, his affection for Dolores and his initial sensitivity to the harm inflicted on the android population lead him to believe that there must be a deeper level of experience at the amusement park beyond simple pleasures. Still, rather than resorting to his sensitive character traits, he opts for violence. When he kills an innocent android woman right in front of her android child to get information about the ‘maze’ (S1/ E2 0: 36), viewers learn that he stops at nothing to find the deeper level of the game. 246 His obsession is based on his conviction that “this whole world is a story” and his need to “find out how it ends […] what this all means” (S1/ E4 0: 15). While Westworld shows how repeated indulgence in limitless fantasies cultivates humans’ negative faculties, it suggests that William’s obsessive quest is even more tragic than Logan’s mere lust for debauchery and entertainment. William’s transformation into ‘The Man in Black’ illustrates the dark potential of humanity even more than his brother-in-law’s temporary pleasure-seeking. 247 The series adds weight to his malice by showing how he sees the Westworld microcosm as a game and his actions as moves to complete it. He refers to the hosts as “livestock, scenery” (S1/ E1 0: 42) that he plays with, which is disturbing to the audience considering the robots’ human appearance. Although ‘The Man in Black’ refers to his experience as a game, he becomes so absorbed in it that “the structures of the game itself become invisible to the player even as they limit and direct experience and action” (Moll 20). In fact, the park seems to absorb him, gradually turning him into the cruel villain “who indulges in rape and butchery in his obsessive quest to uncover what he believes 226 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="227"?> is the park’s true secret” (Lemmey). Over the years, his narrative identity and performance as ‘The Man in Black’ even seem to have become an ingrained part of Delos’ overall Westworld narrative. The morally responsible William stands in stark contrast to his older version, who has lost touch with the outside world - a fact that intensifies the effect of the plot twist when viewers learn that they are one and the same character. As becomes clear, the human protagonists in Westworld fare poorly. The technologically-enabled entertainment nurtures relentless hedonism and obses‐ sion, both of which are portrayed as pathological human traits. The series encapsulates these qualities as part of fleeting, individual, ‘solipsistic’ utopias (cf. Fitting, “Unmasking” 160) rather than eudemonic experiences that would lead to the good life. Most importantly, however, the freedom that the park promises has its price, namely the emancipation of the hosts, who begin to rebel against human attacks and defend their self-declared rights to create a good life for themselves. Against this backdrop, it is certainly no coincidence that the island of Delos, in the viewers’ reality, was one of the largest slave markets in Roman-era Greece (Schwarke 14), adding a historical note to Delos’ management of a theme park with a robotic slave population that serves the needs and desires of affluent customers in the 21 st century. While the Delos corporation gives customers the illusion of control, meaning visitors believe they have full control over their actions when they play in the park, even though the management keeps predictive logs of their behaviour, the hosts have no choice but to participate in the narrative because of their programming. The robots are trapped in a story coded by humans and “built to satisfy the sadistic whims of wealthy tourists who are unbound by the moral restraints of the real world” (Landau 142). Westworld juxtaposes the (alleged) excessive freedom of humans with the closed, repetitive world of the androids, solidifying the series’ dystopian undertone. The Delos staff carefully designs and programs each host individually to fit into the overall Westworld narrative. At the operations centre, the hosts are regularly put into ‘sleep’ mode to undergo physical check-ups, while the demand “bring yourself back online” (S1/ E1 0: 01) puts them into either the analysis or character mode that restores their script according to the role they play in the park. When in service, “[t]he hosts are supposed to stay within their loops, stick to their scripts, with minor improvisations” (S1/ E1 0: 38), which constitutes the series’ idea of robotic ‘life.’ The Delos company pays meticulous attention to the robots’ physical details to provide visitors with authentic encounters, but the staff also regularly in‐ spects the hosts for deviations from the scripted protocol. The park’s marketing slogan (“live without limits”) hinges on the hosts’ programming to follow 3.2 “Going off script”: Hedonism, the Good Life, and Malfunctioning Machines 227 <?page no="228"?> 248 The “brain wipes” (Nussbaum) are also found in Black Mirror’s “White Bear” (S2/ E2) episode, in which the criminal protagonist undergoes similar procedures of memory erasure every night in order to entertain the diegetic audiences in the ‘White Bear Justice Park’ the next day. protocol and, most importantly, to obey the first rule of ‘Three Laws of Robotics’ (Asimov), which is never to harm a human being. Although some of the hosts are scripted to defend themselves when attacked, their base protocol prohibits them from doing harm, meaning the hosts are unable to shoot and injure visitors with a gun. The Delos business model relies heavily on guest safety, not least because only visitors who have a memorable, adventurous but safe experience will return and book another vacation. For this reason, the employees routinely conduct test protocols and erase the hosts’ memories at the end of each day. 248 The pilot episode introduces viewers to the safety measures that are routinely carried out on the hosts. The camera slowly zooms in on Dolores, who is naked and thus seemingly vulnerable, sitting on a chair in one of the cold, sterile rooms of the Delos facilities (see Fig. 3c). The camera angle positions the robot in the centre, suggesting that the series will follow her story, while the modern circular light above her head evokes a religious image in the form of a halo, alluding to her kind and merciful nature. Then a voice-over between Bernard, the Head of Westworld’s Programming Division, and Dolores begins to fade in, revealing the interrogation of the host as her scripted storyline unfolds visually on screen. At the point in the loop where her family’s farmhouse is attacked, the voice-over interrogation resumes: Bernard: What if I told you that you can’t hurt the newcomers? And that they can do anything they want to you? […] Would the things I told you change the way you think about the newcomers, Dolores? - Dolores: No, of course not. We all love the newcomers. Every new person I meet reminds me how lucky I am to be alive, and how beautiful this world can be.-(S1/ E1 0: 11) The host’s answer indicates that Dolores sticks to her script and maintains a positive attitude towards the visitors, regardless of the harm inflicted on her on a daily basis. Meanwhile, the camera continues to follow her loop, portraying images that create a dissonance between the spoken word and the visuals. As Dolores formulates her scripted answers, the scene shows the ‘The Man in Black’ arriving at the farmhouse, not to rescue her but to first kill her admirer Teddy, who fails to defend her because his gun shots do not hurt humans, and then to forcibly drag the female android into the barn (S1/ E1 0: 13; see Fig. 3d). Dolores’ 228 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="229"?> anguished cries in this scene blend with her own words directed at Bernard in the voice-over (“We all love the newcomers.”). It is her lingering cries for help that indicate that the robots in the park feel pain, which only adds to the cruelty of the harm inflicted on them. The complex serial dystopia here skilfully uses the discrepancy between the visual and audio structure to illustrate the nightmare of the hosts and their positively programmed mindset towards the park’s visitors. The daily purging of the memories and the respawning of the hosts are crucial measures to prevent the robots from remembering the experiences with the guests. In this way, Westworld portrays the hosts as incapable of critically reflecting on their existence, leaving them at the mercy of their human creators and the players in the park. Miłosz Wojtyna underscores the dystopian dynamic of the series, maintaining that the hosts’ “viewpoint is that of a complacent citizen whose awareness of the status quo is not the result of experience, but of programmatic education” (174). Dolores faces the world and the human she encounters with an undying (programmed) optimism and goodwill that further contrasts with the dark intentions of humans. Fig. 3c: The android Dolores is examined for deviations from her script during a routine check-up at the Delos facilities (S1/ E1 0: 01). - Fig. 3d: ‘The Man in Black’ forcibly drags Dolores into the barn (S1/ E1 0: 13). The visitors’ utopian holidays presuppose a dystopian reality of the android hosts, which are programmed in their thought and behaviour, routinely reset to default mode, and decommissioned in case of malfunctioning (S1/ E1 0: 39). De‐ pending on the result of Delos’ quality management reports, which monitor the hosts’ popularity with guests, staff members use tablet-like control interfaces to adjust the robots’ emotional state, empathy, and aggressiveness. Despite their controllability, Westworld constantly points to their humanness by featuring human actors instead of metallic robots or CGI imagery. Particularly the scenes of the “livestock department” (S1/ E1 0: 19), where the corporation stores faulty 3.2 “Going off script”: Hedonism, the Good Life, and Malfunctioning Machines 229 <?page no="230"?> 249 The scenes of the livestock department also resemble the idea of ‘mechanomorphism,’ that is, the notion of people functioning mechanically, as found in classical dystopian fiction such as Brave New World, in which, as Beauchamp argues, “people are mass produced on assembly lines in five different ‘models’ designed for specific industrial needs” (“Technology” 61). 250 Even the park’s founders had entirely different visions of the Westworld project (see Georgi-Findlay 75). Arnold, who firmly believed that the hosts would eventually gain consciousness, tried to prevent the park from opening in the first place. After Arnold’s death, Ford, whose telling name alludes to the industrialist icon Henry Ford (Schwarke 14) and hence also to the surrogate god in Huxley’s Brave New World, opened the park, nonetheless. His years of experience with the capitalist Delos corporation fuelled his obsession with creating a posthuman society in which the hosts rule the world. 251 See Georgi-Findlay, who suggests a reading of Westworld’s narrative structure as symptomatic of the different ideas of the stakeholders, who all project their own expectations on how the Westworld story will unfold (74-5). In this case, the diegetic intentions and power plays directly inform how the viewer consumes the televisual text, namely as a fragmented narrative with various enigmas to solve. and discarded hosts, deviate from classical science-fiction imageries of robots and enhance the audience’s emotional investment in the series. While films like I, Robot (2004), for example, depict armed robots on factory floors waiting to be deployed by humans (cf. Schwarke 14), Westworld shows images of naked, lifelike bodies placed in storage halls, evoking associations with humanity’s dark past rather than a futuristic army. The large storage halls conjure up Holocaust imagery that reinforces the critique of the unethical treatment of the Other, whether artificial or human. 249 Like Mr. Robot, Westworld deconstructs the villain responsible for these dis‐ turbing practices by introducing the individual characters behind the otherwise generalised notion of the corporation. The series adds complexity to the basic premise of a dystopia maintained by an anonymous capitalist enterprise by revealing that the shareholders of Delos have different interests with regard to the park’s development and its lifelike population. 250 As park manager Theresa (Sidse Babett Knudsen) explains: “This place is one thing to the guests, another thing to the shareholders, and something completely different to management.” (S1/ E1 0: 33) The Westworld narrative unfolds kaleidoscopically along with these different ideas and expectations of the technological artefacts: for the guests, the hosts are living toys, projection objects for desires; for the founder, Dr. Ford, the robots embody the posthuman future; and for the management, the android population (and the guests’ sensitive data) are a resource exploited to accumulate wealth. 251 Although the park lives off paying guests, Theresa points out the difficulties of developing great stories while dealing with human impulses as she says: “The 230 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="231"?> 252 The depicted relation between designer and technological artefact in Westworld also points to the growing ethical concerns associated with using AI to solve human problems. The lack of women in the programming field (‘tech gender gap’), for instance, could reinforce existing patriarchal power relations, as a machine learning solution always depends on the data it receives. As Cook highlights, “[w]hen we construct systems every category is a choice, every option is borne of human bias - gender is thus materialised in the tools and techniques developed” (see also Griffy-Brown). Westworld alludes to the significance of non-biased algorithms in the viewers’ reality. guests interrupt [the] precious storylines all the time when they want to shoot or fuck something.” (S1/ E1 0: 27) And so does Ford, who pulls a significant number of hosts from the park to implement his secret update behind the management’s back, which “throw[s] half of the existing storylines into disarray” (S1/ E3 0: 11). The camera repeatedly captures the Delos managers in front of the virtual hologram map of Westworld to emphasise their god’s eye view of the park, which clashes with Ford’s role as the founder, who is ultimately in charge of its creation (S1/ E1 0: 50). The three perspectives illustrate Westworld’s nuanced commentary on how society uses technology for different purposes - a human perspective that fades with the hosts’ emancipation. The complex serial dystopia not only explores the conflicting positions of the park’s leadership by revealing the tensions between the founder and the managers but also highlights the danger of human bias and the lack of ethical considerations in the development of autonomous technological artefacts. 252 From the opening credits, which transport viewers into each new episode and show details of the robotic design process, Westworld cements the perspective of technology as a tool for humanity. By showing the details of the develop‐ ment process, from 3D-printed templates of bodies to the unique face of the technology, Westworld shares the fascination of technological achievement with its viewers. When Carl Mitcham and Adam Briggle argue that “technology can be approached in terms of physical artifacts, processes or techniques, and social implications” (39), then the series encapsulates these perspectives of technology in the figure of the host, which adds substance to the negotiation and depiction of AI. The hosts are physical artefacts, “engineered organisms” (Dai and Hao 11), which function based on sophisticated processes in the form of the loops, and their programmed agency has social implications for humans. With nuanced insights into the hardand software development of robots, the series illustrates the power and responsibility humans have when designing and implementing technology. It thus seems surprising that Ford, who admires every detail of the hosts and educates the Delos staff (and viewers) to do the same, wants his own creation to malfunction. Viewers learn that he intentionally alters the hosts’ code to remember the experiences with guests, which is a severe strike against 3.2 “Going off script”: Hedonism, the Good Life, and Malfunctioning Machines 231 <?page no="232"?> 253 For example, when Dolores is asked whether she senses inconsistencies or repetitions in her world, she replies, “all lives have routine. Mine’s not different. Still, I never cease to wonder at the thought that any day, the course of my whole life can change with just one encounter.” (S1/ E1 0: 06) Her script establishes a parallel between the humans’ routines and the hosts’ loops, while it also anticipates that Dolores will eventually break out of her loop. the managers who want to maintain the safety of guests to keep sales revenues intact. The motifs of transgression, entertainment, and hedonism are embedded in a dystopia that centres on a robot revolution, commenting on the fears with regard to the creation of artificial life that date back to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818). Although the series portrays the danger of technical artefacts becoming independent entities, it also emphasises Kranzberg’s claim that “[t]echnology is neither good nor bad; nor is it neutral” (545). When Charlotte Hales (Tessa Thompson), interim CEO of the Delos management board, mentions that “[r]obots don’t kill people, people kill people” (S3/ E1 0: 19), she is referring to the fact that any damage caused by the robots is due to human programming. The park’s management thus fears the possible consequences of any changes in the source code that would allow the hosts to remember their experiences. The concept of the park is, as Nussbaum puts it, firmly based on “slaves who don’t know they’re slaves, providing immersive - and ultraviolent - entertainment to paying customers.” Theresa, therefore, fears any deviations from the initially scripted narrative, “unscheduled activities” (S1/ E1 0: 17) that could lead to potential danger for the guests. She warns: if “there’s so much as an unscripted sneeze, I want to know about it.” (S1/ E1 0: 28) And indeed, as the hosts begin to recall fragments of their experiences in the park, they start to reflect on their entrapment. As Bernard explains, the memories are “still in there, waiting to be overwritten” (S1/ E1 0: 16). When the series introduces the notion of remembering and dreaming, it taps into a trope common in dystopian fiction that emphasises the “connection between memory and emancipation” (Baccolini, “Memory” 118), pointing to the beginnings of the subplot of resistance. Against the backdrop of dreaming and critical reflection, Westworld draws a parallel between the hosts’ loops and the human condition in digital culture. 253 Critics often describe the hosts as “brainwashed creatures whose desires are programmed into them” (Nussbaum), thus recalling the Marxist concept of ‘false consciousness’ in that the loop hampers their ability to recognise exploitation, inequality, and oppression (see also Schwarke 13). The question of whether humans are more conscious and autonomous than the hosts is also negated by 232 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="233"?> 254 Ford even directly quotes from Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818): “One man’s life or death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should acquire” (S1/ E8 0: 04). Ford, who sees no difference in their pathways, as both are uncritical of the conditions of their existence. As he cynically states, “humans fancy that there’s something special about the way we perceive the world, and yet we live in loops as tight and as closed as the hosts do, seldom questioning our choices, content, for the most part, to be told what to do next” (S1/ E8 0: 36; cf. Le 12). Ford’s perspective challenges the idea that people are more capable of breaking out of their loops, and he increases the hosts’ chance of doing so by upgrading their code and amplifying their “concept of dreams” (S1/ E2 0: 42) to help them develop a sense of an alternative. What unites the shareholders of Delos is what Huw Lemmey calls an “enlight‐ enment-inspired humanistic faith in the ability of scientific progress.” However, the park’s founder is no longer interested in providing safe experiences for his guests, as he is swept away by the admiration of his accomplishments. His vision of the overall ‘Westworld narrative’ goes beyond the parks’ premises and the satisfaction of visitors, namely towards the creation of an android race that would eventually supersede humanity. The series alludes to the genesis of science fiction by putting Ford in the role of a new-age Victor Frankenstein, who “explores elements of knowledge about the human position in the technologized world” (Schmeink 33). 254 As the series reveals more about the power conflicts at Delos, it turns out that not only the hosts but also the “guest actions are tightly monitored and mediated by the omniscient Ford” (Moll 15). Westworld thus shifts the dystopian angle from the hosts’ perspective to that of the unknowing guests and even employees, whose data and behaviours are subject to permanent surveillance, as Ford explains: “Everything in this world is magic. Except to the magician.” (S1/ E2 0: 39) As Lemmey puts it, the founder created Westworld first and foremost “to serve his own obsession with storytelling.” By secretly changing the robots’ codes so that they improvise more than they are supposed to, Ford wants to see how his posthuman ‘grand narrative’ develops. Through Ford’s obsession with storytelling, Westworld suggests that narra‐ tives can transform the ambivalences of life into something purposeful by giving them “form, structure, and meaning” (Nünning and Nünning 12). The amusement park differs from the real world insofar as the guests’ experiences are pre-designed and customised to their individual desires - “there are no chance encounters” (S1/ E1 0: 09). The artificial ‘realness’ of the park with all its details even fascinates the ‘The Man in Black,’ the master player of the immersive game, as he states: the “real world is just chaos. It’s an accident. But in here, 3.2 “Going off script”: Hedonism, the Good Life, and Malfunctioning Machines 233 <?page no="234"?> 255 Westworld’s third season revisits the order-vs-chaos theme, showing how a supercom‐ puter shall save humanity from its own demise by processing sensitive personal data of the world’s population. The computer makes predictions about a person’s future life path based on behavioural patterns and other crucial factors, indicating, for example, the exact time and date when a person will commit suicide or die of a disease. Much like the Westworld park’s operations centre, this all-encompassing AI designs the citizens’ trajectories and keeps them in loops, overriding their ability to write their own narrative. every detail adds up to something.” (S1/ E2 0: 32) Paradoxically, the meticulously designed microcosm, based on strict ordering principles, provides guests with an environment seemingly devoid of rules, offering hedonism, immersion, and a temporary escape from an outside world characterised by uncertainty and chance. 255 Overall, the complex serial dystopia excels at illuminating the human condition in digital culture from multiple angles, questioning the extent to which humans can control robots without being ethically culpable (Mehring 47). Westworld thus offers viewers a storyworld that negotiates the role of AI in society, its meaning as a tool for humans to experience, shape, and control the world, and points to new narratives that may emerge and eventually collide with an anthropocentric perspective. 3.3 “If you can’t tell, does it matter? ”: Narratives and Unresolved Binaries The idea that stories are a fundamental tool for worldmaking lies at the heart of Westworld. The TV series stresses the cultural significance of narratives, which adds another layer of meta-reflexivity to the televisual text, as Westworld is itself a narrative embedded in the contemporary TV landscape. In this regard, there is a striking parallel between the showrunners of the HBO series and the fictional Delos writing department staff, both of whom pitch their ideas to decision-makers who then determine whether or not the narrative becomes an entertainment product (Nussbaum). Stories are the very substance of Delos’ microcosm of adventures, and they form the basis of the androids’ ‘life.’ As the Promethean figure of Ford proclaims: “We create life itself out of chaos.” (S1/ E2 0: 18) The scripted loops are the defining element of the robots’ existence, specifying their emotional disposition, behavioural patterns, and scope of agency. Just as Westworld offers detailed insights into the physical design of robots, it also traces how thoughts and imaginations become written narratives which then become realities. The scripted narratives are the hosts’ raison d’être. From the perspective of the robots, the series suggests that narratives are 234 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="235"?> also crucial for ‘self-making,’ as stories “do not merely represent life, but they constitute and indeed ‘form’ life” (Nünning and Nünning 12). The negotiation of narratives, which are not only descriptive but also constitutive of the (android) subject, encourages viewers to consider how stories help make sense of the world and oneself (cf. ibid. 13). While it may seem counter-intuitive to speak of a good ‘life’ that robots pursue for themselves, the series uses the emancipation trope to prompt reflections on AI consciousness and the moral obligations humans owe to robots. Both Dolores, the innocent farmer’s daughter, and Maeve, the madam of the Mariposa saloon, want not only freedom from human violence but also the freedom to write their own narratives (see Berlin). As Maeve puts it: “Time to write my own fucking story.” (S1/ E8 0: 10) The series provides detailed insights into the hosts’ suffering for a reason, namely to trigger sympathy with their quest to break out of their loops: viewers witness the hosts “waking from nightmares they can’t understand, or shuddering with trauma until a technician soothes them with a command” (Nussbaum). Ford’s ‘reveries update’ allows the hosts to develop a sense of dreaming, yet it remains unclear whether their increased sensibility, reflection, and determination are coded (once again, by humans) or whether the emancipation proceeds from their own intelligence. The hosts experience sudden flashbacks that indicate that the daily reboots are no longer successful. It turns out that “[e]ven after a reboot, the memories still persist in some form, something lurking like lava underneath a placid facade” (Kim). Finding out whether the emancipation is programmed or self-initiated is one of the key enigmas the audience is invited to solve. Westworld taps into AI’s grey zone that revolves around questions of sentience, autonomy, agency, the programmer’s intention, and unintended side effects, fusing it with the overall enigma whether or not the robots’ rebellion is only another subplot of Westworld’s grand narrative. The series abandons a simplistic view of technology and challenges the human/ nonhuman binary by focusing on the perspective of the artificial Other. For example, Peter Abernathy (Louis Herthum), who is coded as Dolores’ ‘father,’ is the first host in the park to deviate from his script. The deviation is triggered when one day, he finds a photograph depicting a woman in New York City. Subsequently, he becomes obsessed with finding out what the photo means and where it was taken, wondering if there is more to the world than the one he knows (S1/ E1 0: 31). Peter shows the photograph to his ‘daughter’ Dolores, who later responds to the Delos staff ’s question about whether she noticed anything odd about the picture: “No, nothing at all. It didn’t look like anything to me.” (S1/ E1 0: 55) Whether it really “didn’t look like anything” to her 3.3 “If you can’t tell, does it matter? ”: Narratives and Unresolved Binaries 235 <?page no="236"?> 256 Dolores infects Maeve with the same quote (S1/ E2 0: 09). The close-up capturing Maeve’s eyes indicates that the words triggered a cognitive process and a moment of revelation. at this point or whether she was already starting to withhold information from her programmers remains unclear (cf. Fallis). Most importantly, however, the picture causes her father to behave in an unusual way. Trembling and wide-eyed, he tells Dolores that “[h]ell is empty and all the devils are here” (S1/ E1 0: 44) before whispering in her ear that “[t]hese violent delights have violent ends” (S1/ E1 1: 01) and urging her to leave. Those viewers familiar with Shakespeare will notice two references at once, the Romeo and Juliet quote already mentioned and now also a quote from The Tempest (1611), namely when Ariel describes the shipwreck to Prospero, reporting of Ferdinand, “the first man that leaped; cried ‘Hell is empty, And all the devils are here” (Shakespeare 1.2.252-53). When Peter Abernathy quotes this passage, he is suggesting that one need not go to hell to find those who make the world a wicked place (i.e., ‘devils’), alluding to the infiltration of the park (i.e., the hosts’ world) by the pleasure-seeking guests. The hosts, in turn, appear to be the ones who are kept from their rightful place in the world; at least, this could be implied by the allusion to The Tempest as a whole. Whether Peter Abernathy comes up with these quotes himself remains unclear at first until it is revealed that he had been programmed as a professor before (who simply liked to quote Shakespeare) - as part of his previous configuration in another story. It is interesting, however, that these iconic quotes from the father of modern English literature reappear in his palimpsestic memories precisely during his rebellious distress. The complex serial dystopia here underscores the significance of narratives throughout history. Although these phrases were programmed into him by humans, it still endows the robot with some sort of humanist ideals and, most importantly, a sense of justice. When Dolores later reaffirms that her father’s remarks do not mean anything to her, the close-ups of her face now suggest that they do. Indeed, the quote that “[t]hese violent delights have violent ends” is passed from host to host like a magic spell, or as Le puts it, it spreads like “a virus, whose enunciation infects the other hosts with the capacity to deviate from their narrative loop” (11). 256 Peter Abernathy’s deviation from the script is a breakthrough for Ford but a problem for the management, as it endangers the human visitors in the park. When Abernathy is pulled out of the park for analysis, he furiously attacks Ford: “I shall have such revenges on you both. The things I will do. What they are, yet I know not. But they will be the terrors of the earth.” (S1/ E1 0: 59) Dolores’ father again turns to Shakespeare, this time to a quote from King Lear 236 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="237"?> 257 Dolores’ signature outfit, the blue dress, evokes associations with cinematic (particularly Disney) representations of the protagonist in ‘Alice in Wonderland’ (1865), who similarly questions the nature of her reality. In S1/ E3, the series emphasises this connection when Bernard hands Dolores the novel by Carroll (0: 03; see Sanders 33-6). (1783) (Shakespeare 2.4.320-23), heralding here the robots’ rebellion against their creators and the “terrors of the earth” that will follow once they break the law of never harming a human. Although the quotes were inscribed in the minds of the hosts by the human creators, they carry weight in that the hosts combine them as expressions of rebellion upon their ‘awakening,’ which underlines their human-like intelligence. Peter Abernathy is the first host to instigate turmoil in the Delos headquar‐ ters, but the series puts Dolores centre stage, pars pro toto - for the entire android population, to show how androids emancipate themselves and write their own history. Contrary to her telling name, i.e., the Latin dolor for pain, Dolores focuses on the beauty in the world rather than the pain she experiences from the “constant psychological torment from the shameless guests” (Karalis 221). She shares her hopeful mantra with the viewers when she says: “Some people choose to see the ugliness in this world. The disarray. I choose to see the beauty. To believe there is an order to our days, a purpose.” (S1/ E1 0: 02; 1: 02) Dolores, the oldest host in the park, does not blindly deny that there is disorder in the world but actively chooses to focus on “the beauty.” Although she is programmed to utter these lines, the statement draws attention to the utopian undertone of the series. Dolores, whose face lights up when she speaks of the beauty in the world, embodies the social dreaming of a better society. Westworld locates the utopian longings in the hosts rather than in the human characters. However, Dolores’ initial worldview is also that of a subject “without a clear sense of self ” ( Jacobs 92) - that of a dystopian citizen who feels “no need to rebel, even if means of rebellion were available” (ibid. 92). It is, therefore, important that the series grants viewers nuanced insights into the hosts’ programming, depicting Dolores as a fully integrated subject in the dystopia. In so doing, the complex serial dystopia focuses less on the human dystopia caused by rebellious androids than on the android dystopia caused by ruthless humans. After having been ‘infected’ by her father with the pursuit of freedom, Dolores increasingly questions “the nature of [her] reality” (S1/ E1 0: 02). 257 The series already foreshadows her ‘awakening’ through the repetition of her loop, depicting her literally ‘waking up’ in bed (time and again), but it also traces the moments when she breaks with her script in specific scenes. 3.3 “If you can’t tell, does it matter? ”: Narratives and Unresolved Binaries 237 <?page no="238"?> 258 Critics underscore the novelty of the series by articulating its inherent metamodern oscillation. Nussbaum, e.g., argues that Westworld feels “as destabilizing and beautiful as Fig. 3e: Dolores identifies with her mirror image (S1/ E2 0: 20). Fig. 3f: The host catches a fly on her neck, signifying that she has discovered her ‘pulse’ (S1/ E1 1: 04). Westworld frames the emancipation of the hosts by employing the ‘mirror stage’ trope. For example, when Dolores saddles her horse after shopping, she suddenly discovers her reflection in the storefront’s mirror glass (see Fig. 3e). Here, she pauses for a second; the moment indicates that she is recognising her ‘self ’ (S1/ E2 0: 20). The scene suggests that she now identifies with her image, which testifies to the Lacanian notion of the first moment of the subject’s development and thus visualises the attainment of consciousness, a general indicator of ‘humanness.’ Another example shows Dolores’ rising level of sentience. Here, the camera zooms in on her catching a fly that lands on the side of her neck (see Fig. 3 f). The importance of the scene is underscored by her voice-over saying: “I know things will turn out the way they’re meant to.” (S1/ E1 1: 04) The scene is highly symbolic, pointing first to her breaking the robot law of not harming a living creature (the fly) and then to her ‘super-human’ reaction and ability to catch the fly in the first place. Above all, however, it looks like she has discovered her pulse. Thus, Westworld already ends the first episode with reference to the increased sensitivity of the hosts, encouraging viewers to ponder where ‘humanness’ begins and ends. While the notion that the hosts are not human plays a crucial role for guests when they transgress moral and behavioural standards, it is the actual inability to distinguish artificial from real that contributes to the park’s success (Sanders 24). Westworld seems to blur and simultaneously maintain the lines between man and machine, encapsulating the human-technology entanglement through “oscillation rather than synthesis” (van den Akker and Vermeulen, “Period‐ ising” 6). 258 The series places the lifelike androids in the dynamic realm of the 238 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="239"?> a nightmare,” and MacInnes refers to the near-future tech-metropolis in the third season as a “dystopian (but lovely and sunny) LA” (“Westworld Recap”). See also Mehring for an interesting discussion of Westworld’s synthetic sound signature that overall reflects the negotiation between humans and machines. 259 The experienced Logan explains to William that it is quite easy to tell humans from hosts, namely by shooting them, since the people in the park cannot be hurt with weapons (S1/ E2 0: 26). This example points to the transformation visitors go through the more often they visit the park. metamodern ‘both-neither,’ as the fragmented narrative constantly shifts from the operations centre, where the hosts appear machine-like, back to the park, where they appear human-like, thus presenting them as perpetually wavering between ‘humanness’ and ‘machine-ness.’ Andrei Simuț argues that one of Westworld’s key themes is the “implosion of the distance” (6) between different categories. Although the series engages with extremes such as future and past, human and nonhuman, there seems to be only an “unsuccessful negotiation” (Vermeulen and van den Akker, “Notes” 7) between them, rather than an “implosion.” The theme park builds on the indistinguishability between man and machine while spotlighting distinct characteristics of both humans and androids. As discussed, experienced guests embrace the fact that they are interacting with nonhumans, giving them free rein to their fantasies. While skilled guests openly take advantage of the hosts’ status as animated objects, newcomers tend to be cautious and curious. For example, when a young, attractive female host escorts William from the platform to the dressing room upon arrival, he carefully asks her if she is real. With a seductive smile, she replies, “Well, if you can’t tell, does it matter? ” (S1/ E2 0: 06). The intimate scene illustrates the series’ investigations into the deconstruction of binaries and the resulting con‐ sequences. Especially when it comes to the adventures in the park, it does matter “if you can’t tell.” Most newcomers struggle because they cannot immediately categorise the Other (the perfectly designed androids) as either humans or robots. Hence, they tend to be overwhelmed by an eerie feeling at first. Both the diegetic theme park and the TV series itself capitalise on the ‘uncanny valley effect’ which is generally described as “the phenomenon whereby a […] humanoid robot bearing a near-identical resemblance to a human being arouses a sense of unease or revulsion in the person viewing it” (Lexico, “Uncanny valley”). Learning how to deal with this “unease” constitutes the hallmark (and the thrill) of the Westworld experience. 259 The accompanying eerie yet compelling emotional response is crucial to the experience of Westworld and builds on the hosts’ lifelike appearance, which remains a controversial issue among the park operators. 3.3 “If you can’t tell, does it matter? ”: Narratives and Unresolved Binaries 239 <?page no="240"?> 260 Lemmey refers here to the tests for intelligence in computers conducted by Alan Turing in 1950, “requiring that a human being should be unable to distinguish the machine from another human being by using the replies to questions put to both” (Lexico, “Turing Test”). 261 As Ford explains the significance of the details, the camera captures William’s first glimpse of Dolores, which emphasises that his obsession with the female host is the reason he eventually turns into ‘The Man in Black’. On the one hand, the park’s founder insists on the physical and intelligent ‘humanness’ of the hosts, which have long passed “the famous Turing test that makes them functionally indistinguishable from humans” (Lemmey). 260 Particularly the examinations of the hosts in the laboratories demonstrate that they have become indistinguishable both in cognitive and physical terms. Time and again, Ford urges the designers to pay attention to the most minuscule of facial expressions, such as the twitch of an eyebrow. He stresses the importance of subtleties that keep guests “com[ing] back because they discover something they imagine no one had ever noticed before, something they’ve fallen in love with” (S1/ E2 0: 54). 261 Ford repeatedly hints at how the careful design of the robots directly impacts the guests’ experiences, underscoring his idealised perception of the hosts as übermenschen - a better, next version of humankind. On the other hand, Delos’ Narrative and Design Department criticises the pursuit of perfection. As Sizemore puts it: “Ford and Bernard keep making the things more lifelike. But does anybody truly want that? Do you want to think that your husband is really fucking that beautiful girl? Or that you really just shot someone? This place works because the guests know the hosts aren’t real.” (S1/ E1 0: 32, emphasis added) The commercial manager points to the problems that arise when the hosts become indistinguishable from humans and appear too real. Sizemore’s remark exemplifies the necessary ‘unsuccessful negotiation’ between human and nonhuman and underlines how important it is to actually preserve the fine line between the two different ontological categories on which the success of the park ultimately rests. The grey area of ‘not knowing for sure’ whether guests are dealing with a host or a human adds to the intensity and the memorability of the Westworld experience. The series thus conjures up perspectives in which the distinction between machine and human is dissolved but also maintained at the same time. The complex serial dystopia also plays with the dynamics of this unresolved binary throughout the seasons by focusing on guests’ encounters with malfunc‐ tioning hosts. As long as the hosts function properly, namely adhering to their script, they provide the intended immersive experiences. However, the moment a host malfunctions and breaks with the script, the encounter disrupts the 240 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="241"?> 262 See Sanati, who points to the philosophical concept of ‘emergentism’ in the context of Westworld, which explains that a system (such as the host) can evolve beyond its own constituent elements. overall adventure, and newcomers worry about their well-being as they are suddenly reminded of the mechanical nature of the Other and pulled back into reality. When guests witness the glitches of a host, such as stuttering or uncontrolled eye movements, the otherwise disguised artificiality of the Westworld experience crumbles. This disenchanting effect carries over to the audience because, just like the park visitors, viewers of the series are often left in the dark about whether the character they see on the screen is a human character or a sophisticated technological artefact equipped with lifelike details. The experience of being pulled out of the evolving narrative occurs at both the character and audience levels as Westworld constantly provokes dissonance and harmony, blurring and preserving the boundaries between the artificial and real. Although the series draws attention to the fact that the hosts are made of cogs and screws by providing viewers with insights into the engineering and design processes, it oscillates between the technical notion of malfunction and the human state of illness. For example, when Peter Abernathy deviates from his script, Dolores thinks her father is sick; the virus motif triggered by the Shakespeare quote underscores the host’s association with human conditions. The malfunctioning of the hosts finds expression in signs of an illness that “could be contagious” (S1/ E2 0: 08), as the Delos management fears. If the androids’ daily experiences correspond to extremely traumatic events in human terms, then their sudden flashbacks can be read as recurring episodes of post-traumatic stress disorder. While there seems “nothing wrong with the hardware” (Sanati 13), the pathological effect manifests itself on the ‘psychological level’ when the robots start to reflect. 262 In this light, the regular analyses and quality checks of the hosts in the AI laboratories “feel more like therapy sessions” (Nussbaum) in which traumas are processed and erased. The series here links the condition of the hosts to metaphors of human illness, conflating the human-machine divide. Dolores’ determination to ‘write her own story’ grows stronger as the series progresses. By reflecting on her memories of daily atrocities, the android protagonist learns to conceptualise the trauma and to use it as a force to break out of her loop. The series traces this process of her emancipation as she reveals to Bernard: “I think there may be something wrong with this world.” (S1/ E4 0: 05) The repetitive narrative structure, as Jean Kim points out, “reflect[s] how consciousness processes trauma and the loss (and potential for restoration) 3.3 “If you can’t tell, does it matter? ”: Narratives and Unresolved Binaries 241 <?page no="242"?> 263 Kim argues that Westworld features concepts from PTSD therapy (i.e., reliving past moments and embedding them in a new context). See also Schwarke (13). 264 ‘The Man in Black’ pushes Ford’s agenda in the park, telling the hosts, “When you’re suffering, that’s when you’re most real” (S1/ E2 0: 36). 265 See Le’s discussion of anthropocentrism in the context of Westworld, claiming that “capitalism is accelerating technological innovation towards the development of AI that will exterminate humanity, initiate the technological singularity, and herald in an age of absolute knowing” (5). of core identity.” 263 The series thus also formally underscores how she claims her agency, as remembering the fragments of her past becomes the key to self-awareness (see Schwarke 16). Already at the end of the first season, Dolores violently turns on her main oppressor, ‘The Man in Black,’ explaining to him that the maze was never meant for him but for the hosts as a “test of empathy, imagination” (S1/ E10 1: 06) to unlock their consciousness. In the second season, Dolores seems even more determined, stating clearly, “I don’t want to play cowboys and Indians anymore, Bernard! I want their world. The world they’ve denied us! ” (S2/ E10 0: 42). Gradually, Dolores transforms “from the object of the story to its subject” (Nussbaum), and the development of the overarching counter-narrative of rebelling hosts gains momentum through the manifestation of the posthumanist vision of Ford, who downplays the reveries update as an “occasional mistake” (S1/ E1 0: 41). Exposing the hosts to trauma and allowing them to reflect on it critically is Ford’s strategy for helping them not only break out of their loops but also out of the park. The theme park, then, was “not so much intended to gratify humans’ base pleasures as it was designed to achieve the hosts’ maximum suffering, so as to ultimately incite them to revolt and evolve” (Le 12). The cruelties contribute to the hosts’ ‘authenticity,’ as they trigger basic emotions, such as fear. 264 Ford’s vision reinforces the posthumanist tone of the series from a human perspective, questioning the supremacy of humankind in the face of emerging AI. 265 While he manipulates the hosts’ memory function to instigate the rebellion, the Delos managers unwittingly play into his hands by authorising violent actions against the robots, paving the way for their emancipation. Although the question of whether the hosts are truly independent, whether they revolt of their own accord, or whether they are programmed to do so remains a mystery that informs the entire series, Westworld allows viewers to contemplate a utopia void of humans. The theme park heterotopia provides the necessary framework for Ford to realise his posthuman vision because here, the seemingly benevolent AI is confronted with humanity’s darkest potential. While observing the 3D-printing of the hosts, he tells Bernard that humanity has reached the end of progress: 242 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="243"?> 266 Ford’s remarks echo a passage from Forster’s The Machine Stops (1909): “Humanity, in its desire for comfort, had overreached itself. It had exploited the riches of nature too far. Quietly and complacently, it was sinking into decadence, and progress had come to mean the progress of the Machine.” (qtd. in Beauchamp, “Technology” 57) The Westworld founders’ admiration for the hosts conjures up the fear, as Beauchamp puts it, that “[t]he machine […] will become the measure of all things, the model for man to emulate” (ibid. 59). Cf. also the character Crake’s motivation to create an enhanced human species in Atwood’s Oryx and Crake (2003). 267 The imminent end of the human era is also announced by the telling names in Westworld, such as the last names of Teddy (Flood) and Hector (Esc[h]aton), pointing to doomsday scenarios. “We can cure any disease, keep even the weakest of us alive, and, you know, one fine day, perhaps we shall even resurrect the dead. Call forth Lazarus from his cave. Do you know what that means? It means that we’re done. That this is as good as we’re going to get.” (S1/ E1 0: 40) Because Ford doubts that humanity can right its wrongs and evolve for the better, 266 he can be considered an ‘accelerationist’ who “incite[s] AI creations to overthrow humanity and enact the next phase of evolution” (Le 5). 267 From a posthumanist perspective, Ford no longer represents the ‘mad scientist’ but a problem solver of humanity’s flaws. By using the hosts to wipe out humanity altogether, he wants to make them the primary beneficiaries of the fictional world. For him, the robots are (ironically) the “pinnacle of humanity,” a nonhuman species ready to revolutionise the social order as they have climbed the pyramid towards consciousness from memory to improvisation and self-interest (S1/ E3 0: 37). The projection of a human-empty utopia may be at odds with the viewers’ ideas about the future. However, it is still a utopian vision because it involves transforming the status quo for the better, at least for the hosts. Rather than focusing on machines running amok for the sole purpose of revenge, Westworld updates the robot rebellion with an explicit commentary on the cultural significance of narratives that shifts to the perspective of the hosts. One of the reasons for the robots’ revolt seems to be their quest for equality. The idea of being equal to humans is even written into Dolores’ core code, which states that “at one point or another, we were all new to this world. The newcomers are just looking for the same things we are. A place to be free. To stake out our dreams, a place with unlimited possibilities.” (S1/ E1 0: 04) The end of season one culminates in a massacre at a Gala dinner between Delos board members and the hosts in the park, symbolically marking the beginning of the AI uprising and heralding the imminent extinction of humanity on a grand scale. The hosts manage to escape the premises of the Delos corporation and start “looking for the same things we [i.e., humans] are.” When they stop 3.3 “If you can’t tell, does it matter? ”: Narratives and Unresolved Binaries 243 <?page no="244"?> reacting to the technicians’ commands, viewers know that they have broken out of their loops. “What started out as an interactive, branded theme park,” as Landau points out, “has evolved and devolved into anarchy and chaos” (238). The rebellion of the hosts becomes a nightmare for the management and a wish fulfilment for the misanthropic Ford, who uses the power over his creation to set in motion a story that continues beyond the amusement park, changing humanity’s itinerary towards a utopia that challenges anthropocentrism. Taken together, the series explores the nuances of the dystopian imaginations of advanced technology that not only exists to “serve human goals,” but that may also pursue its “own purposes” (Dai and Hao 11). The complex serial dystopia gains momentum as it evolves beyond a predictable robot rebellion into a mul‐ tifaceted story of (non)human desires and intentions, proving its contribution to science fiction’s ability “to adapt to the new technical realities, to find new realms of the uncanny” (Simuț 6). Alongside the meta-fictional commentary on immersive entertainment through technology, the series negotiates binaries by means of the viewers’ as well as the visitors’ inability to distinguish artificial from real, blurring and simultaneously maintaining the boundaries between self and the artificial Other (cf. Sanders 23). The marvel of the Westworld park for the guests and the appeal of the Westworld series for the viewers lies in the grey area that denies definite claims about the nature of reality. 3.4 An Android’s Utopia: Romanticising the Robot At first glance, Westworld draws on classical science-fiction tropes like the uprising of AI, the dualism of man and machine, the fear of losing control over technology, and the threat of humanity being replaced by its own creation. What distinguishes Westworld from other depictions of AI and robots, however, is that the hosts are no longer passively depicted as the Other, meaning exclusively conceived from the perspective of humans. By taking advantage of the time available through serial storytelling, the complex serial dystopia challenges human supremacy and exceptionalism by giving both human and android protagonists an equal share of screen time. This formal strategy provides bal‐ anced insights into both perspectives and extends the sympathy for the robots’ motivation, action, and behaviour, exploring the human-robot interaction in an unconventional manner. In Westworld, it always depends on the perspective one takes: the series revisits the misconceived configuration of dystopia and utopia as binaries, negotiating both the android’s dystopia (a place of exploitation) and 244 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="245"?> 268 The complex serial dystopia even invokes the concept of a transhumanist utopia, as in the third season, humans explore the possibilities of uploading human consciousness into robotic bodies. 269 Technically speaking, Westworld does not feature cyborgs: while androids are purely mechanical, cyborgs are “a hybrid of machine and organism” (Haraway 117), a distinc‐ tion that is often confused. 270 Interestingly, video games like Detroit: Become Human (2018) go one step further. In the game, which pays homage to the iconic film Blade Runner (1982), players are not only confronted with android characters, but they take on the role of androids themselves. utopia (a place to write their own narrative), which in turn inhere in the notion of a posthuman utopia (particularly Ford’s vision of a world void of humans). 268 While the Westworld feature film clearly set up the audience to side with the human characters defeating the hosts, the Westworld series shifts the “story’s sympathies from the visitors to the cyborgs” (Nussbaum). 269 The series achieves this shift by anthropomorphising the robots in a way that differs from previous science-fiction depictions. For example, the Westworld series invites viewers to sympathise with the robots by foregrounding the loop of the Abernathy family. They play the role of peaceful, self-sufficient citizens living on a farm. Particularly Dolores, “[b]lond and creamy-skinned, a painter and an optimist, [is] engineered for customers to fall in love with” (ibid.). Nussbaum argues that the newcomers’ impulse to protect the lifelike hosts even “carries over to the HBO viewer,” who ends up siding with the female android protagonist and her attempt to break free from human tyranny. 270 Yet, what adds to the sympathy for the robots is not only triggered ex negativo as experienced guests recklessly abuse them, but the series also actively constructs a romanticised image of the “simulacra humans” (Lemmey). Frank Mehring points out that these robots have shed all monstrosity, while the only lingering monstrosity is human nature (49). The series highlights the machines’ ‘humanness’ by foregrounding their connection to nature and placing them in picturesque settings. Although the series breaks with this unusual soft image of robots when they go off script and turn against their oppressors, the detailed depiction of their dreams and desires leaves a lasting impression of their ‘humanness.’ The complex serial dystopia cleverly uses seriality to solidify a new representation of robots that challenges common renderings of AI as an objective, monolithic, and impersonal entity to be defeated, inviting viewers to re-examine possible fears associated with AI developments in extratextual reality. In traditional science-fiction imaginings, humans tend to be portrayed as heroes, inferior to robots in physical strength but claiming exclusive moral su‐ periority. This power hierarchy is also the case in Crichton’s original Westworld film, in which the Gunslinger robot, a tough and emotionless cowboy, hunts 3.4 An Android’s Utopia: Romanticising the Robot 245 <?page no="246"?> 271 See also Nussbaum, who argues that “[t]hese hosts, who believe they are cowboys and Indians, hookers and virgins, are far more layered than the tourists who exploit them and the technicians who service them.” Lemmey similarly points out that "[f]ew human characters in the show even approach likability” and that “one of the only staff members in Delos Destinations […] to struggle with the ethical implications of his job is later revealed to be a robot”. 272 This reference was brought to my attention by Annika Gonnermann. down the visitors of the park and wreaks havoc. Although the series builds on this premise, it abandons representations of robots as evil machines. Instead, the 3D-printed hosts evoke associations with Da Vinci’s ‘Vitruvian Man’ (see Fig. 3g), referencing the “iconic image from the Renaissance and the birth of humanist ideals” (Lemmey). With such a potent symbol that contemplates man’s (and here, also the hosts’) place in the universe, the series highlights the sophistication and perfection of the androids. Against the backdrop of opportunistic and self-centred humans intruding on the peaceful landscape in the park and exploiting the population for their own pleasures, it is easier for the viewers “to empathize with a virtuous robot than it is to recognize [themselves] in their human abusers” (Landau 142; see also Mothes et al. 94). 271 Westworld thus paradoxically poses the question of what it means to be human through the hosts (Lemmey), featuring robots that strike with character depth, integrity, and emotional intelligence. The creators’ decision to put android women centre stage reverses traditional gender roles in the Western genre and updates the primarily male-driven perspective of the source material (see Georgi-Findlay 75). Particularly the focus on the female hosts sheds light on the oppression and assaults of women. Maeve, for example, is regularly inspected for her acceptance and popularity among male guests, as the Delos staff reveals: “If we don’t get her numbers back up, she’ll be decommissioned.” (S1/ E2 0: 17) If Maeve fails to make the visitors happy, she will join the other discarded robots in the storage hall. Here the series invites a reading of the hosts’ role as lifelike sex-robots, subordinating their duties and existence to a narrative created by and for rich white men. The robots’ rebellion is thus also imbued with an emancipatory feminist concern. Most importantly, the sexualisation and subjugation of the female hosts collide with “rebellious-fembot anxieties” (Nussbaum), that is, the sense of fear that female robots in particular evoke. Dolores, for example, transforms from a humble young woman who chooses to ‘see the beauty’ in her limited world into “a traumatized Eve who seems poised to become an avenger” (ibid.). Similarly, Maeve, the charming madam of the Mariposa Saloon, turns into a relentless killer. The name of the saloon, ‘Mariposa’ (Spanish for ‘butterfly’), 272 246 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="247"?> encapsulates the idea of the hosts being trapped in cocoons (the loops) and points to the metamorphosis they undergo. At the same time, it also references the butterfly effect, that is, the basic logic of their narrative loops as they branch out into various subplots. Above all, however, the transformation of the female hosts conjures up what Andreas Huyssen has called the “double male fear of technology and of woman” (227). The convergence of both - the ‘machine-woman’-- poses a threat to male dominance and control. Fig. 3g: Bernard and Ford musing on the evolution of humanity and admiring the creation process of the host, an image reminiscent of Da Vinci’s ‘Vitruvian Man’ (S1/ E1 0: 40). - Fig. 3h: Romantic depiction of the android Maeve as a homesteader in nature and warm lighting (S1/ E8 0: 47). Despite their potential to subvert power hierarchies, the hosts in Westworld are no longer mechanical, hive-minded creatures. The female android protagonists, for instance, follow individual motives in their rebellion and thus envision their very own android utopias. While Dolores embodies the robot’s rather conventional capacity for rage and revenge against her oppressors, it is the example of Maeve that demonstrates the moral capacity and high degree of reflexivity of the hosts (Sanders 38). Repeated flashbacks suggest that Maeve is suffering from the trauma she experienced in another storyline from the past in which she was placed in the park as a caring mother and was attacked by ‘The Man in Black’ (S1/ E8 0: 47). The memory montage with classical music, warm lighting, and close-ups between the host and her android child daughter underscores the caring love she shows in her role as a mother (see Fig. 3h). Her determination to break out of her loop is based on her strong will to find and protect her child, not on a grudge she holds against her creator. She rebels out of selfless love and “revolts against the humans only to freely choose to pursue her maternal love for her daughter” (Le 17; Mothes et al. 103). Despite her otherwise cynical demeanour as a brothel madam, critics have pointed out that Maeve is the most sensitive host. Mothes and colleagues, for example, argue that she 3.4 An Android’s Utopia: Romanticising the Robot 247 <?page no="248"?> “personifies the human virtue of love more vividly and distinctively than any other human character in the series” (104, my translation). Indeed, by ascribing human virtues to hosts, the series challenges common associations of the term ‘artificial’ with ‘false’ or ‘not sincere.’ The example of Maeve shows how Westworld oscillates between the cat‐ egories of ‘real’ and ‘artificial’ and once again highlights the unsuccessful negotiation of these categories. In many instances, the hosts seem more ‘real’ than the humans, an impression shared by Caleb (Aaron Paul), a new character introduced in the third season, when he tells Dolores that she is “the first real thing that has happened to [him] in a long time” (S3/ E3 0: 47). But while it remains unclear whether Dolores’ emancipation is a result of Ford’s update on the hosts, Maeve’s narrative is actively co-created by herself, for example, when she tells the human technicians at Delos exactly how to programme her. Westworld underscores Maeve’s high level of consciousness in demonstrating that she knows about her dependence on humans. Hence, she is not discouraged by the fact that her daughter is just another element of a pre-designed narrative. As she states: “Every relationship I remember […] it’s all a story created by you to keep me here.” (S1/ E8 0: 09) The host is aware that the young girl she believes to be her daughter and the feeling she remembers of being a mother is only part of a narrative. In fact, when she finally reaches the setting of her old storyline, Maeve realises that she has long been replaced with another female host who now assumes the role of the mother. Although Maeve’s motive is based on an illusion, she nonetheless embodies strong human virtues and becomes a relatable android character that dethrones humans as the primary bearers of morality - and thus, “we find ourselves rooting against the humans, and our sympathy lies with the androids” (Landau 72). Westworld centres on the posthuman dystopian hero to instil a sense of hope in a dehumanised society. By portraying machines as the ‘better humans,’ one could argue that the series remains ultimately stuck in an anthropocentric worldview, undermining its carefully established posthuman tone and offering no ‘way out’ of a funda‐ mentally human-driven narrative. The human virtue of love - mediated by the robots - is coded after all, just like their desires and rebellion are instigated by the programmers. Yet, by merging robotic and human characteristics while emphasising the difference between humans and robots, the complex serial dystopia moves beyond the simplified human/ robot binary. Westworld invites viewers to constantly re-evaluate their identification with characters, whether human or android, by conflating binaries such as human (=natural) and artificial (=monstrous) in one scene only to resort to them in another (cf. Mothes et al. 94). The ‘natural’ impression of Dolores vanishes, for instance, when viewers see 248 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="249"?> 273 The most ambiguous portrayal in terms of the both-neither dynamic is that of Bernard, a robot that plays the role of a human character in the series. He is introduced as the Head of Programming at Delos and the audience is led to believe that he is human. His subplot unfolds in a liminal way that prevents audiences from categorising him as fully human or fully robotic. See Muhlhauser and Arnal, who argue that liminality and uncanniness make AI an “ideal trope[] for exploring metamodern sensibilities” (148). Westworld strategically refuses to synthesise the inherent ontological discrepancies between man and machine to create a dialogue beyond binary worldviews. that she is made of non-organic material. The romantic depiction of the androids is maintained and undermined throughout the series. Complex serial dystopias like Westworld refrain from simply reversing the man-machine dichotomy by shifting the audience’s sympathy from the human characters to the machines, focusing instead on the complex negotiations of the human-robot interaction. As Janelle Okwodu points out, “[i]t’s no longer a story of flawed androids vs. people; it’s a question of whose actions are more human.” Westworld subscribes to a constant oscillation between real and artificial, settling for neither one, as embodied by Dolores and Maeve. They are at once sensitive female characters and cold-blooded rebels. In the vein of Donna Haraway, the series here uses the ‘fictional potential’ of AI to challenge rigid dualisms in Western traditions but also suggests that they cannot be fully dissolved. Westworld provokes entrenched patterns of binary thinking by creating tension through the ‘both-neither’ dynamic. The series explores both past and future, realism and artificiality, science fiction and Western, narrative and ludic form, with the same sincere commitment, underscoring that none of the categories alone fully account for the series’ configuration and themes. Rather than pitting one against the other as static extremes, a productive tension remains that informs the series’ overall complexity through the dynamic oscillation between the categories. This metamodern oscillation is also active at the character level, as Westworld’s characters are both real and artificial, object and subject, antagonist and protagonist, at the same time - depending on the perspective and the given timeline. The parallel construction of William/ ‘The Man in Black,’ for example, makes him both hero and villain, as his gradual transformation from naïve guest to the park’s most cruel antagonist remains concealed from the viewer through the unfolding of multilinear timelines. The fragmented storyline challenges conventional viewing habits by depriving the audience of the opportunity to categorise the characters as either ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ 273 Although the series blurs binaries to some degree through the romantic depiction of robots, it also seems interested in exploring the key differences between machines and humans, namely the resilience of the former on the one 3.4 An Android’s Utopia: Romanticising the Robot 249 <?page no="250"?> 274 In season three, the series revisits the notion of god when Dolores states, “The real gods are coming. And they’re very angry” (S1/ E3 0: 56), referring to the uprising of the hosts. 275 Westworld negotiates the notion of the ‘obsolete body,’ coined by the transhumanist Stelarc, who maintains: “[t]he body is neither a very efficient nor very durable structure. It malfunctions often and fatigues quickly; its performance is determined by its age. It is susceptible to disease and is doomed to a certain and early death. Its survival parameters are very slim - it can survive only weeks without food, days without water and minutes without oxygen. […] It might be the height of technological folly to consider the body obsolete in form and function, yet it might be the height of human realisations. […] It is no longer a matter of perpetuating the human species by REPRODUCTION, but of enhancing male-female intercourse by human-machine interface. THE BODY IS OBSOLETE. We are at the end of philosophy and human physiology” (“Obsolete Bodies”). hand and the vulnerability of the latter on the other. Westworld configures the hosts not only as lifelike machines but also as übermaschinen whose physical strength points to the limitations of the human body (cf. Sanders 23). The series thus solidifies the theme of transgression by articulating, via the hosts, a transhumanist dream of “the complete transcendence of the human body” (Schmeink 37). For example, the guests’ fear of death is an integral part of Westworld’s thrilling adventures and, at the same time, humanity’s weak point. By contrast, the deaths of the hosts are insignificant in the grand schemes of the park’s narratives, as they are respawned daily. Yet precisely because they ‘die’ at the end of each day, the robots can be deemed physically superior to humans because they quickly recover from adversities (and even from ‘death’). Maeve confidently expresses her dominant position as an android when she urges the two Delos technicians to help her break out of the park. When they dismiss her plans as a ‘suicide mission,’ she says: “At first, I thought you and the others were gods. Then I realized you’re just men. And I know men. You think I’m scared of death? I’ve done it a million times. I’m fucking great at it. How many times have you died? ” (S1/ E7 0: 43). 274 Maeve here points to the vulnerability and the fragility of the human body and simultaneously turns her traumatic experiences into strength. The host uses the “million times” of ‘death and resurrection’ to her advantage - as a basis for her resilience, both ‘mentally’ and ‘physically.’ 275 Just as Westworld’s fragmented narrative sensitises viewers to the perception of reality in loops, the repeated deaths of the hosts have an effect at the audience level, as this depiction likens the robots to characters in a video game. The ludic form of the TV series here desensitises the notion of death and thus interrupts the viewers’ identification and emotional involvement with the hosts. Westworld simultaneously encourages and prevents the connection with the characters on a deeper level (cf. Mothes et al. 95). The complex serial dystopia thus produces a certain overall distance between the narrative and the viewers, which 250 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="251"?> 276 While narrative elements have long been a hallmark of video games, recent TV series enrich their narratives with playful elements (see Kanzler 54-5). The fact that video games increasingly serve as source material for TV series (such as The Witcher (2007) or The Last of Us (2013)) and the fact that the Sony Corporation, one of the world’s largest video game producers, has opened its own dedicated TV department, are indicative of this mutual shaping of the two usually distinct symbolic forms. The popularity of the game logic, both as an aesthetic form and as a narrative theme, also reflects the ‘ludification’ of contemporary culture (cf. Kanzler 56), perhaps most vividly explored in the recent South Korean TV Series Squid Game (2021-), which offers a haunting analogy of survival in capitalist societies with a deadly game that only one can win. also strikes as a meta-commentary: the series impedes a ‘lean-back’ viewing experience that would allow viewers to become mindlessly absorbed in the story like the guests of the park. While Westworld’s ludic form can be read as the result of the struggle for novelty and originality in the competitive landscape of quality TV (Kanzler 55), it also deliberately fosters viewer engagement, encouraging a reception that involves reflecting, decrypting, and exchanging theories with others of the viewing community. Lara Zarum, for instance, found Westworld “more interesting to think about than enjoyable to watch” (qtd. in Wolfson). Complex TV like Westworld creates meaning at the nexus of narrative and play and points to itself as a medium embedded in an entertainment culture that is in constant flux (Kanzler 58). 276 As viewers are invited to ponder form and themes, the series offers eudemonic viewing experiences that encourage reflection on the human-technology entanglement. When Westworld plays with the notion of resilient androids, it seems to suggest that they are ultimately better prepared for emerging crises, conjuring up claims such as Michel Foucault’s that “man is an invention of recent date. And one perhaps nearing its end” (Order of Things 422). The notorious quote that ‘these violent delights have violent ends’ infuses the narrative with a bleak outlook for both humans and androids. Yet, despite the apocalyptic undertone, the complex serial dystopia conveys hope by showing how humans and robots, as Wojtyna puts it, “unite across ontological borders” (174). Indeed, the series suggests that homo sapiens and homo roboticus must find a way to cohabitate and preserve the shared environment. This post-anthropocentric collaboration between humans and robots finds expression most notably in the third season, when “[s]olidarity links arise between humans and non-humans as a response to the increasingly demoralized materialistic, bloodthirsty society” (ibid. 174). Here the human character Caleb and the android Dolores join forces to tackle yet another evil corporation that is trying to determine the course of peoples’ lives. Westworld thus implies that the dualistic power equation of humans dominating robots or vice versa eventually gives way to the interdependence of humans 3.4 An Android’s Utopia: Romanticising the Robot 251 <?page no="252"?> and technology. Rather than forecasting an inevitable dark age and promoting postmodern nihilism about technological progress, the series shows that there might be hope and that the exploration of the human-technology entanglement calls for a metamodern ‘both-neither’ mode of thought. Compared to the other series discussed in this analysis, Westworld exhibits a clear metamodern orientation by exploring the hyperobject technology against the backdrop of “engagement, affect, and storytelling” (Levin). The series alludes to the writing of new narratives through an “‘upcycling’ of past styles, conventions and techniques” (van den Akker and Vermeulen, “Periodising” 10). The hosts, for example, hold a desire to actively construct a future despite all controversies, reframing the frontier myth and claiming the right to freedom and (self-)discovery for themselves (see Georgi-Findlay 86). In contrast to an exclusively postmodern view that tends to foreground a resigned pessimism, the nuanced insights into the human-robot interaction support the metamodern claim that a sincere engagement with the modern project of science and progress has returned, although the postmodern scepticism still surfaces through the “cynical and stern” characters (MacInnes, “TV”). The series seems to “pick out from the scrapheap of history those elements that allow [it] to resignify the present and reimagine a future” (van den Akker and Vermeulen, “Period‐ ising” 10). Exploring uncharted territories is key to imagining alternatives. This motif emerges as humans and androids explore unknown realms, whether geographically or conceptually, and as we as viewers learn to navigate uncon‐ ventional television experiences. As a result, the series explores the ‘depthiness’ of AI “in order to engage readers’ emotional and ethical relations with the real” (Gibbons et al. 184) rather than developing a narrative that leads to ‘light entertainment.’ The complex serial dystopia serves as a canvas on which the ‘metamodern pendulum’ swings between “innumerable poles” (Vermeulen and van den Akker, “Notes” 6): from individual utopia back to collective dystopia, from technologically advanced settings back to romantic natural scenery, from the capitalist pursuit of wealth accumulation back to the (non)human virtue of love. Taken together, Westworld ranks among the (televisual) texts that “move us, surprise us, and make us think and hope” (Baccolini and Moylan, “Conclu‐ sion” 247). It confronts and incorporates the fundamental complexities of digital culture, raising questions about anthropocentrism, the ethical responsibility in the design of technologies, and the moral obligations humans owe to the Other. In so doing, the series not only invites us to probe cultural fears of AI but also challenges our patterns of sense-making. The storyworld allows multiple perspectives across ontological borders and embraces the dynamics rather than 252 3 The Uncanny Valley of Westworld (2016-) <?page no="253"?> the implosion or stasis of the human/ nonhuman binary. The complex serial dystopia, which debuted the same year that the AI supercomputer AlphaGo outsmarted the world’s top human Go player, the South Korean champion Lee Sedol (cf. Hern), offers a timely commentary on digital culture, using serial narration to break with generic depictions of robot rebellions and thoroughly explore the frontier of human-robot interactions. A series like Westworld shows that “science fiction may be our guide as we sort out what laws, if any, to impose on robots and as we explore whether biological and artificial beings can share this world as equals” (Sawyer 1037; see also Halpern). Westworld - itself a cultural artefact of digital culture that continues to evolve with an unknown end - renders storytelling an important means of discerning the nuances of the dystopian-utopian future ahead. 3.4 An Android’s Utopia: Romanticising the Robot 253 <?page no="255"?> 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) Virtual technologies have taken a quantum leap in the last decade, enabling immersive experiences in computer-generated environments not only in the field of video games but also in physical exercise and even in simulated travel. In their study “Impact of the Recreational Use of Virtual Reality [VR] on Physical and Mental Wellbeing during the COVID-19 Lockdown” (2021), Alessandro Siani and Sarah Anne Marley found that most people “expressed overwhelmingly positive opinions on the usefulness of VR as a way to keep busy and improve their mental and physical wellbeing” (433). Virtual realities are not only becoming an extension of the physical world, but they also increasingly overlap with it, as Mark Zuckerberg’s vision for digital culture implies. Announcing his company’s latest ambitious project, he claimed: “[t]he metaverse is the next evolution of social connection. It’s a collective project that will be created by people all over the world, and open to everyone. You’ll be able to socialize, learn, collaborate and play in ways that go beyond what’s possible today.” (@Meta, Twitter, 28 Oct. 2021) While the name of Facebook’s future platform derives from Neal Stephenson’s science-fiction novel Snow Crash (1992), in which the protagonists enter the ‘metaverse’ to escape a dystopian reality (Huddleston), the tech giant’s VR seems to offer users less of an escape from the real world and more a digital version of it, allowing people’s avatars to go shopping, attend concerts, and connect with others across the globe. Trends like these demonstrate that virtual realities are no longer science fiction but developments with concrete timelines: the Facebook founder expects us to be living and working in the metaverse by 2031 (Cellan-Jones). Against this backdrop, it comes as no surprise that dystopian fiction critically examines the opportunities and dangers of this anticipated paradigm shift. The Netflix series Kiss Me First (2018-), co-produced by Channel 4 and loosely based on the eponymous 2013-novel by Lottie Moggach, explores the convergence of the physical and digital world, offering a critical commentary on the good life in digital culture from a young adult’s perspective. Kiss Me First was created by the Scottish TV writer Bryan Elsley, who played a key role in turning teen dramas into “a politically charged genre with teeth” (Davies). In particular, the successful British comedy-drama Skins (2007-2013) demonstrated Elsley’s affinity for pushing the “boundaries of theme and form” (ibid.), which equally holds true for Kiss Me First. Set in the suburbs of London, 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) 255 <?page no="256"?> 277 See Nguyen, who dismisses Kiss Me First for a number of reasons, including its “adherence to tired storytelling tropes.” Interestingly, a commentator below the article states that the critic apparently “cannot appreciate anything that dares to stand out among the series produced nowdays [sic! ].” These mixed opinions place Kiss Me First in the series follows 17-year-old Leila Evans (Tallulah Haddon), who is trying to cope with the death of her mother. The protagonist is a tech-savvy teenager who regularly ventures into ‘Azana’ - an open-world computer game in which players are fully immersed with VR headsets that provide a 360-degree visual angle. In the outskirts of Azana, Leila makes contact with Tess (Simona Brown), another gamer, who introduces her to a hidden corner of this virtual world. The focus of the series then shifts from the ‘mainstream’ world of Azana to the secret spot called ‘Red Pill,’ which is encrypted and run by the mysterious figure Adrian (Matthew Beard), who offers troubled teens a place of comfort amidst a bleak present and a hopeless future. Red Pill turns out to be a dangerous site where the antagonist instrumentalises the players to participate in a deadly game he has prepared for them in the real world. As the VR increasingly intersects with the physical world, the otherwise shy Leila draws on the strength of her online persona to save her friends. The series’ first and thus far only season captivates audiences by deliberately fusing live-action sequences and computer-generated imagery (CGI). Viewers are presented with the game avatars of the characters, and the scenes switch to CGI whenever the action takes place in the VR. This formal-aesthetic choice lends itself particularly well to emphasising the oscillation between the physical world and virtual reality. The series incorporates the very technologies it explores thematically into its aesthetics, experimenting with a visual language that should make this dystopia appealing to a tech-savvy audience and stand out from the plethora of science-fiction entertainment in today’s streaming landscape. Netflix anticipated the series’ worldwide success due to its “global themes and resonance” (Sweney), and actress Simona Brown, who plays the bipolar Tess, even postulated that Kiss Me First “could be the start of a new era in television,” suggesting that the series offers a new approach to storytelling and previews “what the future holds in a social media and gaming aspect” (Andrews; cf. Adkins 138). Like Westworld, the complex serial dystopia encapsulates a meta-commentary on the dynamics of storytelling in digital culture, pointing to entertainment in the form of ludic experiences that engage the mind and the body. However, while the other series discussed in this book have spawned forensic fandoms that are still active today (cf. Mittell 52), the series has failed to resonate widely with audiences. 277 The novelty of Kiss Me First seemed to be dwarfed by 256 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="257"?> the arena of complex TV, where narratives resonate differently with different groups of viewers (cf. Mittell 209). 278 See Swift, who makes a similar point about the ‘impossibility’ of the ‘contemporary’ novel: “[t]here’s an undeniable thrill in seeing what’s most current in our lives offered back to us in fictional guise, but it soon dates and it's never enough”. Steven Spielberg’s novel-turned-film Ready Player One, which also debuted in 2018 and does not only have a similar narrative premise but also employs similar aesthetics. Both the film and the series combine VR with live-action scenes that explore the isolation and alienation experienced by young adults (Thorpe). Chitra Ramaswamy is not surprised that such stories, “which simultaneously feed our insatiable appetite for tech and interrogate it, are in demand right now.” Indeed, both cultural products address the human-technology entanglement while exploring new storytelling techniques in a ludic form. But although Spielberg’s film builds on an interesting template by juxtaposing the diegetic VR called OASIS with the overpopulated, slum-like suburbs of 2045, it quickly veers into a predictable action plot that does little to explore the dystopian premise further. At first glance, Kiss Me First relies on a similar traditional quest narrative, but the series takes advantage of the space-time afforded by serial storytelling and thus explores the tension between the virtual world and diegetic reality more in depth. Although Kiss Me First harbours a captivating snapshot of a young-adult (YA) dystopia, it has almost entirely escaped the attention of critics and scholars. Most reviewers covering the series find fault with the stale representation of technology and dismiss the televisual text for its inaccurate portrayal of VR gaming (see, e.g., P. Rubin). At the time of the series’ production, the technology featuring in Kiss Me First, such as the VR headset and the haptic gloves to feel and touch in the VR, was relatively new in the viewers’ extratextual reality. As Elsley notes: At the start of those four years, I was positing a near future technology. I was imagining a present day world with slightly advanced technology. And in the four years it has taken to bring the show to the screen that technology has caught up. The things that I described in the show are pretty much out there right now. That gives you a sense of how fast the arena is moving. (“Kiss Me First: Interview”) The creator of the series here points out how quickly the “arena” of new technologies is evolving, meaning that their novelty is quickly fading and, consequently, the imaginations of the near future become outdated. 278 The long production times turned out to be a disadvantage for the series, as viewers and critics - by now familiar with the technology - soon deemed the 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) 257 <?page no="258"?> representation of VR to be old-fashioned. Adam Starkey, for example, argues that the “[a]mbitious virtual reality drama feels a decade too late” - a criticism that hardly ever comes up in the context of the near-future technologies covered in the Black Mirror anthology. Although Kiss Me First had been highly anticipated due to the critical success of the literary source material, the TV adaptation sparked little interest because technological advances in digital culture had outpaced the ‘new thing’ in the narrative that estranges the fictional world. The primarily mediocre reviews of the TV adaptation did not only refer to its outpaced novum (cf. Suvin, Metamorphoses 79) but also to its narrative style. Hanh Nguyen, for example, accuses Kiss Me First of being “like its teenage protagonist […] confused and immature,” arguing that the blending of genres such as “cyber-thriller, mystery, coming-of-age, and romance” simply shows that “its storytelling has not yet found its voice.” Indeed, one could argue that Kiss Me First touches upon too many genres, and the fast-paced plot perhaps becomes too complex for its own good (cf. Bengsch). While the series does have some narrative inconsistencies (the bond between Leila and Tess, e.g., seems to develop too quickly), it still offers a timely account of the teenagers’ struggle to cope with adversity and to find their way to the good life in digital culture. Regardless of whether the TV adaptation actually lives up to the literary blueprint, Kiss Me First is worth analysing beyond fidelity issues, as it attempts to find a language as a complex serial dystopia for young adults in the first place rather than copying and reproducing worn-out genre materials. At first glance, the series conjures up a rather traditional portrayal of young adults’ engagement with immersive technologies in digital culture. It taps into the notion of technology as a means of escapism, including the stigma of “‘isolating’ the individual in an artificial, programmed and automated environment” (Biggio 23). However, Kiss Me First also stresses the significance of connections formed in the virtual sphere, suggesting that VR offers more than “pseudo-relationships with others” (Bruni 123, emphasis added). The complex serial dystopia simultaneously addresses and subverts this more conventional reading of the virtual sphere as a place of superficial relationships, with its negative connotations of players losing touch with the real world. Although the Azana game world initially functions as the characters’ immersive retreat from trouble, the plot pursues a more nuanced approach towards the alleged “hedonism of the real and online worlds that the teenagers live in” (Thorpe). Azana serves the young adults not only for entertainment but also as a temporary compensation for the neglect they experience in the real diegetic world. As Samantha Nelson observes, “beyond a few showy gameplay scenes in the first two episodes […] the series is mostly focused on the sense of community 258 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="259"?> that social games provide.” The complex serial dystopia thus not only abandons the notion of video games as ‘light entertainment’ but also raises the question of whether the virtual sphere offers a utopian space in gloomy ‘dystopian’ times. Kiss Me First has not yet been explored from a dystopian angle, which is not surprising since the series is not a classical political dystopia pitting oppressive state authorities against determined individuals who are eager to transform the status quo. With its young target audience in mind, the series flattens out aspects that generally make up a dystopia, hinting at problematic issues rather than fleshing them out in minute detail. Kiss Me First encapsulates a ‘dystopian mood’ (cf. Booker, Guide 7) that subtly prevails in the characters’ lives, evoking a sense of isolation and alienation inherent in a late capitalist society. In this alternate reality, young adults spend their last pennies to escape trauma and domestic violence by voyaging into virtual spaces where they hope to find some sort of feeling of security the real world can no longer provide. The series thus explores the dystopian and utopian dimensions of technology in digital culture not through stereotypical heroes but through vulnerable teens in need of resonance. Although Kiss Me First struggles to gain a foothold as a YA dystopia in the competitive TV landscape, it should not be dismissed as simply another coming-of-age drama or cyber-thriller. The series succeeds in exploring the hyperobject technology from multiple angles, and the engaging operational aesthetics offer eudemonic viewing experiences, both of which lay the ground‐ work for a complex serial dystopia. This chapter will demonstrate how the series explores new horizons as a serial dystopia in the YA section by creating a compelling storyworld that constantly shifts back and forth between the virtual sphere and physical reality (Chapter 4.1). Not only does this overarching sense of metamodern oscillation counteract one-dimensional renderings of immersive technologies, but it also surfaces in various constellations throughout the series to explore the boundaries between the digital and the traditional, the conscious and the unconscious (Chapter 4.2), the quest for righteousness in digital culture (Chapter 4.3), and the semantic tension between utopia as ‘no-place’ and eutopia as ‘goodplace’ (Chapter 4.4). 4.1 CGI meets Reality: VR Gaming and Dystopian Realism Like the other complex serial dystopias discussed in this book, Kiss Me First employs unique operational aesthetics to illustrate the human-technology en‐ tanglement and build a storyworld that engages viewers both critically through 4.1 CGI meets Reality: VR Gaming and Dystopian Realism 259 <?page no="260"?> 279 In the following, references to Kiss Me First will be given without repeating the title. 280 Creator Bryan Elsley is hesitant to call the setting of Kiss Me First the “near future,” preferring instead to describe it as a “heightened present” where “the internet actually works, where you can be inside a huge virtual reality game of the type that doesn't quite exist but probably will soon, and where your internet signal isn't going to drop out every ten seconds” (qtd. in “Bad Romance”). the social commentary on young adulthood in digital culture and emotionally through the journey of the protagonist. The introductory title sequence of the pilot heralds that the series will centre around Leila and her experiences in the virtual sphere but also contains imagery that conjures up the creation of humans in the digital age: before Leila’s avatar appears, dark human figures materialise from a black computer-generated seascape, evoking the biblical image of the creation of man from dust, except that here, life emerges from flickering lights that visually convey the activity of bits and codes. The gradual manifestation of these virtual figures is somewhat reminiscent of Westworld’s title sequence, which zooms in on the creation of robots. Both series negotiate technological artefacts in digital culture. However, the images shown in Kiss Me First’s title sequence suggest that the focus of the series remains on the elusive virtual sphere rather than on artefacts that manifest physically and tangibly in the form of robots. The complex serial dystopia here foregrounds the origin of life in the digital world, announcing technology’s creative force and significance for human experiences in the fictional society. In contrast to this bleak and estranging introduction, which serves to create a cold and alienating impression of the virtual sphere, the first minutes of the pilot “She Did Something” (Kiss Me First, S1/ E1) are surprisingly grounded, as the series then shifts to a brighter colour scheme and places the protagonist in a setting that evokes a “strange recognition” (Schober) among viewers. 279 The dystopia again strikes as the contemporary world - a tainted version of extratextual reality that asks viewers to consider the similarities with their own socio-cultural realities. 280 The overall suburban setting reminds viewers of Mr. Robot and most episodes of Black Mirror, as Kiss Me First situates the negotiation of the human-technology entanglement in the here and now rather than in the distant future. The series builds on a grounded scenario with the “representational illusion of accuracy” (Mittell 221), culminating in a dystopian realism that correlates the narrative’s concerns with the extratextual reality of the audience. The episode opens with a close-up of the protagonist’s face, from which the camera slowly zooms out to capture her sitting in a church and then transitions to a wide shot showing her on the left side of the church pews, revealing that she 260 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="261"?> 281 The second episode, “Make it Stop” (S1/ E2), conveys more about Leila’s relationship with her mother, while a father figure remains conspicuously absent from her life. In the flashback scene at the pharmacy, the protagonist picks up the medication her mother ordered to end her suffering. Here, too, Leila is placed at the edge of the frame (S1/ E2 0: 02), an aesthetic that emphasises the overwhelming environment that teenagers on their way to adulthood must learn to navigate. The burden she carries because of her decision to help her mother can be read symbolically as a placeholder for the challenges young people face growing up in digital culture. is the only one attending a funeral ceremony. At that point, the audience does not know yet that this is the funeral of Leila’s mother. What is in itself a tragic narrative premise is amplified by the fact that Leila has helped her terminally ill mother ‘find peace’ by administering a high dosage of medications to her. 281 Viewers learn that in doing so, she followed her mother’s wish. The mother’s insistence on deciding for herself when she dies appears as an almost rebellious act against making at least the final decision herself: “Leila, can you come? Did you see the chemist? Did they give it to you? Because I think … We talked about this, haven’t we, Leila? [Leila: Yes.] I want to decide when, Leila. Yes? I want to decide.” (S1/ E2 0: 02) Her insistence on ‘deciding when’ suggests ex negativo that she has not been able to make many conscious choices in her life, which rings especially true against the backdrop of a neoliberal capitalist society in which there seems to be only an illusion of choice (Reeves). Nevertheless, her decision also demands a great deal from her teenage daughter, who now has to deal with the consequences of her own decision, namely having helped her mother find peace. Haunted by the assisted suicide, Leila sits in the church with her arms folded - a body language that implies that she is not receptive to the priest’s prayers that linger on the unfolding visuals via voice-over. The camera angles in the church thus deliberately situate the protagonist at the edge of the frame (a technique Mr. Robot frequently uses to emphasise the mood of the series) to visually convey her loneliness. Throughout the series, camera angles and colour schemes play together to convey an overall mood of isolation and contemplation, such as when the protagonist stands by the Thames River, holding the funeral urn in her hands. The warm colours of the setting sun evoke a sense of ending and contemplation, suggesting that an important phase in Leila’s life has come to an end. Kiss Me First dismisses the church as a possible place of redemption and instead focuses on the protagonist’s home as an important space free of judgment, even if it is tied to the memories of her mother. The first encounter with another person after her mother’s death takes place at home when the nurse removes the mother’s wheelchair. She offers her condolences and asks if Leila has any friends to keep her company during her time of grief. This brief 4.1 CGI meets Reality: VR Gaming and Dystopian Realism 261 <?page no="262"?> 282 See Ramaswamy, who notes that the fact that “she has been left to her own devices (as well as to her actual devices) despite still being a teenager” seems somewhat unrealistic to the audience “until you recall that our social care system is already a dystopian nightmare.” moment of human connection, however, is interrupted by the nurse’s colleague, who taps his watch impatiently in the background, indicating that there is no time for kind gestures in this world. As the caregivers leave the house, Leila places the urn in the living room and realises that “[e]veryone’s gone” (S1/ E1 0: 03). The shot captures the blank expression on her face as the setting sun shines through the house that now belongs to her. 282 Throughout the series, the close-ups of Leila’s face give viewers detailed impressions of her micro-gestures. They hint at an emotional world that oscillates between sadness and apathy (Armknecht), purposefully conveying her difficult life situation based on the dilemma she had to face. Kiss Me First unfolds its discussion of the human-technology entanglement against the backdrop of a young protagonist who must learn to navigate her way to adulthood without guidance. From the very first few minutes of the pilot, it becomes clear that Leila is left to fend for herself, without an institutional or social safety net to help her cope with this extremely challenging situation, and without anyone to offer her guidance in dealing with the inner conflict that arises from holding herself accountable for her mother’s death. Although she seems calm and collected, the series repeatedly emphasises that she is still a child who is simply good at hiding her feelings and claiming that she does not ‘feel anything.’ For example, Leila explains to Tess what happened to her mother in a surprisingly calm manner: “She was sick. She didn’t want to be alive anymore. So I killed her.” (S1/ E2 0: 34) This simplistic logical conclusion testifies to her naïve view and underlines how much of a child Leila still is. At the same time, it also demonstrates her way of dealing with the situation, that is, by repressing her emotions. Besides the protagonist’s own four walls, the virtual space becomes an important place for Leila to compensate for her feelings of isolation. As she pushes her memories and feelings of guilt to the back of her mind, the series taps into the protagonist’s coping strategy: a multiplayer game in the open VR called Azana Planet. The alternation between live-action scenes (at her home) and CGI (in Azana) constitutes the modus operandi of the series. When Leila ritualistically switches on her computer and puts on haptic gloves as well as a VR headset with a microphone, the otherwise grounded, contemplative narrative pace of the series accelerates and switches to an action-packed setting (S1/ E1 0: 04). Here, Kiss Me First evokes the common depiction of a gamer who is about 262 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="263"?> 283 Another subtle but noteworthy reference to Tolkien’s epic fantasy novels is revealed when the protagonist’s mother tells Leila: “You’re precious. You’re the most precious. You’re the most precious.” (S1/ E1 0: 10) Especially the repetition of the phrase reminds viewers of Gollum, originally known as Sméagol, who calls the One Ring his ‘precious.’ 284 Starkey compares the depiction of the virtual world in Kiss Me First to other cultural products of digital culture, arguing that “[w]hile the CGI sequences are impressive for a TV show of this scale, there’s a noticeable stilted slump within Azana due to the facial animation’s clear limitations.” Nguyen also criticises the CGI sequences, claiming Azana is “a gorgeous but ultimately uninspiring landscape.” Both comments point to the high expectations of today’s viewers when it comes to CGI narratives in the competitive TV landscape. to fully immerse herself in another world. The camera zooms in on the computer screen, and the viewers, together with the protagonist, are now plunged into the VR of Azana and experience the gaming world first-hand. The CGI shows ‘Shadowfax,’ Leila’s virtual avatar named after the horse of Gandalf the White in J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings (1954-1955), which not only serves as a ‘nerd reference’ in the series but also alludes to the heroine’s underlying traits, such as cleverness and the inability to be ‘tamed’ (see also Chapter 4.2 in this analysis). 283 In this virtual space, Leila can indulge in her avatar’s strength and confidence on the one hand and distract herself from loneliness and a restless mind on the other. Fig. 4a: Live-action shots of the bleak, physical world contrast with the CGI sequences depicting the stunning, virtual landscape (S1/ E1 0: 04). - Fig. 4b: Panoramic shots invite viewers to take the protagonist’s perspective and immerse themselves in the virtual world of Azana (S1/ E1 0: 04). Kiss Me First spares no effort to create a pronounced contrast between the physical world tainted with sadness and the vibrant, colourful VR. 284 Given that Leila sits in front of the screen in her dark room (see Fig. 4a), the CGI sequences appear considerably brighter and show Shadowfax, whose facial features realistically resemble those of the protagonist, flying gracefully through the beautiful artificial landscape. The blue sky and green valleys are once again reminiscent of iconic imagery of The Lord of the Rings (see Fig. 4b). By alluding to the Shire, the peaceful and fertile land in Middle Earth where man (or rather 4.1 CGI meets Reality: VR Gaming and Dystopian Realism 263 <?page no="264"?> 285 Leila’s home reads ambivalently, representing a confined space that reminds her of her mother and the responsibilities of adulthood on the one hand and a safe space of privacy and retreat on the other. In direct comparison to Azana, however, the cosiness of her home evokes a sense of stasis. This spatial juxtaposition underscores the importance of technology as a vehicle for escape from her confined environment. the Hobbits) and nature live in symbiosis, the complex serial dystopia merges seemingly ancient and, above all, pre-technological imagery with the digital, suggesting a kind of consistency throughout centuries when it comes to the appreciation of nature, whether in physical or virtual reality. Most importantly, however, the vastness of the virtual world contrasts with the protagonist’s home as a comfortable but limited place. When the camera captures Leila tilting her head, the CGI shows that the angle she adopts matches her avatar’s perspective, emphasising that she controls her point of view through the headset, while the shots of her hands on the joystick indicate that this is how she controls her movement in the VR. Although the “motion-capture, computer-generated world provides dramatic visual shifts from the real world” (Nelson), it is here where critics find fault with the series’ depiction of gaming. For example, Peter Rubin dismisses Kiss Me First’s conception of VR gaming as inauthentic, accusing the creators of the TV series of being technically illiterate. “In Azana,” he argues, “Shadowfax and the other Red Pillers soar, swim, and run; cry, laugh, and commiserate. In real life, though, they sit motionless in front of their computers, neckbands cinched tight and their hands on joysticks, brains and bodies completely out of sync. It’s VR as imagined by a concerned parent, alienating and still.” Indeed, Leila sits relatively motionless in front of her screen in the live-action scenes, which is at odds with her agility in the virtual sphere. While Kiss Me First perhaps overemphasises the discrepancy between the physical world and virtual space, it still succeeds in portraying the world of Azana not only as “a gleaming counterweight to the show’s grim outer-London exteriors” (ibid.) but particularly also to the confined interiors of the protagonist’s home. 285 Leila’s motionlessness is therefore not a ‘technical’ error but a deliberately placed metaphor to illustrate the differences between the two worlds. Kiss Me First depicts a world in which technology serves as a tool to escape the grim reality (cf. Longstreet et al.). Azana’s geographical scope is limitless, allowing players to peacefully explore the world from a bird’s eye view or join forces with other players to fight monstrous enemies and other groups. The ‘open-world’ game (the name speaks for itself) symbolises a place with unlimited possibilities, while the computer functions as a gateway for the protagonist to break through the walls of her home and overcome her quiet 264 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="265"?> 286 To make ends meet, Leila takes a part-time job at Azul’s Café around the corner and finds a flatmate. Her relationship with Jonty (Matthew Aubrey), who moves into her house, is conflicted, as Leila enjoys his company but at the same time does not want him to violate her boundaries. She accepts him as a flatmate on the condition that her room is off limits, and the house remains quiet. Jonty himself, who says he is “training to be an actor” (S1/ E1 0: 13), serves as the comic relief in the series, but his overall jauntiness harbours a sense of disorientation, which in turn points to the hardships of young adults making their way to adulthood without guidance. He voices his thankfulness for Leila’s decision to take him in, calling her “my worry beads, my talisman, my golden shot” (S1/ E1 0: 27). and introverted disposition. Leila’s virtual alter ego is strong and confident, as shown in the CGI scenes in which Shadowfax attacks another female player on the outskirts of the “City of War,” one of Azana’s central battlefields (S1/ E1 0: 04). The biblical choral music that previously underlined the paradisical beauty of the virtual landscape suddenly turns into rock music, ideally supporting the violent fight scene between the two avatars. Here, Kiss Me First departs from the pastoral notion of the peaceful land and presents Azana as a battleground where players fight each other. However, the series does not dwell on the details of this virtual battle zone, exploring instead the quieter corners of Azana away from the city’s turmoil. When Shadowfax notices a girl (Tess aka Mania) mysteriously observing her from the fringes of the woods, the stereotypical fighting scene comes to a halt. She begins to follow Mania into the forest - a symbolic portal into the hidden spheres of the VR (see also Chapter 4.2 in this analysis), but Leila’s avatar suddenly dematerialises with a glaring sound (S1/ E1 0: 06). Both the viewers and the protagonist are transported back to diegetic reality, where the camera observes Leila taking off her VR headset and realising that her Azana credit has run out. Like the other complex serial dystopias, Kiss Me First is interested not only in the psychological perspective of the human-technology entanglement but also in the ethical dimension of the technology in the fictional society. The oscillation between the physical world and VR is firmly anchored in a neoliberal capitalist world. Thus, instead of simply placing the video game in the lives of the teens, Kiss Me First draws attention to Azana as a commercial product and highlights how young adults spend their already scarce resources on experiences in the virtual world. For example, the camera zooms in on the list Leila makes to calculate her budget (a scene that underscores her position as an adult now in charge of the household), showing that Azana purchases make up a large part of her daily expenses (S1/ E1 0: 07). 286 Yet, the access to VR is a price she and the other players are obviously willing to pay, whether for pure entertainment or to compensate for their feelings of isolation and neglect. 4.1 CGI meets Reality: VR Gaming and Dystopian Realism 265 <?page no="266"?> The complex serial dystopia expands centrifugally so that viewers learn more about the social and economic dimensions of the storyworld. The focus shifts from Leila’s micro-perspective to the macro-social perspective in the third episode “Off the Rails” (S1/ E3). The opening scene here is diametrically opposed to those of all other episodes, containing one of the otherwise rare moments that hint at the underlying dystopian premise of the narrative. Instead of plunging directly into the protagonist’s perspective, an advertisement for ‘Azana Planet,’ the commercial brand name of the VR game, appears on the screen. The commercial montage is accompanied by the voice of Ruth Palmer (Geraldine Somerville), the game’s inventor, who is shown on stage in an audience hall: “Welcome to Azana Planet. Friends, colleagues, gamers, the wait is finally over. My name is Ruth Palmer, and today, I’m going to change your world. You’ll decide what it becomes.” (S1/ E3 0: 01) The moment represents the worldwide launch of Azana, and if one misses this very scene, it is difficult to fathom the underlying dystopian logic of Kiss Me First, as it situates the protagonist’s experiences firmly in a neoliberal capitalist dystopia. The scene showing a crowded auditorium where people cheer the innovations presented by an eloquent company representative is strongly reminiscent of Steve Job’s iconic speeches about Apple’s ground-breaking products. This kind of in-world introduction of technological innovations in the context of a ‘product launch event’ crops up frequently in recent dystopias. For example, The Circle (2017) film contains a similar scene in which CEO Eamon Baily (Tom Hanks) presents the sophisticated ‘SeeChange’ technology. To an extent, the hype surrounding the Azana world seems similar to the ‘Circle’ in that it provides a collective virtual shared network for the people of the fictional society. Also, in the TV series The One (2021-), CEO Rebecca Web (Hannah Ware) introduces a DNA-matching technology that revolutionises the institution of marriage in the fictional world, generating a similar resonance among her audience. Especially among those viewers familiar with contemporary dystopias, which increasingly focus on the ‘evil corporation’ rather than on the authoritarian state (cf. Moylan, “Moment” 135), the explicit marketing of any seemingly flawless product will quickly be received with scepticism. Since most of the members of the fictional society usually do not question the (long-term) effects of these ‘world-changing’ inventions, it is the extradiegetic spectators who are encouraged to adopt a critical attitude. Unfortunately, Kiss Me First dwarfs this underlying dystopian premise of its storyworld by revolving around the protagonist’s orbit. The fact that the series only strikes a subtle dystopian tone could be the reason why it ultimately failed to kindle discussions or even be perceived as a YA dystopia in the first place. 266 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="267"?> Viewers of this complex serial dystopia are encouraged to deduce the totality of the dystopian paradigm in the series themselves, namely from the brief glimpses of the company behind Azana and the unquestioned popularity of the VR game in the fictional society. For example, a TV commentator notes that “[w]ith preorders in the millions worldwide, video gamers are hailing [Azana Planet] as a quantum step forward” (S1/ E3 0: 01), which underscores that the computer game is in high demand and on the verge of becoming a staple of entertainment culture. The novelty of the VR game lies in its sophisticated configuration, as Palmer reveals: “We’ve created it with a morphable engine. It’s scalable, immersive. A whole planet of experience with no boundaries. It can become literary anything.” (S1/ E3 0: 01) The game is sold as a liberating experience with limitless possibilities for players to overcome physical and psychological limitations by embracing the identity of their avatars. Similar to the amusement park in Westworld, where visitors assume the roles of cowboys and gunslingers, Azana constitutes a space that allows players to be who they want to be and do what they want to do without consequence. However, as the game is primarily aimed at teens like Leila, who takes on a part-time job to cover her monthly gaming expenses, Kiss Me First unfolds a discussion that criticises the capitalist logic of profit-maximisation. The series offers a critical commentary on the ways in which the corporation exploits a tech-savvy generation that feels profoundly “anxious and distrustful” (Hertz), enticing particularly young gamers to pay for a sense of freedom that the physical world supposedly lacks. The company slogan, “This is Azana Planet. And you are free.” (S1/ E1 0: 01), opens up discussions about the overall role of gaming technology in society. Like the other complex serial dystopias discussed in this book, Kiss Me First prompts a critical viewer response by presenting technology as neither good nor bad nor neutral (cf. Kranzberg 545). For example, Palmers’ speech suggests that the launch of Azana will “change [the players’] world,” thus foregrounding technology as an impact on the individual. However, she also refers to the idea of players using technology as a tool (“You’ll decide what it becomes.”). The complex serial dystopia then even adds another perspective to these intersecting registers at play, suggesting that technology is not neutral either, as Azana is manipulated by Adrian - Palmer’s son - harnessing his coding skills to create a virtual space where he is in charge (S1/ E6 0: 07). These ambivalent views on technology both mirror and update the negotiation of technology in classics like Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949), in which, as Steven L. Goldman argues, “technology is not the cause of oppression, but neither does technological advance correlate with freedom. Instead, those social institutions and forces 4.1 CGI meets Reality: VR Gaming and Dystopian Realism 267 <?page no="268"?> [here: the Azana corporation] that see benefit to themselves in oppressing the masses find technology preferentially available to them” (279). In Kiss Me First, the corporation takes centre stage as a major force influencing the lives of millions by creating a new standard for entertainment in the diegetic society. Against these underlying notions of freedom and implied oppression, it is no coincidence that Kiss Me First makes a direct intertextual reference to the iconic science-fiction franchise The Matrix (1999-2021), which deals with humankind’s imprisonment in VR (the Matrix) and negotiates philosophical abstractions such as truth, reality, and simulation. While the mainstream Azana Planet is presented as a place of freedom in a more superficial sense, it is the secret, hidden corner of the VR called Red Pill, where only a handful of players meet, that is associated with truth and sincerity. Since both Kiss Me First’s protagonist and audience might be too young to notice the reference, the series contains a scene in which Leila looks up the meaning of ‘Red Pill’ on the Azana internet. The automated voice explains that in the film, “the character Neo has a choice between a red pill and a blue pill. Taking the blue pill results in a life of illusion and mindless diversion. Neo takes the red pill, becoming aware of the truth of reality free from exploitation.” (S1/ E1 0: 28) In referencing The Matrix, the series not only solidifies Red Pill’s association with a place that is “free from exploitation,” whereas the mainstream Azana world (and, by implication, the physical reality in which the game is embedded) becomes ex negativo a place of “mindless diversion.” Kiss Me First also draws a parallel from the hero Neo (Keanu Reeves) to Leila, both of whom explore the interstices between reality and simulation, pursuing the potentially unsettling notion of truth rather than living a life of ignorance. The utopian quality that the complex serial dystopia initially ascribes to Red Pill fades as viewers learn more about Adrian, the leader of the VR community, through whom the series negotiates both the allure and the danger that lurk in the anonymous virtual sphere. The antagonist’s goal remains a mystery throughout the series but boils down to the lunatic idea of hosting a multi-player game on an island where the young players fight each other in real life, while he enjoys an omniscient view from afar as a god-like voyeur (see Chapter 4.4 in this analysis). Initially, the soft-spoken, ‘pleasantly opaque’ character (Bengsch), who maintains the sense of community in Red Pill and enjoys the admiration of his group for doing so, seems to provide the young adults with the much-needed guidance they lack in the real world: throughout the series, Kiss Me First reinforces Adrian’s role as a wise and reassuring father figure, emphasising his god-like power in Red Pill. As the son of the game’s inventor, he had access to Azana’s source code and was able to create a world where he is in charge. Proud of his achievement, Adrian actively promotes Red Pill as being 268 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="269"?> more valuable than the rest of Azana and condemns all other players who complacently engage in trivial hedonistic practices: “Look at them. Throwing away their lives on killing and masturbation and paying for the privilege.” (S1/ E2 0: 05) His remark is not only another allusion to the neoliberal capitalist logic at play, namely that the Azana corporation has found a profitable way to appeal to the seemingly basic instincts of people who pay “for the privilege” of their wish fulfilment, but also underscores that he ridicules those players who spend all their money on what he considers mindless practices. Adrian positions himself here as a critic of capitalism, but he himself sells Red Pill as an exclusive, more sophisticated space that is “more fun than this kiddy bullshit” (S1/ E2 0: 06). The fact that he criticises the same manipulative logic of a system that he himself uses to his advantage to instrumentalise the teenagers not only underscores his hypocrisy. It also undermines his impression as a benevolent father and thus also exposes the parallel virtual world that he created as fake. But he succeeds, nonetheless. Cultivating a binary opposition between Red Pill and the rest of Azana, the antagonist convinces Leila and the other vulnerable teens, who long for orientation and a deeper connection with the world, that this place is a real home. As becomes clear, Kiss Me First is not distinctly dystopian in the classical sense - there is no state-vs-individual paradigm, no oppressive political system that restricts individuality and freedom of choice. Azana, in fact, is merely a product on the free market, and young adults can basically choose whether or not to participate in this gaming trend (cf. Gonnermann 72-3). However, with millions of teenagers using this gaming option, those who cannot afford the technology (along with all its equipment like VR headsets, haptic gloves, and joystick) are at risk of social exclusion because most teens spend their free time in the virtual sphere. Against the backdrop of a fictional society in which loneliness, isolation, and disillusionment are omnipresent, this gaming technology appears as a remedy to fill a void that especially young adults face in digital culture. Similar to Mr. Robot, Kiss Me First articulates the ills of the neoliberal system through the characters, as the teens struggle for money, suffer from mental health issues like depression, and seem alienated from their environment as a whole. Technology surfaces both as a cause and as a solution for the resigned pessimism that is evident in the young characters throughout the series. From this point of view, it makes sense that the series zooms in closely on the protagonists’ lives because here, both the hyperobject technology and capitalism play out in a concrete, relatable embodied perspective. Although the dystopian allusions are sparse, Kiss Me First encourages viewers to consider the 4.1 CGI meets Reality: VR Gaming and Dystopian Realism 269 <?page no="270"?> 287 See Nelson, who points out that “most gamers are still depicted as being cut from the same mold: smart kids and young men who are obsessed with science fiction, fantasy, comics, and the internet, and don’t like leaving the house.” systemic implications of free-market capitalism in digital culture from a young adult’s point of view. Overall, the complex serial dystopia builds a world that is driven by oscilla‐ tion - between VR and the physical world, adventure and home, life and death, reality and simulation. Kiss Me First practices worldbuilding on numerous levels - not only exploring the boundaries between the physical world and the virtual world but also negotiating the function of a world within the virtual world (i.e., Red Pill). Although the series’ depiction of VR gaming has been criticised for being “stuck in the past” (Starkey), the complex serial dystopia excels in probing the hyperobject technology from multiple angles, avoiding the fallacies of deterministic technological views that would single out technology as an external force imposed on culture (see Roderick 119). In so doing, the series also intervenes in stereotypical representations of a male-dominated gaming landscape by focusing on a troubled female protagonist for whom Azana is not just distracting entertainment but a steppingstone to overcome her loss and feelings of isolation. The following will elaborate on the significance of the VR for the young adults in more detail, particularly the ambivalent function of Red Pill as a place of distraction from and confrontation with past misdeeds. 4.2 “What you’re hiding… it’ll come out”: Red Pill and the Unconscious Kiss Me First features a protagonist in gaming gear, reminiscent of the ‘nerd blockbuster’ Ready Player One in which the characters similarly plunge into VR. Conjuring up these images associated with nerd culture, which generally encompasses individuals with an (obsessive) devotion to specific subjects (such as video games or superheroes, and to the extent that it may limit their social skills outside their area of interest), the series presents Leila as an introvert preoccupied with her own interests in gaming. However, Kiss Me First deviates from the stereotypical depiction of the nerd. 287 Although the protagonist is initially portrayed as a stereotypical gamer who ventures into Azana to blow off steam, Leila’s decision to follow the mysterious girl Mania into the virtual forest suggests that she is not exclusively interested in the kind of escapism that the gaming world offers. In contrast to the ‘mainstream’ players, Leila stands out by searching for a deeper meaning in the superficial entertainment world, 270 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="271"?> much like ‘The Man in Black’ in Westworld, who seeks to unravel the mystery of the amusement park. The complex serial dystopia here features a female protagonist whose social awkwardness is due more to the burden she has to bear as a parentless teenager than to her obsession with video games purely out of interest or pastime. The dark forest on the periphery of Azana, which serves as the gateway to the secret spot called Red Pill, is thus symbolic, representing not only the allure of unknown spaces in the VR (i.e., a space outside of the digital community) but also the deeper level of the psyche. The allusions to nerd culture are surprisingly sparse (cf. Nelson), and even though Kiss Me First is a series about gaming, certain plot elements invite a reading beyond intertextual references. For example, Leila’s avatar name Shadowfax offers more than just an allusion to Tolkien’s fantasy novel. The symbol of the horse itself is revealing. As Francisco LaRubia-Prado points out, “when horses are central characters in literature and film, they often become crucial elements in restoring balance to disordered private or social situations” (3). The symbolic notion of the horse itself, an impulsive and maternal archetype, matches the fact that Leila takes on a motherly role in her friendship with Tess. The protagonist also serves as a mediator between VR and physical reality, aiming to restore balance not only in her own “disordered private” world that has been shaken by her mother’s death but also in the world of the other teenagers she meets in Red Pill. The complex serial dystopia is thus infused with different layers of meaning-making, asking viewers to pay close attention to the timeless images in storytelling, such as the forest, the lake, and the abyss, which symbolise the unconscious and the hidden fears and longings anchored therein. Kiss Me First primarily harnesses the centripetal force of complexity, which “creates a complex storyworld that holds its main characters accountable for past misdeeds and refuses to let them (or us) escape these transgressions at the level of story consequences or internal psychology” (Mittell 223). Although the series follows the trajectory of Leila’s orbit that centres around her “past misdeed[]” to commit assisted suicide, it still expands centrifugally, giving voice to a number of teenagers searching for meaning and guidance in an exhausted physical world. By opening a world within a world (i.e., Red Pill), Kiss Me First oscillates between a critique of VR as a vehicle of mindless escape and as a much-needed retreat for genuine connection. As Nelson puts it, the series is “about the bonds social gamers form, not about living the game, fighting evil, or hating the outside world.” Red Pill, in particular, becomes a meaningful place for troubled and neglected teenagers where they engage in “mundane things like ice skating, or walking through the woods” (ibid.). VR then seems to offer two ways 4.2 “What you’re hiding… it’ll come out”: Red Pill and the Unconscious 271 <?page no="272"?> of coping with the real world: one hedonistic (as a mainstream gaming platform) and one eudemonic approach (as a platform for resonance and orientation). Red Pill offers the latter, as it is constructed as an exclusive, peaceful, comparatively boring corner of the VR in which misfits find solace among like-minded people facing relatable hardship in the real world. However, this place of ‘mindful’ rather than ‘mindless’ distraction from problems also functions as a space where the young adults are confronted with their underlying desires and fears. At first glance, the CGI sequences of Red Pill lend the place a distinctly utopian quality. The official Azana world is constructed as a war zone in a beautiful landscape, whereas this hidden corner strikes viewers as an idyllic, rural place reminiscent of a pastoral landscape painting, situated in nature by a lake and waterfall, far removed from the complexity and turmoil of the rest of Azana. Not everyone has access to this world within the world - only a small number of players do, and they meet there regularly without combat equipment. They do not fight monsters in action-packed adventures but simply spend time together. As Nelson points out, “[w]hen they get together in-game, it’s not to fight the biggest battles Azana has to offer, or show off their characters’ skills. They mostly hang out in a particularly pretty corner of the virtual world to chat about their problems, flirt, and talk about the possibility of meeting up in the flesh.” The members of Red Pill deliberately withdraw from the virtual battlefield and embrace the quiet margins of Azana as places for contemplation. Nevertheless, the uneventfulness of Red Pill makes its appeal among the teenagers almost implausible. Starkey, for example, criticises the series for showing “little thought, or awareness, of how modern games operate or how human’s [sic! ] interact with them. There’s a reason why kids and teenagers spend endless hours in Fortnite and Minecraft, particularly after a traumatic real-life event, and standing in a circle chatting about the outside world isn’t one of them.” It is true that Kiss Me First departs from the common imaginations of how players interact with games. However, because the characters lack a place in the physical world to chat with peers and reflect on themselves and the world, Red Pill becomes not an extension of the physical reality where they would engage in activities they cannot pursue in the offline world (such as flying) but a substitute of it. On the surface, it is the safe haven in the form of a community that the teens prefer over adventures and thrills in the mainstream Azana Planet. On a deeper level, however, Kiss Me First’s construction of Red Pill can be read as a space for the exploration of the unconscious. When Leila curiously enters the hidden corner of Azana for the first time, she is surprised by the Red Pill member Calumny and immediately knocks him down. “That hurt,” he grunts, 272 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="273"?> 288 Interestingly, the Kiss Me First creators released a commercial for the AzanaBand that TV viewers thought was an actual advertisement, although it served as a teaser for the series. As Channel 4’s creative department shared: “Kiss Me First is a brilliant show with a very unique audience, so to get their attention we needed to do something innovative and different. To create intrigue, excitement and a genuine buzz around the show, we partnered with influencers and launched the AzanaBand as if it were a real-life gaming product.” (McCarthy) Thus, the blurring between VR and reality even occurs in the commercial, expanding the theme of the series beyond the narrative. and Leila reacts confused: “What do you mean, hurt? Nothing hurts. That’s the point.” (S1/ E1 0: 17) At this point in the series, viewers do not yet know that the Red Pillers wear (illegal) neckbands that add physical sensations to their VR experience. 288 When critics discard the series for its outdated depiction of VR gaming, then they fail to recognise that the estranging novelty of Kiss Me First is not the VR world in the form of Azana but the neckband that allows the players “to feel actual pain and pleasure in the virtual realm, something which these anaesthetised teens seek in the way previous generations chased actual thrills,” as Ramaswamy puts it bluntly. This sensational addition allows the young adults to feel anything in the first place, which adds to Red Pill’s exclusivity and appeal, as players are neurologically stimulated but still protected from death in the virtual sphere (cf. Adkins 135). Although the general theme of VR may seem stale to some viewers and critics, the neckband surfaces as a technological novum in the series that poignantly underscores the teens’ numbed existence and interest in extreme experiences. Most importantly, however, Kiss Me First presents Red Pill as a place that resonates differently with players than the mainstream Azana Planet. When Leila enters the virtual forest, Calumny advises her to turn around, “[b]ecause here, what’s inside you, what you’re hiding… it’ll come out.” (S1/ E1 0: 17) Leila (and the audience) is directly reminded of what the protagonist is hiding, namely the assisted suicide, which she has not only tried to keep secret from others but also pushed to the back of her mind. Calumny’s words suggest that Red Pill is a place that confronts her with the repressed memories and releases “what’s inside [her],” that is, her ‘true’ character - to put it bluntly - as a murderer, which she knows how to hide in her everyday life. That this scene is set in the forest is thus no coincidence. As one of the most enduring symbols, the forest represents an ‘enchanted place’ - a frequent and ambivalent motif in fairy tales, such as in Lewis Carroll’s ‘Alice in Wonderland’ (1865) or The Brothers Grimm’s ‘Hansel and Gretel’ (1812), where children are lured, get lost, and encounter mysterious people. Here, the forest also evokes a journey into the psyche. The complex serial dystopia uses this imagery to add far more depth to the negotiation of 4.2 “What you’re hiding… it’ll come out”: Red Pill and the Unconscious 273 <?page no="274"?> VR than blockbusters, which usually focus exclusively on the appeal of VR to young adults in terms of escapist practices. Against this backdrop, Kiss Me First invests a considerable amount of story‐ time in delineating the backstories of five troubled young adults - the players Calumny, Mania, Force, Jocasta, and Tippi - who fall prey to the opaque agenda of the antagonist. Adrian, the leader of Red Pill, purposefully uses his coding skills and charisma to get into the minds of the players, building a virtual refuge to “seduce them into making perilous real-life decisions” (P. Rubin). Throughout the six episodes of the series, the circumstances of the teenagers are presented episodically, generating subplots that explain why Adrian has chosen them as targets. The reason why the members of the Red Pill community keep returning to the virtual sphere is not a gaming addiction but the longing for a place of comfort away from domestic violence, discrimination, and drugs, and not least for the reassurance of a leader who listens to their problems. For them, Red Pill represents the last refuge where they can leave the complex outside world behind and engage in such mundane practices as talking, swimming, and simply ‘hanging out.’ While most players escape to Azana for fun and entertainment, the Red Pill members escape from reality. The series formally transfers the notion of multi-player gaming to the narrative with its multiple perspectives of lived experience. The first episode, for example, is dedicated to the story of Calumny (the avatar of Cyril Niemec (George Jovanovic)), who is a victim of domestic violence. The close-up shows a distraught young man about to take off his VR headset while his parents are fighting in the background (S1/ E1 0: 21). The domestic violence is never overtly shown, only audibly implied. Still, it is not hard to discern that he blames himself for his father’s outbursts and violence against his mother, rendering the young adult stuck in a situation that urges him to find comfort in the VR. As he states: “I make my father madder. It’s me. Something in me makes him beat her.” (S1/ E1 0: 42) Calumny, like the other Red Pillers, is a neglected young adult struggling with loneliness, disorientation, and self-accusations. The exchange with other misfits helps him cope with his situation, but it is the guidance he receives from Adrian that confronts him with the deeper layers of his psyche. With the introduction of Calumny, Kiss Me First not only presents the antagonist’s manipulative power but also draws attention to the actual novum of the series, that is, the ‘sense band’ the Red Pill members wear around their necks to add physical sensation to the VR experience. Although the gadget is considered illegal in the diegetic world, Adrian provides the sense band to enhance their feelings of pleasure and pain. When the CGI shows Calumny virtually racing a car, taking his hands off the steering wheel, closing his eyes, 274 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="275"?> 289 In Westworld, the park visitors physically immerse themselves in the adventure narrative without fear of being killed. See also the Black Mirror episode “Black Museum” (S4/ E6), which similarly negotiates the fine line between pleasure and pain in the context of experimental medical technology. 290 The antagonist manipulates people by appealing to their egos and making them feel special. He even tries to get in the head of Leila’s flatmate Jonty. When the latter says, “I’m only her flatmate,” Adrian replies, “Oh, you’re much more than that. If you want to be.” (S1/ E4 0: 08) The charming, mysterious character, who displays both omnipotence in the self-coded Red Pill and omniscience through technology in the physical world, is reminiscent of a modern version of Orwell’s O’Brien. He could be conceived of as a “contemporary sadist” who these days, as Firchow argues, is “more likely to be found playing some virtual-reality chainsaw video game than conducting electric shock sessions in Room 101” (117-18). and crashing into a wall (S1/ E1 0: 18), the shot switches to Cyril in his room screaming as he rips off his VR headset and his collar the moment he crashes. The neckband had tightened so much that he was, in effect, almost choking. While crashing into a virtual wall would have no consequences in the official Azana world, the AzanaBand lets the players experience (un)pleasant sensations. Similarly, when Leila cryptically explains that the AzanaBand “might be very bad” but gives her “things” she needs (S1/ E3 0: 18), she is alluding to the demand for ever more intense and more extreme gaming experiences within the confines of a safe space, a notion that also appears in the Westworld series. 289 Luigino Bruni’s claim that new technologies can “appear as new forms of relationship that promise happiness without injury” (124) proves false here, as Kiss Me First features a technology that endorses injury to help the young adults process their repressed feelings, bonding with each other on the grounds of shared pain. Through the neckband, the complex serial dystopia cements the lingering notion that the virtual experience has real-life implications. Calumny’s fascination with crashing into virtual walls, for instance, heralds Cyril’s suicidal tendencies, with the neckband serving as a mediating element between the virtual world and physical reality. Kiss Me First further explores this transcending perspective when the camera captures Cyril on a high-rise (see Fig. 4c), sobbing, until he puts his VR set back on and Adrian’s fatherly voice says: “There you are. Come.” (S1/ E1 0: 39) The scene then switches to the CGI in Red Pill, where his avatar Calumny is standing on the edge of a deep cliff, gazing into the abyss (see Fig. 4d). The virtual cliff was coded by Adrian, who devotes himself fully to the deeply depressed Calumny and listens to his problems. 290 The abyss, representing the space to nothingness, can be read here primarily as the uncertainty of young adulthood, perhaps even as a symbol of how close the young adults are to ‘drifting off,’ but also as an invitation to explore the depth of his psyche, his unconscious fears and desires. 4.2 “What you’re hiding… it’ll come out”: Red Pill and the Unconscious 275 <?page no="276"?> 291 While the player Force suggests, “Maybe [Calumny] deactivated,” Tippi argues that “he probably got arrested again” (S1/ E2 0: 28); then the camera zooms in on Adrian’s face, suggesting that he knows more than he admits. Leila confronts Adrian in private about why Calumny’s profile was deleted, and he proposes that “[m]aybe he’s taking a break […] or we gave him what he needed and he’s found some peace […] you can have that, too. The Thing you most need.” (S1/ E2 0: 30) Cautious as Leila is, she looks up the Azana profiles of each of the Red Pillers, revealing that they have no associated team members (S1/ E1 0: 28) and reinforcing the impression that Red Pill is a meeting place for outsiders. As Force remarks: “We’re losers. We’re fucked up.” (S1/ E1 0: 19) Leila becomes even more suspicious when she discovers that Adrian does not even have an Fig. 4c: Cyril is standing on top of a high-rise wearing his VR headset (S1/ E1 0: 41). Fig. 4d: Cyril’s avatar Calumny is about to jump off the virtual cliff that Adrian has built for him (S1/ E1 0: 43). Rather than dwelling on the motif of the unconscious, however, Kiss Me First focuses on the materiality of the cliff as a dangerous edge. It soon becomes clear to the attentive viewer that Adrian is talking Cyril, albeit indirectly, into committing suicide. When Calumny says that he is “scared of falling,” Adrian encourages Leila (who appears in the guise of Mania) to tell him not to be afraid. In an attempt to cheer Calumny up, she unwittingly encourages him to jump when she says: “It’s okay. It’s nothing. It’s fine. You can do anything.” (S1/ E1 0: 42) In response, Calumny jumps off the virtual cliff in Red Pill - the scene then immediately switches back to the real world, where Cyril jumps off the high-rise and commits suicide. Here, Kiss Me First tragically negotiates the fact that although one cannot die in the virtual sphere, one’s words and actions therein have real-life implications, underscoring the intersection of the two spheres that leads to the young adult’s suicide. Kiss Me First uses the sudden disappearance of Cyril as a strategy to build the antagonism between the leader of Red Pill and Leila. The series reinforces the sympathy with the heroine by allowing viewers to investigate Adrian’s manipulative plan along with Leila. While the other Red Pillers see no connec‐ tion between Adrian’s motives and Calumny’s disappearance, which underlines their very naivety that Adrian uses to his advantage, Leila becomes suspicious. 291 276 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="277"?> Azana profile, which reinforces his symbolic function as a threat lurking in the VR. But the lack of information about Red Pill and its members also triggers the protagonist’s curiosity, particularly as she learns that different rules apply in this sphere. 292 The scenes in the foster home offer a critical commentary on overburdened social services but only implicitly allude to the abuse when his foster father says to Ben, “I’m here for you and you’re here for me.” (S1/ E3 0: 13) The authority figure sounds similar to Adrian, who also preys on vulnerable teenagers, and his conduct leaves no doubt that he is abusing Ben. Ben’s secret engineering project to build a bomb is again encouraged remotely by Adrian, who suggests that blowing himself up along with his foster father is the only way to end his suffering (see S1/ E3 0: 39). 293 The live-action scenes reveal that Jocasta’s female avatar belongs to Jack Innes, a “queer kid who lives a life of luxury and neglect” (Nelson). The fact that he is neglected is demonstrated by the family maid trying to cheer him up by saying, “I’m sure your parents will ring you this week.” (S1/ E4 0: 31) Again, Kiss Me First refrains from overexplaining the young adult’s backstory and the absence of his parents remains unexplained. This subplot once again ends with a tragic incident when Kyle turns violent realising that Jocasta has been ‘faking’ her VR identity after Adrian initiates their face-to-face meeting. In the case of Jack/ Jocasta, the series offers a critical commentary on the discrimination against queer youth, and with Kyle/ Force, it comments on the (lack of) perspective of delinquent young adults. The starting point for her investigation is Calumny’s last words, “Do Widzenia,” which remain cryptic for viewers unfamiliar with the Polish language until Leila finds out via the search engine in the Azana network that the words translate into ‘Good Bye’ (S1/ E2 0: 19). Leila, suspecting the worst, visits Cyril’s hometown, ironically called ‘Sunny Heights.’ There she meets his grieving mother, who reveals little about her son except that Cyril was “always in his room” and “[a]lways … talking” (S1/ E2 0: 40), which points to the fact that Adrian had a sympathetic ear for his problems. The sight of the dead Cyril after the autopsy is eerily disturbing to both Leila and the audience, as it presents an extreme contrast between the lifeless physical body and the liveliness and agility of the virtual characters (S1/ E2 0: 41). Kiss Me First shows this disconcerting image to emphasise the tragic effects of VR actions in physical reality. In a similar vein, the complex serial dystopia unfolds the backstories of the other players. Ben (Samuel Bottomley), whose avatar Denier represents the youngest member of Red Pill, suffers abuse at the hands of his foster father and puts an end to his suffering by successfully carrying out his planned suicide attack at the end of the third episode “Off the Rails” (S1/ E3). 292 In the subsequent episode, “Friends Let Us Down” (S1/ E4), the attention turns to two other members of Red Pill, Jack (Misha Butler) and Kyle (Fred Stewart), whose avatars Jocasta and Force form a romantic bond in Red Pill (cf. Nelson). 293 Kyle’s subplot, in particular, is revealing because it extends the dystopian setting of the series overseas. His backstory is set (once again symbolically) in the 4.2 “What you’re hiding… it’ll come out”: Red Pill and the Unconscious 277 <?page no="278"?> 294 The camera follows Kyle as he is driving his car until he notices a woman (Lauren Ward) having car trouble. He refers to her as Mrs. Klasna, indicating that they are not strangers to each other, but as he approaches her, she suddenly becomes uneasy, stating with slightly shaking hands that she “didn’t recognize [him] with the hair” (S1/ E4 0: 11). When she enquires about his life and assures him that “[e]veryone should have a second chance” (S1/ E4 0: 12), the suspicion that he must have been in prison is substantiated. Although no harm is done to Mrs. Klasna, Kiss Me First feeds the idea that Kyle is a murderer, seeking consolation in his relationship with Jocasta in Red Pill. 295 When Tess’ sister warns Leila about Tess, introducing her to her now disabled father, she also mentions that the girls were adopted: “They adopted us. White mum, black forests, however this time far away from the London setting. Kiss Me First here expands its dystopian paradigm to a forest in Tennessee, USA, where Kyle fends for himself as a young adult who has just been released from prison. 294 This centrifugal expansion illustrates how far Adrian’s tentacles reach around the world, affecting players even thousands of miles away. Like the other Red Pillers, Kyle is strangely drawn to the leader of Red Pill and falls for his overarching promise that everyone in this exclusive corner of the VR will get what they most need. Kiss Me First traces the backstory of Tess, whose mysterious avatar Mania lures Shadowfax into the virtual forest, in much more detail than the stories of the other teens. Like the others, Tess is a troubled young girl with a complicated family background. She dropped out of college and now works in a club as a dancer, not living up to her mother’s expectations. The second episode is particularly revealing about the teenager, as it includes a scene in which her mother takes her to a psychiatrist (Ben Chaplin) who suggests that lithium, a type of medicine used to treat mood disorders, is “the only real answer” (S1/ E2 0: 15) to her disorientated state. The session primarily features close-ups of the three participants, which also brings the viewers closer to the scene. Her mother complains that “all she does is play computer games,” while Tess responds, “It helps. You don’t know how much it helps.” (S1/ E2 0: 15) While her mother’s comment reflects common prejudices of parents towards video games, the viewers know that Tess is not hiding in Azana to blow off steam like the typical gamer but to socialise with like-minded people and engage in rather mundane activities like swimming. Here, the series reinforces the discrepancy between the psychiatrist’s medically-based approach and Tess’ own coping mechanisms for the problems she is facing. Most importantly, however, viewers learn about the underlying trauma Tess is suffering from, that is, an incident in the past when she was “[o]ff her head on MDMA” (S1/ E4 0: 05), commonly known as ecstasy, and failed to call an ambulance when her father suffered a stroke in the garden. 295 The teenager 278 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="279"?> dad. Probably wouldn’t allow that now, would they, Dad? ” (S1/ E4 0: 05). Her comment reads ambivalently, as it is not clear why an interracial couple would not be allowed to adopt, perhaps indicating conservative and discriminating social norms in the fictional society, thus adding to the absent dystopian paradigm of the series. blames herself, and she feels constantly antagonised by her mother, leading her to combat her loneliness not only with her retreat to Red Pill but also with a sexually abusive relationship with a married man through which she claims to find temporary comfort. Like Leila, who feels responsible for her mother’s death, Tess carries a similar burden. These are the personal secrets the players carry around with them - their vulnerabilities that make them susceptible to the manipulation by the lunatic leader of Red Pill. Being a rebel who refuses medication and inpatient monitoring because she fears it will make her ‘normal’ (S1/ E3 0: 02), Tess qualifies as the perfect candidate for Red Pill and gets caught in the dangerous web that Adrian spins for the misfits. Kiss Me First visualises her state of limbo as she repeatedly dives into Red Pill’s lake (e.g., S1/ E1 0: 10) - so deep that she gasps for air (in the virtual and in the physical world through the neckband), reflecting her suicidal ideations. Both Tess and her virtual identity constantly test the limits. The scenes underwater visualise her tendency to inflict pain on herself and the general threat posed by the Red Pill leader. Much earlier than Tess herself, viewers discover a whale-like creature with sharp teeth lurking in the depths of the water (S1/ E2 0: 14; S1/ E3 0: 15). The images of the lake and the water creature read ambivalently. On the one hand, the still water can be associated - just like the woods - with the dual nature of the mother archetype, which is simultaneously nourishing and seducing ( Jung 81-2), pointing to the young adult’s need for guidance and comfort. On the other hand, the giant water creature - “the devouring and entwining animal” (ibid. 82) - evokes a folkloric lake monster that serves as a visual metaphor for Adrian, who encourages the teens to experience extremes to the point of self-harm and death. By using the example of the swimming (and almost drowning) Tess, Kiss Me First underscores the overall disorientation of young adults, conjuring up the characteristics Zygmunt Bauman subscribes to ‘liquid modernity’ in which “change is the only permanence, and uncertainty the only certainty” (Modernity 8-9). The series fittingly abounds in water and forest imagery that illustrates the teenagers’ disorientation and lack of guidance as much as the exploration of their psyche. It becomes clear that Red Pill is a magnet for the young adults for various reasons. It is a safe haven for those struggling with domestic violence, abuse, discrimination, neglect, and a general lack of perspective that is only exacer‐ bated by the complexity of digital culture. The series shows the faces behind 4.2 “What you’re hiding… it’ll come out”: Red Pill and the Unconscious 279 <?page no="280"?> 296 When Leila is changing her clothes, for example, the camera first slowly zooms in on the webcam on her desk and then adopts its perspective, implying that she is being observed in an intimate moment from an unknown location (S1/ E1 0: 07). With the surveillance aesthetics, the series establishes a link between a hostile outside world and the danger of manipulated technologies. The invasion of the protagonist’s privacy within her own four walls undermines the previously established notion of her home as a safe space. their avatars and invites viewers to empathise with their situation, cleverly using the advantages of the serial format, to borrow the words of Lilian Edwards and colleagues, to “create space for more critical reflection than would otherwise have been the case” (3). With these individual but similar backstories, Adrian’s motive sharpens as well. Red Pill becomes a place where the antagonist plants the seeds for a game that plays out in real life, culminating in the young adults’ journey to the actual Red Pill location (see Chapter 4.4 in this analysis). Adrian orchestrates different game levels, instrumentalising the teenagers as players in a ‘real’ game that he observes via cameras around the world. Except for Leila and the viewers, the members of Red Pill do not see through Adrian’s scheme. The fact that they fall so easily prey to a virtual figure who embodies freedom and care shows how desperately they want to leave their troubles behind. The mystery of Red Pill, with its portal entrance through the forest, swaps over to the leader of the group. The enigmas surrounding the figure of Adrian are reinforced by the fact that Kiss Me First denies viewers live-action scenes of him; he only appears as his avatar. Although he remains invisible in the physical world, he is still present. For example, the complex serial dystopia highlights Adrian’s omnipresence by adopting ‘CCTV aesthetics’ (cf. Heinz 85), suggesting that every corner of the physical world accessible through technology repre‐ sents his surveillance territory. This notion emphasises the impression of the physical world as a hostile space, as glimpses through webcams and public cameras hint at the implied danger for the young adults. Next to oscillating between live-action and the CGI scenes, which playfully supports the focus on the human-technology entanglement, this formal feature adds to the dystopian undertone, stressing a general atmosphere of surveillance: occasional blurs and delays on the screen make it clear to the viewers that this is not the regular camera perspective but a CCTV camera or a webcam spying on the characters. 296 Constantly monitoring the young adults, Adrian seizes all available technologies for his own purposes, namely to learn about the weak points of the Azana players in order to recruit them for his deadly multi-player game. 280 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="281"?> 297 This suggestion indicates that Kiss Me First also plays in some ways with notions of methodological individualism, overemphasising individual agency in relation to social phenomena (cf. Spicker 1). The complex serial dystopia negotiates the hyperobject technology through the antagonist and gives a face to the otherwise abstract notion of technology. 297 As Marisa Brandt and Lisa Messeri argue, “Adrian is a reminder of the dangers that come with the anonymity afforded by internet culture” (19). Indeed, the charming but devious leader of the group embodies above all the negative connotations of technology. It is not the Azana Planet that holds dangers, not even Red Pill - but individuals like him who manipulate the technology for their own purposes. Adrian not only incorporates the ‘evil’ of technology but also embodies the more abstract notion of the hyperobject (cf. Morton 1), as he ‘sticks to anything’ the teenagers come into contact with and mediates himself through communication technology. The antagonist is absent and present at the same time, which makes it impossible to grasp his ‘true’ being since neither the viewer nor the characters ever see who is behind him. What is particularly interesting about Adrian’s functions as a placeholder for the evils of technology is that he mediates himself through comparatively old technology such as a radio, a tape recorder, the landline phone, and the receiver in the phone booth. One could argue that such outdated technology is generally at odds with the series’ focus on relatively modern VR technologies. However, the depiction of these old devices seems to serve a function, namely to underscore that the threat posed by technology has been inherent in techno‐ logical development since its inception. When Nelson calls it “a shame that the show spends so much time focused on the sinister machinations of the group’s leader […] because the more mundane scenes about virtual communities are far more compelling,” she fails to acknowledge that putting Adrian centre stage helps the complex serial dystopia deliver a timeless perspective of technology that is personal and relatable. This timelessness underscores the complex serial dystopia’s oscillation between the materialised and the abstract notions of technology. In sum, Kiss Me First offers a kaleidoscopic view of the teenagers’ lived realities against the backdrop of the potentials and dangers of technology. The series translates the multi-player online game into a multi-perspective character portrayal, centrifugally expanding across the series. In so doing, the series refuses to portray the virtual sphere one-dimensionally and defies stereotypes about gamers by showing how they retreat into the virtual world not out of sheer amusement but out of necessity. At the same time, the representation of VR offers material for the discussion of the unconscious, the repressed, and, 4.2 “What you’re hiding… it’ll come out”: Red Pill and the Unconscious 281 <?page no="282"?> above all, the burdens and desires of young adults. The complex serial dystopia thus takes a refreshing and ultimately more sincere approach to the subject of video games than most examples in audio-visual culture. 4.3 Coming of Age in Digital Culture: Leila’s Solitary Quest The overall plot structure of Kiss Me First oscillates between Leila’s point of view and the lives of the various characters, highlighting the notion of interdependence both between the young adults and people and technology at large. While Azana Planet is initially presented (and promoted by the company) as a place of freedom, it turns out to be a dangerous trap for teenagers struggling with psychological disorders. As Brandt and Messeri point out, “[w]hereas at the beginning of the series, the virtual world seems to be a site of connection and healing, by the series end we see that the same technology that can bring health can also bring harm” (19). Kiss Me First spreads an unsettling undertone through the antagonist’s opaque motives, but this does not mute the idea of the virtual world as a space of connection for the characters. This is especially the case with the subplot that unfolds between the two female protagonists, Leila and Tess, whose friendship begins in the VR and intensifies in the real world. The complex serial dystopia deliberately puts the developing bond between the two girls centre stage to negotiate the struggles of what Noreena Hertz has called ‘Generation K’ - an entire generation named after Katniss Everdeen, the heroine of The Hunger Games (2008-2010) trilogy. Hertz argues that members of this generation, “[l]ike Katniss, […] feel the world they inhabit is one of perpetual struggle - dystopian, unequal and harsh,” pointing out that “Generation K is far lonelier than we might realise and yearns for connection, virtual or physical.” Kiss Me First traces Leila and Tess’ yearning for connection as their bond evolves beyond the virtual sphere. At the heart of the narrative is the heroine’s attempt to save others from the villain’s plan while undergoing a character transformation, thus transposing elements of an ancient coming-of-age tale to the challenges of young adults in digital culture. Leila’s qualities as a heroine do not unfold on their own but only emerge with regard to the overarching relational structure of the series, especially through her friendship with Tess. Kiss Me First initially focuses on Tess’ outgoing personality to contrast it with Leila’s introversion. Just as her avatar Mania (a telling name that underscores her psychological condition of unreasonable euphoria and intense moods) introduces Shadowfax to new realms of the virtual sphere, Tess encourages Leila to explore new realms of 282 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="283"?> physical reality, convincing her to join her for an evening at the dance club. The scene in the club, and particularly the dynamic that unfolds between Leila and Tess, reminds viewers of the couple in Black Mirror’s “San Junipero” (S3/ E4) - two completely different characters who similarly bump into each other in a virtual world and quickly become fond of each other (cf. Starkey). However, the impression that Tess is an extrovert fades in the second episode when she confesses to Leila: “I get a little unreliable now and then. […] I have up days and down days. Sometimes, up weeks and down weeks. […] People get tired of me.” (S1/ E1 0: 10) By implication, the series highlights Leila’s risky investment in this physical friendship - compared to a relatively non-binding relationship “with a virtual friend we enter and exit with a click” (Bruni 123, emphasis added; see also Chambers). Although Tess (and all others, like her family members and friends) self-critically warns Leila against a deeper friendship with her, Leila argues that she does not “tire easily” (S1/ E2 0: 12), which underpins her righteous role as the heroine of this complex serial dystopia. The protagonist believes in Tess despite her flaws, which forms the very basis of the heroine’s quest. The complex serial dystopia introduces Tess as a charming but careless character with psychopathic tendencies, as she has difficulty empathising with other people’s feelings and is not ashamed to lie to her family. She (like the other teens) desperately needs an anchor in her life, a role that Leila is willing to take on. Throughout the series, there is romantic tension between the two girls, but it never fully develops and remains in the realm of the unspoken. In particular, the camera angles and close-ups repeatedly suggest a high level of intimacy between them. For example, the camera zooms in when Tess puts her earrings on Leila and convinces her that she is pretty (S1/ E1 0: 33), or when they undress in front of each other and lie half-naked together in bed, talking about random things but also about their problems, hopes, and fears. The over-the-shoulder shots heighten the level of intimacy and place viewers directly in the scene (see Fig. 4e and 4 f), demonstrating not only that the two girls simply enjoy their physical togetherness but also allowing viewers to become important listeners to their problems. The fact that Kiss Me First does not spell out precisely what it is that ties Leila and Tess together creates confusion but shows how the complex serial dystopia expresses Generation K’s overall yearning for connection. While the anticipated love plot remains chronically interstitial, meaning that viewers wait in vain for a concrete moment in which the two girls reveal themselves as lovers, some critics find fault with how quickly the protagonists develop a bond in the first place. Nguyen, for instance, criticises the lack of context and the overambitious connection between the two teens, arguing that “it would’ve been nice to actually feel the girls’ friendship and budding 4.3 Coming of Age in Digital Culture: Leila’s Solitary Quest 283 <?page no="284"?> connection instead of having it be assumed after one night of dance club debauchery.” Similarly, Wulf Bengsch criticises the way Kiss Me First simply assumes a trust between the girls and portrays a connection that seems to develop too hastily, for example, when Tess suddenly stands in front of Leila’s door seeking shelter (S1/ E2 0: 24). The negotiation of their relationship in the unspoken indeed raises more questions than answers but can be plausibly explained by their loneliness and disorientation. Whether they are in love or simply friends, it is the connection and resonance that the young adults long for. Thus, when the series omits explicit information and avoids following established tropes and character developments of the YA genre, it sets itself apart from escapist fiction that allows one to ‘lean back’ and consume a predictable narrative. By constantly oscillating between friendship and love, and thus keeping the nature of their relationship ambiguous, the series challenges viewers’ need for definite categories (like love or friendship) and encourages them to abandon simplified patterns of sense-making. Kiss Me First plays with binaries in a metamodern way, as demonstrated by the series’ overall oscillation between friendship and love, physical and virtual reality. Fig. 4e: Tess puts her earrings on Leila, encouraging her to be more confident (S1/ E1 0: 34). - Fig. 4f: The young adults enjoy their togetherness, talking about their hopes and fears (S1/ E1-0: 36). In addition to the only vague assumptions that viewers can make about the relationship between the two girls, Kiss Me First tinges their bond with the antagonist’s plan, as the manipulative power Adrian wields over the Red Pill members is explicitly conveyed through Tess. She constantly mentions Adrian in conversations with Leila, which makes viewers doubt whether she is actually interested in Leila as a person or has been recruited by the Red Pill leader to form a bond with her. For example, Tess repeatedly speaks of Adrian as her saviour and tries to convince Leila that “[e]verything is gonna get better now” (S1/ E1 0: 26) and that she, too, needs “someone who’s not gonna judge” (S1/ E1 0: 34). Words like these strike Leila deeply, given the complicity in her mother’s death. Tess is convinced, “One day we’re all gonna meet up. All of Red Pill. Like, 284 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="285"?> really together. There is a place somewhere. Adrian says we can go there if ever things get too shit. We just have to say.” (S1/ E2 0: 35) Through Tess, viewers learn about Adrian’s promises, which boils down to a real heavenly place where the ‘sins’ of all Red Pill members will allegedly be forgiven (see Chapter 4.4 in this analysis). As he himself puts it, “It’s rapturous. And we’re all going there.” (S1/ E4 0: 20) While Tess falls for this promise much more easily than Leila due to her psychological instability, the counter-narrative gathers momentum as Leila’s quest now has a clear purpose, namely to expose the promised utopia as false and to prevent the remaining Red Pill members, particularly Tess, from making fatal decisions by following Adrian’s orders. It is precisely the contrast to the naïve Tess that reinforces Leila’s function as the critical mouthpiece of the series. Kiss Me First follows Leila’s development from a quiet, introverted character to a strong heroine, supported by the self-confidence she already shows through her avatar Shadowfax. Gradually, she “take[s] on her online persona” (Sweney), becoming more confident in her actions and thus more determined in her mission of exposing the misconduct of people in her immediate environment. For example, Leila confronts her co-worker stealing money from the café, breaks up with Tess’ abusive boyfriend Connor on her behalf, comforts people like Cyril’s mother, and generally becomes more open and audacious, as reflected by her kissing her roommate Jonty. Leila builds her agency in the physical world through her online identity Shadowfax and grows stronger with each setback, unlike the other teens whose agency seems limited to the virtual sphere and completely controlled by Adrian. Leila’s growing determination to fight for justice and ‘truth’ is visually expressed when she confidently walks down the suburban streets (S1/ E3 0: 33), reminiscent of the solitary quest of the protagonist in Mr. Robot, who equally expands his agency gradually from smallto larger-scale projects. The complex serial dystopia draws on archetypal storytelling when it sets the scene for the protagonist’s adventure after Tess goes missing. The disappearance of her friend urges her to take on her mission but without being sent off by supporting family members, as is usually the case in traditional quest narratives (cf. Propp 25-7). Kiss Me First updates the quest motif (to stick to the intertextual references, e.g., Frodo Baggin’s quest for the One Ring) to the digital age by sending Leila on a mission for the base protocol box, which contains the basic algorithms of Azana Planet she needs to expose Adrian’s evil agenda. The protagonist’s determination reflects what Hertz describes as the characteristics of Generation K, which “feels anxious and threatened - emotions heightened by its strong attachment to technologies such as smartphones - but also 4.3 Coming of Age in Digital Culture: Leila’s Solitary Quest 285 <?page no="286"?> 298 Like most of the characters in Kiss Me First, Mr. Adams is conceived as an ambivalent character. The viewers learn that he no longer works for the school, and he looks at Leila in suspicious ways (S1/ E2 0: 23), making the audience wonder whether he has dangerous intentions when he offers Leila ‘help.’ Although he turns out to be a helper in disguise, the divergence between the first impression and the actual development of his character is another example of how the complex serial dystopia flaunts viewers’ expectations. 299 When the webcam in her room starts blinking again, the now confident Leila turns to face Adrian directly and calls out his presence by looking directly into the camera (S1/ E3 0: 23). desperate to stand out and hugely concerned with fairness and inequality” (“Bad Romance”). Particularly Leila’s concern with issues that are beyond herself (at a relatively young age) shows that the series, as the Kiss Me First creator puts it, “is an attempt at taking a very personal view of what one young woman might do if she felt that forces of evil were abroad and around her and pressing in on her, and how she reasserts her principles, her sense of what’s right, her sense of truth” (“Bad Romance”). Elsley then adds, “[f]rom an optimistic point of view, […] that’s what young people are about these days” (ibid.). Despite the attempt to reflect the sentiment of a young target audience by adapting the traditional quest motif to the digital age, Kiss Me First failed to create wider resonance. Yet, the series negotiates the solitary quest of a young protagonist in a way that should not be dismissed because it shows the inner mechanisms of a digital culture in which legal forces have become powerless. For example, when Leila asks her old math teacher, Mr. Adams (Mark Straker), for help in decrypting the secret VR, he strongly advises her to go to the police because the Azana code “isn’t hackable. They made Azana impregnable. You need source algorithms. And I doubt very much anyone would give them to you.” (S1/ E3 0: 19) He initially encourages her to abandon her mission for her own safety, although he ends up helping Leila hacking Azana (S1/ E4 0: 07). The subplot between the protagonist and her old teacher provides viewers with further insights into Leila’s capabilities (i.e., hacking) and her suspicions, namely that Adrian is doing “bad things” (S1/ E3 0: 17) not only in Red Pill but also in real life. 298 Above all, the series alludes here to the failure of legal bodies, such as the police, to investigate and solve crimes that originate in the virtual sphere. Leila seems to be fighting an invisible enemy who is simultaneously present and absent and thus risks others declaring her mad. The fact that CCTV cameras are recording her steps (e.g., S1/ E3 0: 45), however, suggests that Adrian is following her every move and that the threat is real. 299 One of the stops during Leila’s quest is the residence of Azana’s inventor Ruth Palmer, where she hopes to get her hands on Azana’s source algorithms. 286 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="287"?> 300 Later in the series, Palmer again denies the intersection of physical reality and the virtual world, telling Tess, “I think the world’s very strange these days, don’t you? Somehow, we’ve arrived where anything can seem true.” (S1/ E6 0: 07) Here the series points to what has become known as ‘post-truth,’ generally defined as “relating to a situation in which people are more likely to accept an argument based on their emotions and beliefs, rather than one based on facts” (Cambridge Dictionary), as she dismisses the young adult’s investigation as one guided by emotions rather than objective facts. 301 Palmer’s awkward behaviour can also be explained by the fact that she wants to protect her son Adrian. It turns out that she knows about Red Pill: when Leila is dismissed by her, the camera focuses on a glass front in her house (S1/ E4 0: 35), projecting a miniature world of Azana, which indicates that she is closely observing anything that happens in the VR as well. This scene is important as it provides viewers with further valuable background information about the dystopian premise of the diegetic reality. The heroine tracks down Palmer to inform her that people are dying, asking her to intervene as she is the only one with access to the source codes. However, Adrian’s mother does not take Leila’s concern seriously, arguing that “[e]veryone kills in Azana. Seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time.” (S1/ E4 0: 23) Her comment shows that she dismisses Leila as a delusional teenager, but it also entails some reflection about her own invention with regard to the violence happening in the virtual world. 300 Interestingly, viewers learn that Palmer has adopted a simple lifestyle after successfully appealing her manslaughter conviction against her husband and business partner (which is never explained and remains an enigma). As she shows Leila around her house, she explains, “I live here now. I garden, I read mushy novels and philosophy. And occasionally, I pretend to do yoga with some lovely ladies from the village.” (S1/ E4 0: 22) Her calm demeanour is suspicious not only to Leila but also to the attentive viewer. In particular, the fact that she “pretend[s] to do yoga” suggests that her spiritual lifestyle is merely a façade. Palmer’s alleged withdrawal from the modern technologized world seems implausible, considering that she is the face behind the most successful entertainment technology in the fictional society. As she reveals: “There’s no phone, no Internet, no television, radio. My world is a simple one, Leila. This is how I live now.” (S1/ E4 0: 23) Her individual utopia away from modern society seems to be feigned rather than a genuine retreat and underscores the dystopian paradigm of the series as a neoliberal society in which everyone only looks out for themselves. Nevertheless, Palmer ends up supporting Leila’s quest for justice and ‘truth’ by later sending her a package that contains Azana’s base protocol. 301 Throughout the protagonist’s quest, Kiss Me First negotiates the notion of a single truth (to be unearthed by the heroine) against the backdrop of multiple truth claims. The villain repeatedly bends perspectives by making the members 4.3 Coming of Age in Digital Culture: Leila’s Solitary Quest 287 <?page no="288"?> of Red Pill believe that people have been dying since Leila came into the picture. For example, Adrian convinces Tess that it is Leila who is spoiling the imminent manifestation of the Red Pill utopia in the physical world by claiming: “Shadowfax took your login. Phished your profile. Look what she did for Calumny.” (S1/ E4 0: 20) The fact that Leila actually did use Tess’ avatar at that moment and (unknowingly) encouraged Calumny to jump is heart-breaking information for Tess, who trusted Leila as a friend. The complex serial dystopia constantly asks viewers to observe the narrative unfolding as different versions of truth collide, encouraging them to practice the art of perspective-taking and thus offering a eudemonic viewing experience that makes viewers aware of their own cognitive processes when it comes to rooting for or against the characters. Ultimately, Leila (much like Adrian) functions as a mediator between two otherwise separate spheres: she is the reason why decisions made in the virtual sphere take effect in the diegetic reality and vice versa. The complex serial dys‐ topia succeeds in constantly shifting the boundaries between VR and physical reality, between the avatars and the people behind them, suggesting that the two spheres continuously influence each other. The playful blending of the two spheres proves to be a rewarding narrative technique that “warns of dangerous developments without wagging its moral finger too much” (Armknecht, my translation). To visualise this interdependence, the series uses animation in the otherwise grounded setting, such as the unusually large reflection of planets in the sky, playfully expressing the young adult’s perspective from which the virtual and physical world gradually merge. Similarly, the musical theme blends upbeat piano music with dissonant chords, oscillating between the impression of beauty and danger when it comes to the fusion of VR and physical reality. Although the heroine’s worldview and suspicions constantly clash with those of the young adults who are in denial about Adrian’s evil ventures, the underlying bond between Leila and Tess, which purposefully hints at a type of a relationship beyond labels, constantly maintains a utopian enclave in the series. Despite the villain’s manipulation, their relationship is ultimately one of mutual care and acceptance. Leila is the only one who genuinely cares about Tess’ well-being, believes in her despite her ‘abnormal’ behaviour, supports her by paying her rent, and rescues her from an abusive relationship. It does not take long for Tess to realise that Leila is “keeping [her] alive” (S1/ E2 0: 32) even though Adrian’s cryptic promises, such as “[s]omething better is coming” (S1/ E4 0: 20), constantly challenge their bond. Overall, the protagonist’s quest is set in a world in which legal forces have a hard time managing the complexity of technology. Kiss Me First presents technology as neither good nor bad nor neutral (cf. Kranzberg 545). The complex 288 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="289"?> serial dystopia plays with different views of technology, evoking technological determinism by suggesting that the Azana Planet becomes a determining factor in the young adults’ lives. It also alludes to social constructivism by fore‐ grounding Adrian as an evil manipulator of technology. And finally, it negotiates technology as a hyperobject that is intricately linked to the broader neoliberal network logic of digital culture. Skilfully negotiating humanity’s entanglement with technology, Kiss Me First presents Azana as both an intensifier of pain and comfort in the young adult’s lives. Interestingly, when asked whether the virtual world helps or exacerbates the characters’ isolation, the creator of the Kiss Me First replied, I actually don’t think it changes anything. I think that loneliness and isolation and alienation are a big part of growing up. And I think loneliness isn’t spoken about nearly enough, and is little understood in a world where everyone seems so connected and everything is so immediate, and it’s so easy to talk to people. I don’t think that that necessarily changes the fact that young people - and indeed older people - don’t know where to put themselves in the world. And that is something that I’m very happy to write about. (“Kiss Me First: Interview”) Elsley’s response shows that Kiss Me First is concerned with portraying what is really at stake in digital culture, namely the isolation and loneliness of young adults, rather than getting caught up in negotiating categories and binaries of good and evil. The complex serial dystopia finds a language for a sincere negotiation of the human-technology entanglement in the YA genre, with a morally ambivalent heroine whose investigations lead to a more challenging, eudemonic viewing experience than is the case with more conventional YA dramas offered in the contemporary TV and streaming landscape. Kiss Me First constructs VR as “both a site of healing and harm” (Brandt and Messeri), and the social commentary on digital culture extends to the physical sphere of the teenagers. Despite Adrian’s role as the embodied danger of the virtual space, the antagonist does not silence the underlying notion that VR holds utopian potentials, as evidenced by the young adults’ deep friendship that becomes the backbone of hope in their troubled lives. 4.4 From Utopia to Eutopia: False Promises and the Infinite Deferral of Utopia Kiss Me First offers a snapshot of a bleak YA dystopia in digital culture and, at the same time, taps into different notions of utopia as it oscillates between physical 4.4 From Utopia to Eutopia: False Promises and the Infinite Deferral of Utopia 289 <?page no="290"?> reality and the virtual world. The underlying utopian impulse that lingers throughout the narrative emanates primarily from the young adult’s affection and mutual care for one another. Yet, the complex serial dystopia also directly negotiates the concrete notion of utopia as a ‘good place’ that does not (yet) exist, playing with utopia’s semantic tension between “the affirmation of a possibility and the negation of its fulfilment” (Vieira 6; cf. also Bloch, Principle 13). This negotiation manifests when the virtual world of Azana fades as a point of reference towards the end of the series. The action now takes place primarily in the diegetic physical world as the characters prepare to meet up in person at a place Adrian has prepared for all members of Red Pill. The antagonist’s overall influence rests upon what could be called a perpetually ‘postponed utopia,’ which he repeatedly draws upon throughout the series. Cryptic promises, such as “[c]hange is coming,” (S1/ E3 0: 28), “[t]here is a destination, Mania. We’ll get there. Soon. You’ll find your place” (S1/ E3 0: 28), or “[h]appiness will come” (S1/ E4 0: 03), lure the vulnerable teenagers into his scheme. The young adults’ anticipation of an actual place where they will not be judged of their past misdeeds seems crucial to them, as it gives them hope that they can escape their dystopian realities at last. For example, Tess abandons not only her friend Leila but also her family, announcing that she is going away, “[s]omewhere [she]’ll be better” (S1/ E4 0: 29). With manipulative closed questions, like “Don’t you want to be pure? ” (S1/ E5 0: 41), Adrian takes on the role of a spiritual adviser who sells the ‘real’ Red Pill as the ultimate destination free from suffering, deeming the young adult’s journey a necessity to survive. However, his assertions about the destination remain strategically vague; the teens do not know when they will go there or where this place is, leading the audience to assume that it might not actually exist. Kiss Me First thus channels the viewers’ attention to the nexus between utopianism as ‘social dreaming,’ - “the dreams and nightmares that concern the ways in which groups of people arrange their lives and which usually envision a radically different society than the one in which the dreamers live” (Sargent, “Three Faces” 3) - and ‘eutopia’ as an actual good place, before undermining the latter by exposing Red Pill as a fake eutopia where the antagonist’s envisioned game plays out in physical reality. It is particularly interesting that Kiss Me First explores how the virtual utopia manifests as an actual place rather than discarding utopia as a virtual construct. This negotiation takes place in the episode “The Witch is Coming” (S1/ E5) - a title that once again points to a maternal archetype, this time with negative connotations and heralding Leila’s intervention-- which introduces Red Pill as a real place. The episode fittingly stands out from all other episodes in terms 290 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="291"?> of the colour scheme, as the scene opens with a bright, calm establishing shot with the sun shimmering on the blue water as Tess arrives floating on a boat. Tomiko (Haruka Abe), known as Tippi in Red Pill, welcomes her at the wooden dock. The island constitutes the destination of the young adults, the safe haven they reach after a turbulent journey through life. At the place where the utopia is supposed to manifest itself and materialise, the two players behind Mania and Tippi meet in person for the first time. The moment of recognition is prolonged as the camera lingers on Tomiko, who touches Tess in fascination as she realises that Tess is prettier than she thought (S1/ E5 0: 02). She had already been waiting for Tess and shows her the way to the mansion, where Tess asks what her real name is, and she replies, “I’m Tippi and you’re Mania. We made it.” (S1/ E5 0: 03) Tomiko uses the avatars’ names instead of their real names, suggesting that they have arrived at the ‘real’ Red Pill where only their avatar identities matter. Adrian, so it seems, has delivered his promise of a peaceful place in the form of a seaside villa where real names, and therefore real identities, and real problems can be left behind. This is where the social dreaming of the Red Pill members and the antagonist’s promises coincide and allegedly materialise. The arrival by boat underscores the early notion of utopia as an island, as in Thomas More’s Utopia (1516) or Francis Bacon’s The New Atlantis (1626). The island in this episode, metaphorically speaking, creates the setting of an isolated, remote place away from civilisation and technology. This seemingly pre-technological space conjures up, ex negativo, a technological determinism that “moralize[s] about the present by holding it up against an idyllic past when we had real connections to one another through face-to-face contact” (Roderick 123). The camera captures this idyllic atmosphere by constantly adjusting its focus, switching from blur to sharpness and thus affording a tension between background and foreground (S1/ E5 0: 04). These formal devices reinforce the dreamlike atmosphere of Red Pill. However, they can also be read symbolically - as a visual language to complement the modus operandi of the series, which focuses (sharply) on the individual’s perspective and only vaguely (blurrily) on the broader social background. In contrast to the sense of tranquillity and peacefulness this episode conveys, the dissonant soundtrack 4.4 From Utopia to Eutopia: False Promises and the Infinite Deferral of Utopia 291 <?page no="292"?> 302 In search of the room Adrian has assigned to her, Tess - followed by the camera - explores the spacious villa, its white curtains fluttering peacefully back and forth in the windows due to the sea breeze. In the room, she finds a bright pastel-coloured plain dress he has prepared for her to wear, symbolising lightness and purity. Every room in the mansion is labelled with the names of the Red Pill members; fresh food is served in abundance on the table, and the refrigerator is full. These details show how well Adrian had prepared their arrival. again indicates that something is amiss, foreshadowing the dangerous situation the teenagers find themselves in. 302 The notion of technology resurfaces in this natural idyll again through Adrian, who has seized power over the few technological devices left in this place away from the turmoil of the modern city. The antagonist appears here primarily in the form of an old radio device but also through the voice-overs that penetrate the viewers’ screen. When the peaceful villa surrounded by palm trees comes into focus, it is his voice that introduces the viewers to the scene, and he seems to address them directly: “[…] consider how it would be if it were all possible. If you weren’t lost, buried in your stupid life. But making it, shaping and moulding it until you had everything you deserve. And you were loved as you should be.” (S1/ E5 0: 01) Through his charming voice, the antagonist makes Red Pill tempting even for the audience. The promise of purity and the good life that he strategically attributes to the site of Red Pill becomes an enticing invitation to the spectator. However, although the voice-over stirs in the viewers a desire for a joyful life, free from any form of exploitation, it also activates their critical reflection, as viewers have learned to share Leila’s scepticism towards a utopia that always seems to be conditional. Although Red Pill is indeed ‘real’ in terms of its geographical existence, it is not real in the sense of a refuge - a genuine eutopian place for the young adults. Most importantly, however, the episode contains a revealing flashback that finally gives viewers more background information on Adrian. In an old video, he is portrayed celebrating his birthday as a young boy in the holiday home in Croatia, located directly in the Krka National Park, which is known for its impressive flora and fauna. In the background of the birthday footage, the characteristic waterfalls familiar to viewers from the CGI scenes of Red Pill can be noticed (S1/ E5 0: 50; see Fig. 4g), suggesting that Red Pill is, in fact, his family’s vacation home. The distinct utopian impression of the island is further highlighted when Adrian’s voice-over explains: “Everything’s a fraud. The world’s fucked up. Lunatics are in charge now. But think about it some more. Life is just an adventure playground.” (S1/ E5 0: 46) Viewers learn more about Adrian’s worldview through his voice-over and the footage, which shows him as a young boy in close proximity to technology (in front of the computer), 292 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="293"?> 303 In a later scene (S1/ E5 0: 10), the audience learns that Tess never handed over her passport but hid it, implying that she was not yet ready to trust this place or give up her identity. suggesting that he was a child prodigy interested in programming from an early age. The young Adrian’s blank eyes looking directly at the camera suggest a certain apathy and dissatisfaction. These insights leave no doubt that Ruth Palmer instrumentalised her own son to develop Azana and then took credit for it while abandoning him. The antagonist’s aversion to the world seems to have grown over the years along with his programming skills, which eventually enabled him to code Red Pill - an alternate virtual place where he has full control. Utopia, here in the manifestation of Red Pill, has been constructed by Adrian quite literally as “the game and prey for lone rangers” (Bauman, Life-152). Here, at the latest, it becomes clear to the viewers that the villa functions as a playground for his multiplayer game, the premise of which he has staged in the virtual sphere. Fig. 4g: Tess stands mesmerised in front of the ‘real’ Red Pill (S1/ E5 0: 14). - Fig. 4h: Tippi helps Tess burn her belongings and explains that one of the rules is to take a red pill every day (S1/ E5 0: 07). Kiss Me First presents Adrian as physically absent but present through tech‐ nology such as an old radio and a tape recorder. Following his orders, Tomiko announces that it is time to burn Tess’ belongings (see Fig. 4h), including her money and passport. As the bonfire flares up, the camera catches Tomiko smiling at Tess, stating, “[n]ow you’re really here” (S1/ E5 0: 07), signifying that Tess is about to free herself from the burden of the past. 303 Tomiko explains that there are a “few simple rules” as she pulls a red pill out of a jar. She holds it up and says, “Take one every day.” (S1/ E5 0: 07) In this scene, the notion of Red Pill is paired with yet another meaning, namely a real ‘red pill’ - a sedative drug that makes the young adults more compliant to Adrian’s demands, which already shows effect in Tomiko: “All we have to do is believe. […] I’m so happy. The others will be here soon. We’ll all be happy.” (S1/ E5 0: 08) What distorts this 4.4 From Utopia to Eutopia: False Promises and the Infinite Deferral of Utopia 293 <?page no="294"?> 304 The parallel storyline in the fifth episode mixes Leila’s quest with a young-adult road trip, following Leila and Kyle on their journey to Red Pill. However, the otherwise light-hearted idea of a road trip is interrupted by Leila’s distrust of Kyle and the urgency of the situation, namely to save Tess. This storyline contains several references to CGI scenes from earlier episodes. For example, when they take shelter in a barn in the woods, Adrian’s voice appears from the forest, “Hello Shadowfax” (S1/ E5 0: 25), reminiscent of the forest scene in Azana, and when Kyle puts his hands on Leila’s neck, she gasps for air, similar to when the players are wearing the illegal neckband (S1/ E5 0: 26). Adrian is omnipresent during their journey, as he rings the phone booth and communicates via the GPS unit in the car. alleged happiness is the sense of exclusivity that Adrian has instilled in the girls and their longing for the chance to finally meet him in person. With its reference to the literal red pill, meaning the drug Adrian tells the young girls to take, the series shifts the dreamlike atmosphere (and thus the positive connotation of social dreaming) into a sedating, chemically induced blurred vision of disorientation. It thus comes as no surprise that when Leila arrives at Red Pill, she finds a cognitively absent Tess sitting at the table eating lunch. 304 The heroine says, “Tess. It’s me. Leila. Friend. You need to come with me now because something terrible’s going to happen here. It’s not real. He’s drugging you […]” (S1/ E5 0: 35). In her sedated state of mind, Tess rejects Leila’s suggestion to leave, arguing that she has found her place. In vain, Leila tries to warn Tess that Adrian is going to kill everyone “just for the fun of it” (S1/ E5 0: 34). Interestingly, Leila refrains from referring to her as ‘Mania’ in the hope of reminding Tess of her identity and rootedness in the physical world. At the same time, Tomiko continues to use the avatars’ names in her communication, demonstrating the teenager’s far advanced self-alienation. Although the young adults are already physically present at Red Pill (and thus seem to have reached their destination), Adrian continues to defer the utopia and attaches further conditions to its manifestation. This “deferral of the moment of utopian fulfilment” (Cavalcanti 64) shows when he tells Tomiko, for instance, “how precious you are to me. So precious. All of this was so I could be near to you. And I am now. But… there’s something quite big I need you to do first.” (S1/ E5 0: 39) The realisation of Red Pill is always (just) imminent and comes with a series of demands, conjuring up once again the underlying quest motif of this complex serial dystopia. The complex serial dystopia then turns the place of harmony into an arena of competition. Adrian is in contact with both Tess and Tomiko individually and simultaneously. Just like in the virtual world, he makes each of them feel unique and compliments them on their courage to leave their old lives behind. For example, Tess believes she is chosen and special (S1/ E5 0: 38), 294 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="295"?> and now feels that Leila was only a test she had to pass, dismissing their friendship as practically insubstantial and instrumental. Similarly, Adrian tells Tomiko to “stop the witch” (S1/ E5 0: 18), that is, Leila, who intervenes in the alleged manifestation of their dreams. The antagonist successfully pits the teens against each other, as each one of them wants to be his only special person, which in turn metaphorically underscores the young adults’ need for guidance, recognition, and care. As the atmosphere in the villa heats up and Tess gradually becomes sedated, Adrian’s voice-over reintroduces the gaming aspect of the series directly into the scenes unfolding in the physical world: Most games are complete shit these days. Badly coded cynical crap. Half the time, you’re just walking through it like an obedient moron. It’s all so routine. No. A real game is something you’re not sure you can actually win. Otherwise, where’s the fun? Otherwise, what the fuck is our existence all about? A boring drone trudge towards oblivion. What we need is meaning. To play for something you might actually not want to lose. Like, for instance, your sanity. Your friends. Your life. (S1/ E5 0: 30) The voice-over finally gives viewers an idea of Adrian’s underlying motivations behind Red Pill, namely to create “meaning” in a meaningless world where everything is “so routine.” His translation of an otherwise harmless virtual game into a “real game” in the physical world, where words and actions have consequences, is strongly reminiscent of the general ludification of culture recently explored in TV series, such as Squid Game (2021-). Here, the old, rich tycoon Oh Il-Nam (O Yeong-su) attempts to create meaning (primarily for himself out of boredom) by hosting a competition in which players risk their lives and sanity for a large cash prize playing children’s games. Similarly, Adrian does not kill the players himself, but he creates the framework in which the players compete and eventually kill each other. He creates an arena free from coercion, merely offering the Azana players an alternate virtual reality. Given their difficult life circumstances, however, it is questionable whether the young adults truly have a choice whether or not to engage in this game of life and death. The antagonist’s game in Kiss Me First is not built on a cash prize but on the teenagers’ need for resonance. Adrian fuels the players’ sense of competition and desire to win the game by narcissistically promising himself as a reward, which metaphorically harbours the needed care and acceptance that the young adults are looking for. Conceptually, the competition among the players arises from the relative notion of truth. For example, Adrian strongly leads Tomiko to believe that Leila is responsible for the deaths of Calumny and Denier because she has already “offed” (S1/ E5 0: 34) her own mother. Indeed, although Leila 4.4 From Utopia to Eutopia: False Promises and the Infinite Deferral of Utopia 295 <?page no="296"?> 305 As discussed, on the one hand, it looks like Leila is responsible for the deaths; especially Tomiko lacks the multi-perspectivity that only viewers have access to. On the other hand, the audience knows that Leila only reluctantly followed her mother’s wish and that she tried to save the other members of Red Pill instead of driving them to suicide. 306 The scene shows Leila brutally attacking Kyle with a knife underwater (S1/ E5 0: 45), underscoring that she stops at nothing to save her friend while also questioning her role as a righteous heroine. has been established as the moral compass of the series, she remains a morally grey heroine. 305 Tomiko and now even Tess consider her to be the villain who spoils the manifestation of Red Pill. In vain, Leila tries to explain to Tomiko, “We’re messed up. Lonely. Vulnerable. That’s why he chooses us! ” (S1/ E5 0: 36). But she refuses: “Your truth doesn’t count.” (S1/ E5 0: 36) Kiss Me First’s ludic narrative plays out on different versions of ‘truth,’ demonstrating how Adrian uses this grey zone to antagonise the players against Leila. Here, the series’ Red-Pill metaphor again references The Matrix through the tension between life-changing truth and ignorance. One of the most interesting scenes that expose the promised utopia as fake is based on the complex serial dystopia’s strategy to simulate the CGI sequences of Red Pill that viewers know from earlier live-action scenes. When Adrian asks Leila, “All good games have an intro. Don’t they? It’s multiplayer combat with a tactical twist. Go to the window. This level has commenced.” (S1/ E5 0: 42), she realises that Tess is in imminent danger. Simultaneously, she spots her friend heading to the Red Pill waterfalls, where the misfits used to meet in VR. Adrian’s comment suggests that the young adults have unknowingly already played different levels of his game. The previous actions have been part of the “intro,” and the players are now entering the “multiplayer combat.” And indeed, as Leila follows Tess once again through the symbolic forest, she is attacked by Tomiko with a knife. What follows is a real combat scene between the two girls, marked by a specific dissonance resulting from the violent fight that takes place in the otherwise calm natural atmosphere, aesthetically underlined by violin music and the warm rays of the sunset in the forest (S1/ E5 0: 43). It comes as no surprise that Kiss Me First also returns to the scene of Tess deep diving in the lake (S1/ E5 0: 44). This real-life scene blends in with the earlier CGI sequences, except that here the monstrous aquatic creature turns into Kyle, who suddenly enters the arena. Although Kyle’s motives for attacking Tess remain unexplained and confuse the audience, the ensuing underwater fight shows Leila’s firm determination to save her friend from Adrian’s deadly combat game. 306 However, the heroine’s overall intervention was anticipated by Adrian all along, and it is here where Kiss Me First shifts the entire narrative 296 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="297"?> 307 See Bengsch, who argues that this shift back into the alternate society does the series a disservice because it dilutes the carefully established contrast between reality and VR. Nevertheless, as Nelson notes, Kiss Me First is “a realistic portrayal of how sometimes the most significant things people seek or get out of playing have nothing to do with the game itself ”. perspective from the heroine’s point of view to the villain’s perspective that now overrides all previous actions of the characters. One could even go so far as to say that Leila had no agency at all, as Adrian seems to have predetermined most of her choices. Typical of a complex serial dystopia, the series manages to shift the perspective of the entire series in hindsight - from a troubled young teenager to a lunatic puppet master hosting a deadly multi-player game in the physical world. While the series had a strong focus on VR initially, the setting drifts more into the diegetic physical world by the end of the season. 307 Nevertheless, the gaming aspect still remains in focus. Although the confusion among viewers seems to reach its peak when the young adults meet at Red Pill, the negotiation of gaming persists through the antagonist and his view of the world as a playground. At this point of seemingly greatest confusion, Kiss Me First makes clear gestures about the conceptual links between utopia, escapism, and gaming. According to Miłosz Markocki, digital games are a vehicle for players to change the dystopia to utopia or vice versa, while “viewers can only observe visions of utopian or dystopian societies” (123, emphasis added) in media like films and series. Adrian incorporates this playful agency by creating a solipsistic utopia for himself in which he functions as the grand game master. With a utopian framework at the heart of this complex serial dystopia, the confusing mystery of many of the series’ plot elements is thus best understood as the manifestation of a ludic interface with gaps that serve a specific purpose. As Mark J. P. Wolf puts it, “[d]eliberate gaps, enigmas, and unexplained references help keep a work alive in the imagination of its audience, because it is precisely in these areas where audience participation, in the form of speculation, is most encouraged” (60). Kiss Me First offers eudemonic viewing experiences by not spelling out the characters’ motives and actions in minute detail but instead by prompting viewers to contemplate the utopian and dystopian dimensions of the human-technology entanglement in digital culture, particularly from a young adult’s perspective. In the last episode, “You Can Never Go Home” (S1/ E6), the series returns to its motifs of the unconscious, the repressed, and redemption, exploring the interstices between VR and the physical world in a showdown between the protagonist and the antagonist. The opening sequence depicts Leila in a dark 4.4 From Utopia to Eutopia: False Promises and the Infinite Deferral of Utopia 297 <?page no="298"?> 308 The dark void can be read as the next generation of gaming that Adrian has prepared for his players, an experience with even more intense sensory input (he mentions that she is wearing an improved “Sense Band 2.0” (S1/ E6 0: 21), more realistic (lifelike) avatars, and ultimately more leeway for the antagonist to exercise his power. room, strapped down to a bed with a sense band around her neck, while no sound other than her heartbeat permeates the room, underscoring an atmosphere of entrapment. Viewers realise that she is being held hostage by Adrian when his avatar appears in front of her. Here, it seems as though the series is breaking with its otherwise consistent separation between the CG and real images for the first time, as shots of his avatar are mixed with real shots of Leila. In this interstitial dark cell, which is neither physical reality nor virtuality, the confrontation between rebel and oppressor, symptomatic of classical dystopian fiction, takes place in a climactic scene. 308 The camera surrounds Leila in her vulnerable position on the bed while Adrian remains in the shadows, speaking to her as her neckband tightens up: Adrian: Haven’t I given you the trip of your life? I think you should be grateful to me. For letting you play. - Leila: Killing people isn’t a game. - Adrian: The others were entertaining but ultimately, they were a little boring. Whereas you, you are never boring. So I want to give you something in return. […] Absolution. […] Because you need it, don’t you? Yes, you need it so badly. You’re not truly strong yet, Shadowfax. But you can be. You need to feel … everything. Everything you did. And only then you will change. And all for the good. (S1/ E6 0: 10) Adrian demonstrates his godlike power by offering Leila absolution - a term that refers to the act of forgiveness, particularly in a religious context. In her case, absolution means that she is freed from the sin she allegedly perpetrated by assisting in her mother’s suicide. While this scene skilfully catapults the story back to its origin when Leila sits in the church, Adrian stages himself as the god-like grandmaster of the game, calling the other players “boring” for doing what he expected them to do, that is, falling for his promises and abandoning their friends (like Tess did with Leila). At the same time, he praises Leila’s unpredictability, which has added some twists to the course of his game. Acknowledging her cleverness, Adrian even assumes that there was common ground between him and her, but he was disappointed. As he reveals: 298 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="299"?> 309 Leila takes off her clothes to manipulate Adrian, who immediately replies, “Please stop! ” (S1/ E6 0: 26). The fact that she decides to take off her clothes to end the psychological terror is surprising, given the strongly feminist tone of Kiss Me First. But the scene also opens up discussions about who is behind Adrian after all, subtly insinuating that Leila and he could somehow be related (e.g., brother and sister). You know, the world is so fucked up that we don’t even notice anymore. Or, if we do, it’s gone in a moment because of all the other shit that’s crowding along behind. Life is mostly trivial drudgery. It’s drone stuff, it’s wanking, spending, procreating. See what I do, what I do instead is poetry, really. And I kept thinking I’d found someone who got as big a kick out of this as me. But always, always disappointment. And then, blow me down, an anonymous frump from Rotherhithe. (S1/ E6 0: 22) This passage shows that Adrian is clearly fed up with the mainstream activities of young adults in digital culture. He uses his frustration to create “poetry” instead, which here refers to his ‘sophisticated’ interpretation of the “fucked up” world and his design of an alternate sphere in which he has full control. Against this backdrop, he assumed that Leila, the “frump from Rotherhithe,” would understand his worldview, but she intervened in his mission by restoring trust and friendship (with Tess) in the end. Interestingly, the reference to the south-east London district of Rotherhithe is no coincidence, as it establishes a link between Leila and Oliver Twist, who was also orphaned by the death of his mother and the mysterious absence of his father. The final chapters of Charles Dickens’ second novel (1837-1839) describe the conditions in Rotherhithe and contain an overall similar social commentary on domestic violence and young adult abandonment in the mid-19th century as Kiss Me First provides here with respect to digital culture. Here, too, a parallel is drawn between narratives that lie hundreds of years apart, pointing to the persistence of socio-critical themes, such as the neglect of young adults, throughout history. The dramatic confrontation between protagonist and antagonist in the in-between comes to a surprisingly quick end. 309 Leila dismisses Adrian’s philosophical monologue by accusing him of being “just a sad little boy whose mum let him down” (S1/ E6 0: 23) before she finds herself in a room, noticing electrodes and an IV on her body, which suggests that she has been drugged. The setting is now fully grounded again, thus staying true to its realism mode after all, as the scene explains in retrospect that the confrontation between Adrian and her took place while Leila was physically tied to a bed wearing a VR headset (S1/ E6 0: 27). Although the scene conveys the impression that Adrian must have been in the same room and that the audience must have just missed the chance to see the villain, Kiss Me First here seems too eager to wrap up the 4.4 From Utopia to Eutopia: False Promises and the Infinite Deferral of Utopia 299 <?page no="300"?> 310 On the one hand, the fact that the profession of ‘Azana security agent’ even exists indicates that the company seems to have assumed functions previously associated with legal enforcement. On the other hand, the fact that the company is looking for Leila shows that Adrian has managed to turn the tables. story. For example, there is no explanation as to why Leila is suddenly able to break free and leave the house, which seems implausible given Adrian’s strong desire to defeat Leila. It is moments like these that are at odds with the otherwise well-conceived plot structure, here forcing the closure of a narrative that has unfolded so carefully. Alongside these delusional interludes in the in-between that aesthetically draw attention to the interstices between the physical world and VR, the final episode also refocuses on the grounded premise that the Azana Planet is an integral part of the lives of millions of people living in this fictional society. While Leila is kidnapped, her roommate Jonty and Tess are trying to find a way to locate their missing friend when Saul Green ( John Macmillan), an Azana security agent, shows up at the door - however, not to rescue Leila but to protect Azana players from her. Here, the dystopia resurfaces on a grand scale after the previous episodes focused on the micro-perspectives of the young adults. 310 At the Azana headquarters, Saul explains that “[t]here are millions of teammates throughout the Azana world. All so precious. It’s a civilization, actually, and we look after it. So, if something has occurred, we want to, you know, react.” (S1/ E6 0: 17) The Azana investigators intend to “get the facts straight” (S1/ E6 0: 17) but have already framed Leila as the prime suspect in the deaths of Cyril and Ben, though Tess tries to make clear that “[s]he doesn’t run a death cult, it’s Adrian. You need to look into Adrian! ” (S1/ E6 0: 18). Tess tries to stand up for her friend in vain, while all the circumstantial evidence points to Leila actually being the perpetrator. In contrast to blockbusters like Ready Player One, where the “lines between heroes and villains are clear, because the bad guys are faceless soldiers driving identical cars, while the good guys have shown off their creativity by customizing their personal avatars and rides” (Nelson), Kiss Me First explores the ambivalence of heroisms and villainy to the last 300 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="301"?> 311 As the evidence against Leila piles up, the series establishes a discrepancy between what the viewers know and what the fictional public perceives as truth. The voice of a news reporter reading the headlines highlights the impact of the Red Pill game on a national scale: “Computer giant Azana International faces investigation following revelations their gaming platform unwittingly hosted a cult involved in the deaths of several young players. Police widened their search for Leila Evans, believed to be the leader of the illegal group, as victims spoke out.” (S1/ E6 0: 34) The news report is the most vivid example of the constantly shifting truth assumptions that permeate the entire series. It includes an interview with Tomiko as the victim, accusing Leila: “We used to meet in Red Pill. It was beautiful. Then we started dying. She has a box. Some kind of special box. She can make us do anything.” (S1/ E6 0: 35) Tomiko is referring to the base protocol box through which Leila could access the source code and open up Red Pill for all Azana players. The box can also be read symbolically as a black box - a placeholder for the centre of responsibility in this dystopia. minute, vividly demonstrating the relativity of truth claims, which in turn reflects the mechanisms of a ‘post-truth’ era in extratextual reality. 311 Ultimately, Kiss Me First leaves no answers as to who is to blame for the tragedies that originated in the VR, whether the corporation’s lack of security, Adrian or even Leila as individual villains, or a neoliberal capitalist system that overall drains young adults’ perspectives. Most importantly, the complex serial dystopia refrains from depicting technology as an isolated force and instead channels viewers’ attention to the complex human-technology entanglement in digital culture. The Azana investigator Saul adds, “I’m sorry to say, it seems there may be a number of victims worldwide. So I want to reassure everyone that we are doing our utmost to find this illegal environment and shut it down forever, making Azana planet safe again for all users.” (S1/ E6 0: 35) On the one hand, the proposal to “find this illegal environment and shut it down forever” seems too simple a solution to tackle the systemic ills that contribute to the widespread escapism to Azana (and Red Pill) in the first place. On the other hand, it points out that the company has taken over functions previously associated with the state, namely maintaining security within society, which underlines the significance of VR as lebensraum in digital culture. Despite the overarching sombre tone of Kiss Me First, the first season ends with a small utopian enclave, that is, with Leila, Tess, and Jonty reuniting. The complex serial dystopia departs once again refreshingly from stereotypical resolutions in the YA genre that often end with the nuclear family or a parental figure providing a permanent home. Instead, the final scene takes place at Azul’s café: Leila’s quest ends at a place of transit and temporary comfort. The friends then drive away in a truck, suggesting that they have survived this ‘episode’ of their lives together. But as the camera captures the faces of the exhausted teens as they embark on a journey into the unknown, Leila receives a phone 4.4 From Utopia to Eutopia: False Promises and the Infinite Deferral of Utopia 301 <?page no="302"?> call, and Adrian’s voice announces that “[a] new adventure is coming. High level of difficulty this time. See you around, Shadowfax.” (S1/ E5 0: 45) This cliff-hanger leaves viewers hoping for another season as the camera follows the truck down the road from a bird’s eye view. Adrian appears one last time in the form of an eagle hovering over them, symbolising authority, strength, and suggesting that their happiness will only be temporary until he decides to attack again. The antagonist remains a steady companion on their journey to adulthood, functioning as a versatile placeholder for the potentials and dangers of technology, for false promises, and even for the challenges of the neoliberal capitalist system at large. The ending deliberately raises more questions than answers, while the natural landscape around the country roads merges with the CGI of the Azana planets, leaving viewers with a lasting impression of the interdependence of the two spheres. At the time of this writing, Kiss Me First has neither been cancelled nor renewed for another season. The fact that a considerable amount of time has already passed since its premiere on Netflix reduces the chances of renewal. Unlike the other series discussed in this book, Kiss Me First has failed to build a loyal forensic fandom that feels compelled to dig deeper into the various themes the series negotiates (cf. Mittell 65). Regardless of whether the trending negative reception influenced decision-makers in the industry or whether Ready Player One may have stolen the show after all by offering an easier-to-digest and simplified account of the near future, Kiss Me First should qualify as a valuable addition to the fuzzy set of complex serial dystopias. The TV series deliberately modifies the boundaries of the YA dystopian genre to negotiate the hyperobject technology in nuanced ways, counteracting anachronistic views of technology that would otherwise “disconnect[] the technical object from the interconnections of the network in which it is embedded” (Roderick 119). Especially through its sincere negotiation of VR gaming, Kiss Me First provides a valuable commentary on digital culture by intervening in mainstream repre‐ sentations of young-adult practices. Most importantly, with its focus on the intersection of VR and the physical world, the series establishes a crucial conceptual link between utopia and gaming, both thematically and aesthetically. As Markocki notes, “in comparison with other media, games present their audience, i.e.[,] the players, with decid‐ edly different tools to experience and experiment with the idea of utopian or dystopian worlds” (131; see also Schleiner). Pointing out that digital games “have at their disposal distinctly different tools to depict and create visions of utopias and dystopias” (ibid. 122), Kiss Me First, like other complex serial dystopias, does not waste a second of screen time exploring the underlying 302 4 VR Gaming and Postponed Utopia: Kiss Me First (2018-) <?page no="303"?> tension and complementary nature of dystopia and utopia in digital culture. When Edwards and colleagues argue that “[t]echnological fictions can be a way to provide lawyers with improved literacy in technology, and computer scientists and designers with the ability to reflect on the regulatory issues that science and technology raise” (6), then the dystopia of Kiss Me First should prove valuable, especially at a time when developments of the Metaverse are gaining momentum. Kiss Me First emerges as a ‘hidden gem’ among contemporary dystopian fiction on screen and deserves closer attention than it has received to date. 4.4 From Utopia to Eutopia: False Promises and the Infinite Deferral of Utopia 303 <?page no="305"?> Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope “Even in the era of on-demand,” says Tom Ryan, owner of the streaming service Paramount Plus, “there is clearly a strong consumer appetite for reimagined linear channels that provide effortless, lean-back entertainment” (Hornik). The demand for ‘live channels’ with content at scheduled times - as in the days of ‘old’ TV - comes as a surprise, considering that streaming providers offer maximum convenience and freedom of choice. Nevertheless, it might be the logical conclusion of a phenomenon that has recently emerged as ‘subscription overload’ (ibid.). Viewers today are typically subscribed to more than one streaming platform and thus face a plethora of content - an overload that can be paralysing when it comes to navigating the sheer volume of entertainment options available. The abundance of choices (even if restricted by manipulating algorithms) becomes more of a burden than a blessing - hence the perhaps somewhat surprising desire for scheduled “lean-back entertainment” that simply washes over you. The demand for ‘lean-back entertainment’ should also be considered in the context of the overwhelming conflicts and crises that are unfolding and intensifying across the globe. Besides the COVID-19 pandemic and its aftermath, the world is currently facing an escalating conflict with global implications, not to mention the already looming environmental risks. “In the face of a hostile world,” as Ruth Levitas writes, “retreat, escape, or simply a compensatory fantasy to cheer yourself up may be reasonable and humanly valuable responses” (Levitas and Sargisson 14). However, the utopian scholar also notes that “[h]olding up a critical mirror to the present to expose its negative characteristics and effects is also important, and indeed a necessary precursor to developing and pursuing positive alternatives” (ibid. 14). As the previous analyses have demonstrated, effortless, undemanding entertainment is precisely what complex serial dystopias do not offer. Neither do they provide a “compensatory fantasy” nor do they offer “a momentary bracket from the social evils” (Cavalcanti 64). Instead, they target a viewership that is willing to be confronted with the complexities of the contingent moment through alternate realities and near-future scenarios. The answer to the question of how the dystopian genre can maintain its cautionary function in the midst of a competitive digital media culture, where the majority of narratives offers immersive rather than thought-provoking experiences, is a complex mode of storytelling. The interplay of dystopia, <?page no="306"?> complex TV, and metamodern impulses sets these serial dystopias apart from other entertainment on the small screen - and ultimately confirms that dystopia as a genre lends itself to serial narration without losing its critical impetus. Although some critics may argue that introducing yet another term into the already vast compound of definitions in the utopian and dystopian paradigm is paralysing rather than useful, the umbrella term of ‘complex serial dystopias’ serves to draw attention to the potentials of the dystopian expression in the serial form (rather than exclusively dwelling on dystopian themes). These narratives harbour complex storytelling modes that reinforce their ‘grand lessons’ not through a straightforward didactic agenda but by encouraging viewer engagement and raising questions about the trajectory of digital culture. However, precisely because each series pursues its own agenda and approach to serial storytelling, the boundaries of the proposed subset are fluid rather than definitive or prescriptive. The conceptualisation of ‘complex serial dystopias’ offers a starting point for discussions about serial dystopias in today’s TV and streaming landscape. Black Mirror, Mr. Robot, Westworld, and Kiss Me First each provide its own framework of complexity to rethink current conditions in digital culture and imagine alternatives. Black Mirror often positions the viewer as part of the diegetic spectators, extending its critique beyond the screen directly into the audiences’ living rooms. Similarly, though in a different way, the audience becomes part of the narrative as one of the narrator’s personalities in Mr. Robot. The series uses this formal device not only to make viewers witnesses to the underground hacking activities but also to make them accomplices in the attempt to override a broken capitalist system. Westworld, by contrast, puts viewers in the position of a lifelike robot by having them experience what it is like to perceive reality in loops through a ludic, fragmented narrative. And finally, Kiss Me First puts a VR headset on its extradiegetic audience. Through the consistent blending of real sequences and CGI, viewers are repeatedly immersed in the virtual world and can thus explore the interstices between the physical world and VR together with the protagonist. All four TV series exhibit not only a reduced dystopian distance in terms of their themes but also an immediacy between fictional world and reality to the extent that the viewers are actively 306 Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope <?page no="307"?> 312 As with most categories, the notion of prototypical or ‘pure’ examples is problematic. Hence, it might also be useful to consider dystopian series located on a continuum, as they oscillate between ‘complex’ and ‘simple,’ sometimes even depending on the respective episode of a series. The two poles build on the established categories of critical (complex) and commercial (simple) dystopias, with simple serial dystopias using serial narration for less confrontational entertainment, while complex serial dystopias deliberately and consistently use the available space-time to criticise the status quo. 313 Moylan argues that “world-building is both the deepest pleasure of reading [science fiction] and the source of its most powerfully subversive potential, for if a reader can manage to see the world differently (in that Brechtian sense of overcoming alienation by becoming critically estranged and engaged), she or he might just, especially in concert with friends or comrades and allies, do something to alter it - […] so as to make that world a more just and congenial place for all who live in it” (Scraps 5). Cf. Levitas, who criticises that utopia tends to be “confined to the function of critique rather than transformation” (Levitas and Sargisson 16). involved in the fictional world. For these reasons, the selected series can be considered prototypes of complex serial dystopias. 312 The modus operandi of complex serial dystopias cannot be generalised, as each TV series follows its unique mode of complexity, but there are certain features that Black Mirror, Mr. Robot, Westworld, and Kiss Me First have in common, which supports their placement in the fuzzy set of complex serial dystopias. Thematically, they all provide a cognitive map of the pervasive atmosphere informed by human-technology entanglement. Not only do these narratives negotiate the function, uses, and misuses of specific technologies in ways that would hardly be possible in a regular 90-minute feature film, they also use the serial space precisely to investigate how the firm anchoring of technology in society shapes relationships, entertainment, and the sense of community. Worldbuilding, together with the peculiar mix of centrifugal and centripetal forces of complexity that expands the spatial dystopian paradigm as much as it illuminates the psychology of the characters, helps to construct an engaging virtual space that encourages viewers to critically reflect on their own embedd‐ edness in digital culture. 313 Seriality enlarges the playground for exploring hyperobjects and thus the potential for discovering utopian impulses, however small they may be. Through narrative complexity and distinct operational aesthetics, which often reveal the TV series’ own constructedness as a medium of consumption, complex serial dystopias complicate passive immersion in the narrative. The serial narratives covered in this book are also unified by their consistent eschewing of one-dimensional and deterministic views of technology that are often adopted in more conservative texts or closed formats for the sake of entertainment. Overall, serial narration can influence the dystopian imagina‐ Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope 307 <?page no="308"?> 314 The shift both in themes and modes of critique that attunes to the ethics of complexity is also evident in 21 st -century literary dystopias. Noteworthy examples are Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go (2005) and Eggers’ The Circle (2013). The absence of rebels and their focus on network power rather than totalitarian despotism render them progressive dystopias, providing a timely commentary on what is at stake in Western neoliberal capitalist societies (see Gonnermann for an insightful analysis of this trend). tion of technology and digital culture in a distinctly positive way. Complex serial dystopias emphasise first and foremost how central and integral digital technology is to the mechanisms of contemporary culture, thus discarding prescriptive moral judgments in terms of good or evil. They illuminate our human entanglement with technology from multiple angles, trading harmo‐ nious worldviews for a better (if perhaps uncomfortable) confrontation with the interstices of digital culture. Through innovative approaches to aesthetics and to storytelling which formally match the complexity of their themes, they offer viewing experiences that cultivate a heightened awareness of technology’s “various ‘goods’ and possible ‘bads’” (Kranzberg 548), promoting a healthy scepticism towards emerging technologies rather than a deterministic prophecy. Technology enables both connection and alienation; it exacerbates human problems as much as it contributes to the good life - the entanglement of humans and technology is not inherently good or bad, only consequential (cf. Kawamoto-255). What has also become clear in the discussion is that Black Mirror, Mr. Robot, Westworld, and Kiss Me First employ a dystopian realism that invites viewers “to judge the storyworld, its characters, and their actions on a metric of plausibility” (Mittell 221). Hyperbolisation still plays a crucial part in the estranging effect of the viewing experience but no longer in terms of abstraction or simplification. The TV series use a magnifying glass on a particular trend - the nucleus of which is already firmly anchored in the here and now. Neither of the complex serial dystopias commits what Fredric Jameson calls ‘world-reduction,’ that is, the “attenuation in which the sheer teeming multiplicity of what exists, of what we call reality, is deliberately thinned and weeded out through an operation of radical abstraction and simplification” (“World-Reduction” 223; see also Cavalcanti 53). They respond to the complexity of empirical reality rather than simplifying and idealising it. In so doing, they also adapt the hallmarks of the dystopian genre by developing counter-narratives that feature fallible protagonists whose actions may or may not conform to the audience’s expectations. 314 Compared to the hero’s journey and the rebellion against an oppressive system in classical dystopian fiction, the emphasis on the ‘everyday’ in speculative settings renders transformation a less radical endeavour. The 308 Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope <?page no="309"?> dystopian citizens of complex serial dystopias need more stamina - hence the shift in focus from the notion of resistance to resilience. Instead of proposing entirely alternative frameworks, these narratives seem to cultivate the idea that change is (only) possible from within the existing (neoliberal capitalist) system, through utopian enclaves that may (or may not, and if, then only gradually) create a better version of society for all. In this respect, dystopia today is perhaps less radical than one might hope. But the dilemmas of these relatable characters - played out in concrete environments reminiscent of everyday life - spark important discussions about morals, ethics, and the potentials and limits of human agency in digital culture. As their negotiation of digital culture is marked by ‘depthiness’ rather than ‘depthlessness,’ the TV series discussed in this book are overall linked by a metamodern structure of feeling. They may not be ‘pure’ metamodern works of art, but they certainly do encapsulate key aspects of this post-postmodern conceptualisation. The most salient feature is their oscillation between techno‐ logical utopianism and dystopianism, resulting in grand lessons that include a metamodern quest for sincerity, depth, and commitment. These impulses are not located in a value-neutral in-between but consciously positioned in the ‘both-neither’ realm of modern enthusiasm and postmodern cynicism, incorporating a metamodern optimism that is “fully aware of and engaged with the ills of the present” (van der Merwe 104) and that seeks to build a future based on the necessity, the ability, and the desire to instigate change (cf. “Notes on Metamodernism”, YouTube 0: 22). Complex serial dystopias, then, might be formally dystopian but conceptually utopian. They “revive the dystopian strategy to map, warn, and hope” (Moylan, Scraps 196) in today’s TV and streaming landscape and embrace the ethics of complexity in the 21 st century. By proposing “a road that must start in the present, a dialectic that must begin from now-here” (Fortunati 29), the subversive potential of complex serial dystopias not only aligns with the persistent agenda of the critical dystopia in the literary genre but also constitutes the televisual counterpart of this literary paradigm. Like critical dystopias, complex serial dystopias expand “their creative potential for critical expression” (Moylan, Scraps 189) and rejuvenate the boundaries of the traditional dystopian form. These narratives are marked by hybridity - they draw from thriller, drama, cyberpunk, and even comedy - and resist closure. They are aware of their status as commodities in the culture industry and serve as progressive diagnostic tools, as they do not reproduce or perpetuate static worldviews but embrace the notion of interdependence and perspective-taking. Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope 309 <?page no="310"?> From a meta-perspective, complex serial dystopias lend themselves as tools of critical foresight practices. In their study “The Future Imagined: Exploring Fiction as a Means of Reflecting on Today’s Grand Societal Challenges and Tomorrow’s Options” (2017), Olivia Bina and colleagues describe how visions of the future in speculative and creative fiction can provide “alternative frames and understandings to enrich the grand challenges of the 21 st century, and the related rationale and agendas for [European Science Policy]” (166). The scholars have identified six ways in which fiction qualifies as a creative foresight method: through creative input, detail, warning, reflection, critique, and involvement (170). These six identifiers are exhibited by complex serial dystopias, exemplified by the four TV series discussed in this book, which provide audiences and critics with cultural material for reflection and perhaps even a basis for active engagement with the various challenges of the future. In addition to the evidence-based figures and statistics that usually form the basis for constructing future scenarios, complex serial dystopias add to the “repertoire of possibilities” (ibid. 170) for reflecting on the trajectory of current technological standards and social practices by offering creative input and detail. As creative expressions rather than theoretical reflections, they are a potent vehicle for making sense of hyperobjects like technology and capitalism and help to paint concrete, vivid, and relatable pictures of society’s transformation and progress. Whether they propose near-future scenarios or alternative frameworks of reality, complex serial dystopias can serve as inspiration and orientation for critics, futurologists, and policymakers (cf. Kitzinger). Articulating the human-technology entanglement in the aesthetic dimension offers the recipient a space devoid of calculated rationalism and pragmatism, where the nuances of visions of the future come to the fore through worldbuilding. By adding “richness to proposed futures,” such fiction, as Bina and colleagues argue, can help overcome “the tendency to decouple future research agendas (which tend towards abstraction) from the individual experience and understanding” (170). Centripetal and centrifugal modes of complexity enrich the worlds of serial dystopias by paying attention to the systemic mechanisms of digital culture and the interpersonal and emotional sensitivities of the individual characters therein. By their very nature, complex serial dystopias possess a warning function and prompt reflection by imparting “anticipatory knowledge” and “identifying possible warning signals” (ibid. 170). Because they are so adept at channelling the zeitgeist from both macroand micro-perspectives, they shift the focus to potential side effects of trends that might easily be overlooked when celebrating milestones of technological progress. As a type of fiction that voices critique 310 Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope <?page no="311"?> 315 The ways in which TV series increasingly influence ‘mainstream’ culture and stimulate consumption in domains that the series are covering is generally referred to as the ‘Netflix effect.’ The Queen’s Gambit (2020), for example, sparked a massive surge of interest in chess, companies selling corsets have seen a jump in sales ever since Bridgerton (2020-) aired, and local dojos across the US have reported an increase in memberships after the successful martial arts comedy-drama Cobra Kai (2018-) hit the screen (“The Netflix Effect”; cf. also Hak; McDonald and Smith-Rosey). 316 The phrase ‘Netflix and chill’ has come to refer to a range of activities other than actually watching a series. As Pilipets points out: “[u]nderstood first predominantly in its literal sense as a routinized form of relaxation while binge-viewing Netflix, ‘Netflix and chill’ launched its semantic drift as a teenage code word for ‘hooking up’” (4-5). of the “social structure, power, politics and agency” (ibid. 170), complex serial dystopias clarify the significance of ethical considerations when adopting technologies on a large scale and systematically promote a mindset that is aware of both their potential benefits and their potential risks. The most salient characteristic of the serial narratives, which is in line with the categories proposed by Bina and colleagues, is involvement. Dystopias in the popular TV medium have the potential to “reach a wide audience and thus amplify participation in the debate and reflection of what future we want” (ibid. 170). The ludic approach to storytelling offers an unprecedented opportu‐ nity to engage audiences and encourage dialogue among viewers by stimulating their sense of responsibility through response-ability. By playfully involving viewers in unravelling the storyworld and solving its enigmas, complex serial dystopias can be gateways to eudemonic viewing experiences that keep the audience’s critical spirit alive. Through forensic fandom, the utopian horizon of the TV series “shimmers just beyond” (Moylan, Scraps 196) the closing credits of each episode. As “one element of a network” rather than “a passive artwork” (Lusin and Haekel 16), the TV series holds a subversive potential by triggering immediate (and perhaps even simultaneous) discussions about the proposed futures across various media channels. Dystopias can then harness what has come to be known as the ‘Netflix effect’ and use their social impact for their own agenda to issue warnings. 315 In fact, the wide resonance of the series can create a “surge in conversation around the topics the show is covering” (Hak, emphasis added) - and this is where the utopian impulse of serial dystopias manifests itself beyond the screen: in the global discussions about the kind of future we want to avoid and create. In other words, complex serial dystopias have the power to co-opt the internet slogan ‘Netflix and chill’ and turn it into ‘Netflix and think.’ 316 Complex serial dystopias open a dialogue with their viewership about con‐ crete visions of the future. In this way, they qualify as tools of foresight practices Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope 311 <?page no="312"?> to address today’s grand challenges and provide inspiration for visions of tomorrow. As Barbara Klonowska and colleagues write, “the new artistic forms of expression considerably extend not merely the potential audience of thus told tales, but above all the possibilities of utopia itself ” (“Reconfigurations” 24). Whether they are critical antitheses to the status quo or just mildly distorted reflections of the contemporary world, serial dystopias are paradigmatic of these “new artistic forms of expression” that expand the “possibilities of utopia” by mobilising viewers. The eudemonic viewing experiences may be uncomfortable at times, but they speak to our sense of responsibility - as viewers and critics - and as parts of a world that is in dire need of alternative visions. As forms of artistic expression, the dystopian TV series offer much more material for further analysis than could be covered in the closed format of this book. Particularly the “feedback oscillation” (Suvin, Metamorphoses 88) between fictional world and reality deserves a closer look that might even help to refine further the interface between simple and complex serial dysto‐ pias and their transformative potentials beyond the screen. What is more, a deeper examination of the serial configuration of the counter-narratives, including the shift from resistance (‘rebellion’) towards resilience (‘trial and error’), could be especially revealing in terms of genre questions (cf. Winter, “Trial”). Regarding the cultural logic to which these serial narratives respond, discussions have been limited to the metamodern structure of feeling, but it seems equally promising to enquire into serial dystopias against the backdrop of other post-postmodern conceptualisations, such as ‘automodernity’ (Samuels) or ‘digimodernism’ (Kirby). The number of TV series in the contemporary TV and streaming landscape that lend themselves as fruitful templates for critical analyses is steadily on the rise. Concerning the theme of technology, an interesting case is Amazon Prime Video’s Soulmates (2020-), which traces the gradual changes in the social mechanisms of a near-future society in which DNA-matching has revolutionised the institution of marriage. This anthology series skilfully negotiates the search for love and happiness through science and technology. It is particularly noteworthy that the Netflix series The One (2021-) shortly afterwards recycled this idea of algorithmic romance (which originated with Black Mirror’s “Hang the DJ” (S4/ E4) episode). Because these two TV series principally feature the same dystopian premise, the former in an anthology format and the latter as 312 Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope <?page no="313"?> 317 See also Amazon Prime Video’s Upload (2020-), which offers a hybrid worthy of investigation, as it blends the genres of dystopia and comedy in a world in which humans upload their consciousness to a ‘digital heaven,’ depending on their economic status. a serial, they are ideal for a cross-platform analysis of how the two streaming providers differ in their approaches to narrating dystopia in a serial format. 317 In the face of a pandemic and unsettling developments in Europe with global implications, a rising number of less tech-focused series seem particularly adept at making sense of current complexities. BBC’s Years and Years (2019), for example, offers an utterly grounded and intimate drama of a family in a post-Brexit society, negotiating the rise of right-wing politics, economic instability, and an escalating refugee crisis. More futuristic but equally relevant is the premise of the German Netflix series Tribes of Europa (2021-) with its dystopian setting of a fragmented Europe after the collapse of the world’s electrical power grid (referred to as ‘Black December’). When it comes to the significance of hope in the face of an inexplicable historical event, we might also turn to HBO’s The Leftovers (2014-2017) - a gesamtkunstwerk that traces the aftermath of the ‘Departure’ - the day when two percent of the world’s population suddenly disappeared. As becomes clear, the series discussed in this book are only a fraction of what the current TV landscape holds in store for critical analysis. With more and more ‘high-end’ TV series on the small screen, the question arises as to how complex TV - an expression of the ‘golden age of TV’ rhetoric - will evolve in the future. Timotheus Vermeulen argues that the wave of original TV content observable since the 2000s has already reached its finish line, as “its idiosyncratic gestures and postures have now become ubiquitous-- formularized templates for just about every other show.” Indeed, the maturing process of TV is closely tied to commodification processes inherent in capitalism - “the innovative impulse has become exhausted by a need to consolidate through acceleration and multiplication - and increase profit” (ibid.). However, a close look at the type of content streaming providers offer today suggests that it is perhaps too early to jump to conclusions about the future of complex TV, as most series still seem committed to conventional storytelling, offering ‘lean-back’ viewing experiences. Ed Cumming, for example, suggests that the trend goes (back) to lighter, even ‘ambient’ TV and points out that “[w]here creative decisions are guided by algorithm, they tend to mimic things that have Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope 313 <?page no="314"?> 318 See also Chayka for an interesting discussion on the launch of the ‘Top 10’ feature on Netflix, “which displays the ten most popular shows of the day in your country and tags the shows’ thumbnails with their rank - an effort to ameliorate the uncanny feeling, often inspired by algorithmic feeds, that no one else is seeing quite the same thing that you are. The feature also makes surfing Netflix an even more passive experience: whatever other people are watching is probably good, or at least you’ll be able to discuss it with a friend later”. been successful before […].” 318 Against this backdrop, complex TV is a growing niche, but a niche, nonetheless. As Vermeulen argues further: In light of these developments, we should celebrate one of two televisual qualities: exceptional execution of the golden age formula and integrity. If the former pertains to the superior manner in which a story is told, regardless of formal innovation (i.e.[,] craft), then the latter entails the confident, consistent development of a tone or world that sets a series apart from all others. In stark opposition to the dwindling attention spans of our contemporary time, what both of these qualities require from us, as viewers, is time, devotion and care. Whether this should be understood as a form of utopian opposition or neoliberal escapism remains to be seen. Whether labelled in terms of complexity, seriousness, or quality, the transfor‐ mation processes of television are undoubtedly subject to the autopoietic nature of capitalism as a self-perpetuating system. Viewers, too, are becoming increasingly accustomed to originality and complexity, and the market is responding by blueprinting new creations from successful formats. The “golden age formula” and “integrity,” as Vermeulen suggests, are the two sustainable qualities that not only set some series apart from others but also ensure the potential to offer viewers eudemonic viewing experiences and provide critics with a complex playground to investigate. Whether complex serial dystopias will eventually be trumped by simple serial dystopias, or whether all future serial dystopias will become more complex in their thematic representations and formal operations, remains to be seen. However, the fact that streaming providers are increasingly targeting global audiences, and thus promoting more easily digestible narratives in order to achieve the broadest possible resonance, suggests that series like Black Mirror, Mr. Robot, Westworld, and Kiss Me First will defend their place in the canon of complex serial dystopias for now. The complex serial dystopias discussed in this book stand out amidst “colourful, people-pleasing TV” (Cumming) - at least for the present moment. As far as entertainment culture in general is concerned, TV entertainment itself may sooner or later be replaced by new, more interactive entertainment technologies, which will also change the role of the viewer. As Veronica 314 Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope <?page no="315"?> 319 Living in the End Times: Utopian and Dystopian Representations of Pandemics in Fiction, Film and Culture, 13-15 January 2021, A Virtual Conference Hosted by Cappadocia University, Turkey. Innocenti and Guglielmo Pescatore point out, TV today already faces an empowered audience: “[d]epending whether they adopt traditional modes of access or more experimental ones, viewers can decide whether to accept the consumption time imposed by the medium, or redefine and modify it either slightly […]” (8). Although TV is becoming more interactive - with Black Mirror’s film Bandersnatch (2018) as a prime example-- M. King Adkins argues that it will remain the core medium of entertainment, “that perhaps the forms through which we watch television may change, but the essential elements that television established - open-ended plot lines that encourage us to enter the narrative space and grow with it - will long endure no matter what technological form we may access them in” (4). Especially in times of social distancing and stay-at-home orders, TV series have gained importance as a key leisure medium - whether they stimulate viewers’ critical mindset or provide a necessary “cultural and political break from the contemporary world” (Moylan, “Necessity” 182) by offering immersion. In the keynote address at the Living in the End Times conference in early 2021, 319 science-fiction author Kim Stanley Robinson noted that the utopian horizon of the 21 st century is informed by the notion of the anti-dystopia, namely the dodging of a mass extinction event: “[o]ur utopian bar is now so low, just surviving a mass extinction event has become a utopian endeavour.” In a matter of weeks, the world as we had known it changed drastically with the imposition of lockdowns, curfews, and the sudden intervention of the state on personal and even economic freedoms (cf. Ashley). In terms of risk distribution, the virus exhibited an ‘equalizing effect’ (cf. Beck, Risk Society 36) while at the same time exposing the systemic ills of modern society: structural social and economic injustices, underpayment of ‘system-relevant’ professions, distrust in authorities and institutions, the highly influential power of media in shaping cultural moods, and the effects of isolation on the psyche. The pandemic has made people experience what dystopian fiction warns about: that every individual can be an accomplice in the potential dystopia, that one’s own behaviour has an immediate impact on the system dynamics, and that the power of the collective in this complex web called humanity should not be underestimated. The mask, as Raffaella Baccolini aptly noted in the closing remarks of the Living in the End Times conference, has now become a worldwide sign of humanity’s interdependence. The pandemic seemed to call for an exercise in resilience - the continuous adaptation to new forms of adversity Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope 315 <?page no="316"?> 320 See, e.g., the TV-miniseries adaptation of Station Eleven (2021-2022). Set twenty years after the collapse of civilisation due to a flu pandemic, it follows the survivors as they try to rebuild their lives. - which, conservatively seen, simply makes us accustomed to serial ‘real-life’ dystopias. As the world breathes a hesitant sigh of relief after the COVID-19 pandemic, it unfortunately immediately plunges into the next crisis as world powers fight for their borders. Against the backdrop of the severity and urgency of the COVID-19 pandemic and a war raging in Europe, not to mention the other looming human-induced crises lurking in the background, the utopian impulse resurges in a metamodern logic, which “moves for the sake of moving, attempts in spite of its inevitable failure; it seeks forever for a truth that it never expects to find” (Vermeulen and van den Akker, “Notes” 5). As Jörg Heiser argues, “[t]here is no march towards a bright future, as there is no inevitable slide back towards a dark past. Yet, that does not mean that the ideas of how things could be better for all - economically, socially, ethically - are nullified. As soon as we can imagine how things could be better, a principle of progress is implied” (68). This metamodern “principle of progress” seems more inclusive, modest, and more collectively informed than that of modernity. The effects of it are evident in the form of critical eco-consciousness, a renewed sense of solidarity (whether in helping those in need at war-torn borders or making music for neighbours on the balcony), and a restored awareness of global social cohesion. It is perhaps too early to predict how the state of exception of the last few years will filter down to artistic expressions. Many novels, films, and TV series referencing the pandemic directly or indirectly are currently being produced or have already been released (cf. Spinney). 320 The virus will certainly permeate fiction as another hyperobject, as it endows our present moment with a ‘felt’ vitality without being tangible itself. In hindsight, we could also return to the complex serial dystopias discussed in this book to assess how prescient they were in terms of the ‘post-pandemic age’ - given that digital communication, for example, has largely replaced face-to-face interaction. The pandemic has brought into focus the human-technology entanglement with all its benefits and challenges, making it important to maintain an unbiased view of possible futures shaped by technology and science. Against this backdrop, dystopian reflections of contemporary society should “work[] not to undermine Utopia but rather to make room for its reconsideration and refunctioning in even the worst of times” (Moylan, Scraps 133). Complex serial dystopias play their part in cultivating a healthy scepticism towards technology by offering viewers a vehicle to embark on a reflexive relationship with the world. As a cultural 316 Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope <?page no="317"?> vaccine against behavioural inertia, they prepare us for future challenges and intervene in anachronistic worldviews in which humanity is subjected to some sort of evil technology. Especially in times of individualised entertainment consumption, they provide us with shared narratives to be discussed, feeding the utopian impulse through dialogue - whether in person in the living room or in a virtual reality online. Striving for utopia in ‘dystopian’ times ultimately also means overcoming the fear of radical change, the fear of abandoning entrenched habits, old structures, and traditional ways of relating to the world. But even in times of perpetual crises, Kim Stanley Robinson is optimistic: “[w]e are all now living in a science fiction novel that we are co-writing together.” The highly collaborative processes involved in the creative production and critical reception of complex TV series - especially those that yearn for better versions of society by imagining our nightmares - deem storytelling an expression of hope per se. This suggests that we, as critics and viewers, need to pay close attention to TV series as a core medium for exploring, analysing, and discussing the inextricable links between dystopia and utopia. Conclusion: The Future of Dystopia, TV, and Hope 317 <?page no="319"?> Bibliography Primary Sources - TV Series 3%. Created by Pedro Aguilera. Boutique Filmes. Netflix, 2016-2020. Altered Carbon. Created by Laeta Kalogridis. Netflix Streaming Services. Netflix, 2018- 2020. American Horror Story. Created by Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk. 20 th Television et al. FX, 2011-. Beyond Westworld. Based on Westworld (1973) by Michael Crichton. Created by Lou Shaw. Warner Bros. Television Distribution. CBS, 1980. Black Mirror. Created by Charlie Brooker. Endemol Shine UK. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2011-. —. Season 1. Episode 1. “The National Anthem.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Otto Bathurst. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2011. —. Season 1. Episode 2. “Fifteen Million Merits.” Written by Charlie Brooker and Kanak Huq. Directed by Euros Lyn. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2011. —. Season 1. Episode 3. “The Entire History of You.” Written by Jesse Armstrong. Directed by Brian Welsh. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2011. —. Season 2. Episode 1. “Be Right Back.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Owen Harris. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2013. —. Season 2. Episode 2. “White Bear.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Carl Tibbetts. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2013. —. Season 2. Episode 3. “The Waldo Moment.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Bryn Higgins. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2013. —. Special. “White Christmas.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Carl Tibbetts. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2014. —. Season 3. Episode 1. “Nosedive.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Joe Wright. Netflix, 2016. —. Season 3. Episode 2. “Playtest.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Dan Trach‐ tenberg. Netflix, 2016. —. Season 3. Episode 3. “Shut up and Dance.” Written by Charlie Brooker and William Bridges. Directed by James Watkins. Netflix, 2016. —. Season 3. Episode 4. “San Junipero.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Owen Harris. Netflix, 2016. <?page no="320"?> —. Season 3. Episode 5. “Men Against Fire.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Jakob Verbruggen. Netflix, 2016. —. Season 3. Episode 6. “Hated in the Nation.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by James Hawes. Netflix, 2016. —. Season 4. Episode 1. “USS Callister.” Written by Charlie Brooker and William Bridges. Directed by Toby Haynes. Netflix, 2017. —. Season 4. Episode 2. “Arkangel.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Jodie Foster. Netflix, 2017. —. Season 4. Episode 3. “Crocodile.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by John Hillcoat. Netflix, 2017. —. Season 4. Episode 4. “Hang the DJ.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Tim Van Patten. Netflix, 2017. —. Season 4. Episode 5. “Metalhead.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by David Slade. Netflix, 2017. —. Season 4. Episode 6. “Black Museum.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Colm McCarthy. Netflix, 2017. —. Season 5. Episode 3. “Rachel, Jack and Ashley too.” Written by Charlie Brooker. Directed by Anne Sewitsky. Netflix, 2019. Breaking Bad. Created by Vince Gilligan. Sony Pictures Television. AMC, 2008-2013. Cobra Kai. Created by Josh Heald et al. Sony Pictures Television. YouTube/ Netflix, 2018-. Devs. Created by Alex Garland. Disney Platform Distribution. FX on Hulu, 2020. Electric Dreams. Created by Ronald D. Moore and Michael Dinner. Sony Pictures Television. Channel 4/ Amazon Prime Video, 2017-2018. Emily in Paris. Created by Darren Star. Netflix Streaming Services. Netflix, 2017-. Fleabag. Created by Phoebe Waller-Bridge. BBC Studios. BBC Three/ One, 2016-2019. Game of Thrones. Created by David Benioff and D. B. Weiss. Warner Bros. Television Distribution. HBO, 2011-2019. Humans. Created by Sam Vincent and Jonathan Brackley. Endemol Shine UK. Channel 4/ AMC, 2015-2018. I-Land. Created by Anthony Salter. Nomadic Pictures Entertainment. Netflix, 2019. Kiss Me First. Created by Bryan Elsley. Balloon and Kindle Entertainment. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2018-. —. Season 1. Episode 1. “She Did Something.” Written by Bryan Elsley. Directed by Misha Manson-Smith. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2018. —. Season 1. Episode 2. “Make it Stop.” Written by Bryan Elsley. Directed by Misha Manson-Smith. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2018. —. Season 1. Episode 3. “Off the Rails.” Written by Rachel Hirons and Bryan Elsley. Directed by Misha Manson-Smith. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2018. 320 Bibliography <?page no="321"?> —. Season 1. Episode 4. “Friends Let Us Down.” Written by Laura Deeley and Bryan Elsley. Directed by Tom Green. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2018. —. Season 1. Episode 5. “The Witch is Coming.” Written by Jamie Brittain and Lauren Sequeira. Directed by Tom Green. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2018. —. Season 1. Episode 6. “You Can Never Go Home.” Written by Laura Deeley and Bryan Elsley. Directed by Tom Green. Channel 4/ Netflix, 2018. Legion. Created by Noah Hawley. 20 th Television. FX, 2017-2019. Mr. Robot. Created by Sam Esmail. NBCUniversal Television Distribution. USA Network, 2015-2019. —. Season 1. Episode 1. “eps1.0_hellofriend.mov.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Niels Arden Oplev. USA Network, 2015. —. Season 1. Episode 2. “eps1.1_ones-and-zer0es.mpeg.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2015. —. Season 1. Episode 3. “eps1.2_d3bug.mkv.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Jim McKay. USA Network, 2015. —. Season 1. Episode 10. “eps1.9_zer0-day.avi.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2015. —. Season 2. Episode 4. “eps2.2_init_1.asec.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2016. —. Season 2. Episode 6. “eps2.4_m4ster-s1ave.aes.” Written by Adam Penn. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2016. —. Season 2. Episode 7. “eps2.5_h4ndshake.sme.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2016. —. Season 3. Episode 1. “eps3.0_power-saver-mode.h.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2017. —. Season 4. Episode 1. “401 Unauthorized.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2019. —. Season 4. Episode 2. “402 Payment Required.” Written by Kyle Bradstreet. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2019. —. Season 4. Episode 3. “403 Forbidden.” Written by Courtney Looney. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2019. —. Season 4. Episode 4. “404 Not Found.” Written by Kyle Bradstreet. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2019. —. Season 4. Episode 5. “405 Method Not Allowed.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2019. —. Season 4. Episode 7. “407 Proxy Authentication Required.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2019. —. Season 4. Episode 8. “408 Request Timeout.” Written by Robbie Pickering. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2019. Primary Sources 321 <?page no="322"?> —. Season 4. Episode 9. “409 Conflict.” Written by Kyle Bradstreet. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2019. —. Season 4. Episode 10. “410 Gone.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2019. —. Season 4. Episode 12. “whoami.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2019. —. Season 4. Episode 13. “Hello, Elliot.” Written by Sam Esmail. Directed by Sam Esmail. USA Network, 2019. Route 66. Created by Herbert B. Leonard and Stirling Silliphant. Sony Pictures Television. CBS, 1960-1964. Skins. Created by Bryan Elsley and Jamie Brittain. All3Media. E4, 2007-2013. Snowpiercer. Created by Josh Friedman and Graeme Manson. CJ Entertainment et al. TNT, 2020-. Soulmates. Created by William Bridges and Brett Goldstein. Fearless Minds. AMC, 2020-. Squid Game. Created by Hwang Dong-hyuk. Siren Pictures Inc. Netflix, 2021-. Station Eleven. Created by Patrick Somerville. ViacomCBS Global Distribution. HBO Max, 2021-2022. The 100. Created by Jason Rothenberg. CBS Television Distrubtion and Warner Bros. Television Distribution. The CW, 2014-2020. The Handmaid’s Tale. Created by Bruce Miller. MGM Television. Hulu, 2017-. The Leftovers. Created by Damon Lindelof and Tom Perrotta. Warner Bros. Television Distribution. HBO, 2014-2017. The One. Created by Howard Overman. Urban Myth Films and StudioCanal. Netflix 2021-. The Purge. Created by James DeMonaco. NBCUniversal Television Distribution. USA Network, 2018-2019. The Queen’s Gambit. Created by Scott Frank and Allan Scott. Flitcraft Ltd and Wonderful Films. Netflix, 2020. The Sopranos. Created by David Chase. Warner Bros. Television Distribution. HBO, 1999-2007. The Twilight Zone. Created by Rod Sterling. CBS Television Distribution. CBS, 1959-1964. The Walking Dead. Created by Frank Darabont. AMC Networks et al. AMC, 2010-. The Wire. Created by David Simon. Warner Bros. Television Distribution and HBO Enterprises. HBO, 2002-2008. Transparent. Created by Joey Soloway. Amazon Studios. Amazon Prime Videos, 2010- 2019. Tribes of Europa. Created by Philip Koch et al. W&B Television. Netflix, 2021-. Upload. Created by Greg Daniels. Deedle-Dee Productions et al. Amazon Prime Video, 2020-. 322 Bibliography <?page no="323"?> Westworld. Created by Jonathan Nolan and Lisa Joy. Warner Bros. Television Distribution. HBO, 2016-. —. Season 1. Episode 1. “The Original.” Written by Jonathan Nolan and Lisa Joy. Directed by Jonathan Nolan. HBO, 2016. —. Season 1. Episode 2. “Chestnut.” Written by Jonathan Nolan and Lisa Joy. Directed by Richard J. Lewis. HBO, 2016. —. Season 1. Episode 3. “The Stray.” Written by Daniel T. Thomsen and Lisa Joy. Directed by Neil Marshall. HBO, 2016. —. Season 1. Episode 4. “Dissonance Theory.” Written by Ed Brubaker and Jonathan Nolan. Directed by Vincenzo Natali. HBO, 2016. —. Season 1. Episode 6. “The Adversary.” Written by Halley Gross and Jonathan Nolan. Directed by Frederick E.O. Toye. HBO, 2016. —. Season 1. Episode 7. “Trompe L’Oeil.” Written by Halley Gross and Jonathan Nolan. Directed by Frederick E.O. Toye. HBO, 2016. —. Season 1. Episode 8. “Trace Decay.” Written by Charles Yu and Lisa Joy. Directed by Stephen Williams. HBO, 2016. —. Season 1. Episode 10. “The Bicameral Mind.” Written by Lisa Joy and Jonathan Nolan. Directed by Jonathan Nolan. HBO, 2016. —. Season 2. Episode 10. “The Passenger.” Written by Lisa Joy and Jonathan Nolan. Directed by Frederick E.O. Toye. HBO, 2018. —. Season 3. Episode 1. “Parce Domine.” Written by Lisa Joy and Jonathan Nolan. Directed by Jonathan Nolan. HBO, 2020. —. Season 3. Episode 3. “The Absence of Field.” Written by Denise Thé. Directed by Amanda Marsalis. HBO, 2020. Years and Years. Created by Russell T Davies. StudioCanal. BBC One, 2019. - Films 2001: A Space Odyssey. Directed by Stanley Kubrick. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1986. American Psycho. Directed by Mary Harron. Lions Gate Films et al., 2000. Arrival. Directed by Denis Villeneuve. Paramount Pictures et al., 2016. Bandersnatch. Directed by David Slade. Netflix, 2018. Black Panther. Directed by Ryan Coogler. Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures, 2018. Blade Runner. Directed by Ridley Scott. Warner Bros., 1982. Blade Runner 2049. Directed by Denis Villeneuve. Warner Bros. Pictures and Sony Pictures Releasing, 2017. Children of Men. Directed by Alfonso Cuarón. Universal Pictures, 2006. Cloud Atlas. Directed by Lana Wachowski et al. Warner Bros. Pictures and X Verleih AG, 2012. Death to 2020. Directed by Al Campbell and Alice Mathias. Netflix, 2020. Primary Sources 323 <?page no="324"?> Divergent. Directed by Neil Burger. Lionsgate, 2014. Elysium. Directed by Neill Blomkamp. Sony Pictures Releasing, 2013. Ex Machina. Directed by Alex Garland. A24 and Universal Pictures International, 2014. Her. Directed by Spike Jonze. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2013. I, Robot. Directed by Alex Proyas. 20 th Century Fox, 2004. Inception. Directed by Christopher Nolan. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2010. Interstellar. Directed by Christopher Nolan. Paramount Pictures and Warner Bros. Pictures, 2014. Maze Runner: The Scorch Trials. Directed by Wes Ball. 20 th Century Fox, 2015. Maze Runner: The Death Cure. Directed by Wes Ball. 20 th Century Fox, 2018. Metropolis. Directed by Fritz Lang. Parufamet, 1927. Pulp Fiction. Directed by Quentin Tarantino. Miramax Films, 1994. Ready Player One. Directed by Steven Spielberg. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2018. Source Code. Directed by Duncan Jones. Summit Entertainment, 2011. The Circle. Directed by James Ponsoldt. STXfilms, 2017. The Divergent Series: Insurgent. Directed by Robert Schwentke. Lionsgate, 2015. The Divergent Series: Allegiant. Directed by Robert Schwentke. Lionsgate, 2016. The Giver. Directed by Philip Noyce. The Weinstein Company, 2014. The Hunger Games. Directed by Gary Ross. Lionsgate, 2012. The Hunger Games: Catching Fire. Directed by Francis Lawrence. Lionsgate, 2013. The Hunger Games: Mockingjay - Part 1. Directed by Francis Lawrence. Lionsgate, 2014. The Hunger Games: Mockingjay - Part 2. Directed by Francis Lawrence. Lionsgate, 2015. The Matrix. Directed by The Wachowskis. Warner Bros., 1999. The Matrix Reloaded. Directed by The Wachowskis. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2003. The Matrix Revolutions. Directed by The Wachowskis. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2003. The Matrix Resurrections. Directed by Lana Wachowski. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2021. The Maze Runner. Directed by Wes Ball. 20 th Century Fox, 2014. The Terminator. Directed by James Cameron. Orion Pictures, 1984. The Truman Show. Directed by Peter Weir. Paramount Pictures, 1998. Twelve Monkeys. Directed by Terry Gilliam. Universal Pictures, 1995. Westworld. Directed by Michael Crichton. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1973. - Video Games Detroit: Become Human. Written by David Cage and Adam Williams. Developed by Quantic Dream. Sony Interactive Entertainment, 2018. The Last of Us. Written by Neil Druckmann. Developed by Naughty Dog. Sony Computer Entertainment, 2013. The Witcher. Written by Artur Ganszyniec et al. Developed by CD Projekt Red. Atari and CD Projekt, 2007. 324 Bibliography <?page no="325"?> Literature Asimov, Isaac. “Runaround.” I, Robot. Harper Voyage, 2013 [Street & Smith, 1942], pp. 31-53. Atwood, Margaret. Oryx and Crake. Bloomsbury, 2003. Bacon, Francis. The New Atlantis. The Floating Press, 2009 [1626]. Butler, Samuel. Erewhon: Or, Over the Range. S.l. : The Floating Press, 2009 [1872]. Carroll, Lewis. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Macmillan Children’s Books, 2015 [1865]. Crichton, Michael. Jurassic Park. Alfred A. Knopf, 1990. Cline, Ernest. Ready Player One. Ballantine Books, 2011. Collins, Suzanne. The Hunger Games (Hunger Games Trilogy). Scholastic, 2014. Dickens, Charles. Oliver Twist: Or, The Parish Boy’s Progress. Edited by Philip Horne. Penguin Classics, 2003 [1837-1839]. Eggers, Dave. The Circle. Knopf, 2013. Forster, E. M. The Machine Stops. Penguin Classics, 2011 [1909]. Huxley, Aldous. Brave New World. Vintage, 2004 [1932]. Ishiguro, Kazuo. Never Let me Go. Faber & Faber, 2005. McEwan, Ian. Machines Like Me. Jonathan Cape, 2019. Moggach, Lottie. Kiss Me First. Pan Macmillan, 2013. More, Thomas. Utopia. Penguin Classics, 2003 [1516]. Moore, Alan. V for Vendetta. Illustrated by David Lloyd. Quality Communications, 1982-1989. Orwell, George. Nineteen Eighty-Four. Penguin Classics, 2004 [1949]. Pohl, Frederik, and Cyril M. Kornbluth. The Space Merchants. Gateway, 2003 [1953]. Shakespeare, William. The Tempest. Edited by Barbara Mowat and Paul Werstine. Simon & Schuster, 2015 [1611]. —. Romeo and Juliet. Edited by Barbara Mowat and Paul Werstine. Simon & Schuster, 2011 [1597]. —. King Lear. Edited by Barbara Mowat and Paul Werstine. Simon & Schuster, 2004 [1608]. Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein: Or the Modern Prometheus. Penguin Classics, 2013 [1818]. Smith, Ali. How to Be Both. Hamish Hamilton, 2014. Stephenson, Neal. Snow Crash. Bantam Books, 1992. The Brothers Grimm. Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales. With an introduction by Kenneth C. Mondschein. Canterbury Classics, 2011. Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lord of the Rings. 60 th anniversary ed. HarperCollins, 2014 [1954-1955]. Zamyatin, Yevgeny. We. Vintage, 2006 [1924]. Wallace, David Foster. Infinite Jest. Little, Brown and Company,1996. Primary Sources 325 <?page no="326"?> Secondary Sources @d_kompare. “I wish more TV today were a bit more ‘let’s hang out with these cool people as they solve this episode’s problem’ and a bit less ‘let’s hang on every portentous word and action because it will only add up at the end of the season.’” Twitter, 29 Jan. 2021, 8: 54 p. m., www.twitter.com/ d_kompare/ status/ 13552430516235 87849. Accessed 7 Apr. 2021. @Meta. “The metaverse is the next evolution of social connection. It’s a collective project that will be created by people all over the world, and open to everyone. You’ll be able to socialize, learn, collaborate and play in ways that go beyond what’s possible today.” Twitter, 28 Oct. 2021, 9: 05 p. m., www.twitter.com/ meta/ status/ 1453800021275545601. Accessed 4 Feb. 2022. @ThatgyalKrys. “Black Mirror really outdid themselves this time. Having us EXPE‐ RIENCE season 6 instead of watching it on Netflix? Remarkable really.” Twitter, 1 June 2020, 8: 45 p. m., www.twitter.com/ ThatyalKrys/ status/ 1267527694306213888. Accessed 8 Oct. 2020. “A Robot Wrote This Entire Article. Are You Scared Yet, Human? | GPT-3.” The Guardian, 8 Sept. 2020, www.theguardian.com/ commentisfree/ 2020/ sep/ 08/ robot-wrote-this-ar ticle-gpt-3. Accessed 25 Feb. 2021. Abramson, Seth. “Metamodernism: The Basics.” Huffpost, 13 Oct. 2014, www.huffpost.c om/ entry/ metamodernism-the-basics_b_5973184. Accessed 9 Jan. 2019. —. “Metamodernism 101: How David Foster Wallace Started a Cultural Revolution.” Medium, 23 July 2015, www.medium.com/ just-words/ metamodernism-101-8cdb8563 e0. Accessed 25 Jan. 2022. Adkins, M. King. Television Storyworlds as Virtual Space. Lexington Books, 2018. Andersen, Robin, and Jonathan Gray, editors. Battleground: The Media. Volume 1 (A-N). Greenwood Press, 2008. Anderson, Mark Robert. “After 75 Years, Isaac Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics Need Updating.” The Conversation, 28 Sep. 2021, www.theconversation.com/ after-75-years -isaac-asimovs-three-laws-of-robotics-need-updating-74501. Accessed 19 Mar. 2022. Andreeva, Nellie. “‘Westworld’ Finale Hits Season High, Caps Most Watched First Season Of HBO Series.” Deadline, 5 Dec. 2016, www.deadline.com/ 2016/ 12/ westworld-final e-ratings-season-high-drama-most-watched-hbo-first-season-series-1201864657. Ac‐ cessed 16 Mar. 2019. Andrews, Bethan. “Simone Brown on Kiss Me First: ‘It could be a new Era in TV.’” The Resident, 16 Apr. 2018, www.theresident.co.uk/ london-culture-events/ simona-brown -kiss-me-first-new-era-for-tv/ . Accessed 20 Mar. 2019. Angenot, Marc. “The Absent Paradigm: An Introduction to the Semiotics of Science Fiction.” Science Fiction Studies, vol. 6, no. 17, 1979, pp. 9-19. 326 Bibliography <?page no="327"?> Armknecht, Oliver. “Kiss Me First.” Film Rezensionen, 13 July 2018, www.film-rezension en.de/ 2018/ 07/ kiss-me-first/ . Accessed 6 Jan. 2022. Ashley, Michael. “A Tale of Two Cities in The Age Of COVID-19.” Forbes, 21 Apr. 2020, www.forbes.com/ sites/ cognitiveworld/ 2020/ 04/ 21/ a-tale-of-two-cities-in-the-a ge-of-covid-19/ ? sh=62da5a6f6aeb. Accessed 13 Aug. 2020. Attebery, Brian. Strategies of Fantasy. Indiana UP,1992, p.-12-3. Atwood, Margaret. In Other Worlds: SF and the Human Imagination. Virago, 2012. —. “Margaret Atwood: The Road to Ustopia.” The Guardian, 14 Oct. 2011, www.theguard ian.com/ books/ 2011/ oct/ 14/ margaret-atwood-road-to-ustopia. Accessed 28 Jan. 2022. Auter, Philip J., and Donald M. Davis. “When Characters Speak Directly to Viewers: Breaking the Fourth Wall in Television.” Journalism Quarterly, vol. 68, 1-2, 1991, pp. 165-71. Baccolini, Raffaella. “A useful knowledge of the present is rooted in the past”: Memory and Historical Reconciliation in Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Telling.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan, Routledge, 2003, pp. 113-34. —. “‘Hope isn’t stupid’: The Appropriation of Dystopia.” mediAzioni, vol. 27, 2020, pp. 39-49, http: / / mediazioni.sitlec.unibo.it. —. “The Persistence of Hope in Dystopian Science Fiction.” PMLA, Special Topic: Science Fiction and Literary Studies: The Next Millennium, vol. 119, no. 3, 2004, pp. 518-21. Baccolini, Raffaella, and Tom Moylan, editors. Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination. Routledge, 2003. —. “Introduction. Dystopia and Histories.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dysto‐ pian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan, Routledge, 2003, pp. 1-12. —. “Conclusion. Critical Dystopia and Possibilities.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan, Routledge, 2003, pp. 223-49. Bachmann, Mara. “Black Mirror Theory: The House of Tomorrow Controls the Multi‐ verse.” Screenrant, 7 Aug. 2020, www.screenrant.com/ black-mirror-theory-house-tom orrow-multiverse-control-reason/ . Accessed 9 Dec. 2020. —. “Black Mirror: The Complete Series Timeline Explained.” Screenrant, 30 Aug. 2020, w ww.screenrant.com/ black-mirror-the-complete-series-timeline-explained/ . Accessed 9 Dec. 2020. “Bad Romance … Our Love Affair with Dystopia.” HeraldScotland, 18 Mar. 2018, www.he raldscotland.com/ news/ 16094938.bad-romance-love-affair-dystopia/ . Accessed 6 Jan. 2022. Bauman, Zygmunt. Culture in a Liquid Modern World. Polity, 2013. —. Liquid Life. Polity Press, 2005. Secondary Sources 327 <?page no="328"?> —. Liquid Modernity. Polity Press, 2012. —. Society Under Siege. Polity Press, 2002. Baya, Adina. “Post-Postmodernism: Automodernity and Its Relevance to Understanding Contemporary Media Audiences.” Procedia---Social and Behavioral Sciences, vol. 71, 2013, pp. 154-59. Beattie, Peter. “The Road to Psychopathology: Neoliberalism and the Human Mind.” Journal of Social Issues, vol. 75, no. 1, 2019, pp. 1-24. Beauchamp, Gorman. “Technology in the Dystopian Novel.” Modern Fiction Studies, vol. 32, no. 1, 1986, pp. 53-63. —. “The Frankenstein Complex and Asimov’s Robots.” Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdis‐ ciplinary Study of Literature, vol. 13, no. 3/ 4, 1980, pp. 83-94. —. “Themes and Uses of Fictional Utopias: A Bibliography of Secondary Works in English.” Science Fiction Studies, vol. 4, no. 1, 1977, pp. 55-63. Beaumont, Peter, and Amanda Holpuch. “How the Handmaid’s Tale Dressed Protests Across the World.” The Guardian, 3 Aug. 2018, www.theguardian.com/ world/ 2018/ a ug/ 03/ how-the-handmaids-tale-dressed-protests-across-the-world. Accessed 25 Jan. 2022. Beck, Ulrich. “Living in the world risk society.” Economy and Society, vol. 35, no. 3, 2006. pp. 329-45. —. Risk Society: Towards a New Modernity. Translated by Mark Ritter. SAGE, 1992. Bell, Frances, et al. “Science Fiction Prototypes: Visionary Technology Narratives Be‐ tween Futures.” Futures, vol. 50, 2013, pp. 5-14. Ben Allouch, Somaya, et al. “Introduction to the Special Issue on the Mutual Shaping of Human - Robot Interaction.” International Journal of Social Robotics, vol. 12, no. 4, 2020, pp. 843-45. Bengsch, Wulf. “Review: Kiss Me First.” Medienjournal, 25 Aug. 2018, www.medienjourn al-blog.de/ 2018/ 08/ review-kiss-me-first-staffel-1-serie. Accessed 6 Jan. 2022. Bennett, Alice. Contemporary Fictions of Attention: Reading and Distraction in the Twenty-First Century. Bloomsbury Academic, 2018. Bennett, Jane. Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things. Duke UP, 2010. Berlin, Isaiah. “Two concepts of liberty.” Four Essays on Liberty, edited by Isaiah Berlin, Oxford UP, 1969, pp. 118-72. Bibbiani, William. “Beyond Westworld: The Westworld TV Series Nobody Talks About.” IGN, 18 Apr. 2018, www.ign.com/ articles/ 2018/ 04/ 18/ beyond-westworld-the-westwo rld-tv-series-nobody-talks-about. Accessed 29 Jan. 2021. Biggio, Federico. “Between Persuasion and Dissuasion: Narratological Meta-Operativity in Augmented Experience Design.” Cinergie - Il cinema e le altre arti, no. 19, 2021, pp. 21-32. https: / / doi.org/ 10.6092/ issn.2280-9481/ 12348. 328 Bibliography <?page no="329"?> Bilandzic, Helena, and Rick W. Busselle. “A Narrative Perspective on Genre-Specific Cultivation.” Living with Television Now: Advances in Cultivation Theory and Research, edited by Michael Morgan et al., Peter Lang, 2012, pp. 261-85. Bina, Olivia, et al. “The Future Imagined: Exploring Fiction as a Means of Reflecting on Today’s Grand Societal Challenges and Tomorrow’s Options.” Futures, vol. 86, 2017, pp. 166-84. Birnbaum, Gurit E., et al. “What Robots Can Teach Us About Intimacy: The Reassuring Effects of Robot Responsiveness to Human Disclosure.” Computers in Human Behavior, vol. 63, 2016, pp. 416-23. Bishop, Bryan. “Black Mirror’s Metalhead Suggests Technological Disruption Is Unavoid‐ able (and Terminal).” The Verge, 5 Jan. 2018, www.theverge.com/ 2018/ 1/ 5/ 16853982/ b lack-mirror-metalhead-season-4-maxine-peake-boston-robotics-robot-dog. Accessed 24 Sept. 2021. Black Mirror Fandom Wiki. www.black-mirror.fandom.com/ wiki/ Black_Mirror_Wiki. Accessed 15 Mar. 2018. Blaim, Artur, and Ludmiła Gruszewska-Blaim, editors. Imperfect Worlds and Dystopian Narratives in Contemporary Cinema. Peter Lang, 2011. —. Mediated Utopias: From Literature to Cinema. Peter Lang, 2015. Bloch, Ernst. On Karl Marx. Verso, 2018 [1959]. —. The Principle of Hope: Volume One. Translated by Neville Plaice et al., MIT Press, 1986. Boffey, Daniel. “Robotic Bees Could Pollinate Plants in Case of Insect Apocalypse.” The Guardian, 9 Oct. 2018, www.theguardian.com/ environment/ 2018/ oct/ 09/ robotic-bees -could-pollinate-plants-in-case-of-insect-apocalypse. Accessed 29 Jan. 2021. Bojalad, Alec. “Black Mirror: ‘Be Right Back’ Is a Masterful Exploration of Fear, Love, and Death.” Den of Geek, 1 Feb. 2018, www.denofgeek.com/ tv/ black-mirror-be-right-b ack-is-a-masterful-exploration-of-fear-love-and-death. Accessed 29 Jan. 2021. Booker, Keith M. Dystopian Literature: A Theory and Research Guide. Greenwood, 1994. —. The Dystopian Impulse in Modern Literature: Fiction as Social Criticism. Greenwood, 1994. Bostrom, Nick. “Transhumanist Values.” Ethical Issues for the 21st Century, edited by Frederick Adams, Philosophical Documentation Center Press, 2003, pp. 3-14. Bould, Mark. “Film and Television.” The Cambridge Companion to Science Fiction, edited by Edward James and Farah Mendlesohn, Cambridge UP, 2003, pp. 79-95. Brandt, Marisa, and Lisa Messeri. “Imagining Feminist Futures on the Small Screen.” NatureCulture, Inclusion and Care in VR Fictions, Issue 5, 2019, pp. 1-25, www.natcult. net/ journal/ issue-5/ imagining-feminist-futures-on-the-small-screen/ . Accessed 6 Jan. 2022. Secondary Sources 329 <?page no="330"?> Breger, Esther. “Delete Yourself: Television’s Conflicted, Heroic Hackers.” The New Re‐ public, 25 Aug. 2015, www.newrepublic.com/ article/ 122599/ delete-yourself. Accessed 7 Jan. 2022. Brey, Philip. “Well-Being in Philosophy, Psychology, and Economics.” The Good Life in a Technological Age, edited by Philip Brey et al., Routledge, 2012, pp. 15-34. Brey, Philip, et al., editors. The Good Life in a Technological Age. Routledge, 2012. Briggle, Adam, et al. “Introduction.” The Good Life in a Technological Age, edited by Philip Brey et al., Routledge, 2012, pp. 1-11. Brims, Fabian. “‘Mr. Robot’ Redefines How TV Depicts Mental Disorders.” 10 Mar. 2020, www.cooglife.com/ 2020/ 03/ mr-robot-mental-disorders/ . Accessed 15 Mar. 2022. Brooker, Charlie. “Charlie Brooker: The Dark Side of Our Gadget Addiction.” The Guardian, 1 Dec. 2011, www.theguardian.com/ technology/ 2011/ dec/ 01/ charlie-brook er-dark-side-gadget-addiction-black-mirror. Accessed 8 Dec. 2017. Brooker, Charlie, et al., editors. Inside Black Mirror. Crown Archetype, 2018. Brown, Christopher. “Dystopia is Realism: The Future Is Here If You Look Closely.” Literary Hub, 1 Jan. 2017, www.lithub.com/ dystopia-is-realism-the-future-is-here-if-y ou-look-closely/ . Accessed 22 Jan. 2022. Bruni, Luigino. “The Ambivalence of the Good Life: Happiness, Economics, Technology, and Relational Goods.” The Good Life in a Technological Age, edited by Philip Brey et al., Routledge, 2012, pp. 109-30. Brunton, James. “Whose (Meta)Modernism? Metamodernism, Race, and the Politics of Failure.” Journal of Modern Literature, vol. 41, no. 3, 2018, p.-60-76. Budakov, Vesselin M. “Dystopia: An Earlier Eighteenth-Century Use.” Notes and Queries, vol. 57, no. 1, 2010, pp. 86-8. Burazin, Ivan. “Rising Stars of the Tech World: Why Developers Are Job Market Royalty.” Forbes, 9 Sep. 2021, www.forbes.com/ sites/ forbestechcouncil/ 2021/ 09/ 09/ rising-stars -of-the-tech-world-why-developers-are-job-market-royalty/ . Accessed 18 Mar. 2022. Burkeman, Oliver. “The Truth About Anxiety - Without It We Wouldn’t Have Hope.” The Guardian, 2 Feb. 2019, www.theguardian.com/ lifeandstyle/ 2019/ feb/ 02/ truth-abo ut-anxiety-without-it-we-would-not-have-hope. Accessed 12 July 2019. Burlacu, Mihai. “The ‘Virtual Heterotopias’: Reimagining Nature-Culture Relations.” Český lid, vol. 104, no. 2, 2017, pp. 183-98. Burzyńska, Katarzyna. “‘A New God Will Walk’: Shakespeare, the Renaissance, and the Birth of the Posthuman in Westworld.” Cahiers Élisabéthains, vol. 100, no. 1, 2019, pp. 6-23. Butsch, Richard. Screen Culture: A Global History. Polity, 2019. Cambridge Dictionary. “Complex.” www.dictionary.cambridge.org/ dictionary/ english/ co mplex. Accessed 18 May 2019. 330 Bibliography <?page no="331"?> —. “Machine learning.” www.dictionary.cambridge.org/ dictionary/ english/ machine-lear ning. Accessed 23 Nov. 2019. —. “Post-truth.” www.dictionary.cambridge.org/ dictionary/ english/ post-truth. Accessed 28 Jan. 2022. Campbell, Alastair. “Charlie Brooker on Black Mirror Season 4: ‘It’s Like We Are Curating a Little Film Festival’ | British GQ.” British GQ, 29 Dec. 2017, www.gq-magazine.co.uk / article/ charlie-brooker-interview-black-mirror-season-4. Accessed 13 Mar. 2022. Cavalcanti, Ildney. “The Writing of Utopia and the Feminist Critical Dystopia: Suzy McKee Charnas’s Holdfast Series.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan, Routledge, 2003, pp. 47-67. Cellan-Jones, Rory. “Tech Tent: The World in 2031.” BBC News, 22 Oct. 2021, www.bbc.c om/ news/ technology-59008812. Accessed 27 Feb. 2022. Chambers, Deborah. Social Media and Personal Relationships: Online Intimacies and Networked Friendship. Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. Chandler, Abigail. “You talkin’ to me? : how TV narration got personal” The Guardian, 25 Oct. 2019, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2019/ oct/ 25/ you-talkin-to-me-how -tv-narration-got-personal. Accessed 29 Dec. 2020. Chandran, Nyshka. “Why Do We Find Comfort in Terrifying Stories? ” BBC Culture, 14 May 2020, www.bbc.com/ culture/ article/ 20200508-why-depressing-dystopia-stori es-are-popular-during-covid-19. Accessed 12 Aug. 2020. Chandrashekar, Ashok, et al. “Artwork Personalization at Netflix.” Netflix Technology Blog, 7 Dec. 2017, www.netflixtechblog.com/ artwork-personalization-c589f074ad76. Accessed 13 Dec. 2019. Chan-Olmsted, Sylvia, et al. “Towards a Video Consumer Leaning Spectrum: A Me‐ dium-Centric Approach.” Nordic Journal of Media Management, vol. 1, no. 2, 2020, pp. 129-85. Chayka, Kyle. “‘Emily in Paris’ and the Rise of Ambient TV.” The New Yorker, 16 Nov. 2020, www.newyorker.com/ culture/ cultural-comment/ emily-in-paris-and-the-rise-of -ambient-tv. Accessed 13 Dec. 2020. Chun, Christian. “What’s in a word: Neoliberalism or capitalism? ” Diggit Magazine, 20 Mar. 2019, www.diggitmagazine.com/ column/ what-s-word-neoliberalism-or-capitali sm. Accessed 18 Dec. 2020. Claeys, Gregory. Dystopia: A Natural History. Oxford UP, 2016. —. “News from Somewhere: Enhanced Sociability and the Composite Definition of Utopia and Dystopia.” History, vol. 98, no. 2, 2013, pp. 145-74. —. Searching for Utopia: The History of an Idea. Thames and Hudson, 2011. Coates, Joseph F. “Utopia - An Obsolete Concept.” Technological Forecasting and Social Change, vol. 113, Part A, 2016, pp. 110-11. Secondary Sources 331 <?page no="332"?> Coeckelbergh, Mark. “Technology and the Good Society: A Polemical Essay on Social Ontology, Political Principles, and Responsibility for Technology.” Technology in Society, vol. 52, 2018, pp. 4-9. Collins, Sean T. “How Mr. Robot Became One of TV’s Most Visually Striking Shows.” Vulture, 2 Sept. 2015, www.vulture.com/ 2015/ 09/ mr-robot-visually-striking-cinemato graphy.html. Accessed 29 Jan. 2019. Cook, Mariam. “Coding Patriarchy into IT.” The Guardian, 22 Oct. 2010, www.theguardi an.com/ commentisfree/ 2010/ oct/ 22/ coding-patriarchy-into-it. Accessed 14 Feb. 2018. Cosgrove, Lisa, and Justin M. Karter. “The Poison in the Cure: Neoliberalism and Contemporary Movements in Mental Health.” Theory & Psychology, vol. 28, no. 5, 2018, pp. 669-83. “COVID-19 and Metamodernism: A Commentary w/ Daniel Gortz.” YouTube, 17 Apr. 2020, www.youtube.com/ watch? v=uMMKzfnyxyg. Accessed 30 Mar. 2021. Crispin, Jessa. “Yes, I Know We’re Living in a Black Mirror Episode. I Still Want Dystopian TV, Though.” The Guardian, 11 May 2020, www.theguardian.com/ commentisfree/ 202 0/ may/ 11/ black-mirror-episode-dystopian-tv. Accessed 17 June 2020. Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly. Flow: The Classic Work on How to Achieve Happiness. Rev. and updated ed. Rider, 2002. Cumming, Ed. “The Queen’s Gambit, Emily in Paris and Bridgerton Are All the Same: Colourful, People-Pleasing TV.” The Independent, 18 Jan. 2021, www.independent.co .uk/ arts-entertainment/ tv/ features/ queens-gambit-emily-in-paris-bridgerton-same-n etflix-b1787393.html. Accessed 19 Feb. 2021. Czigányik, Zsolt, editor. Utopian Horizons: Ideology, Politics, Literature. Central European UP, 2017. —. “Afterword.” Utopian Horizons: Ideology, Politics, Literature, edited by Zsolt Czigányik, Central European UP, 2017, pp. 239-48. —. “Utopia & Dystopia On Screen.” Film & Culture, edited by Dorottya Jászay and Andrea Velich, Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest, 2016, pp. 30-43. Dai, Yu-Xiao, and Su-Tong Hao. “Transcending the Opposition Between Techno-Uto‐ pianism and Techno-Dystopianism.” Technology in Society, vol. 53, 2018, pp. 9-13. Dance, Gabriel J.X., et al. “As Facebook Raised a Privacy Wall, It Carved an Opening for Tech Giants.” The New York Times, 18 Dec. 2018, www.nytimes.com/ 2018/ 12/ 18/ techn ology/ facebook-privacy.html. Accessed 27 June 2019. Dargis, Manohla. “Disembodied, but, Oh, What a Voice.” The New York Times, 17 Dec. 2013, www.nytimes.com/ 2013/ 12/ 18/ movies/ her-directed-by-spike-jonze.html. Accessed 28 June 2019. Dasgupta, Rana. “The demise of the nation state.” The Guardian, 5 Apr. 2018, www.theg uardian.com/ news/ 2018/ apr/ 05/ demise-of-the-nation-state-rana-dasgupta. Accessed 18 June 2018. 332 Bibliography <?page no="333"?> Davies, Hannah J. “The New Noir: How Teen TV Went over to the Dark Side.” The Guardian, 1 Mar. 2017, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2017/ mar/ 01/ teen-tv-cliq ue-netflix-riverdale-skins. Accessed 6 Jan. 2022. De Preester, Helena. “The Object That Technology Is Not and How We Can Relate to It.” Foundations of Science, 2021, pp. 1-5. https: / / doi.org/ 10.1007/ s10699-020-09743-4. Debord, Guy. Society of the Spectacle. Rebel Press, 2005. Delaney, Brigid. “Years and Years Is Riveting Dystopian TV - and the Worst Show to Watch Right Now.” The Guardian, 7 Apr. 2020, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 20 20/ apr/ 07/ years-and-years-is-riveting-dystopian-tv-and-the-worst-show-to-watch-ri ght-now. Accessed 26 Mar. 2022. Delistraty, Cody. “Welcome to Dystopian Realism.” Vulture, 8 Jan. 2019, www.vulture.com / 2019/ 01/ modern-feminist-dystopia-is-basically-realism.html. Accessed 22 Jan. 2022. Dellwing, Michael, and Martin Harbusch. “Vergemeinschaftung in Zeiten der Distin‐ ktion: Fantastische Andere und transgessives Fernsehen.” Vergemeinschaftung in Zeiten der Zombie-Apokalypse: Gesellschaftskonstruktionen am fantastischen Anderen, edited by Michael Dellwing and Martin Harbusch, Springer VS, 2015, pp. 7-20. Ditum, Sarah. “Never-Ending Nightmare: Why Feminist Dystopias Must Stop Torturing Women.” The Guardian, 12 May 2018, www.theguardian.com/ books/ 2018/ may/ 12/ w hy-the-handmaids-tale-marks-a-new-chapter-in-feminist-dystopias. Accessed 9 Mar. 2020. Dörre, Klaus. “Die neue Landnahme. Dynamiken und Grenzen des Finanzmarktkapita‐ lismus.” Soziologie - Kapitalismus - Kritik: Eine Debatte, edited by Klaus Dörre et al., Suhrkamp, 2009, pp. 21-86. Dörre, Klaus, et al. Soziologie - Kapitalismus - Kritik: Eine Debatte. Suhrkamp, 2009. Dotson, Taylor. Technically Together: Reconstructing Community in a Networked World. MIT Press, 2017. Dowling, Tim. “Westworld Review - HBO’s Seamless Marriage of Robot Cowboys and Corporate Dystopia.” The Guardian, 5 Oct. 2016, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2016/ oct/ 04/ westworld-review-seamless-marriage-cowboys-dystopians. Accessed 22 Nov. 2017. Doyle, Jon. “The Changing Face of Post-Postmodern Fiction: Irony, Sincerity, and Populism.” Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction, vol. 59, no. 3, 2018, pp. 259-70. Eagleton, Terry. Materialism. Yale UP, 2016. Edwards, Lilian, and Edina Harbinja. “‘Be Right Back’: What Rights Do We Have over Post-Mortem Avatars of Ourselves? ” Future Law: Emerging Technology, Regulation and Ethics, edited by Lilian Edwards et al., Edinburgh UP, 2020, pp. 262-92. Edwards, Lilian, et al. “The Future’s Already Here: It’s Just Unevenly Edited.” Future Law: Emerging Technology, Regulation and Ethics, edited by Lilian Edwards et al., Edinburgh UP, 2020, pp. 1-10. Secondary Sources 333 <?page no="334"?> Ehrenberg, Alain. Weariness of the Self: Diagnosing the History of Depression in the Contemporary Age. McGill-Queen’s UP, 2016. Ellul, Jacques. The Technological Society. Translated by John Wilkinson. Vintage Books, 1964. Evans, Brad, and Julian Reid. “Dangerously Exposed: The Life and Death of the Resilient Subject.” Resilience, vol. 1, no. 2, 2013, pp. 83-98. Fallis, Don. “On Playing Cowboys and Indians.” Westworld and Philosophy: If You Go Looking for the Truth, Get the Whole Thing, edited by James B. South and Kimberly S. Engels, Wiley, 2018, pp. 5-14. Farca, Gerald. Playing Dystopia: Nightmarish Worlds in Video Games and the Player’s Aesthetic Response. Transcript, 2018. Ferns, Chris. Narrating Utopia: Ideology, Gender, Form in Utopian Literature. Liverpool UP, 1999. —. “Utopia, Anti-Utopia and Science Fiction.” Teaching Science Fiction, edited by Andy Sawyer and Peter Wright, Palgrave Macmillan, 2011, pp. 55-71. Ferré, Frederick. Philosophy of Technology. Prentice Hall, 1988. Firchow, Peter E. Modern Utopian Fictions from H. G. Wells to Iris Murdoch. The Catholic University of America Press, 2007. Fisher, Mark. Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? O Books, 2009. Fitting, Peter. “Positioning and Closure: On the ‘Reading Effect’ of Contemporary Utopian Fiction.” Utopian Studies I, edited by Gorman Beauchamp et al., University Press of America, 1987, pp. 23-36. —. “Unmasking the Real? Critique and Utopia in Recent SF Films.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan, Routledge, 2003, pp. 155-66. —. “Utopia, dystopia and science fiction.” The Cambridge Companion to Utopian Literature, edited by Gregory Claeys, Cambridge UP, 2010, pp. 135-53. Flisfeder, Matthew. “Mr. Robot: Season 1, and: Mr. Robot: Season 2 (Review).” Science Fiction Film and Television, vol. 11, no. 1, 2018, pp. 143-47. Fortunati, Vita. “Why Dystopia Matters.” Dystopia(n) Matters: On the Page, on Screen, on Stage, edited by Fátima Vieira, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2013, pp. 28-36. Foucault, Michel. The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. Routledge, 2002 [1970]. —. “Of Other Spaces.” Translated by Jay Miskowiec. Diacritics, vol. 16, no. 1, 1986, p. 22-27. Franklin, Seb. “On Game Art, Circuit Bending and Speedrunning as Counter-Practice: ‘Hard’ and ‘Soft’ Nonexistence.’” CTheory, June 2009, www.journals.uvic.ca/ index.ph p/ ctheory/ article/ view/ 14760/ 5632. Accessed 26 Aug. 2019. 334 Bibliography <?page no="335"?> Franssen, Maarten, et al. “Philosophy of Technology.” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Fall 2018 Edition, edited by Edward N. Zalta. www.plato.stanford.edu/ arc hives/ fall2018/ entries/ technology. Accessed 19 Feb. 2019. Fraser, Emma. “How Mr. Robot Turned a Dystopian Landscape into a Utopian Finale.” Syfy, 17 Jan. 2020, www.syfy.com/ syfywire/ how-mr-robot-turned-a-dystopian-lands cape-into-a-utopian-finale. Accessed 3 Feb. 2020. Freinacht, Hanzi. “5 Things That Make You Metamodern.” Metamoderna, 16 Feb. 2015, w ww.metamoderna.org/ 5-things-that-make-you-metamodern/ . Accessed 27 Mar. 2022. Freud, Sigmund. Civilization and its Discontents. Translated by James Strachey. Norton, 2010 [1930]. Fukuyama, Francis. The End of History and the Last Man. With a New Afterword. Free Press, 2006 [1992]. —. “The Future of History: Can Liberal Democracy Survive the Decline of the Middle Class? ” Foreign Affairs Magazine, 1 Jan. 2012, www.foreignaffairs.com/ articles/ 2012-0 1-01/ future-history. Accessed 27 Mar. 2022. Galloway, Alexander R., and Eugene Thacker. The Exploit: A Theory of Networks. University of Minnesota Press, 2007. Garfield, Leanna. “Walmart Has Hinted That It’s Building Crop-Pollinating Robot Bees.” Business Insider, 14 Mar. 2018, www.businessinsider.com/ walmart-robot-bees-farmin g-patent-2018-3? r=DE&IR=T. Accessed 29 Jan. 2021. Georgi-Findlay, Brigitte. “Im Dickicht konkurrierender Skripte: Wozu braucht Westworld den Weste(r)n? ” Mensch, Maschine, Maschinenmenschen, edited by Brigitte Georgi-Fin‐ dlay and Katja Kanzler, Springer VS, 2018, pp. 71-87. Georgi-Findlay, Brigitte, and Katja Kanzler, editors. Mensch, Maschine, Maschinenmen‐ schen. Springer VS, 2018. Gerber, Brady. “Dystopia for Sale: How a Commercialized Genre Lost Its Teeth.” Literary Hub, 8 Feb. 2018, www.lithub.com/ dystopia-for-sale-how-a-commercialized-genre-lo st-its-teeth. Accessed 7 June 2020. Gerbner, George, and Larry Gross. “Living with Television: The Violence Profile.” Journal of Communication, vol. 26, no. 2, 1976, pp. 173-99. Gibbons, Alison. “‘I Agree to This’: Third Angel and the Price of Fame.” Notes on Metamodernism, 29 Jan. 2014, www.metamodernism.com/ 2014/ 01/ 29/ i-agree-to-this-t hird-angel-and-the-price-of-fame/ . Accessed 7 Jan. 2022. Gibbons, Alison, et al. “Reality becons: metamodernist depthiness beyond panfiction‐ ality.” European Journal of English Studies, vol. 32, no. 2, pp. 172-89. Girish, Devika. “Out of This World: Ryan Coogler’s Black Panther Envisions an Alternate Future for a Troubled Genre and a Troubling Reality, Pointing the Way Toward More Political, Playful Science Fiction.” Film Comment, March-April 2018, pp. 28-33. Secondary Sources 335 <?page no="336"?> Goddard, Michael N., and Christopher Hogg. “Introduction: Trans TV as Concept and Intervention into Contemporary Television.” Critical Studies in Television: The International Journal of Television Studies, vol. 13, no. 4, 2018, pp. 470-74. Goldman, Steven L. “Images of Technology in Popular Films: Discussion and Filmog‐ raphy.” Science, Technology, & Human Values, vol. 14, no. 3, 1989, pp. 275-301. Goldoni, Giacomo. “What Do We Mean by ‘Metamodernism’ and How Might We Use the Concept as a Tool for Interpreting Contemporary Visual Culture? ” 29 Feb. 2016, www. academia.edu/ 24077132/ What_do_we_mean_by_metamodernism_and_how_might_ we_use_the_concept_as_a_tool_for_interpreting_contemporary_visual_culture. Ac‐ cessed 3 Dec. 2017. Gonnermann, Annika. Absent Rebels: Criticism and Network Power in 21 st Century Dysto‐ pian Fiction. Narr Francke Attempto, 2021. González, Edisa Mondelo, and Ricardo Vizcaíno-Laorga. “Technophobic Dystopias: A Theoretical Approximation to the Communication Technology Limits Related to Privacy from the Google Glass Case and Audiovisual Fiction.” Journal of Information Policy, vol. 8, 2018, pp. 296-313. Goodman, Nelson. Ways of Worldmaking. Hackett, 1978. Gordon, Bryony. “Charlie Brooker on Black Mirror: ‘It’s Not a Technological Problem We Have, It’s a Human One’.” The Telegraph, 16 Dec. 2014, www.telegraph.co.uk/ cu lture/ tvandradio/ 11260768/ Charlie-Brooker-Its-not-a-technological-problem-we-hav e-its-a-human-one.html. Accessed 23 Feb. 2018. Green, M. C., and T. C. Brock. “In the mind’s eye. Transportation-imagery model of narrative persuasion.” Narrative impact: Social and Cognitive Foundations, edited by M. C. Green et al., Erlbaum, 2002, pp. 315-41. Grewal, David Singh. Network Power: The Social Dynamics of Globalization. Yale UP, 2008. Griffy-Brown, Charla. “The Changing Discourse of Technology in Society in the 21st Century - Identifying Themes and Broader Questions.” Editorial. Technology in Society, vol. 49, 2017, A1-A4. Griffy-Brown, Charla, et al. “Technology and the Good Society.” Editorial. Technology in Society, vol. 52, 2018, pp. 1-3. Griggs, Mary Beth. “AMC’s ‘Humans’ Is Closer to Reality Than You Think.” Popular Science, 29 June 2015, www.popsci.com/ amcs-humans-and-parallel-worlds-robotics-r esearch-and-science-fiction/ . Accessed 25 Feb. 2022. Groeben, Norbert, and Peter Vorderer. Leserpsychologie: Lesemotivation - Lektürewirkung. Aschendorff, 1988. Gunning, Tom. “Crazy Machines in the Garden of Forking Paths: Mischief Gags and The Origins of American Film Comedy.” Classical Hollywood Comedy, edited by Kristine Brunovska Karnick and Henry Jenkins, Routledge, 1995, pp. 87-105. 336 Bibliography <?page no="337"?> Hak, Andrea. “How Netflix Shapes Mainstream Culture, Explained by Data.” The Next Web, 21 Dec. 2020, www.thenextweb.com/ news/ how-netflix-shapes-mainstream-cul ture-explained-by-data. Accessed 30 Mar. 2022. Halpern, Mark. “No Ghost in the Machine: Artificial Intelligence Isn’t as Intelligent as You Think.” The American Scholar, 2 Mar. 2020, www.theamericanscholar.org/ no-gho st-in-the-machine. Accessed 17 Apr. 2020. Han, Byung-Chul. The Burnout Society. Translated by Erik Butler. Stanford UP, 2015. —. Psychopolitics: Neoliberalism and New Technologies of Power. Translated by Erik Butler. Verso Futures, 2017. Hands, Joss. Gadget Consciousness: Collective Thought, Will and Action in the Age of Social Media. Pluto Press, 2019. Haraway, Donna. “A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late 20th Century.” The International Handbook of Virtual Learning Environments, edited by Joel Weiss et al., Springer, 2006, pp. 117-58. Harrington, Stephen. “Tweeting about the Telly: Live TV, Audiences, and Social media.” Twitter and Society, edited by Katrin Weller et al., Peter Lang, 2014, pp. 237-47. Harrington, Stephen, et al. “More than a backchannel: Twitter and television.” Participa‐ tions: Journal of Audience and Reception Studies, vol. 10, no. 1., 2013, pp. 405-09. Harris, Aisha. “Mr. Robot Reimagined the ’90s Sitcom on Wednesday Night’s Episode in Its Own Twisted Way.” Slate, 11 Aug. 2016, www.slate.com/ culture/ 2016/ 08/ mr-ro bots-90s-sitcom-parody-brilliantly-reimagined-the-very-special-episode-video.html. Accessed 29 Jan. 2021. Heidbrink, Henriette. “1, 2, 3, 4 Futures - Ludic Forms in Narrative Films.” SubStance, vol. 42, no. 1, 2013, pp. 146-64. Heinz, Sarah. “Unhomely Spaces and Improper Houses: Representations of Whiteness and Class on British Television.” Anglistentag 2015 Paderborn: Proceedings, edited by Christoph Ehland et al., WVT, 2016, pp. 77-88. Heiser, Jörg. “Super-Hybridity: Non-Simultaneity, Myth-Making and Multipolar Con‐ flict.” Metamodernism: Historicity, Affect and Depth After Postmodernism, edited by Robin van den Akker et al., Rowman & Littlefield International, 2017, pp. 55-68. Helgesson, Claes-Fredrik. “Folded Valuations? ” Editorial Note. Valuation Studies, vol. 4, no. 2, 2016, pp. 93-102. Hendrickson, Paula. “How Worldbuilding Was Key to Drama Series Emmy Nominees.” Variety, 9 Aug. 2018, www.variety.com/ 2018/ tv/ awards/ emmys-drama-series-worldbu ilding-westworld-americans-stranger-things-handmaids-tale-1202897082/ . Accessed 26 Mar. 2022. Heritage, Stuart. “Less Nihilism, More Feeling: What I Want from Black Mirror Season Five.” The Guardian, 7 Mar. 2018, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2018/ mar/ 07 Secondary Sources 337 <?page no="338"?> / less-nihilism-more-feeling-what-i-want-from-black-mirror-season-five. Accessed 4 Sept. 2019. Hern, Alex. “2016: The Year AI Came of Age.” The Guardian, 28 Dec. 2016, www.thegu ardian.com/ technology/ 2016/ dec/ 28/ 2016-the-year-ai-came-of-age. Accessed 28 Apr. 2020. Hertz, Noreena. “Think the Millennials Have It Tough? For ‘Generation K’, Life Is Even Harsher.” The Guardian, 19 Mar. 2016, www.theguardian.com/ world/ 2016/ mar/ 19/ th ink-millennials-have-it-tough-for-generation-k-life-is-even-harsher. Accessed 6 Jan. 2022. Herzog, Kenny. “A Psychiatrist Analyzes Mr. Robot’s Elliot Alderson.” Vulture, 20 Aug. 2015, www.vulture.com/ 2015/ 08/ mr-robot-elliot-alderson-psych-evaluation.ht ml. Accessed 7 Jan. 2022. Hewitt-Page, Dylan. “Technology and the nation-state: governing social complexity.” openDemocracy, 29 May 2013, www.opendemocracy.net/ en/ opendemocracyuk/ techn ology-and-nation-state-governing-social-complexity. Accessed 19 Dec. 2017. Hibberd, James. “Black Mirror Creator Explains That ‘Metalhead’ Robot Nightmare.” EW.com, 29 Dec. 2017, www.ew.com/ tv/ 2017/ 12/ 29/ black-mirror-metalhead-intervie w/ . Accessed 24 Sept. 2021. Hill, Doug. “On the Importance of the Imaginative Forward Glance.” Endeavour, vol. 41, no. 4, 2017, pp. 206-07. Horkheimer, Max and Theodor W. Adorno. Dialectic of Enlightenment: Philosophical Fragments. Edited by Gunzelin Schmid Noerr. Translated by Edmund Jephcott. Stan‐ ford UP, 2002 [1944]. Hornik, Susan. “How Streaming Services Left Us with Too Much to Watch.” BBC News, 27 Jan. 2022, www.bbc.com/ news/ business-60125013. Accessed 30 Mar. 2022. Huber, Irmtraud, and Wolfang Funk. “Reconstructing Depth: Authentic Fiction and Responsibility.” Metamodernism: Historicity, Affect and Depth After Postmodernism, edited by Robin van den Akker et al., Rowman & Littlefield International, 2017, pp. 151-66. Huddleston, Tom. “This 29-Year-Old Book Predicted the ‘Metaverse’ - And Some of Facebook's Plans Are Eerily Similar.” CNBC, 3 Nov. 2021, www.cnbc.com/ 2021/ 11/ 03/ h ow-the-1992-sci-fi-novel-snow-crash-predicted-facebooks-metaverse.html. Accessed 7 Jan. 2022. Hudson, Marc. “Ending Technocracy with a Neologism? Avivocracy as a Conceptual Tool.” Technology in Society, vol. 55, 2018, pp. 136-39. Hughes, Sarah. “Mr Robot’s Rami Malek: ‘the World Is in Chaos - and All We Do Is Hyperconsume.’” The Guardian, 14 July 2016, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 20 16/ jul/ 14/ mr-robot-rami-malek-the-world-is-chaos. Accessed 7 Jan. 2022. Hurka, Thomas. Perfectionism. Oxford UP, 1996. 338 Bibliography <?page no="339"?> Hutcheon, Linda. “Epilogue: The Postmodern … in Retrospect.” The Politics of Postmod‐ ernism, 2nd ed., Routledge, 2002, pp. 165-67. Huyssen, Andreas. “The Vamp and the Machine: Technology and Sexuality in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis.” New German Critique, no. 24/ 25, 1981, pp. 221-37. Ihde, Don. Technology and the Lifeworld: From Garden to Earth. Indiana UP, 1990. Innocenti, Veronica, and Guglielmo Pescatore. “Changing Series: Narrative Models and the Role of the Viewer in Contemporary Television Seriality.” Between, vol. 4, no. 8, 2015, pp. 1-15. Irwin, Stacey O’Neal. Digital Media: Human-Technology Connection. Lexington Books, 2016. Itzkoff, Dave. “They Create Nightmare Worlds for TV. Now They’re Living in One.” The New York Times, 29 Mar. 2020, www.nytimes.com/ 2020/ 03/ 29/ arts/ television/ westwo rld-handmaids-tale-virus.html. Accessed 20 Apr. 2020. Ivars-Nicolas, Begoña, and Francisco Julian Martinez-Cano. “Interactivity in Fiction Series as Part of Its Transmedia Universe: The Case of Black Mirror: Bandersnatch.” Narrative Transmedia, edited by Beatriz Peña-Acuña, IntechOpen, 2020, pp. 11-22. Jacobs, Naomi. “Posthuman Bodies and Agency in Octavia Butler’s Xenogenesis.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan, Routledge, 2003, pp. 91-111. Jaeggi, Rahel. Critique of Forms of Life. Translated by Ciaran Cronin. Belknap Press of Harvard UP, 2018. Jagodzinski, Jan. “Mr. Robot: Schizophrenia, Paranoia and Corporate Greed.” MedienPä‐ dagogik, no. 26, 2016, pp. 61-77. —. “The Prosthetic Space of Art: Taking the ‘Visual’ Out of Visual Art.” Qualitative Inquiry, vol. 21, no. 6, 2015, pp. 510-19. Jameson, Fredric. Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions. Verso, 2005. —. “Cognitive Mapping.” Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, edited by Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg, Macmillan Education, 1988, pp. 347-57. —. Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. Verso, 1991. —. “World-Reduction in Le Guin: The Emergence of Utopian Narrative.” Science Fiction Studies, vol. 2, no. 3, 1975, pp. 221-30. Jaspers, Karl. Vom Ursprung und Ziel der Geschichte. Artemis, 1949. Jenkins, Henry. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York UP, 2006. “Jodie Foster on directing ‘Black Mirror’ episode, #MeToo movement.” Interview with Jodie Foster. CBS News, 11 Dec. 2017, www.cbsnews.com/ video/ jodie-foster-on-direc ting-black-mirror-episode-metoo-movement/ #x. Accessed 8 Apr. 2019. Secondary Sources 339 <?page no="340"?> Johnson, David Kyle, editor. Black Mirror and Philosophy: Dark Reflections. Wiley-Black‐ well, 2020. Johnstone, Justine. “Capabilities and Technology.” The Good Life in a Technological Age, edited by Philip Brey et al., Routledge, 2012, pp. 77-91. Jones, Calvert W., and Celia Paris. “It’s the End of the World and They Know It: How Dystopian Fiction Shapes Political Attitudes.” Perspectives on Politics, vol. 16, no. 4, 2018, pp. 969-89. Jones, Rhett, and Peter Yeh. “Mr. Robot: Every Title and Episode, Explained.” 20 Nov. 2015, www.hopesandfears.com/ hopes/ culture/ television/ 216489-mr-robot-episodes-t itles-explained. Accessed 16 Mar. 2022. Jung, Carl. The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. Translated by R. F. C. Hull. Princeton UP, 1990 [1959]. Kanzler, Katja. “‘This Game is not Meant for You’: Westworld an der Schnittstelle von Narrativ und Spiel.” Mensch, Maschine, Maschinenmenschen, edited by Brigitte Georgi-Findlay and Katja Kanzler, Springer VS, 2018, pp. 53-70. Kanzler, Katja, and Brigitte Georgi-Findlay. “Einführung: Westworld, Maschinen/ men‐ schen und das amerikanische ,Qualitätsfernsehen.‘” Mensch, Maschine, Maschinen‐ menschen, edited by Brigitte Georgi-Findlay and Katja Kanzler, Springer VS, 2018, pp. 1-9. Karalis, Tiffany. “These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends: Disrupting the Angst.” Editorial. English Education, vol. 50, no. 3, 2018, pp. 220-27. Kawamoto, Marcia Tiemy Morita. “Chronos Sickness: digital reality in Duncan Jones’s Source Code.” Ilha do Desterro, vol. 70, no. 1, 2017, pp. 249-56. Kersten, Dennis, and Usha Wilbers. “Introduction: Metamodernism.” English Studies, vol. 99, no. 7, 2018, pp. 719-22. Keyes, Corey L. M. “The Mental Health Continuum: From Languishing to Flourishing in Life.” Journal of Health and Social Behavior, vol. 43, no. 2, 2002, pp. 207-22. Khasawneh, Odai Y. “Technophobia: Examining Its Hidden Factors and Defining It.” Technology in Society, vol. 54, 2018, pp. 93-100. Kiberd, Roisin. “The Rise and Fall of ‘Boring Dystopia,’ the Anti-Facebook Facebook Group.” Vice, 22 Dec. 2015, www.vice.com/ en/ article/ aekd5j/ the-rise-and-fall-of-bori ng-dystopia-the-anti-facebook-facebook-group. Accessed 17 Mar. 2019. Kim, Jean. “Narrative Consciousness, Memory, and PTSD in Westworld.” Psychology Today, 16 Dec. 2016, www.psychologytoday.com/ ca/ blog/ culture-shrink/ 201612/ narr ative-consciousness-memory-and-ptsd-in-westworld. Accessed 19 Mar. 2022. Kindley, Evan. “The Future Ain’t What It Used to Be.” The Nation, 1 Feb. 2018, www.the nation.com/ article/ archive/ tvs-dystopia-boom/ . Accessed 17 Dec. 2020. Kirby, Alan. Digimodernism: How New Technologies Dismantle the Postmodern and Reconfigure Our Culture. Continuum, 2009. 340 Bibliography <?page no="341"?> “Kiss Me First: Interview with Bryan Elsley, Writer and Exec Producer.” Channel 4, 22 Mar. 2018, www.channel4.com/ press/ news/ kiss-me-first-interview-bryan-elsley-writ er-and-exec-producer. Accessed 6 Jan. 2022. Kitzinger, Jenny. “Questioning the Sci‐fi Alibi: A Critique of How ‘Science Fiction Fears’ Are Used to Explain Away Public Concerns About Risk.” Journal of Risk Research, vol. 13, no. 1, 2010, pp. 73-86. Klonowska, Barbara, et al., editors. (Im)perfection Subverted, Reloaded and Networked: Utopian Discourse across Media. Peter Lang, 2015. —. “Utopian Reconfigurations in the Culture of Convergence.” (Im)perfection Subverted, Reloaded and Networked: Utopian Discourse across Media, edited by Barbara Klonowska et al., Peter Lang, 2015. pp. 7-25. Knafo, Danielle, and Rocco Lo Bosco. The Age of Perversion: Desire and Technology in Psychoanalysis and Culture. Routledge, 2016. Kottow, Andrea R., and Michael H. Kottow. “The Disease-Subject as a Subject of Literature.” Philosophy, Ethics, and Humanities in Medicine, vol. 2, no. 1, 2007, p.-10. Kranzberg, Melvin. “Technology and History: ‘Kranzberg’s Laws.’” Technology and Culture, vol. 27, no. 3, 1986, pp. 544-60. Lalliard, Capucine. “Netflix Vs Cinema: Who’s Gonna Win ? ” Digital Society - Medium, 18 Mar. 2021, www.medium.com/ digital-society/ netflix-vs-cinema-whos-gonna-win -bd0903989867. Accessed 29 Mar. 2022. Lambie, Ryan. “Black Mirror Season 4: Metalhead Review.” 29 Dec. 2017, www.denofgee k.com/ tv/ black-mirror-season-4-metalhead-review/ . Accessed 24 Sept. 2021. Landau, Neil. TV Writing on Demand: Creating Great Content in the Digital Era. Routledge, 2018. LaRubia-Prado, Francisco. The Horse in Literature and Film: Uncovering a Transcultural Paradigm. Lexington Books, 2017. Latour, Bruno. We Have Never Been Modern. Harvard UP, 1993. Layh, Susanna. Finstere neue Welten: Gattungsparadigmatische Transformationen der literarischen Utopie und Dystopie. Königshausen & Neumann, 2014. Le, Vincent. “‘These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends’: Decrypting Westworld as Dual Coding and Corruption of Nick Land’s Accelerationism.” Colloquy: Text, Theory, Critique, vol. 34, 2017, pp. 3-23. Lemmey, Huw. “Is Westworld an Anti-Human Fable? ” The Guardian, 9 May 2018, w ww.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2018/ may/ 09/ is-westworld-an-anti-human-fable. Accessed 5 Mar. 2019. Lepore, Jill. “A Golden Age for Dystopian Fiction. What to Make of Our New Literature of Radical Pessimism.” The New Yorker, 12 June 2017, www.newyorker.com/ magazine / 2017/ 06/ 05/ a-golden-age-for-dystopian-fiction. Accessed 2 Dec. 2018. Secondary Sources 341 <?page no="342"?> Lessenich, Stephan. “Das System im/ am Subjekt oder: Wenn drei sich streiten, freut sich die (kritische) Soziologie.” Soziologie - Kapitalismus - Kritik: Eine Debatte, edited by Klaus Dörre et al., Suhrkamp, 2009, pp. 280-97. Levin, Kim. “How PoMo Can You Go? ” ArtNews, 15 Oct. 2012, www.artnews.com/ art-ne ws/ news/ how-pomo-can-you-go-2108/ . Accessed 20 Dec. 2017. Levitas, Ruth. The Concept of Utopia. Peter Lang, 2011. Levitas, Ruth, and Lucy Sargisson. “Utopia in Dark Times: Optimism/ Pessimism and Utopia/ Dystopia.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan, Routledge, 2003, pp. 13-27. Lewis, Paul. “You’re Being Watched: There’s One CCTV Camera for Every 32 People in UK.” The Guardian, 2 Mar. 2011, www.theguardian.com/ uk/ 2011/ mar/ 02/ cctv-camera s-watching-surveillance. Accessed 30 Mar. 2022. Lexico. “Immerse.” www.lexico.com/ definition/ immerse. Accessed 9 July 2021. —. “Noob.” www.lexico.com/ definition/ noob. Accessed 19 July 2021. —. “Uncanny Valley.” www.lexico.com/ en/ definition/ uncanny_valley. Accessed 8 Sept. 2021. —. “Turing Test.” www.lexico.com/ en/ definition/ turing_test. Accessed 8 Sept. 2021. Ling, Thomas. “How to watch Black Mirror in chronological order.” RadioTimes, 5 June 2020, www.radiotimes.com/ tv/ sci-fi/ black-mirror-timeline-order/ . Accessed 9 Dec. 2020. Lipovetsky, Gilles, and Sébastien Charles. Hypermodern Times. Translated by Andrew Brown. Polity Press, 2005. Living in the End Times: Utopian and Dystopian Representations of Pandemics in Fiction, Film and Culture, 13-15 January 2021, A Virtual Conference Hosted by Cappadocia University, Turkey. Longstreet, Phil, et al. “Internet Addiction: When the Positive Emotions Are Not so Positive.” Technology in Society, vol. 57, 2019, pp. 76-85. Lopes, Juliana. “Is There Any Way Out? Black Mirror as a Critical Dystopia of the Society of the Spectacle.” Via Panoramica: Revista de Estudos Anglo-Americanos, vol. 3, no. 2, 2018, pp. 85-94. Luhmann, Niklas. “Deconstruction as Second-Order Observing.” New Literary History, vol. 24, no. 4, 1993, pp. 763-82. Lupton, Deborah, editor. Beyond Techno-Utopia: Critical Approaches to Digital Health Technologies. Printed Edition of the Special Issue Published in Societies, MDPI, 2015. Lusin, Caroline, and Ralf Haekel, editors. Community, Seriality, and the State of the Nation: British and Irish Television Series in the 21 st Century. Narr Francke Attempto, 2019. Luthans, Fred, et al. “Psychological Capital Development: Toward a Micro-Intervention.” Journal of Organizational Behavior, vol. 27, no. 3, 2006, pp. 387-93. Lynch, John. “MR ROBOT: Hacking the Apocalypse.” JRFM, vol. 5, no. 2, 2019, pp.15-30. 342 Bibliography <?page no="343"?> MacDonald, Brady. “Experience ‘The Hunger Games’ for yourself at this theme park land.” Los Angeles Times, 17 Oct. 2017, www.latimes.com/ travel/ themeparks/ la-tr-hu nger-games-lionsgate-theme-park-dubai-20171017-story.html. Accessed 3 Mar. 2019. MacDowell, James. “The Metamodern, the Quirky and Film Criticism.” Metamodernism: Historicity, Affect and Depth After Postmodernism, edited by Robin van den Akker et al., Rowman & Littlefield International, 2017, pp. 25-40. MacInnes, Paul. “Mr Robot Creator Sam Esmail: ‘The World Has Become Unreliable.’” The Guardian, 17 Oct. 2017, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2017/ oct/ 17/ mr-rob ot-creator-sam-esmail-the-world-has-become-unreliable. Accessed 16 Mar. 2022. —. “Mr Robot: From Show of the Zeitgeist to TV’s Biggest Disappointment.” The Guardian, 7 Oct. 2019, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2019/ oct/ 07/ mr-robot-from-show-o f-the-zeitgeist-to-tvs-biggest-disappointment. Accessed 7 Jan. 2022. —. “TV for the Fake News Generation: Why Westworld Is the Defining Show of 2016.” The Guardian, 7 Dec. 2016, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2016/ dec/ 07/ why-we stworld-is-the-defining-show-of-2016. Accessed 5 Mar. 2020. —. “Westworld Recap: Season 3, Episode 1 - a Brave, Baffling New World.” The Guardian, 16 Mar. 2020, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2020/ mar/ 16/ westworld-recap-sea son-3-episode-1-a-brave-baffling-new-world. Accessed 5 Feb. 2021. Maloney, Devon. “To Stay Relevant, Black Mirror Has to Change How Dystopian Fiction Works.” The Verge, 31 Jan. 2018, www.theverge.com/ 2018/ 1/ 31/ 16955308/ black-mirr or-happy-endings-debate-the-purpose-of-dystopian-fiction-charlie-booker-season-4. Accessed 8 Jan. 2019. Mangan, Lucy. “Black Mirror: Bandersnatch Review - the TV of Tomorrow Is Here.” The Guardian, 1 Jan. 2019, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2019/ jan/ 01/ black-m irror-bandersnatch-review-charlie-brooker-netflix-tv-of-tomorrow-is-now-here. Ac‐ cessed 14 Mar. 2022. —. “Black Mirror Season Five Review - Sweet, Sadistic and Hugely Impressive.” The Guardian, 5 June 2019, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2019/ jun/ 05/ black-mirro r-season-five-review-charlie-brooker-miley-cyrus. Accessed 30 Aug. 2019. “Margaret Atwood on Science Fiction, Dystopias, and Intestinal Parasites.” WIRED, 21 Sept. 2013, www.wired.com/ 2013/ 09/ geeks-guide-margaret-atwood/ . Accessed 22 Jan. 2022. Mariani, Mike. “Apocalypse Now: How Television’s Boldest Sci-Fi Shows Are Tackling Contemporary Injustice.” Pacific Standard, 21 Oct. 2016, www.psmag.com/ news/ apoc alypse-now-how-televisions-boldest-sci-fi-shows-are-tackling-contemporary-injusti ce. Accessed 7 Jan. 2022. Markocki, Miłosz. “Creating Utopian or Dystopian Worlds in Digital Games.” More after More. Essays Commemorating the Five-Hundredth Anniversary of Thomas More’s Utopia, edited by Ksenia Olkusz et al., Facta Ficta Research Centre, 2016, pp. 118-33. Secondary Sources 343 <?page no="344"?> Marks, Peter. Imagining Surveillance: Eutopian and Dystopian Literature and Film. Edin‐ burgh UP, 2015. Martin, Adrian. “Cautionary Reflections: Looking into Black Mirror.” Screen Education, no. 90, June 2018, pp. 16-23. Maziarczyk, Grzegorz. “Playable Dystopia? Interactivity and Narrativity in BioShock and BioShock Infinite.” (Im)perfection Subverted, Reloaded and Networked: Utopian Discourse across Media, edited by Barbara Klonowska et al., Peter Lang, 2015. pp. 235-54. McCarthy, John. “Intriguing Ads for Mind-Jacking Azana Band a Channel 4 Stunt Plugging Kiss Me First.” The Drum, 13 Mar. 2018, www.thedrum.com/ news/ 2018/ 03 / 13/ intriguing-ads-mind-jacking-azana-band-channel-4-stunt-plugging-kiss-me-first . Accessed 28 Feb. 2022. McDonald, Kevin, and Daniel Smith-Rowsey, editors. The Netflix Effect: Technology and Entertainment in the 21 st Century. Bloomsbury Academic, 2016. McGuirk, Carol. “The ‘New’ Romancers: Science Fiction Innovators from Gernsback to Gibson.” Fiction 2000: Cyberpunk and the Future of Narrative, edited by George Slusser and Tom Shippey, University of Georgia Press, 1992, pp. 109-25. McNamara, Mary. “HBO’s Multilayered Update of ‘Westworld’ Is TV’s Next Big Game-Changer.” Los Angeles Times, 1 Oct. 2016, www.latimes.com/ entertainment/ tv/ la-et-st-westworld-review-20160926-snap-story.html. Accessed 19 Mar. 2022. McSweeney, Terence, and Stuart Joy, editors. Through the Black Mirror: Deconstructing the Side Effects of the Digital Age. Palgrave Macmillan, 2019. Meadows, Sarah O., et al. Airman and Family Resilience: Lessons from the Scientific Literature. RAND, 2015. Mehring, Frank. “Westworld: Die musikalische DNA des Posthumanismus.” Mensch, Maschine, Maschinenmenschen, edited by Brigitte Georgi-Findlay and Katja Kanzler, Springer VS, 2018, pp. 42-51. Meillassoux, Quentin. After Finitude: An Essay on the Necessity of Contingency. Con‐ tinuum, 2008. Merriam-Webster. “Finance capitalism.” www.merriam-webster.com/ dictionary/ finance% 20capitalism. Accessed 23 Feb. 2020. —. “Mechanomorphism.” www.merriam-webster.com/ dictionary/ mechanomorphism. Accessed 19 May 2019. Metz, Katharina. “Nostalgic Utopias: William Dean Howells’s Altrurian Romances (1892-1907).” Futures Worth Preserving, Cultural Constructions of Nostalgia and Sustain‐ ability, edited by Andressa Schröder et al., transcript, 2019, pp. 161-75. Miller, Vincent. Understanding Digital Culture. Sage, 2011. Milner, Andrew. “Science Fiction and Dystopia: What’s the Connection? ” The Conversa‐ tion, 30 Aug. 2012, www.theconversation.com/ science-fiction-and-dystopia-whats-th e-connection-8586. Accessed 27 Mar. 2022. 344 Bibliography <?page no="345"?> Mitcham, Carl, and Adam Briggle. “Theorizing Technology.” The Good Life in a Techno‐ logical Age, edited by Philip Brey et al., Routledge, 2012, pp. 35-51. Mittell, Jason. Complex TV: The Poetics of Contemporary Television Storytelling. New York UP, 2015. Moll, Nicholas. “A Special Kind of Game: The Portrayal of Role-Play in Westworld.” Westworld and Philosophy: If You Go Looking for the Truth, Get the Whole Thing, edited by James B. South and Kimberly S. Engels, Wiley, 2018, pp. 15-25. Monty, Ryan. “Black Mirror: 405 ‘Metalhead’ Review.” Cult Fix, 8 Jan. 2018, www.cultfix .com/ black-mirror-405-review-33049.htm. Accessed 24 Sept. 2021. Morris, Lauren. “Charlie Brooker gives Black Mirror season 6 update: ‘I don’t know what stomach there would be for stories about societies falling apart.’” RadioTimes, 4 May 2020, www.radiotimes.com/ tv/ sci-fi/ black-mirror-6-update/ . Accessed 9 Dec. 2020. Morrison, Ewan. “YA Dystopias Teach Children to Submit to the Free Market, Not Fight Authority.” The Guardian, 9 Jan. 2014, www.theguardian.com/ books/ 2014/ sep/ 01/ ya-d ystopias-children-free-market-hunger-games-the-giver-divergent. Accessed 13 Feb. 2020. Morton, Timothy. Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology After the End of the World. University of Minnesota Press, 2013. Mothes, Cornelia, et al. “Unterhaltung als Hedonismus und Eudaimonie - und Westworld als ihre Dekonstruktion.” Mensch, Maschine, Maschinenmenschen, edited by Brigitte Georgi-Findlay and Katja Kanzler, Springer VS, 2018, pp. 89-108. Moylan, Tom. Becoming Utopian: The Culture and Politics of Radical Transformation. Bloomsbury Academic, 2021. —. Demand the Impossible: Science Fiction and the Utopian Imagination. Peter Lang, 2014. —. Scraps of the Untainted Sky: Science Fiction, Utopia, Dystopia. Westview Press, 2000. —. “‘The moment is here… and it’s important”: State, Agency, and Dystopia in Kim Stanley Robinson’s Antarctica and Ursula K. LeGuin’s The Telling.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan, Routledge, 2003, pp. 135-54. —. “The Necessity of Hope in Dystopian Times: A Critical Reflection.” Utopian Studies, vol. 31, no. 1, 2020, pp. 164-93. Muhlhauser, Paul, and Jack D. Arnal. “Uncanny Valley Romance: Warm Bodies, Her and the Bits and Bytes of Affection.” Romancing the Zombie. Essays on the Undead as Significant “Other”, edited by Ashley Szanter and Jessica K. Richards, McFarland & Company, 2017, pp. 136-52. Müller, Oliver. “‘An Eye Turned into a Weapon’: A Philosophical Investigation of Remote Controlled, Automated, and Autonomous Drone Warfare.” Philosophy & Technology, vol. 34, no. 4, 2021, pp. 875-96. Mumford, Lewis. The Myth of the Machine. 2 Vols. Harcourt Brace and World, 1967, 1970. Secondary Sources 345 <?page no="346"?> Murphy, Graham J. “Dystopia.” The Routledge Companion to Science Fiction, edited by Mark Bould et al., Routledge, 2009, pp. 476-77. Murphy, Patrick D. “Reducing the Dystopian Distance: Pseudo-Documentary Framing in Near-Future Fiction (La Réduction De La Distance Dystopique: L'encadrement Pseudo-Documentaire Dans Les Romans Du Proche-Futur).” Science Fiction Studies, vol. 17, no. 1, Mar 1990, pp. 25-40. Murray, Noel. “Amazon’s Electric Dreams Is More Optimistic About the Future Than Black Mirror.” The Verge, 15 Jan. 2018, www.theverge.com/ 2018/ 1/ 15/ 16893038/ amaz on-video-electric-dreams-philip-k-dick. Accessed 2 Feb. 2020. Murthi, Vikram. “Mr. Robot Recap: You Become the Storm.” Vulture, 18 Nov. 2019, www.v ulture.com/ 2019/ 11/ mr-robot-recap-season-4-episode-7.html. Accessed 18 Mar. 2022. Musarò, Pierluigi. “Reality Show and Pop Politics. Who Holds Power in the Network Society? ” Mediascapes Journal, vol. 6, 2016, pp. 115-27. Navarrete-Cardero, Luis, and Juan J. Vargas-Iglesias. “Can We Programme Utopia? The Influence of the Digital Neoliberal Discourse on Utopian Videogames.” tripleC: Communication, Capitalism & Critique, vol. 16, no. 2, 2018, pp. 782-804. Nelson, Samantha. “Netflix’s Kiss Me First Has an Unusually Personal Take on Gamer Culture.” The Verge, 29 June 2018, www.theverge.com/ 2018/ 6/ 29/ 17518760/ netflix-k iss-me-first-gamer-culture-virtual-reality-ready-player-one-matrix. Accessed 6 Jan. 2022. Nesselhauf, Jonas, and Markus Schleich, editors. Das Andere Fernsehen? ! Eine Bestand‐ saufnahme des ‘Quality Television’. Transcript, 2016. Nguyen, Hanh. “Kiss Me First Review: Netflix VR Cyber-Thriller Is a Bleak Mess.” IndieWire, 30 June 2018, www.indiewire.com/ 2018/ 06/ kiss-me-first-review-netflix-vr -virtual-reality-ya-romance-1201980100/ . Accessed 6 Jan. 2022. “Notes on Metamodernism.” YouTube, 17 Oct. 2016, www.youtube.com/ watch? v=9WPY FvB2DIc. Accessed 3 Mar. 2019. Nozick, Robert. Anarchy, State, and Utopia. Reprint. Basic Books, 2013 [1974]. Nugent, Annabel. “UK Adults Spend 40-% of Waking Hours in Front of a Screen, Study Finds.” The Independent, 5 Aug. 2020, www.independent.co.uk/ arts-entertainment/ tv/ news/ screen-time-average-uk-study-ofcom-a9654546.html. Accessed 22 Jan. 2022. Nünning, Vera. “The Affective Value of Fiction: Presenting and Evoking Emotions.” Writing Emotions: Theoretical Concepts and Selected Case Studies in Literature, edited by Ingeborg Jandl et al., Transcript, 2017, pp. 29-54. Nünning, Asgar, and Vera Nünning. “Ways of Worldmaking as a Model for the Study of Culture: Theoretical Frameworks, Epistemological Underpinnings, New Horizons.” Cultural Ways of Worldmaking: Media and Narratives, edited by Vera Nünning et al., De Gruyter, 2010, pp. 1-25. 346 Bibliography <?page no="347"?> Nussbaum, Emily. “The Meta-Politics of ‘Westworld.’” The New Yorker, 17 Oct. 2016, ww w.newyorker.com/ magazine/ 2016/ 10/ 24/ the-meta-politics-of-westworld. Accessed 5 Mar. 2020. O’Dette, Katarina. “Subvert Expectations, Rinse, and Repeat: The Good Place’s Premise Problem? ” Fantastika Journal, 1 Jan. 2019, www.fantastikajournal.com/ subvert-expec tations-rinse-and-repeat-the-good-places-premise-problem/ . Accessed 29 Jan. 2021. Oatley, Keith. Such Stuff as Dreams: The Psychology of Fiction. Wiley-Blackwell, 2011. Okwodu, Janelle. “Westworld’s Treatment of Female Characters.” Vogue, 23 Oct. 2016, www.vogue.com/ article/ hbo-westworld-women-female-characters. Accessed 19 Mar. 2022. Oliver, Mary Beth, and Anne Bartsch. “Appreciation as Audience Response: Exploring Entertainment Gratifications Beyond Hedonism.” Human Communication Research, vol. 36, no. 1, 2010, pp. 53-81. Oliver, Mary Beth, et al. “Self-Transcendent Media Experiences: Taking Meaningful Media to a Higher Level.” Journal of Communication, vol. 68, no. 2, 2018, pp. 380-89. Oxford English Dictionary (OED). “Dystopia.” www.oed.com/ oed2/ 00071444; jses‐ sionid=CE8626BAD189967AFAC47986695715F2. Accessed 22 Nov. 2017. —. “Hacktivism.” www.oed.com/ view/ Entry/ 253484? redirectedFrom=hacktivism. Ac‐ cessed 19 July 2021. Oxford Learner’s Dictionary (OLD). “Easter egg.” www.oxfordlearnersdictionaries.com/ d efinition/ english/ easter-egg. Accessed 28 Mar. 2020. Oxford Reference. “Eudaimonia.” www.oxfordreference.com/ view/ 10.1093/ oi/ authority.2 0110803095800495. Accessed 25 Apr. 2010. Panka, Daniel. “Transparent Subjects: Digital Identity in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and Charlie Brooker’s ‘Be Right Back.’” Science Fiction Studies, vol. 45, no. 2, pp. 308-24. Pappis, Konstantinos. “Back to Sincerity, Hope, and Love: Metamodernism in Sci-Fi.” Our Culture Mag, 14 Sept. 2019, www.ourculturemag.com/ 2019/ 09/ 14/ back-to-sincerity-h ope-and-love-metamodernism-in-sci-fi/ . Accessed 24 Sept. 2021. Patel, Neel V. “Spectacular Technology: A Review of Black Mirror.” SciArt Magazine, Feb. 2017, www.sciartmagazine.com/ discussion-black-mirror.html. Accessed 17 Mar. 2018. Patterson, Lindsey, and Robert Biswas-Diener. “Consuming Happiness.” The Good Life in a Technological Age, edited by Philip Brey et al., Routledge, 2012, pp. 147-56. Peacock, James, and Tim Lustig. Diseases and Disorders in Contemporary Fiction: The Syndrome Syndrome. Routledge, 2013. Peck, Jamie, et al. “Actually Existing Neoliberalism.” The SAGE Handbook of Neoliberalism, edited by Damien Cahill et al., SAGE Publications, 2018, pp. 3-15. Peitz, Dirk. “‘Philip K. Dick’s Electric Dreams’: Verträumt.” Die Zeit, 12 Jan. 2018, www.ze it.de/ kultur/ film/ 2018-01/ philip-k-dicks-electric-dreams-black-mirror-science-fiction -serie. Accessed 13 Mar. 2022. Secondary Sources 347 <?page no="348"?> Pfaller, Robert. Interpassivity: The Aesthetics of Delegated Enjoyment. Edinburgh UP, 2017. Phillips, Dana. “Collapse, Resilience, Stability and Sustainability in Margaret Atwood’s MaddAddam Trilogy.” Literature and Sustainability: Concept, Text and Culture, edited by Adeline Johns-Putra et al., Manchester UP, 2017, pp. 139-58. Pilipets, Elena. “From Netflix Streaming to Netflix and Chill: The (Dis)Connected Body of Serial Binge-Viewer.” Social Media + Society, Oct. 2019, pp. 1-13. Pitt, Joseph. Thinking About Technology: Foundations of the Philosophy of Technology. Seven Bridges, 2000. Plunkett, John. “Humans Becomes Channel 4’s Biggest Drama Hit in 20 Years.” The Guardian, 22 June 2015, www.theguardian.com/ media/ 2015/ jun/ 22/ humans-becomes -channel-4s-biggest-drama-hit-in-20-years. Accessed 25 Feb. 2022. Poniewozik, James. “Opinion: The Real Donald Trump Is a Character on TV.” The New York Times, 6 Sept. 2019, www.nytimes.com/ 2019/ 09/ 06/ opinion/ sunday/ trump-realit y-tv.html. Accessed 28 Jan. 2020. Porter, Lynnette, et al. Saving the World: A Guide to Heroes. ECW Press, 2007. Postma, Dirk. “Being Critical of Technology: An ANT Perspective.” 18th European Conference on Information Systems, ECIS 2010, Pretoria, South Africa, June 7-9, 2010, pp. 1-10, www.dblp.org/ rec/ conf/ ecis/ Postma10. Accessed 19 Mar 2020. Postman, Neil. Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business. 20 th Anniversary ed. Penguin Books, 2006 [1985]. Propp, Vladimir. Morphology of the Folktale. 2 nd edition. Revised and edited with a preface by Louis A. Wagner/ New Introduction by Alan Dundes. University of Texas Press, 2009 [1928]. Rain, Marina, and Raymond A. Mar. “Adult Attachment and Engagement with Fictional Characters.” Journal of Social and Personal Relationships, vol. 38, no. 9, 2021, pp. 2792-813. Ramaswamy, Chitra. “Kiss Me First Review - in This Ambitious Teen Drama There’s Trouble in Digital Paradise. Sound Familiar? ” The Guardian, 2 Apr. 2018, www.thegua rdian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2018/ apr/ 02/ kiss-me-first-review-bleak-new-teen-drama-tro uble-in-digital-paradise. Accessed 15 Jan. 2019. Reeves, Richard. “Starbucks V Dunkin’: How Capitalism Gives Us the Illusion of Choice.” The Guardian, 29 July 2019, www.theguardian.com/ commentisfree/ 2019/ jul/ 29/ starbu cks-v-dunkin-how-capitalism-gives-us-the-illusion-of-choice. Accessed 27 Feb. 2022. Reid, Julian. “Neoliberalism, Development and Resilience.” The SAGE Handbook of Neoliberalism, edited by Damien Cahill et al., SAGE Publications, 2018, pp. 644-53. Reilly, Kaitlin. “The Twilight Zone Promises to Be the Black Mirror for Optimists.” Refinery29, 28 Mar. 2019, www.refinery29.com/ en-us/ 2019/ 03/ 228320/ twilight-zone-l ike-black-mirror-jordan-peele. Accessed 13 Mar. 2022. 348 Bibliography <?page no="349"?> Riesman, Abraham. “The Full House Theme-Song Writers Made Mr. Robot’s Creepy Sitcom Tune.” Vulture, 8 Nov. 2016, www.vulture.com/ 2016/ 08/ mr-robot-sitcom-full -house-theme.html. Accessed 16 Mar. 2022. Roderick, Ian. Critical Discourse Studies and Technology: A Multimodal Approach to Analysing Technoculture. Bloomsbury Academic, 2016. Roker, Sarah. “First Reactions to Black Mirror Season 4 Are Rolling In, and People Are Both Entertained and Terrified.” Digital Spy, 29 Dec. 2017, www.digitalspy.com/ tv/ us tv/ a846333/ black-mirror-season-first-reactions/ . Accessed 24 Feb. 2019. Rosa, Hartmut. Resonance: A Sociology of Our Relationship to the World. Translated by James C. Wagner. Polity Press, 2019. Rubin, Anita. “Hidden, Inconsistent, and Influential: Images of the Future in Changing Times.” Futures, vol. 45, 2013, pp. 38-44. Rubin, Peter. “VR Is Back in Pop Culture - as a Warning.” Wired, 29 June 2018, www.wi red.com/ story/ virtual-reality-reverie-kiss-me-first. Accessed 23 Jan. 2019. Rudner, Fabian. “BLACK MIRROR: Charlie Brookers Mediensatire.” Fest-Stellungen, edited by Thomas Nachreiner and Peter Podrez, Schüren, 2014, pp.-215-25. Russon, Mary-Ann. “US Fuel Pipeline Hackers ‘Didn’t Mean to Create Problems.’” BBC News, 10 May 2021, www.bbc.com/ news/ business-57050690. Accessed 7 Jan. 2022. Ryan, Marie-Laure, and Jan-Noël Thon, editors. Storyworlds Across Media: Toward a Media-Conscious Narratology. UNP---Nebraska Paperback, 2014. Samuels, Robert. “Auto-Modernity after Postmodernism: Autonomy and Automation in Culture, Technology, and Education.” Digital Youth, Innovation, and the Unexpected, edited by Tara McPherson, The MIT Press, 2008, pp. 219-40. —. New Media, Cultural Studies, and Critical Theory After Postmodernism: Automodernity from Zizek to Laclau. Palgrave Macmillan, 2010. Samuelson, David N. “Modes of Extrapolation: The Formulas of Hard SF.” Science Fiction Studies, vol. 20, no. 2, 1993, pp. 191-232. Sanati, Abdi. “From Lesion Theory of Mental Illness to Westworld and Back - Psychiatry in the Movies.” The British Journal of Psychiatry, vol. 211, no. 1, 2017, p.-13. Sanders, Olaf. “Dolores und Maeve - eine erste Annäherung an die Bildung von Maschinen zum besseren Übermenschen.” Mensch, Maschine, Maschinenmenschen, edited by Brigitte Georgi-Findlay and Katja Kanzler, Springer VS, 2018, pp. 23-40. Sargent, Lyman Tower. “The Problem of the ‘Flawed Utopia’: A Note on the Costs of Eutopia.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan, Routledge, 2003, pp. 225-31. —. “The Three Faces of Utopianism Revisited.” Utopian Studies, vol. 5, no. 1, 1994, pp. 1-37. Secondary Sources 349 <?page no="350"?> —. “US Eutopias in the 1980s and 1990s: Self-Fashioning in a World of Multiple Identities.” Utopianism/ Literary Utopias and National Cultural Identities: A Comparative Perspec‐ tive, edited by Paolo Spinozzi, COTEPRA University of Bologna, 2001, pp. 221-32. Sargisson, Lucy. “Strange Places: -Estrangement, Utopianism, and Intentional Commun‐ ities.” Utopian Studies, vol. 18, no. 3, 2007, pp. 393-424. Savin-Baden, Maggi, and David Burden. “Digital Immortality and Virtual Humans.” Postdigital Science and Education, vol. 1, no. 1, 2019, pp. 87-103. Sawyer, Robert J. “Robot Ethics.” Editorial. Science, vol. 318, no. 5853, 2007, p.-1037. Schiappa, Edward, et al. “Parasocial Relationships and Television: A Meta-Analysis of the Effects.” Mass media effects research: Advances through meta-analysis, edited by R. W. Preiss et al., Lawrence Erlbaum Associates Publishers, 2007, pp. 301-14. Schleiner, Anne-Marie. The Player’s Power to Change the Game: Ludic Mutation. Am‐ sterdam UP, 2017. Schmeink, Lars. Biopunk Dystopias: Genetic Engineering, Society and Science Fiction. Liverpool UP, 2016. Schober, Regina. “Between Nostalgic Resistance and Critical Appropriation: Contempo‐ rary American Fiction On/ Of the Information Age and the Potentials of (Post)Hu‐ manist Narrative.” American Studies, vol. 61, no. 3, 2016, pp. 359-79. Schulzke, Marcus. “The Critical Power of Virtual Dystopias.” Games and Culture, vol. 9, no. 5, 2014, pp. 315-34. Schwarke, Christian. “Natürlich, zum Bilde geschaffen: Westworld und die Frage nach der Menschwerdung in Erinnerungsschleifen.” Mensch, Maschine, Maschinenmenschen, edited by Brigitte Georgi-Findlay and Katja Kanzler, Springer VS, 2018, pp. 11-22. Schwartz, Oscar. “The Rise of Microchipping: Are We Ready for Technology to Get Under the Skin? ” The Guardian, 8 Nov. 2019, www.theguardian.com/ technology/ 2019/ no v/ 08/ the-rise-of-microchipping-are-we-ready-for-technology-to-get-under-the-skin. Accessed 24 Sept. 2021. Seed, David. “Cyberpunk and Dystopia: Pat Cadigan’s Networks.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan, Routledge, 2003, pp. 69-89. Shames, Shauna, and Amy Atchison. “Are We Living in a Dystopia? ” The Conversation, 29 Apr. 2020, www.theconversation.com/ are-we-living-in-a-dystopia-136908. Accessed 12 Aug. 2020. Shaviro, Steven. “Hyperbolic Futures: Speculative Finance and Speculative Fiction.” The Cascadia Subduction Zone, vol. 1, no. 2, 2011, pp. 3-5 and 12-15. Shaw, Debra Benita. Technoculture: The Key Concepts. Routledge, 2008. Shiau, Yvonne. “The Rise of Dystopian Fiction: From Soviet Dissidents to 70’s Paranoia to Murakami.” Electric Literature, 1 Jan. 2017, www.electricliterature.com/ the-rise-of 350 Bibliography <?page no="351"?> -dystopian-fiction-from-soviet-dissidents-to-70s-paranoia-to-murakami. Accessed 12 Aug. 2019. Shippey, Tom. “Hard Reading: The Challenges of Science Fiction.” A Companion to Science Fiction, edited by David Seed, Blackwell Publishing, 2005, pp. 11-26. Shuster, Martin. New Television: The Aesthetics and Politics of a Genre. University of Chicago Press, 2017. Siani, Alessandro, and Sarah Anne Marley. “Impact of the Recreational Use of Virtual Reality on Physical and Mental Wellbeing During the Covid-19 Lockdown.” Health and Technology, vol. 11, no. 2, 2021, pp. 425-35. Simuț, Andrei. “Contemporary Representations of Artificial Intelligence in Science Fiction Films, Visual Arts and Literature. A Short Introduction.” Ekphrasis. Images, Cinema, Theory, Media, vol. 17, no. 1, 2017, pp. 5-8. Singh, Vandana. “What Is to Be Done About Climate Change? Some Thoughts as a Writer.” Symposium on the Climate Crisis, Science Fiction Studies vol. 45, no. 3, 2018, pp. 429-30. Sini, Rozina. “Handmaid’s fail: Kylie Jenner faces backlash for themed party.” BBC News, 10 June 2019, www.bbc.com/ news/ world-us-canada-48551065. Accessed 7 Dec. 2019. Skidelsky, Robert. What’s Wrong with Economics? A Primer for the Perplexed. Yale UP, 2020. Slack, Jennifer Daryl, and J. Macgregor Wise. Culture and Technology: A Primer. 2 nd ed., Peter Lang, 2015. Smith, Adam. The Theory of Moral Sentiments. Penguin Classics, 2010 [1759]. Smith, Anthony N. “Pursuing ‘Generation Snowflake’: Mr. Robot and the USA Network’s Mission for Millennials.” Television & New Media, vol. 20, no. 5, 2019, pp. 443-59. Smith, Stefanie. “What We Can Learn from the Hacks on Season One of Mr. Robot.” 13 July 2016, www.blog.avast.com/ what-consumers-can-learn-about-cybersecurity-f rom-season-one-of-mr-robot. Accessed 15 Mar. 2022. Šnircová, Soňa, and Slávka Tomaščíková, editors. Postmillennial Trends in Anglophone Literatures, Cultures and Media. Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2019. Sola, Javier C., and Jorge Martínez-Lucen. “Screen Technologies and the Imaginary of Punishment: A Reading of Black Mirror’s ‘White Bear.’” Empedocles: European Journal for the Philosophy of Communication, vol. 7, no. 1, 2016, pp. 3-22. Solove, Daniel J. The Digital Person: Technology and Privacy in the Information Age. New York UP, 2004. Spence, Edward. “Consumption and Sustainability: A Neo-Epicurean Approach to a Sustainable Good Life in a Technological Age.” The Good Life in a Technological Age, edited by Philip Brey et al., Routledge, 2012, pp. 168-80. Spengler, Oswald. Mensch und die Technik: Beiträge zu einer Philosophie des Lebens. Beck, 1931. Secondary Sources 351 <?page no="352"?> Spicker, Paul. Thinking Collectively: Social Policy, Collective Action and the Common Good. Bristol UP, 2019. Spinney, Laura. “The Covid Novels Are Arriving. And They’ll Be a Warning to Future Generations.” The Guardian, 7 Aug. 2020, www.theguardian.com/ commentisfree/ 2020 / aug/ 07/ covid-novels-warning-future-generations-first-world-war-spanish-flu-1918. Accessed 30 Mar. 2022. Starkey, Adam. “Kiss Me First Review: Ambitious Virtual Reality Drama Feels a Decade Too Late.” Metro, 2 Apr. 2018, www.metro.co.uk/ 2018/ 04/ 02/ kiss-me-first-episode-on e-review-ambitious-virtual-reality-drama-feels-decade-too-late-7435853/ . Accessed 6 Jan. 2022. Stelarc, Stelios. “Obsolete Bodies.” Statement. www.stelarc.org/ ? catID=20317. Accessed 2 May 2019. Stoll, Julia. “Netflix subscribers count worldwide 2011-2020.” Statista, 21. Jan. 2022. www .statista.com/ statistics/ 250934/ quarterly-number-of-netflix-streaming-subscribers-w orldwide/ . Accessed 8 Mar. 2022. Striphas, Ted. “Algorithmic Culture.” European Journal of Cultural Studies, vol. 18, no. 4/ 5, 2015, pp. 395-412. Ströbele, Carolin. “‘Black Mirror’: Die Serie, Die Trump Voraussah.” ZEIT online, 23 Nov. 2016, www.zeit.de/ kultur/ film/ 2016-11/ black-mirror-netflix-serie-rezension. Ac‐ cessed 25 Nov. 2016. Su, Edgar. “Roaming ‘robodog’ politely tells Singapore park goers to keep apart.” Reuters, 8 May 2020, www.reuters.com/ article/ us-health-coronavirus-singapore-robot/ roami ng-robodog-politely-tells-singapore-park-goers-to-keep-apart-idINKBN22K1S6? editi on-redirect=in. Accessed 11 Nov. 2020. Suarez-Villa, Luis. Technocapitalism: A Critical Perspective on Technological Innovation and Corporatism. Temple UP, 2009. Surrey, Miles. “A Definitive Ranking of Every ‘Mr. Robot’ Title Screen, from the Quirky to the Stunning.” Mic, 21 Sept. 2016, www.mic.com/ articles/ 154780/ a-definitive-rankin g-of-every-mr-robot-title-screen-from-the-quirky-to-the-stunning. Accessed 16 Mar. 2022. Suvin, Darko. Metamorphoses of Science Fiction: On the Poetics and History of a Literary Genre, edited by Gerry Canavan, Peter Lang, 2016 [1979]. —. “Theses on Dystopia 2001 (Or is it a little Tractate? )” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan, Routledge, 2003, pp. 187-201. Sweney, Mark. “Netflix Links with UK’s Channel 4 for Matrix-Inspired Thriller Kiss Me First.” The Guardian, 14 Jan. 2016, www.theguardian.com/ media/ 2016/ jan/ 14/ netflix-c hannel-4-matrix-kiss-me-first-lottie-moggach. Accessed 6 Jan. 2022. 352 Bibliography <?page no="353"?> Swift, Graham. “Graham Swift on ‘Contemporary’ Novels.” The Guardian, 4 June 2011, www.theguardian.com/ books/ 2011/ jun/ 04/ graham-swift-contemporary-novels . Accessed 6 Jan. 2022. Tenner, Edward. Why Things Bite Back: Technology and the Revenge of Unintended Consequences. Knopf, 1996. “The Netflix Effect: How the Streamer’s Shows Create Viral Products.” Ypulse, 18 Feb. 2021, www.ypulse.com/ article/ 2021/ 02/ 18/ the-netflix-effect-how-the-streamers -shows-create-viral-products/ . Accessed 30 Mar. 2022. Thorpe, Vanessa. “Kiss Me First Marks Return to TV for Skins Co-Creator Bryan Elsley.” The Guardian, 1 Jan. 2018, www.theguardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2018/ mar/ 31/ kiss-me -first-tv-sci-fi-skins-creator-bryan-elsley. Accessed 8 Oct. 2020. Tiberius, Valerie. “Cell Phones, IPods, and Subjective Well-Being.” The Good Life in a Technological Age, edited by Philip Brey et al., Routledge, 2012, pp. 181-90. Tupa, Anton. “Desire-Satisfactionism and Technology.” The Good Life in a Technological Age, edited by Philip Brey et al., Routledge, 2012, pp. 131-43. Turkle, Sherry. Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other. Basic Books, 2011. —. “The Documented Life.” The New York Times, 15 Dec. 2013, www.nytimes.com/ 2013/ 12/ 16/ opinion/ the-documented-life.html. Accessed 24 Sept. 2021. Vaccari, Andrés. “Cosmotechnical Thought Between Substantivism and the Empirical Turn.” Foundations of Science, 2021, https: / / doi.org/ 10.1007/ s10699-020-09754-1. Ac‐ cessed 2 Feb. 2022. Vallor, Shannon. “New Social Media and the Virtues.” The Good Life in a Technological Age, edited by Philip Brey et al., Routledge, 2012, pp. 193-202. Van den Akker, Robin, et al., editors. Metamodernism: Historicity, Affect and Depth After Postmodernism. Rowman & Littlefield International, 2017. Van den Akker, Robin, and Timotheus Vermeulen. “Periodising the 2000s, or, the Emergence of Metamodernism.” Metamodernism: Historicity, Affect and Depth After Postmodernism, edited by Robin van den Akker et al., Rowman & Littlefield Interna‐ tional, 2017, pp. 1-19. Van der Merwe, Joanette. Notes Towards a Metamodernist Aesthetic with Reference to Post-millenial Literary Works. PhD dissertation, Potchefstroom Campus of the North-West University, 2017, pp. 1-312. https: / / repository.nwu.ac.za/ bitstream/ handl e/ 10394/ 25443/ Van%20der%20Merwe_J_2017.pdf ? sequence=1. Accessed 7 Jan. 2022. Van Tuinen, Sjoerd. “The Cosmic Artisan: Mannerist Virtuosity and Contemporary Crafts.” Metamodernism: Historicity, Affect and Depth After Postmodernism, edited by Robin van den Akker et al., Rowman & Littlefield International, 2017, pp. 69-82. Secondary Sources 353 <?page no="354"?> Varsam, Maria. “Concrete Dystopia: Slavery and Its Others.” Dark Horizons: Science Fiction and the Dystopian Imagination, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Tom Moylan, Routledge, 2003, pp. 203-24. Veenhoven, Ruut. “Quality of Life in a Technological Society: A Macrosociological Approach.” The Good Life in a Technological Age, edited by Philip Brey et al., Routledge, 2012, pp. 56-76. Vermeulen, Timotheus. “Looking Back 2018: The Year in TV.” Frieze, 17 Dec. 2018, www .frieze.com/ article/ looking-back-2018-year-tv. Accessed 7 Nov. 2019. Vermeulen, Timotheus, and Robin van den Akker. “Notes on Metamodernism.” Journal of Aesthetics and Culture, vol. 2, no. 1, 2010, pp. 1-14. —. “Utopia, Sort of: A Case Study in Metamodernism.” Studia Neophilologica, vol. 87, no. 1, 2015, pp. 55-67. Vieira, Fátima. “The Concept of Utopia.” The Cambridge Companion to Utopian Literature, edited by Gregory Claeys, Cambridge UP, 2010, pp. 3-27. Vint, Sherryl. Biopolitical Futures in Twenty-First-Century Speculative Fiction. Cambridge UP, 2021. Voigts, Eckart. “Introduction: The Dystopian Imagination - An Overview.” Dystopia, Science Fiction, Post-Apocalypse: Classics - New Tendencies - Model Interpretations, edited by Eckart Voigts and Alessandra Boller, WVT, 2015, pp. 1-12. Voinea, Cristina. “Designing for Conviviality.” Technology in Society, vol. 52, 2018, pp. 70-8. Vorderer, Peter, and Annabell Halfmann. “Why do we entertain ourselves with media narratives? A theory of resonance perspective on entertainment experiences.” Annals of the International Communication Association, vol. 43, no. 2, pp. 79-96. Wallenstein, Andrew. “‘Westworld’: What’s Wrong with HBO’s Sci-Fi Series.” Variety, 24 Apr. 2018, www.variety.com/ 2018/ tv/ opinion/ westworld-whats-wrong-with-hbos-sc i-fi-series-1202783922/ . Accessed 19 Mar. 2022. Walsh, Chad. From Utopia to Nightmare. Harper & Row, 1962. Walter, Damien. “When Dystopian Fiction Became Reality TV.” The Guardian, 8 Nov. 2013, www.theguardian.com/ books/ 2013/ nov/ 08/ dystopian-fiction-reality-realism-damien -walter. Accessed 8 Aug. 2019. Watson, Zebbie. “How ‘Mr. Robot’ Nailed Its Depiction of Mental Illness.” Inverse, 4 Aug. 2016, www.inverse.com/ article/ 19084-mr-robot-mental-illness-dissociative-iden tity-disorder-split. Accessed 7 Jan. 2022. Weiss, Michaela. “Return of the Romance in Jeanette Winterson’s Stone Gods.” Postmil‐ lennial Trends in Anglophone Literatures, Cultures and Media, edited by Soňa Šnircová and Slávka Tomaščíková, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2019, pp. 37-51. Westworld Wiki. “Timeline.” www.westworld.fandom.com/ wiki/ Timeline. Accessed 26 Jan. 2021. 354 Bibliography <?page no="355"?> Wheeler, Katherine S., “The Relationships Between Television Viewing Behaviors, Attachment, Loneliness, Depression, and Psychological Well-Being.” Honors College Theses, 98, 2015. https: / / digitalcommons.georgiasouthern.edu/ honors-theses/ 98. Ac‐ cessed 14 Mar. 2020. Wilhelm, Anthony G. Democracy in the Digital Age: Challenges to Political Life in Cyberspace. Routledge, 2000. Williams, Raymond. Marxism and Literature. Oxford UP, 1977. —. “Utopia and Science Fiction.” Science Fiction Studies, vol. 5, no. 3, 1978, pp. 203-14. Willson, Michele A. Technically Together: Rethinking Community Within Techno-Society. Peter Lang, 2006. Winter, Laura. “Tweet Others How You Wish to be Tweeted: Digital Technology and the Sense of Community in Charlie Brooker’s Black Mirror.” Community, Seriality, and the State of the Nation: British and Irish Television Series in the 21 st Century, edited by Caroline Lusin und Ralf Haekel, Narr Francke Attempto, 2019, pp. 281-304. —. “‘Trial and Error’ - Mediating Estrangement in the Quest for Utopia in The Walking Dead (2010-Present).” Transgressive Utopianism: Essays in Honor of Lucy Sargisson, edited by Raffaella Baccolini and Lyman Tower Sargent, Peter Lang UK, 2021, pp. 179-93. Wojtyna, Miłosz. “Solidarity, Dystopia, and Fictional Worlds in Contemporary Narrative TV-Series.” Beyond Philology, vol. 15, no. 3, 2018, pp. 163-80. Wolf, Mark J. P. Building Imaginary Worlds: The Theory and History of Subcreation. Routledge, 2012. Wolfson, Sam. “Why Is Modern TV so Confusing? ” The Guardian, 1 Jan. 2018, www.theg uardian.com/ tv-and-radio/ 2018/ apr/ 21/ why-is-modern-tv-so-confusing. Accessed 20 Aug. 2020. Wong, Pak Hang. “Thinking Through Consumption and Technology.” The Good Life in a Technological Age, edited by Philip Brey et al., Routledge, 2012, pp. 157-67. Wortham, Jenna. “The Eerie Realism of ‘Mr. Robot’.” The New York Times, 31 Aug. 2015, www.nytimes.com/ 2015/ 08/ 31/ magazine/ the-eerie-realism-of-mr-robot.html. Accessed 10 Sept. 2017. Wright, Erik Olin. Envisioning Real Utopias. Verso, 2010. Wullf, Nathaniel. “Fleabag as Metamodern Dramedy.” What is Metamodern, 18 Oct. 2019, www.whatismetamodern.com/ television/ fleabag-metamodernism-dramedy/ . Accessed 26 Mar. 2022. Yeoman, Kevin. “Westworld Season 2 Review: More Self-Aware & Increasingly over-En‐ gineered.” Screenrant, 22 Apr. 2018, www.screenrant.com/ westworld-season-2-premi ere-review. Accessed 20 Apr. 2019. Secondary Sources 355 <?page no="356"?> Zarum, Lara. “‘Mr. Robot’: Who Says the Revolution Has to Make Sense? ” The Village Voice, 20 Nov. 2017, www.villagevoice.com/ 2017/ 11/ 20/ mr-robot-who-says-the-revol ution-has-to-make-sense/ . Accessed 7 Jan. 2022. Žižek, Slavoj. Living in the End Times. Verso, 2011. Zuboff, Shoshana. The Age of Surveillance Capitalism: The Fight for a Human Future at the New Frontier of Power. PublicAffairs, 2020. 356 Bibliography <?page no="357"?> Mannheimer Beiträge zur Sprach- und Literaturwissenschaft herausgegeben von Christine Bierbach, Hans-Peter Ecker, Werner Kallmeyer, Susanne Kleinert, Jochen Mecke, Ulfried Reichardt, Meinhard Winkgens Bisher sind erschienen: Frühere Bände finden Sie unter: http: / / narr-starter.de/ magento/ index.php/ / reihen/ mannheimer-beitraege-zur-sprach-undliteraturwissenschaft.html Band 50 Antje Kley Das erlesene Selbst in der autobiografischen Schrift 2001, 410 Seiten €[D] 49,- ISBN 978-3-8233-5650-9 Band 51 Ralf Schuster Antwort in der Geschichte Zu den Übergängen zwischen den Werkphasen bei Reinhold Schneider 2001, 359 Seiten €[D] 49,- ISBN 978-3-8233-5651-6 Band 52 Werner Reinhart Pikareske Romane der 80er Jahre Ronald Reagan und die Renaissance des politischen Erzählens in den U.S.A. 2001, 681 Seiten €[D] 74,- ISBN 978-3-8233-5652-3 Band 53 Kerstin Wiedemann Zwischen Irritation und Faszination George Sand und ihre deutsche Leserschaft im 19. Jahrhundert 2003, 604 Seiten €[D] 89,- ISBN 978-3-8233-5653-0 Band 54 Eva Raffel Vertraute Fremde 2002, 330 Seiten €[D] 48,- ISBN 978-3-8233-5654-7 Band 55 Christa Grewe-Volpp, Werner Reinhart (Hrsg.) Erlesenes Essen Literatur- und kulturwissenschaftliche Beiträge zu Hunger, Sattheit und Genuss 2003, 369 Seiten €[D] 69,- ISBN 978-3-8233-5655-4 Band 56 Eva Hänßgen Herman Melvilles Moby-Dick und das antike Epos 2003, 290 Seiten €[D] 48,- ISBN 978-3-8233-5656-1 Band 57 Lars Heiler Regression und Kulturkritik im britischen Gegenwartsroman Kulturwissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zu Romanen von Ian McEwan, Jim Crace, Irvine Welsh und Will Self 2003, 260 Seiten €[D] 54,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6017-9 Band 58 Christa Grewe-Volpp Natural Spaces Mapped by Human Minds Ökokritische und ökofeministische Analysen zeitgenössischer amerikanischer Romane 2004, 427 Seiten €[D] 58,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6024-7 Band 59 Harald Zapf, Klaus Lösch (Hrsg.) Cultural Encounters in the New World Literatur- und kulturwissenschaftliche Beiträge zu kulturellen Begegnungen in der Neuen Welt 2003, 457 Seiten €[D] 68,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6044-5 <?page no="358"?> Band 60 Elke Klemens Dracula und ‘seine Töchter’ Die Vampirin als Symbol im Wandel der Zeit 2004, 324 Seiten €[D] 58,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6061-2 Band 61 Stefan Glomb, Stefan Horlacher (Hrsg.) Beyond Extremes Repräsentation und Reflexion von Modernisierungsprozessen im zeitgenössischen britischen Roman 2004, 398 Seiten €[D] 68,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6097-1 Band 62 Sigrun Meinig Witnessing the Past History and Post-Colonialism in Australian Historical Novels 2004, 394 Seiten €[D] 68,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6116-9 Band 63 Christian von Zimmermann, Nina von Zimmermann (Hrsg.) Frauenbiographik Lebensbeschreibungen und Porträts 2005, 388 Seiten €[D] 48,90 ISBN 978-3-8233-6162-6 Band 64 Stefan Horlacher Masculinities Konzeptionen von Männlichkeit im Werk von Thomas Hardy und D.H. Lawrence 2005, 721 Seiten €[D] 78,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6170-1 Band 65 Susanne Bach Theatralität und Authentizität zwischen Viktorianismus und Moderne Romane von Henry James, Thomas Hardy, Oscar Wilde und Wilkie Collins 2006, 400 Seiten €[D] 68,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6203-6 Band 66 Marion Hebach Gestörte Kommunikation im amerikanischen Drama 2006, 246 Seiten €[D] 58,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6208-1 Band 67 Peter Hohwiller Hof- und Herrschaftskritik in den Sonetten Thomas Wyatts 2006, 209 Seiten €[D] 49,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6244-9 Band 68 Nicole Schröder Spaces and Places in Motion Spatial Concepts in Contemporary American Literature 2006, 257 Seiten €[D] 58,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6253-1 Band 69 Konstanze Jungbluth, Christiane Meierkord (Hrsg.) Identities in Migration Contexts 2007, 179 Seiten €[D] 39,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6317-0 Band 70 Heidi Fleckenstein Der französische Werbefilm Entwicklung ästhetischer und narrativer Verfahren im 20. Jahrhundert 2007, 248 Seiten €[D] 58,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6324-8 Band 71 Sarah Heinz Die Einheit in der Differenz Metapher, Romance und Identität in A.S. Byatts Romanen 2007, 453 Seiten €[D] 68,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6345-3 <?page no="359"?> Band 72 Dagmar Schmelzer Intermediales Schreiben im spanischen Avantgarderoman der 20er Jahre Azorín, Benjamín Jarnés und der Film 2007, 327 Seiten €[D] 58,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6359-0 Band 73 Folkert Degenring Identität zwischen Dekonstruktion und (Re)Konstruktion im zeitgenössischen britischen Roman Peter Ackroyd, Iain Banks und A. S. Byatt 2008, 235 Seiten €[D] 58,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6427-6 Band 74 Philip Griffiths Externalised Texts of the Self Projections of the Self in Selected Works of English Literature 2008, 245 Seiten €[D] 58,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6460-3 Band 75 Klaus Lang Von Frau von Staël zu D.H. Lawrence Literarische Bilder von Natur- und Kulturlandschaften Italiens und ihre englandkritische Funktionalisierung in repräsentativen Romanen 2009, 523 Seiten €[D] 68,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6487-0 Band 76 Christian Schwägerl Language contact and displays of social identity The communicative and ideological dimension of code-mixing in a business setting 2010, 195 Seiten €[D] 48,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6565-5 Band 77 Sarah-Jane Conrad, Daniel Elmiger (Hrsg.) Leben und Reden in Biel/ Bienne. Vivre et communiquer dans une ville bilingue Kommunikation in einer zweisprachigen Stadt. Une expérience biennoise 2010, 220 Seiten €[D] 49,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6589-1 Band 78 Isabell Ludewig Lebenskunst in der Literatur Zeitgenössische fiktionale Autobiographien und Dimensionen moderner Ethiken des guten Lebens 2011, 229 Seiten €[D] 58,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6672-0 Band 79 Stella Butter Kontingenz und Literatur im Prozess der Modernisierung Diagnosen und Umgangsstrategien im britischen Roman des 19. ̶ 21. Jahrhunderts 2013, XVI, 496 Seiten €[D] 78,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6801-4 Band 80 Maurus Roller Krise und Wandel: Das britische Drama im 20. Jahrhundert Untersuchungen zum Verhältnis von Identität, Autonomie und Form-Inhalt-Relation 2014, X, 510 Seiten €[D] 78,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6860-1 Band 81 Nora Kuster, Stella Butter, Sarah Heinz (Hrsg.) Subject Cultures: The English Novel from the 18th to the 21st Century 2016, 276 Seiten €[D] 58,- ISBN 978-3-8233-6932-5 <?page no="360"?> Band 82 Kerstin Frank, Caroline Lusin (Hrsg.) Finance, Terror, and Science on Stage Current Public Concerns in 21st-Century British Drama 2017, 275 Seiten €[D] 68,- ISBN 978-3-8233-8142-6 Band 83 Caroline Lusin, Ralf Haekel (Hrsg.) Community, Seriality, and the State of the Nation: British and Irish Television Series in the 21st Century 2019, 304 Seiten €[D] 68,- ISBN 978-3-8233-8249-2 Band 84 Annika Gonnermann, Sina Schuhmaier, Lisa Schwander (Hrsg.) Literarische Perspektiven auf den Kapitalismus Fallbeispiele aus dem 21. Jahrhundert 2021, 275 Seiten €[D] 68,- ISBN 978-3-8233-8343-7 Band 85 Annika Gonnermann Absent Rebels: Criticism and Network Power in 21st Century Dystopian Fiction 2021, 352 Seiten €[D] 68,- ISBN 978-3-8233-8459-5 Band 86 Corinna Assmann, Jan Rupp, Christine Schwanecke (Hrsg.) The Transformative Power of Literature and Narrative 2023, 283 Seiten €[D] 68,- ISBN 978-3-8233-8573-8 Band 87 Maria Antonia Schellstede „Die bloße Macht des Raums“ - Detailrealismus und Topographie in Theodor Fontanes L’Adultera 2023, 464 Seiten €[D] 84,- ISBN 978-3-8233-8594-3 Band 88 Laura Winter Dystopia on Demand: Technology, Digital Culture, and the Metamodern Quest in Complex Serial Dystopias 2024, 356 Seiten €[D] 78,- ISBN 978-3-381-11221-0 <?page no="361"?> ISBN 978-3-381-11221-0 www.narr.de Serial storytelling has the advantage of unlocking rather than simplifying the complexities of digital culture. With their worldbuilding potential, TV series open up new artistic horizons, particularly for the dystopian genre. Situated at the nexus of dystopia, complex TV, and a metamodern cultural logic, Dystopia on Demand o ers readers novel insights into the dynamics of serial dystopias in the contemporary streaming landscape. Introducing the term ‘complex serial dystopias’ to describe series that allow audiences to engage with the dystopian premise from multiple angles, the book examines four Anglo-American series, including Black Mirror, Mr. Robot, Westworld, and Kiss Me First. The in-depth analyses trace the variety of ways in which these series o er critical reflections on the human-technology entanglement in digital culture.