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Northern Lights: Film and Media Studies Yearbook

Volume 6, 2008
Digital Aesthetics and Communication Journal Editor

Ib Bondebjerg
Northern Lights: Film and Media Studies Yearbook is a peer-reviewed international Department of Media, Cognition and
yearbook started in 2002 and dedicated to studies of film and media. Each yearbook Communication
is devoted to a specific theme. In addition, every volume may include articles on other Section of Film and Media Studies
topics as well as review articles. The yearbook wants to further interdisciplinary University of Copenhagen
studies of media with a special emphasis on film, television and new media. Since the Njalsgade 80, 2300 Copenhagen S
yearbook was founded in Scandinavia, the editors feel a special obligation towards Phone: +45 35328102
Scandinavian and European perspectives. But in a global media world it is important Fax: +45 35328110
to have a global perspective on media culture. The yearbook is therefore open to all Mobile: +4524421168
relevant aspects of film and media culture: we want to publish articles of excellent Email: bonde@hum.ku.dk
quality that are worth reading and have direct relevance for both academics in the Web: www.mef.ku.dk
broad, interdisciplinary field of media studies in both humanities and social sciences
and for students in that area. But we also want to appeal to a broader public interested Volume Editor
in thorough and well-written articles on film and other media. Stig Hjarvard, Department of Media,
Cognition and Communication,
Editorial Board: University of Copenhagen,
Ib Bondebjerg, Editor-in-chief (Department of Media, Cognition and Email: stig@hum.ku.dk
Communication, Section of Film and Media Studies, University of Copenhagen),
e-mail: bonde@hum.ku.dk
Torben Kragh Grodal (Department of Media, Cognition and Communication,
University of Copenhagen, Section of Film and Media Studies)
Stig Hjarvard (Department of Media, Cognition and Communication, University
of Copenhagen, Section of Film and Media Studies)
Anne Jerslev (Department of Media, Cognition and Communication, University
of Copenhagen, Section of Film and Media Studies)
Gunhild Agger (Department of Communication, University of Aalborg)
Jens Hoff (Department of Political Science, University of Copenhagen)
Corresponding Editors:
Daniel Biltereyst (Ghent University, Belgium), Edward Branigan (University of
California – Santa Barbara, USA), Carol Clover (University of California –
Berkeley, USA), John Corner (University of Liverpool, UK), John Ellis (Royal
Holloway University of London, UK), Johan Fornäs (Linköping University,
Sweden), Jostein Gripsrud (University of Bergen, Norway), Andrew Higson
(University of East Anglia, UK), Mette Hjort (Lignan University, Hong Kong),
Dina Iordanova (University of St Andrews, Scotland), Steve Jones (University of
Illinois, USA), Sonia Livingstone (London School of Economics, UK), Ulrike
Meinhof (University of Southampton, UK), Guliano Muscio (University of
Palermo, Italy), Janet Murray (Georgia Institute of Technology, USA), Horace
Newcomb (University of Georgia, USA), Roger Odin (l’Université de Paris 3.,
France), Dominique Pasquier (CEMS, France), Murray Smith (University of Kent,
UK), Trine Syvertsen (University of Oslo, Norway), William Uricchio (MIT, USA),
Lennart Weibull (Göteborg University, Sweden), Espen Aarseth (Copenhagen, ISSN 1601-829X
Denmark), Eva Warth (University of Bochum, Germany)
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NL_6_00_FM.qxd 6/12/08 9:21 AM Page 2
Notes for Contributors

Editorial process
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searched for if the keywords are missing. ideal, slides are certainly acceptable. Anon (1931). Les films de la semaine. Tribune de
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Insert abstract after notes and references, in italics, If images are supplied electronically, all images
max 150 words. need to have a resolution of at least 12 dpm (dots Cabrera, D. (1998a). Table Ronde de l’APA. La Faute
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and one tabulator indent. A new section is Grande, M. (1998). Les Images non-dérivées. In
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language checking for UK-English or American reproduced. Reproducing text within images Political Parties and the Internet: Net Gain?. London:
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Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd

Editorial. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.3/2
Introduction
The mediatization of religion:
enchantment, media and popular
culture
Stig Hjarvard
The 2008 issue of Northern Lights focuses on the interconnectedness of

popular culture, media and religion and discusses the role of media in the
possible (re-)enchantment of cultural experiences. Throughout the last
decade, we have witnessed several media events that bear witness to the
persistence of religious and quasi-religious symbols, actions and senti-
ments. Dan Brown’s novels and later the films, The Da Vinci Code and
Angels and Demons, not only attracted millions of readers and viewers, but
also stirred public debate about Christianity in general and Catholicism in
particular to the point where religious institutions were forced to produce
their own ‘counter-media’, like websites, television programmes and books
that were critical of Dan Brown’s historical argument. The publication of
the Muhammad cartoons by the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten ignited
a major, worldwide and sometimes violent confrontation in the name of
freedom of speech on the one side and religious tolerance on the other
(Hjarvard 2006). The inauguration of Pope Benedict in 2005 also attracted
widespread media attention outside the Catholic countries and his visits are
often turned into media events (Gebhardt et al. 2007).
Apart from these spectacular media events, religious topics and practices
are also visible in the everyday flow of media. Religious issues have become
more visible in the news media in many countries, and not least the ‘war on
terrorism’ has made Islam a continuous concern in both foreign and domes-
tic news. Outside the news agenda, a steady supply of television drama
series like Lost, Medium and Heroes has rather explicitly dealt with super-
natural or metaphysical phenomenon, and documentary programmes and
reality television series have investigated magical occurrences and paranor-
mal psychic experiences. Hollywood’s obsession with media technology has
not hampered the film industry’s interest in metaphysical issues. On the con-
trary, the new advances in digital technology and manipulation of visual
imagery have made the production of supernatural worlds and their inhabi-
tants of gods and demons not only much more convincing, but also cheaper.
On computer games and on the Internet, new synthetic worlds have emerged
that provide users with new ways of engaging with religious issues and
having magic and spiritual experiences. To some extent, the media also
perform quasi-religious functions, for example, when in times of national
crises the media provide a forum for the expression of anger, grief and
NL 6 3–8 © Intellect Ltd 2008 3

emotional relief. Major media events perform social rituals and national
celebrations, at the same time as celebrity and fan cultures provide a forum
for modern and secular forms of worship and idolatry.
With a focus on media, popular culture and enchantment, we wish to
underscore the role of media in both transforming religion and as
providers of enchantment in modern societies. Due to secularization, insti-
tutionalized religion may be on the decline, but the media provide a new
institutional framework for production and circulation of religious
imagery and enchanting experiences. The study of media, religion and
culture is not a new discipline, although it may, from the point of view of
mainstream media and film studies, be considered a newcomer to the field.
Due to its topic, it is a cross-disciplinary field that has engaged researchers
from sociology, sociology of religion, theology, cultural studies, film and
media studies, and others. With the obvious risk of oversimplification, we
may distinguish between two traditions and stages in the research on
media, religion and culture. A first tradition has been concerned with reli-
gion in media, that is, the study of how the major institutionalized reli-
gions (Protestantism, Catholicism, Islam and so on) and their key texts are
represented in media and what effects that they may have on individuals,
religious institutions and the wider society. Typical of this tradition, we
find studies of religious film discussing the aesthetics of Christian motifs
and narratives (Flesher and Torry 2007) and institutional studies of tele-
vangelism in United States (Peck 1993). A second tradition has taken a
culturalist approach and considered media as religion. This tradition has
combined, on the one hand, a very wide definition of religion as a kind of
cultural meaning-making practice related to ‘things set apart’ (Durkheim
2001: 46) with, on the other hand, a cultural studies approach to media
and communication. As a consequence, the institutionalized religions are
no longer at the centre of attention, and instead audiences’ reception and
usage of media as ways of engaging with religious issues come to the fore.
From this perspective, it may no longer be useful to distinguish between
media and religion, because ‘they occupy the same spaces, serve many of
the same purposes, and invigorate the same practices in late modernity’
(Hoover 2006: 9). Following on from this, emphasis is put on the role of
media as facilitators of culture and community and as sources of meaning
and identity. Whereas the first tradition typically has attracted scholars
from the sociology of religion, theology and early film studies, the second
tendency has more often found resonance among researchers from cultural
studies, media studies and the sociology of religion.
This volume of Northern Lights tries to move the research agenda a
step further and conceptualize the relationship between media, religion
and culture in a different manner. By looking at the mediatization of reli-
gion, it focuses on the ways that media and popular culture in general both
transform existing religious phenomena and come to serve collective func-
tions in society that hitherto have been performed by religious institutions.
The contributors to this volume do not necessarily share a common theo-
retical framework on these issues, but rather inform from different per-
spectives and areas of research. The collection as a whole, however, does
provide a different take on the study of media, religion and culture. It
shares with the culturalist approach a wide understanding of religion with
4 Stig Hjarvard
an emphasis on the non-institutionalized versions of beliefs in supernat-

ural and metaphysical phenomenon. However, it does not dissolve the
distinction between media and religion, but on the contrary tries to dis-
cuss the specificities of religious phenomena and their cultural, social and
cognitive origins and characteristics and relate these to the affordances of
the media that allow them to become modern vehicles of religious imagi-
nations, actions and experiences.
In addition to the cultural aspects of the interface between media and
religion, this collection of articles stresses the importance of a sociological
approach to the study of media and religion and the need to consider psy-
chological aspects of religious experiences. Culturalist approaches typically
emphasize the particular and situated properties of human interactions and –
specifically in this context – the religious meaning-making properties of
media production and reception. Such micro-level analyses do provide
important insights, but they need to be supplemented by approaches at both
meso- and macro-levels. The power relationship between different institu-
tions in society (religion, media, politics and so on) and the historical longue
durée of modernization, mediatization and changing force of religion,
magic and supernatural phenomena are important contexts to consider in
order to analyse the ways that media come to play a role as technologies and
institutions of enchantment. Similarly, psychology and the developing
cognitive psychology of religion may provide important insights into the
cognitive and emotional qualities of religious phenomena experienced
through the media.
The volume consists of eleven articles. The first article by Stig
Hjarvard on the ‘The mediatization of religion’ puts forward a sociologi-
cal theory of the media as agents of religious change. By mediatization he
understands the process through which the media have developed into an
independent institution in society at the same time as they have become
integral to the functioning of other institutions like family, politics and
religion. As a result, religion is increasingly being subsumed under the
logic of the media that become the primary source of religious ideas.
Drawing on Michael Billig’s notion of ‘banal nationalism’, the article
develops the concept of ‘banal religion’ in order to understand the domi-
nant mode of religious representation in the media. A sociological per-
spective is also prominent in Graham Murdock’s article ‘Re-enchantment
and the popular imagination: fate, magic and purity’ that focuses on the
contradictory nature of modernity’s pursuit of progress and secularization.
Examining the historical transformations as well as continuities of fate,
magic and purity, he explores the forms that re-enchantment has taken in
contemporary societies. The risks attached to nuclear weapons and global
warming have helped revive notions of fate and become visible in differ-
ent political movements’ religious-like iconography. The communications
networks that underwrite global capitalism also provide the organizational
resources for new forms of fundamentalism, just as the incessant promo-
tion of consumerism in advertising depends on belief in the transformative
power of magic.
The next contributions introduce a psychological perspective. Torben
Grodal’s article ‘Born again heathenism – enchanted worlds on film’ dis-
cusses three types of the supernatural on film: the fantastic-marvellous, the

horrifying, and the awe- and submission-inspiring films. The fascination

with the supernatural in film is a by-product of different evolutionary cog-
nitive and emotional adaptations. Human cognition is based on naturalism
and causality, but this disposition also supports attention to fantastic viola-
tion of naturalist expectations. Similarly, there is an evolutionary back-
ground to the horror and fear of being preyed upon by powerful agents,
whether they are real animals or fictitious monsters. Finally, Grodal dis-
cusses why films increasingly exploit the possibilities of creating viewer
fascination by making films about fantastic and supernatural events that
activate innate dispositions. In his article ‘Forms of the intangible: Carl Th.
Dreyer and the concept of “transcendental style”’, Casper Tybjerg also
addresses the experience of religious meanings in fictional narratives.
Considering Paul Schrader’s notion of the transcendental style in film, it
provides a critical discussion of how a particular film style might have a
specifically religious significance. Paul Schrader’s argument that certain
films may constitute a transcendental art and, as such, function as a sort of
alternative religion, is compared to David Bordwell’s concept of parametric
film narration and, in particular, Torben Grodal’s cognitive film theory. The
article concludes that spiritual experience is better explained as the out-
come of the combination of three elements: an art film style, content
indicative of a ‘higher meaning’, and an audience predisposed for looking
for such meanings.
Ryan G. Hornbeck and Justin L. Barrett’s article on ‘Virtual reality as
a “spiritual” experience’ examines the Internet phenomenon of Second
Life from the perspective of the cognitive psychology of religion. They
argue that human minds may interact with Second Life in a manner
highly similar to that in which they interact with supernatural concepts.
Both virtual reality media and supernatural concepts contain information
that appear counterintuitive to users’ expectations of how ontological
categories work (humans may transform themselves or jump in time and
space), at the same time as users in virtual worlds may, due to anonymity
and plasticity of representations, engage in activities that often elicit a
superabundance of inferences, thus exciting the social cognitive mecha-
nisms with minimal effort. In the article, ‘Understanding superpowers in
contemporary television fiction’, Line Nybro Petersen addresses the pos-
sible audience gratifications and fascination of superpower in popular
culture combining a sociological and psychological approach. Using the
television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charmed and Heroes as key
examples, she demonstrates how the attribution of extraordinary powers
to otherwise normal characters are similar to the counterintuitive proper-
ties of religious agents. Stories of superheroes are similar to daydreams,
because they provide a refuge from the insecurities of everyday life at
the same time as they allow the individual to live out egocentric thoughts
and desires. In addition to the universal cognitive features that support
the fascination with the superhero, cultural contexts also play an impor-
tant role. The predominance of American heroism gives superhero narra-
tives a widespread cultural appeal in the United States, and contemporary
television series often give the superhero protagonists a slightly more
rounded character, also enabling supernatural heroines to appeal to a female
audience.
6 Stig Hjarvard
In ‘The occultural significance of The Da Vinci Code’, Christopher

Partridge examines Dan Brown’s novel as a prominent example of a
broader cultural shift from religion to spirituality in western societies.
Important components in this shift, as reflected in The Da Vinci Code, are
the romanticizing of the premodern world, a sacralization of the feminine
and a distrust of institutionalized religion. The Da Vinci Code found reso-
nance in the occulture, that is the melange of beliefs, practices, traditions
and organizations related to the occult in a wider sense that constitute a cul-
tic milieu in modern societies. In conclusion, the success of The Da Vinci
Code bears witness to the fact that audiences often seem to be far more
attracted to intriguing ideas circulating within occulture, including exciting
arguments founded on weak logic, and by conspiracy theories disseminated
within popular culture, than they are by serious scholarship or traditional
theological exegesis. In Helle Kannik Haastrup’s ‘One re-enchanted
evening – the Academy Awards as a mediated ritual within celebrity cul-
ture’, the Oscar television show is used as a case study to demonstrate the
many layers of cultural meanings of this contest and coronation type of
media event. The Oscars ceremony includes several elements that parallel
religion: the stars are staged as half-gods, and there is a strong ritualization
of events, from the celebratory presentations at the Red Carpet scenes to
the emotional acceptance speeches. Whereas celebrity culture generally
may be understood as a civil religion, the Oscars ceremony has become the
essential religious festival of this civil religion. In the article ‘Religion, phi-
losophy and convergence culture online: ABC’s Lost as a study of the
processes of mediatization’, Lynn Schofield Clark analyses the audiences’
web-based discussions of religious and philosophical issues in popular cul-
ture. Using Henry Jenkins’s notion of fan discussions as a sort of ‘collec-
tive intelligence’, it examines how and to what extent blogs, online forums
and other Internet discussion sites may enhance viewers’ understanding
and appreciation of the Lost narrative, and provide a forum for a wider
engagement with philosophical and religious issues. Although the results
question the concept of ‘collective intelligence’, processes of mediatization
of religion are discernable, for example by Lost’s use of religious symbols
and narratives in contexts that are usually not considered religious, and by
the emergence of norms in online forums for the popular presentation of
philosophical and religious issues.
In the final two articles, we look beyond the realm of European and
American popular culture. Ehab Galal’s article ‘Magic spells and recita-
tion contests: the Quran as entertainment on Arab satellite television’ doc-
uments the proliferation of satellite television stations and programmes in
the Arab world with an Islamic orientation. In the fatwa programmes an
Islamic scholar answers questions about how to live a Muslim life in
accordance with the Quran, but the programmes are dominated by ques-
tions of lifestyle rather than theological discussion. Also in recitation con-
tests and healing programmes, global forms of popular culture blend with
elements of Islamic traditions. The mediatization of Islam supports a
process in which a political and rational version of Islam is increasingly
being replaced by a more individualized and consumer-based version. In
Lars-Martin Sørensen’s article ‘Animated animism – the global ways of
Japan’s national spirits’, he looks at the apparent paradox of the simultaneous

global spread of the Shinto religion through anime and similar Japanese
pop culture and the re-nationalization of Shinto by power holders in
Japan. Using Hayao Miyazaki’s films as the primary example, he demon-
strates that while these films may be interpreted by a western audience as
promoting an ecological awareness, they also promote traditional cultural
values that may be interpreted in accordance with contemporary Japanese
nationalism. These nationalistic meanings of Shinto may, however, not be
obvious to a western audience, since the success of anime in the United
States of America and Europe is also due to its cultural reinterpretations
by, particularly, American fan communities.
The inspiration for this volume on enchantment, media and popular cul-
ture has primarily emerged out of two research contexts. The Nordic
Research Network on the Mediatization of Religion and Culture was estab-
lished in 2005 and has provided a very fruitful forum for developing the
study of these issues. Several of the articles in this volume were first pre-
sented at the network’s conference on ‘Enchantment, Popular Culture and
Mediated Experience’ in April 2007 in Copenhagen. I wish to thank my
Nordic colleagues in this network for their continuous inspiration and con-
structive criticism. Another important impetus for this volume has been the
research priority area ‘The Mediatization of Culture’ at the Department of
Media, Cognition and Communication at University of Copenhagen.
Again, I wish to express my gratitude to my colleagues in this context for
providing a stimulating cross-disciplinary environment for the study of
media, religion and culture.
References
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University Press.
Flesher, P.M. and Torry, R. (2007), Film & Religion, Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press.
Gebhardt, W., Hepp, A., Hitzler, R., Pfadenhauer, M., Reuter, J., Vogelgesang, W.,
et al. (2007), Megaparty Glaubensfest. Weltjugendtag: Erlebnis – Medien –
Organisation, Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Socialwissenschaften.
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Politics in the Public Sphere of the Media’), in L. Christoffersen (ed.), Gudebilleder:
Ytringsfrihed og religion i en globaliseret verden (Images of the Gods: Freedom
of Speech and Religion in a Globalized World), Copenhagen: Tiderne Skifter,
pp. 44–71.
Hoover, S. (2006), Religion in the Media Age, London: Routledge.
Peck, J. (1993), The Gods of Televangelism: The Crisis of Meaning and the Appeal
of Religious Television, Cresskill, NJ: Hampton Press.
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Article. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.9/1
The mediatization of religion

A theory of the media as agents of
religious change
Stig Hjarvard
Abstract Keywords
The article presents a theoretical framework for the understanding of religion
how media work as agents of religious change. At the centre of this the- popular culture
ory is the concept of mediatization. Through the process of mediatization, survey
religion is increasingly being subsumed under the logic of the media. As mediatization
conduits of communication, the media have become the primary source of banal religion
religious ideas, in particular in the form of ‘banal religion’. As a language secularization
the media mould religious imagination in accordance with the genres of
popular culture, and as cultural environments the media have taken over
many of the social functions of the institutionalized religions, providing
both moral and spiritual guidance and a sense of community. Finally, the
results of a national survey in Denmark are presented in order to sub-
stantiate the theoretical arguments and illustrate how the mediatization
of religion has made popular media texts important sources of spiritual
interest.
By the help of the most sophisticated media technology, supernatural

phenomena have acquired an unmatched presence in modern societies. In
recent blockbuster movies like Narnia, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, and
the Harry Potter film series, magicians, ghosts, elves, unicorns, monsters
possessed by evil and spirits working for good are vividly alive and
inhabit the world on a par with mortal human beings. The metaphysical
realm is no longer something you can only imagine or occasionally see
represented in symbolic forms in fresco paintings or pillars of stone. The
media representations of the supernatural world have acquired richness in
detail, character and narrative, making the supernatural appear natural.
The salience of the supernatural world is, furthermore, supported by its
mundane character in the media. Watching aliens and vampires in televi-
sion series like The X Files and Buffy the Vampire Slayer week after
week, season after season, and spending an hour or two every day fight-
ing supernatural monsters in computer games, playing a magic character
of your own creation, all make the world of the unreal a pretty familiar
phenomenon.
The supernatural world is not confined to the media genres of fiction.
Discovery Channel’s television documentary series Ghosthunters (1996–)

was among the first in a wave of television programmes dealing with

supernatural, paranormal and traditional religious issues. In Denmark, for
instance, national television has dealt with ghosts, exorcism and reincar-
nation in programmes like The Power of the Spirits and Travelling with
the Soul, and on entertainment shows like The Sixth Sense, astrologists
and chiromancers appear together with psychologists and fashion special-
ists. Not only has superstition, or new religion, become more prominent
in the media, the institutionalized religions (Christianity, Islam and so on)
have also received greater attention in factual programmes. The more
highbrow channels of Danish radio (P1) and television (DR2) now fre-
quently broadcast documentaries about religious issues and discussion
programmes in which representatives of religious institutions appear.
Over the last decades, the Danish press has also increased its coverage of
both Christian and Islamic issues. In the period from 1985 to 2005,
Rosenfeldt (2007) documents a multiplication of stories involving
Christian issues (approximately three times as many) and Islamic issues
(approximately eleven times as many). The publishing of the Muhammad
cartoons by the daily newspaper Jyllands-Posten left no doubt that the
media do indeed play a prominent role in the public circulation of reli-
gious representations and in the framing of religious controversy
(Hjarvard 2006). Last but not least, the Internet has become a prominent
platform for the dissemination and discussion of religious ideas, allowing
many new religious movements to enter the public realm and changing
the ways in which religious institutions interact with their community
(Højsgaard and Warburg 2005).
The increased presence of religious themes in the media may at first
look like a negation of the ideas that secularization is the hallmark of high
modernity and that the media are agents of enlightenment. Consequently,
we could interpret the development as an increased tendency towards the
de-secularization (Berger et al. 1999) or re-sacralization (Demerath 2003)
of modern society in which secular tendencies are gradually being
replaced or at least challenged by the resurgence of Christianity, Islam and
newer mediatized forms of religion. However, in spite of the reappearance
of religion on the media agenda, there is nevertheless a strong tendency
towards the secularization of society. Norris and Inglehart (2004) have
provided the most comprehensive analysis based on the available statisti-
cal data from 74 countries covering the period 1981–2001, and they report
a clear correlation between the modernization of society and the decline in
religious behaviour and beliefs. Thus, mediatization of religion may be
considered a part of a gradual secularization: it is the historical process in
which the media have taken over many of the social functions that used to
be performed by religious institutions. Rituals, worship, mourning and
celebration are all social activities that used to belong to institutionalized
religion but have now been taken over by the media and transformed into
more or less secular activities. Studying the ways religion interconnects
with the media provides evidence of tendencies of secularization and of
re-sacralization, and it may certainly be possible that both tendencies are
at work at the same time – although in different areas and aspects of the
interface between religion and media. For instance, some media genres,
like news and documentaries, may in general subscribe to a secular
10 Stig Hjarvard
world-view, whereas science fiction and horror genres are more inclined
to evoke metaphysical or supernatural imaginations.
For a sociological understanding of the role that modern media play in
religion, it is important to stress that modern media do not only present or
report on religious issues; they also change the very ideas and authority of
religious institutions and alter the ways in which people interact with each
other when dealing with religious issues. For instance, some strands of
faith were previously considered to be superstition and denounced as low
culture. The increased presence of such forms of faith on international and
national television has increased the legitimacy of ‘superstition’ and chal-
lenged the cultural prestige of the institutionalized church. As expressed
by a Danish bishop after the screening of The Power of the Spirits, ‘Danish
culture will never be the same after this series’ (Lindhardt 2004). Similarly,
we have witnessed how Dan Brown’s bestseller novel and movie The Da
Vinci Code made new agendas for several of the institutionalized religions
across the world.
It is my aim in this article to develop a theoretical framework for the
understanding of how media work as agents of religious change. At the
centre of this theory is the concept of mediatization: the media have devel-
oped into an independent institution in society and as a consequence, other
institutions become increasingly dependent on the media and have to
accommodate the logic of the media in order to be able to communicate with
other institutions and society as a whole. Through the process of mediati-
zation, religion is increasingly being subsumed under the logic of the media,
both in terms of institutional regulation, symbolic content and individual
practices. A theory of the interface between media and religion must con-
sider the media and religion in the proper cultural and historical contexts,
and the mediatization of religion is not a universal phenomenon, neither
historically, culturally nor geographically. The mediatization of religion is
a modern phenomenon to be found in western societies in which media
have become independent institutions. Also, within western societies,
there are many differences both in terms of media and religion, and the
resultant theoretical framework and analytical outline may be more ade-
quate for developments in the north-western part of Europe than in other
parts of the western world. The studies conducted by Clark (2005) and
Hoover (2006) clearly indicate that the evangelical movement in the
United States provides an important cultural context for the interplay
between media and religion. This is clearly different from a Scandinavian
and Danish context with a much more limited public presence of, and low
level of attendance to, the Protestant Church. Thus, the empirical findings
from a Danish context that are presented at the end of this article may very
well differ from the US experience. The theory must also consider the fact
that media are not a unitary phenomenon. Individual media are dependent
on their technological features, aesthetic conventions and institutional
framework, and this can mean that the consequences for religion of the
Internet and television may differ somewhat. A thorough understanding of
the impact of media on religion must therefore be sensitive to the differences
between media and the various ways in which they portray religion, trans-
form religious content and symbolic forms and transfer religious activities
from one institution to another.

Three metaphors of media

Joshua Meyrowitz (1993) has suggested a useful distinction between three
different aspects of communication media: media as conduits, media as
languages and media as environments. In his framework, these metaphors
are used to categorize existing strands of research on mediated communi-
cation, but here they will specify the various ways in which religion is
affected by media.
The metaphor of media as conduits draws attention to the fact that
media transport symbols and messages across distances from senders to
receivers. When focused on this aspect, research must deal with the
content of the media: what kinds of messages are transmitted, what top-
ics occupy the media agenda, how much attention does one theme get
compared with another and so on. Following on from this position, the
media are distributors of religious representations of various kinds.
Most obvious perhaps are the religious key texts like the Bible, the
Quran, hymn books and so on, which are also media products that are
distributed both within religious institutions and through general media
markets. However, the media in the sense of independent media produc-
tion and distribution companies are only to a very limited extent channels
for the distribution of texts originating from the religious institutions.
Newspapers may have columns dedicated to religious announcements,
and radio and television usually transmit religious services, but in most
western countries this is a marginal activity. Most of the representations
of religious issues in media do not originate from the institutionalized
religions, but are produced and edited by the media and delivered
through genres like news, documentaries, drama, comedy, entertain-
ment and so on. Through these genres, the media provide a constant
fare of religious representations that mixes institutionalized religion
and other spiritual elements in new ways. The media become distribu-
tors of what I shall label banal religion and may hence serve as sources
of re-enchantment.
If we consider the metaphor media as languages, our attention focuses
on the various ways the media format the messages and frame the rela-
tionship between sender, content and receiver. In particular, the choices
of medium and genre influence important features like the narrative
construction, reality status and the mode of reception of particular mes-
sages, and, as a consequence, the media adjust and mould religious rep-
resentations to the modalities of the specific medium and genre in
question. A newspaper story about the papal politics towards Latin
America, a horror film like The Exorcist and a computer game like
World of Warcraft provide very different representations of religious
issues and, indeed, involve completely different assumptions about
what defines religion. In contemporary Europe and North America, the
media as languages first and foremost imply that religion is formatted
according to the genres of popular culture. Popular culture has always
practised an often contentious representation of religious issues, but the
public service obligations of radio and television, and the stricter moral
control of commercial media in general, previously meant that the
institutionalized religions used to have a firmer grip on the ways religion
was represented in the public media. Due to the increasingly deregulated
12 Stig Hjarvard
and commercialized media systems in most European countries as well as

in North America, radio and television have become far more integrated
into popular culture, and newer media like computer games, the Internet
and so on have, from the very outset, placed the themes and narratives of
popular culture at the centre of their activity. Through the language of
popular culture in the media, religion has become more oriented towards
entertainment and the consumer, and the approach to religion is generally
more individualized.
Finally, if we consider the metaphor of media as environments, our
interest concentrates upon the ways media systems and institutions facil-
itate and structure human interaction and communication. Due to their
technical and institutional properties, public service media like the radio
and television of the mid-twentieth century generally favoured a
national, paternalistic, unidirectional (one-to-many) communication pat-
tern, whereas the Internet of the twenty-first century favours a more
global, consumer-oriented and multidirectional communication pattern.
Because environments are much more stable than individual messages,
this position encourages studies of wide-ranging historical changes; for
instance, how the printing press stimulated the spread of scientific ideas
and weakened the church’s control over the individual’s access to reli-
gious texts, thus supporting the individualization of belief and the rise of
Protestantism (Eisenstein 1979).
In the technologically advanced societies of the twenty-first century,
the media have expanded to almost all areas of society and make up per-
vasive networks (Castell 1996) through which most human interaction
and communication must be filtered. Consequently, the media also struc-
ture feelings of community and belonging (Anderson 1991; Morley
2000). The media ritualize the small transitions of everyday life as well
as the events of the larger society (Dayan and Katz 1992). In earlier soci-
eties, social institutions, like family, school and church, were the most
important providers of information, tradition and moral orientation for
the individual member of society. Today, these institutions have lost some
of their former authority, and the media have to some extent taken over
their role as prov-iders of information and moral orientation at the same
time as the latter have become society’s most important storyteller about
society itself.
The media’s impact on religion may be manifold and at times
contradictory, but as a whole the media as conduits, languages and
environments are responsible for the mediatization of religion.
Mediatization designates the process through which core elements of a
social or cultural activity (for example, politics, teaching, religion and
so on) assume media form. As a consequence, the activity is, to a
greater or lesser degree, performed through interaction with a medium,
and the symbolic content and the structure of the social and cultural
activity are influenced by media environments and a media logic, upon
which they gradually become more dependent (Hjarvard 2004, 2008;
Schulz 2004).
Mediatization is not to be mistaken for the common phenomenon of
mediation. Mediation refers to the communication through one or more
media, through which both message and the relation between sender and

receiver are influenced by the ‘affordances’ (Gibson 1979), that is, the
enabling and constraining features of the specific media and genres
involved. However, mediation in itself may not have any profound impact
on social institutions like politics or religion, as long as the institutions are
in control of the communication. Mediation concerns the specific circum-
stances of communication and interaction through a medium in a particu-
lar setting. In contrast, mediatization is about the long-term process of
changing social institutions and modes of interactions in culture and
society due to the growing importance of media in all strands of society.
Mediatization is the process of social change that to some extent sub-
sumes other social or cultural fields into the logic of the media. In the case
of religion, the media – as conduits, languages and environments – facilitate
changes in the amount, content and direction of religious messages in
society, at the same time as they transform religious representations and
challenge and replace the authority of the institutionalized religions.
Through these processes, religion as a social and cultural activity has
become mediatized.
Banal religion
In his book on nationalism and cultural identity, Michael Billig (1995)
develops the concept of ‘banal nationalism’. The study of nationalism is
often focused on the explicit and institutionalized manifestations of nation-
alism, like nationalistic ideologies (for example, fascism) or symbols (for
example, the flag). However, nationalism and national identity are not only
created and maintained through the use of official and explicit symbols of
the nation, but are also to a very large extent based on a series of everyday
phenomena that constantly reminds the individual of his or her belonging
to the nation and the national culture. Billig distinguishes between
metaphorically ‘waved and unwaved flags’ (Billig 1995: 39); that is, between
manifest and less noticeable symbols of the nation. Whereas the collective
‘we’ and ‘them’ in specific historical circumstances have evidently served
to demarcate the nation against outsiders, such pronouns also live a quiet,
everyday existence in other periods, providing natural, yet unnoticeable,
references to the members and non-members of the national culture. It is
this unnoticed, low-key usage of formerly explicit national symbols that
constitutes what Billig calls ‘banal nationalism’.
In continuation of Agger (2005), I take the notion of ‘banal nationalism’
a step further than Billig (1995) and include a whole series of everyday
symbols and occurrences that only have a marginal or no prehistory as
symbols of the nation or nationalism. Many cultural phenomena and sym-
bols may be familiar symbols of aspects of both culture and society, but
they are not necessarily seen as expressions of a national culture or a
nationalistic ideology. In a Danish context, phenomena such as herrings
and schnapps, the Roskilde rock festival, young people bathing in the
North Sea and the chiming of the bells at Copenhagen’s City Hall on New
Year’s Eve may for many people be familiar experiences that constitute
parts of their cultural environment and memories. These experiences and
symbols may not be related to nationalism, but can just as well be related
to instances of individual history, family events or class culture. In some
circumstances they may, nevertheless, be mobilized for nationalistic
14 Stig Hjarvard
purposes, and acquire a whole new set of meanings. A good example of

such a reinterpretation is the campaign video of the extreme right-wing
party in Denmark, the Danish People’s Party (Dansk Folkeparti) for the
2001 parliamentary election. Accompanied only by music, a five-minute-
long montage of still pictures of ‘banal Danishness’ was shown. The video
conveyed a very powerful and positive picture of Denmark and Danishness,
and through the usage of these banal national symbols, it systematically
excluded elements of foreign culture from being worthy components of
Danishness.
Just as the study of nationalism needs to take the banal elements of
national culture into account, the study of religion ought to consider the
fact that both individual faith and collective religious imagination are cre-
ated and maintained by a series of experiences and representations that
may have no, or only a limited, relationship with the institutionalized
religions. In continuation of Billig (1995), I label these as banal religious
representations; they consist of elements usually associated with folk reli-
gion, like trolls, vampires and black cats crossing the street; and items
taken from institutionalized religion, like crosses, prayers and cowls; and
representations that have no necessary religious connotations, like upturned
faces, thunder and lightning; and highly emotional music.
From the point of view of human evolution (Boyer 2001; Pyssiäinen
and Anttonen 2002), it seems reasonable to assume that these banal
religious representations provided the first inventory of religious imagi-
nations, and they continue to inform a kind of primary and to some
extent spontaneous religious imagination. In the course of history and
the subsequent differentiation of society, religion became partly institu-
tionalized, and religious professionals produced progressively more
complex and coherent religious narratives that excluded part of the banal
elements as superstition and included others as part of the Holy Scripture,
as well as invented new ones. Instead of accepting the institutionalized
religious texts as the most valid and true sources of religion and belief
and consequently considering folk religion or ‘superstition’ as incomplete,
undeveloped or marginally religious phenomena, it is both theoretically
and analytically far more illuminating to consider the banal religious
elements as constitutive for religious imagination, and the institutional-
ized religious texts and symbols as secondary features, in a sense as
rationalization after the fact.
The label ‘banal’ does not imply that these representations are less impor-
tant or irrelevant. On the contrary, they are primary and fundamental in the
production of religious thoughts and feelings, and they are also banal in
the sense that their religious meanings may travel unnoticed and can be
evoked independently of larger religious texts or institutions. The religious
meaning of banal religious elements rests on basic cognitive skills that
help ascribe anthropomorphic or animistic agency to supernatural powers,
usually by the means of counterintuitive categories that arrest attention,
support memory and evoke emotions. Thus, banal religious elements are
about the supernatural and intentional force behind a sudden strike of
lightning (ascribing agency), or about dead people who still walk about in
the night (counterintuitive mix of categories). The holy texts, iconography
and liturgy of institutionalized religions may contribute to the stockpile of

banal religious elements, and as such they may circulate and activate
meanings that are more or less related to the authorized religious interpre-
tation. The power relationship between banal religious representations and
institutionalized religion may, of course, vary historically and geographi-
cally, but the increasing role of media in society seems to make room for
more of the banal religious representations.
Enchanting media
According to Max Weber (1998 [1904]), the modern world is character-
ized by the steady advance of rationality. As social institutions became
more and more differentiated and specialized, the bureaucracy, the mili-
tary, the industry and so on were subsumed into the logic of rationality.
Consequently, the modern world was disenchanted: as magical imagina-
tion, religion and emotions – in short, irrationality – lost ground to the all-
encompassing logic of modern institutions, modern man gradually became
imprisoned in an ‘iron cage’ of rationality. Although Weber’s analysis of
the role of rationality in modern society may still apply, his diagnosis of a
progressive disenchantment is hardly valid. In the muddy reality of mod-
ern culture, rationality thrives next to irrationality. As the two authoritar-
ian catastrophes of the twentieth century, fascism and Stalinism, bear
witness to, extreme rationalism may very well go hand in hand with rabid
irrationalism like the cultic celebration of a leader, mythological stories
and prophecies, and diabolical depictions of the enemies.
Irrationalism may also, in normal social conditions, be rationalism’s
bedfellow. As Campbell (1987) demonstrates in his analysis of the inter-
connections between the spread of consumer culture and the rise of a
romantic sensibility, the advance of rationality is only one side of the
story. Ritzer (1999) has developed Campbell’s argument in an analysis of
the postmodern consumer culture, in which ‘cathedrals of consumption’
like shopping malls, theme parks and so on stage consumption in spectac-
ular settings in order to endow the goods of mass production with extraor-
dinary qualities and provide a magical experience. At the same time that
both the production and distribution of consumer goods are subjected to
still higher levels of ‘McDonaldization’, that is, more calculation, effec-
tiveness and technological control, the goods themselves and the process of
consumption are bestowed with magical meanings in order to re-enchant a
still more soulless world of identical consumer goods.
In a similar vein, religions may provide a source of re-enchantment
in the modern world. In continuation of Gilhus and Mikaelson (1998),
I argue that the advance of new religious movements indicates the return
of ‘enchanting’ elements from a premodern world, while at the same time
these new religions are a source for identity and meaningfulness for mod-
ern self-reflexive individuals who, increasingly, are left alone with the
responsibility of constructing a purpose in life. At the same time that sec-
ularization relegated institutionalized religion to the periphery of society,
less organized and more individualized forms of religions seemed to
emerge within various institutions, including businesses and industries
where quasi-religious elements inform management training, branding
and so on. It should be noted, however, that neither the old nor the newer
kinds of religion necessarily imply a re-enchantment of the modern world.
16 Stig Hjarvard
The intellectualization of modern Protestantism and the tight behavioural

control within certain Islamic fundamentalist groups are two very different
examples of religious developments that diminish the enchanting potential
of religion.
In the same way that the new religious movements have done, the media
contribute to a re-enchantment of the modern world (Murdock 1997;
Martin-Barbero 1997). The media are large-scale suppliers of narratives –
fictional as well as factual – about adventures, magical occurrences, the
fight between good and evil and so on (Clark 2005). The media are, of
course, also a source of information, knowledge and enlightenment and as
such propagators of reason, but at the same time they are a well of fan-
tasies and emotional experiences. The media have become society’s main
purveyor of enchanted experiences. When Ritzer (1999) singles out the
‘cathedrals of consumption’ as the re-enchanting institutions par excel-
lence in modern society, he is in fact only pointing towards some specific
media industries. A theme park like Disneyland magnificently re-enacts
narratives from a single media mogul, and the shopping mall’s attempt to
induce consumption with extraordinary experiences usually relies on the
workings of advertising techniques, licensing of media brands, and physi-
cal environments saturated by pop music and television screens. In a similar
vein, I argue that a series of new religious movements has achieved a
greater resonance among its audience because the media have published
similar stories. For instance, there are strong interdependencies between
the media’s continuous preoccupation with aliens in general and the
Roswell mythology in particular, and the proliferation of quasi-religious
beliefs in aliens (Rothstein 2000; Lewis 2003).
It may be said that religious messages have always been distributed
through the media: the book has been an instrument of teaching and a
source of key holy texts, and the church may, from a certain perspective,
also be considered a communication medium with a whole series of genres
like the sermon, psalms and so on. However, the both quantitative and
qualitative development that the media have undergone in society is
overlooked in this argument. In the past, the mass media were very much
in the service of other social institutions. Books and journals were in the
service of religious institutions, the scientific institution and the cultural
public sphere, and newspapers were very much the instruments of political
parties and movements. In a North European context, radio and television
were cultural institutions and, through an elaborate scheme of political
and cultural control, broadcast a balanced representation of political as
well as cultural institutions in society.
Moving towards the end of the twentieth century, most media gradually
lost their close relationship with specific social institutions, organizations
and parties, and the media themselves became independent institutions in
society. Consequently, the media no longer see themselves as purveyors of
other institutions’ agendas; instead, their activities are much more attuned
to the service of audiences – very often incorporating the logic of a com-
mercial market. Phrased differently, the media increasingly organize public
and private communication in ways that are adjusted to the individual
medium’s logic and market considerations. Other institutions are still rep-
resented in the media, but their function becomes progressively more that

of providers of raw material, which the media then use and transform for
the purpose of the media themselves. The liturgy and iconography of the
institutionalized religions become a stockpile of props for the staging of
media narratives. For example, popular action adventure stories about
Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark, Lara Croft in Tomb Raider, and
Van Helsing blend and recontextualize all sorts of religious, pagan and sec-
ular symbols in new and unexpected ways. In sum, the media as cultural
institutions become prominent producers of various religious imaginations,
rather than conveyors of the messages of religious institutions.
Community and rituals

Considering the media as environments, we may take the etymology of
the words ‘medium’ and ‘communication’ as a starting point. The word
‘medium’ originates from the Latin medius, meaning ‘in the middle’, and
the word ‘communication’ derives from the Latin communicare, meaning
‘to share or to make common’. Thus, the media are located at the centre of
or between people, and through the media, people share experiences that
become common knowledge. A considerable part of media studies is con-
cerned with these communal aspects of media and communication. James
Carey (1989) argued that besides transporting information, the significance
of the media lies in their cultural functions, that is, in their ability to create
and sustain communities and to regulate the relationship and belonging
between an individual and the society as a whole.
As Dayan and Katz (1992) have demonstrated in empirical studies, the
media carry out collective rituals with a highly social integrative function.
Broadcasting media have performed a vital role in the ritualization of
important societal transitions, like the funeral of presidents, celebration of
national feasts, inauguration of a new king and so on. Radio and television’s
live broadcasts of such events make it possible for a whole community
(region, nation or world) both to witness and participate in the ceremony.
Such media events deepen the emotional ties between community and
members and make the events part of the community’s collective memory.
The media also become important for the collective mourning and coping
with grief in cases of tragic events, like the terror attack in the United
States on 11 September 2001. Kitch (2003) has shown how the news mag-
azines, Time and Newsweek, in their coverage of the events did not only
provide information, but also a kind of psychological help by guiding read-
ers through consecutive stages of grief and providing resilience and closure
to a national catastrophe. The treatment of collective feelings is not reserved
for the big catastrophes; it is a recurrent feature of the media, and they may
not only be responsible for emotional guidance, they may also facilitate
the construction of collective emotions in the first place. A celebrity
event like the death of Princess Diana was made into an international event
by the media, and the media both built up emotional responses and
provided examples of how to express sorrow in a number of ways, for
example, by laying flowers at embassies, lighting candles and so on.
During ritual events, an interesting interplay between the media and
the church can often be noticed. Whether it is a tragic disaster like the
Asian tsunami (26 December 2004) or a national celebration, like the
wedding of the Danish Crown Prince Frederik to Mary Donaldson
18 Stig Hjarvard
(14 May 2004), the transmission of a religious ceremony plays a minor,

yet important role. The majority of the media coverage of such events is
carried out by the media themselves using their traditional genres and for-
mats like news, interviews, documentary, live commentary and so on.
However, ceremonial actions are best performed as direct transmissions;
for a moment the media pass the baton to another social institution, mak-
ing it temporarily responsible for the performance of the ritual. In other
words, when the media try to be at their most solemn, they perform as
nakedly as possible: they stage themselves as pure channels of transmission,
connecting the community to the religious institution that is conducting
the memorial service or performing the wedding ritual. As Cottle (2006)
has argued, media rituals are not necessarily consensual or affirmative of a
dominant social order. They may occasionally be ‘politically disruptive or
even transformative in their reverberations within civil and wider society’
(Cottle 2006: 411). This may also apply to media rituals concerned with
religious issues. Thus, the media have not only taken over the performance
of affirmative rituals that were previously performed by the church, but
media rituals may also serve to transform religious imagination and its
social status. For instance, the global media events related to the film
premiere of The Lord of the Rings trilogy may have been crucial to the
increase in cultural prestige of the fantasy genre in general, at the expense
of institutionalized religious imagination.
Rothenbuhler (1998) has pointed towards both the habitual and ritual
aspects of the use of the media itself. For most people, the use of media is
embedded in everyday routines, and the use of specific media and genres
also serve to mark minor and major transitions in the course of the day,
the week, the year and so on. The sound of the morning radio and reading
the newspaper indicate the beginning of the day in the same way that the
late evening news on television ritualizes the end of the day. Previously,
religious institutions provided such temporal orientation by ringing the
church bells, conducting morning and evening prayers and so on. Today,
the media mark such nodal points in the temporal flow of everyday life.
A key activity of religious institutions is the worship of symbols, gods
and saints, but they no longer enjoy a monopoly in this field. The media
frequently promote worship behaviour. A whole section of weekly maga-
zines makes a living out of facilitating para-social relationships (Horton
and Wohl 1956) between the audience of ordinary people and the celebrity
world of media personalities, movie stars, royal families, the rich and the
famous and so on. The film, television and music industries are con-
sciously trying to develop cult phenomena, fan clubs and idolization as
an integral part of the marketing efforts, but worship-like behaviour
may also emerge spontaneously. In a similar vein, modern corporate
branding strategies try to create both a cultural and spiritual relationship
between brand, employees and consumers.
Jenkins (1992) specified the characteristics of media fan cultures.
Among other features, the fans develop a special mode of reception of the
key texts, and the fans constitute a kind of interpretative community as
well as an alternative social grouping. Furthermore, fan cultures often take
part in the development of an ‘art world’, that is, special artefacts that in
various ways comment on and pay tribute to the worshipped media products.

Fan cultures share many of the characteristics of religious groups,

although they in substance – what the adoration is directed towards – may
differ. The fans do not necessarily believe that the media’s heroes and
idols possess divine powers, but, on the other hand, fans do often treat
media idols as if they were saints. As Hills (2002) argued, the similarities
do not necessarily lead us to equate fan cultures with religious communi-
ties. Instead, the parallels bear witness to the fact that a series of religious
activities, like worship and idolatry, can without major changes be recon-
textualized in more or less secular settings.
Surveying the media’s spiritual function

In order to empirically validate the above-mentioned arguments about the
interrelationship between media and religion, a series of questions were
posed in consecutive surveys among a representative sample of the Danish
adult population (18 years or older) during 2005. The first question aimed to
chart to what extent Danes use the media as sources to engage in spiritual
issues. The questions invited answers that implied a very broad understand-
ing of religion, including ‘banal religion’. As the results in Table 1 indicate,
discussion with family members and close friends was the most frequent
way to engage in spiritual issues. Next, the use of television programmes,
Ways of engaging in spiritual issues Per cent

Discuss with family and close friends 30.7
Watch television programmes 25.7
Read non-fiction books (e.g. philosophy and 14.9
psychology)
Visit websites/Internet discussions 11.5
Read novels 10.5
Attend church ceremonies 10.5
Listen to radio 9.2
Attend meetings/public lectures 8.9
Go to cinema 7.3
Read the Bible (or other holy scripture) 5.2
Other 4.6
Did not engage in such issues 42.8
Table 1: Ways of engaging in spiritual issues

Question: ‘People may have an interest in spiritual issues, including faith, folk reli-
gion, ethics, magical experiences, life and death and so on. If you are interested in
such issues, how did you engage in them during the last couple of months?’
Note: The respondents were asked to tick a maximum of three possibilities, thus,
the sum exceeds 100 per cent. The question was part of the survey undertaken by
the Zapera research institute’s quarterly Internet-based survey in Denmark in
2005. N = 1005.
20 Stig Hjarvard
non-fiction books and the Internet were frequent ways of engaging in spiri-
tual topics. It is interesting that the institutionalized ways of engaging in spir-
itual issues – going to church or reading religious texts – were rather
marginal activities compared with the use of media. Reading the Bible (or
other religious texts) was the least frequent way mentioned among the possi-
ble answers. Reading a novel was just as frequently a way to engage in spiri-
tual issues as going to church. That discussion with family and close friends
plays such a prominent role (rather than talking to the minister or other mem-
bers of a religious congregation) may reflect the fact that spiritual issues in a
highly modernized society are considered private and personal, rather than
public and social, while at the same time, family and friendship have come to
serve very emotional functions (Giddens 1992). It should also be noted that
many people have not engaged in such matters at all: more than 40 per cent
have neither used the media nor other possibilities of exploring spiritual issues.
The next question illuminated the extent to which specific media and
genres were used as sources of the fight between good and evil. As such,
the question related to the media as sources of moral orientation, not nec-
essarily of spiritual guidance, although these aspects may be intertwined.
Not surprisingly, as Table 2 demonstrates, narrative and fictional media and
genres provide most stories that have made a profound impression on the
Per cent
Film 41.1
Television programme 25.2
Fiction novel 22.0
Newspaper 14.4
Computer game 11.4
Internet 6.7
Magazine monthly/weekly 6.0
Radio programme 6.0
Religious books or texts 5.5
Other 3.6
Cannot remember any/don’t know 41.4
Table 2: Media stories about the fight between good and evil
Question: ‘The media are full of stories about the fight between good and evil. It
may be feature films (e.g. Star Wars), novels (e.g. Harry Potter), religious books
(e.g. the Bible), factual programmes (e.g. television news) and so on. Please tick
1–3 media in which you have experienced a story about the fight between good
and evil that has made a profound impression on you. If you remember the title,
you may specify.’
Note: The respondents were asked to tick a maximum of three possibilities, thus,
the sum exceeds 100 per cent. The question was part of the survey undertaken by the
Zapera research institute’s quarterly Internet-based survey in Denmark in 2005.
N = 1005.

respondents. But factual news is also a frequent source of stories about the
fight between good and evil and, accordingly, the two Danish TV news-
casts, Tv-Avisen and Nyhederne, are frequently mentioned as television
programmes that have provided such stories. Religious texts have, to a very
limited extent, made a profound impression on the Danes in this respect.
The question invited the respondents to list concrete titles of media
products, and the most frequent was the Lord of the Rings film trilogy.
Among the most frequently mentioned films were the Harry Potter movies,
the Danish Adams Æbler, the German Der Untergang and the American
Passion of the Christ and Constantine. Among fictional novels, Dan
Brown’s The Da Vinci Code and Angels & Demons are frequently men-
tioned together with (again) the Harry Potter books and the book The Lord
of the Rings, as well as the Danish fantasy series The Shamer Chronicles.
Among the explicit religious writings, the Bible is frequently mentioned.
In order to examine whether media not only support an existing inter-
est in spiritual issues but also encourage a further interest in such matters,
four popular media products were singled out because of their explicit, yet
somewhat different, ways of thematizing these issues. The respondents
were asked if these media products increased their interest in ‘magic and
fantasy’, ‘spiritual issues’ and/or ‘religious issues’ respectively. This dif-
ferentiation of possible answers was made in order to distinguish between
various aspects of religious issues, since one way of addressing an interest
in religion may render other important aspects invisible. ‘Magic and fan-
tasy’ may be said to highlight the supernatural and folk religious aspects;
‘spiritual issues’ may connote existential, philosophical and/or emotional
aspects; and ‘religious issues’ may designate an interest in the institutional-
ized and formal features of religion.
As Table 3 shows, the Harry Potter stories, Dan Brown’s novels and the
Lord of the Rings trilogy have all increased interest in ‘magic and fantasy’
for about a third of the respondents. The computer game World of Warcraft
increased the respondents’ interest in ‘magic and fantasy’ in 22.5 per cent of
the cases. It should also be noted that most people did not report an
increased interest in such aspects in all of the four cases. When it comes to
the media product’s effect on the interest in ‘spiritual issues’ (Table 4), they
are lower in the case of the Harry Potter stories, the Lord of the Rings trilogy
and the computer game World of Warcraft. However, more than one out of
ten respondents stated that these media products increased his or her interest
in spiritual issues. With regards to an increased interest in ‘religious issues’
(Table 5), there was a further drop in percentages for these three media
products; however, there were still some respondents who felt that, for
instance, Harry Potter made a difference in this topic. Dan Brown’s novels
display a rather different pattern compared to the others. His books are more
prone to encourage an interest in the spiritual and, even more so, in the insti-
tutionalized bearings of religion than any of the other three media products.
More than half of the respondents reported an increased interest in religious
issues after reading those novels. This is not surprising, since Dan Brown’s
novels explicitly deal with the spiritual and institutionalized aspects of
Christianity. It is perhaps much more surprising that media narratives, which
at first glance seem to have only a remote, if any, relationship to religion,
like for instance Harry Potter (Sky 2006), nevertheless stimulate an interest
22 Stig Hjarvard
The media Harry Potter Dan Brown’s Lord of the World of

story has stories novels (Da Rings trilogy Warcraft
increased (novels, films Vinci Code (novel, films (computer
my interest and/or and/or and/or game)
in magic and computer Angels & computer
fantasy games) Demons) game)
Yes 32.3 29.3 35.2 22.5
No 64.6 68.3 62.6 75.5
Don’t know 3.1 2.4 2.1 2.0
Table 3: The effect of different media stories on the interest in magic and
fantasy
The media Harry Potter Dan Lord of the World of

story has stories Brown’s Rings Warcraft
increased (novels, films novels (Da (novel, films (computer
my interest and/or Vinci Code and/or game)
in spiritual computer and/or computer
issues games) Angels & game)
Demons)
Yes 11.5 38.4 13.4 12.1
No 84.5 58.1 83.7 86.5
Don’t know 4.1 3.5 2.9 1.4
Table 4: The effect of different media stories on the interest in spiritual issues
The media Harry Potter Dan Lord of the World of

story has stories Brown’s Rings Warcraft
increased (novels, films novels (Da (novel, films (computer
my interest and/or Vinci Code and/or game)
in religious computer and/or computer
issues games) Angels & game)
Demons)
Yes 4.5 53.5 7.2 7.1
No 91.7 43.1 90.1 90.0
Don’t know 3.7 3.4 2.7 2.8
Table 5: The effect of certain media stories on the interest in religious issues
Note: Tables 3, 4 and 5 indicate the effect of certain media stories on the interest in
magic and fantasy, spiritual issues and religion; in percentage (vertical) of respon-
dents having read, seen or played at least one version of the media story in question.
Among the total number of respondents (N = 1007) 588 had read, seen or played at
least one Harry Potter story; 350 had read at least one of the two novels by Dan
Brown; 716 had read, seen or played Lord of the Rings, and 133 had played the com-
puter game World of Warcraft. The questions were part of the quarterly Internet-
based survey undertaken in Denmark in 2005 by the Zapera research institute.

in supernatural and spiritual issues, and even – although to a limited extent –

encourage interest in institutionalized religion. An increased interest in such
matters does not necessarily equate an increased belief in magic or religion; on
the contrary, it may – as the case of Dan Brown’s books demonstrates – go
hand in hand with a sceptical awareness and critique of dominant forms of
religion. The results of the surveys demonstrate, however, that the media
have acquired a prominent role in the realm of religion, and people’s interest
in such matters is prompted by the media institution.
Epilogue
In this article, a framework has been developed to conceptualize the ways
that media may change religion. The developments are complex and do
not necessarily have a uniform impact on religion; in some instances,
media may further a re-sacralization of society, in others, they undermine
the authority of institutionalized religion and promote secular imagina-
tions, rituals and modes of worship. At a general level, these processes
share a common feature: they are all evidence of the mediatization of reli-
gion. Through mediatization, religious imaginations and practices become
increasingly dependent upon the media. As conduits of communication,
the media have become the primary source of imagery and texts about
magic, spiritualism and religion, and as languages the media mould reli-
gious imagination in accordance with the genres of popular culture. The
media as cultural environments have taken over many of the social func-
tions of the institutionalized religions, providing both moral and spiritual
guidance and a sense of community. Consequently, institutionalized religion
in modern, western societies plays a less prominent role in the communi-
cation of religious beliefs and, instead, the banal religious elements of the
media move to the fore of society’s religious imagination.
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Re-enchantment and the popular

imagination: fate, magic and purity
Graham Murdock
Abstract Keywords
Theorists have long argued that the world is becoming more secular as fundamentalism
modernity’s celebration of scientific and technological progress displaces fate
religious systems from the centre of institutional and imaginative life. This risk
assumption is increasingly untenable. All the world’s major religions see magic
their support increasing. This continued vitality is due, in part, to the con- media
tradictory nature of modernity’s pursuit of progress. The global reach of networks
the risks attached to nuclear weapons and global warming have helped
revive notions of fate. The communications networks that underwrite
global capital also provide the organizational resources for new forms of
fundamentalism. Advertising’s incessant promotion of consumerism
depends on belief in the transformative power of magic. Taking these three
core cultural themes of fate, magic and purity as a focus, this article
explores the forms that re-enchantment has taken within the popular
media.
Unseating religion from its central place in institutional and imaginative

life has always been western modernity’s core project. It set out to banish
superstition and faith from its technologies of inquiry and construct a new
social order around market relations overseen by secular states. It urged
people to think of themselves as citizens and consumers rather than
believers. The murk of the ‘Dark Ages’ would be dispelled by the enlight-
ened rationality of objective scientific research, technological innovation
and dispassionate deliberation. This onslaught provoked a concerted reac-
tion as religious systems and communities struggled to reclaim the popu-
lar imagination, pointing to the spiritual vacuum at the heart of the new
materialism and science’s awkward silence on fundamental questions of
meaning and value. This battle between secular and sacred seductions,
enlightenment and re-enchantment was fought out above all across the
sprawling terrain of vernacular culture.
The onward march of modernity coincided with the spaces, schedules
and rituals of this culture becoming increasingly colonized by successive
innovations in print, photography, cinema, recorded sound, broadcasting
and, now, digital media. Religious organizations were quick to harness
these media and their merchandising possibilities, leaving no possibilities
untapped. In 2007, David Socha, the founder of the Christian toy makers,
one2believe, announced that the company was launching a Bible Princesses
series in direct competition with Barbie, the most successful girls’ toy of

the last 49 years. Where Barbie offers a concerted training in material-

ism, encouraging play based on a range of fashion items and consumer
goods, the Princesses carry hidden spiritual messages taken from the
Bible. This is not a marginal curiosity. In the United States, the com-
pany’s existing lines, led by the Messengers of Faith series which offer
scriptural readings and Bible stories at the press of a button, are stocked
by Wal-Mart, the country’s largest retail chain, and they make estimated
profits of $4.6bn a year. In December 2007, one of the world’s leading
media conglomerates, News International, acquired Beliefnet, with 3 mil-
lion users a month, the largest faith and spiritual information site on the
World Wide Web. In combination with Fox Faith, the company’s new
film studio geared to producing ‘family oriented’ entertainment, this
gives Rupert Murdoch a solid presence in a growing market, not just in
the United States, but worldwide. In 2005, over 2 billion people across
the globe claimed to be adherents of Christianity and this figure is pro-
jected to rise sharply in the next two decades to well over 2.5 billion
(Micklewait 2008: 26). Far from being a waning or residual force, reli-
gious belief appears resurgent and remains central to the culture of re-
enchantment that continually introduces elements of the mystical,
intangible and sacred into the imaginative enclosure constructed by secu-
lar modernity. This unexpected turn of events has prompted a fierce
response from defenders of secularism and scientific rationality led by
the distinguished evolutionary biologist and militant atheist, Richard
Dawkins, whose best-selling book The God Delusion (2006), mounts a
relentless attack on the case for religious belief.
It is all too easy to construct the present ‘culture wars’ over the intel-
lectual and moral foundation of modern life as a simple set of binary
oppositions: faith versus science, conviction versus evidence, the intangi-
ble versus the material. Closer examination reveals a more complex set of
connections and dynamics, however. In attempting to minimize religion’s
influence on institutional and intellectual life, the pursuit of modernity has
inadvertently created the conditions for its continued vitality and popular
currency. I want to explore this idea by taking a closer look at three core
themes within the culture of re-enchantment: magic, purity and fate, and at
the role of popular media in their construction.
Modern science set out to replace the seductions of magic with the
sovereign power of reason, but as Marx recognized, the stability of capi-
talism depended crucially on a consumer system based on the alchemy of
commodities that promised to turn the base metals of disappointment and
longing into the gold of personal fulfilment. Modernity did not demolish
the magician’s cell or the power of devotional images; it installed them at
the heart of the advertising system and the shopping mall.
In constructing a transnational network of subjugations, encounters and
exchanges, the modern world system not only facilitated migration, inter-
mingling and heterogeneity, it created the conditions for the reassertion of
religious and national projects aimed at expelling contamination and restor-
ing purity. The technologies of networked communication that underpin the
latest globalizing phase of capitalist modernity also provide the infrastruc-
tural supports for revivified forms of fundamentalism. But I want to start
with the central thread in the culture of re-enchantment, the idea of fate.
28 Graham Murdock
The transition from notions of fate to models of risk is generally seen as

the decisive conceptual shift marking modernity’s emancipation from reli-
gious schemas and its commitment to interventions in the natural and social
worlds based on calculations of costs and benefits. The argument that scien-
tific discovery and technological innovation would free citizens from avoid-
able risks was central to modernity’s meta-ideology of ‘progress’. At a
popular level this promise of ever increasing security and comfort was never
completely accepted. Mediated imagery and storytelling repeatedly showed
modern science releasing destructive forces it could not recall. This sense of
a world escaping human agency has deepened in the post-war period, first
with the proliferation of nuclear weapons and accidents at nuclear power
stations and now with the gathering concerns over genetic modification and
the crisis of global warming. The prospect of planet-wide destruction and
extinction offers fertile ground for the return of beliefs in fate and divine
judgement. To properly understand this process, however, we need to return
to the earthquake that devastated Lisbon in 1755. This marked the defining
moment in the development of modern notions of risk and progress and
their popular representation. The rhetoric and imagery of disaster brought
into play then have proved remarkably resilient.
Fate
Progress year zero: Lisbon 1755
In the mid-eighteenth century, Lisbon found itself caught more forcibly
than any other major European city on the fault line between a modernity
rooted in rational calculation and a medieval world organized around reli-
gious belief. The capital of the first great modern maritime empire, its
entrepreneurs, adventurers and administrators employed the latest tech-
niques and technologies to further their commercial and political goals.
Vasco da Gama’s arrival in India in 1498 and Pedro Cabral landing in
Brazil two years later had transformed the city from a provincial centre to
a global hub. The profits flowing from control of the spice trade with the
East Indies coupled with command over the flow of gold and diamonds
from Brazil had established Lisbon as a showcase. Its imposing buildings
and grand projects, including a new quay outside the customs house made
entirely of marble, were the envy of fashionable Europe. Its libraries housed
one of the most comprehensive collections of maps, books and paintings.
These cultural and material resources for an emerging modernity, how-
ever, sat uneasily alongside the entrenched power of the Catholic Church
at its most militant. Lisbon was a pivot of Jesuit power and the major base
for a branch of the Inquisition intent on rooting out heresy and challenges
to religious authority wherever they were to be found. The relative order
of Inquisitional interrogations was accompanied by periodic autos-da-fe
(acts of faith), when backsliders and unbelievers were forced to purge
themselves by submitting to the cleansing fire of public burnings. At a
more mundane level, the Christian calendar continued to punctuate everyday
life. All Saints Day, on 1 November, when the faithful celebrated all those
who had ascended to heaven and achieved beatific vision, was one of the
key dates in this cycle.
In 1755, the day dawned bright and clear. The city’s cathedrals and
churches were full by nine o’clock in the morning and those who remained

at home were lighting fires to prepare the midday meal. The first earth-
quake struck at 9.30 a.m. Buildings shook but remained standing. After a
pause, tremors resumed and lasted for another four to five minutes bringing
down buildings. The church of Sao Paulo, the largest in the city, collapsed
after the second quake and the roofs of many smaller churches fell in on
densely packed congregations. Many of those still able to walk made their
way through the rubble and falling debris to the waterside in the hope of
finding a boat to take them to the other side of the river. Hundreds were
drowned when a series of tsunamis rolled in from the Atlantic Ocean
around two hours after the first tremors, including those who were standing
on the marble quay when it disintegrated. Those still in the city found them-
selves faced with numerous fires that broke out after the quakes had stopped
and were soon raging out of control fanned by a strong north-west wind.
The fires lasted for almost a week and caused at least as much damage as
the original earthquake. By the time they were extinguished, ‘only 3,000 of
Lisbon’s 20,000 houses remained habitable [and] at least half of the city’s
churches were damaged or reduced to rubble’ (Jack 2005: 11).
‘To this day [the Lisbon] earthquake is considered the most cata-
strophic in European history’ (De Boer and Sanders 2005: 88). The effects
were felt over an area of more than 15 million square kilometres, reaching
Finland in the north and the West Indies and the eastern seaboard of
America to the west (De Boer and Sanders 2005: 94). More immediately,
tremors and tsunamis caused widespread destruction in other parts of
Portugal, in south-west Spain and along the north-west coast of Africa.
Fez and Casablanca were both destroyed and there was extensive damage
in Cadiz, Algiers and Tangier. Attention, however, focused primarily on
Lisbon. Witnessing the centre of a major world power suffering such dev-
astation was profoundly shocking to commentators across Europe and
demanded an explanation.
Religious representatives were quick to claim that the city’s woes were
a divine punishment for worldliness and lack of piety. The prominent
Jesuit, Gabriel Malagrida, was in no doubt that
the cause of the death of so many people and of the flames that devoured so
many treasures are your abominable sins […] It is scandalous to pretend the
earthquake was just a natural event, for if that be true, there is no need to repent.
(De Boer and Sanders 2005: 99)
This call to repentance was not confined to Catholic clerics. In Protestant

England in February 1756, Thomas Newman delivered a fiery sermon in
Westminster Abbey to members of the House of Lords, the second chamber
of parliament, proclaiming that God’s visitation on Lisbon revealed a clear
purpose: ‘It is to bring us back to his law, which is no other than the dic-
tates of divine wisdom’ (Ingram 2005: 112). Later that same year, Hans
Adolphe Brorson, the bishop of the Ribe diocese in Denmark, published
an epic poem on the ‘Pitiful Destruction of Lisbon’ arguing passionately
that ‘when Folk strut on earth so cock-sure and so bold /As if there were
no doom and God in heaven above’ they leave God with no choice but to
‘descend and make his presence known / And such defiance cast like
Babel to the ground’ (Qvortrup n.d.).
30 Graham Murdock
There was, however, another reaction. Faced with the scale of the dis-
aster, scientifically inclined observers redoubled their efforts to ‘under-
stand typical locations and effects of earthquakes, to uncover signs of their
approach, and to discover ways of avoiding them or limiting their destruc-
tiveness’ (Loveland 2005: 199). They included Philibert Guneneau de
Montbeillard, who compiled a comprehensive chronological list of vol-
canic eruptions and earthquakes, which he published in the Collection
Academique, as part of a series of volumes designed to make the research
produced by scientific academies around Europe available in French.
Montbeillard was a typical representative of the emerging celebration of
systematic observation and reason as the royal routes to knowledge and
insight. He contributed an article to the Encyclopedie, the founding text of
the Enlightenment and went on to collaborate with Leclerc de Buffon on
the ‘Natural History of Birds’, an important early contribution to zoology.
Others went further, attempting to move from description to explanation.
In 1760, John Mitchell, a geology professor at Cambridge University, pub-
lished Conjectures concerning the Cause, and Observations upon the
Phaenomena of Earthquakes, in which he argued that if the direction of
the waves caused by earthquakes in different locations are plotted as lines
on a map and extended outwards, the point at which they intersect will
be the quake’s point of origin. Using this method, he was able to confirm
the widely held assumption that the Lisbon earthquake had originated in
the eastern Atlantic.
This and other work laid the basis for a decisive break with notions
of fate and divine retribution and helped to install the concepts of
progress and risk at the centre of modernity’s intellectual framework.
Humanity was no longer at the mercy of forces set in motion by unknown
processes or God’s displeasure. The ever expanding understanding of nat-
ural processes offered by advances in scientific inquiry would allow the risks
they carried to be assessed and managed and wherever possible averted or
turned to advantage. The result would be progressive improvements in
safety, well-being and comfort. For champions of the Enlightenment,
however, securing progress required social engineering as well as scientific
knowledge.
In a letter to Voltaire, one of the most influential Enlightenment thinkers,
Jean Jacques Rousseau, another formative figure, argued strongly that if
only ‘the residents of that large city had dispersed more evenly, and built
lighter houses, the damage would have been much smaller, even none at all’
adding that the situation was made worse because ‘many wretches lost their
lives’ attempting to collect ‘their belongings – some their papers, some oth-
ers their money’ (quoted in Bauman 2006: 59). For many observers, the
rational solutions to these problems lay in better city planning and insurance
schemes based on calculations of risk. The first would minimize damage to
the fabric of public life, the second would compensate individuals for losses.
In Lisbon the task of rebuilding the city was assigned to the Marques de
Pombal, a long-standing and ambitious servant of the Crown. He had
attended the Royal Society during his time as a diplomat in London and was
a true Enlightenment figure. Born the son of a country squire, he repre-
sented a rising class wedded to rational calculation. He had the centre of the
city redesigned around a grid system based on the great square on the

waterfront. Street lighting was installed. The result was ‘one of the most up-
to-date Enlightenment cities, a home fit for a new middle class on whom
national prosperity would depend’ (Jack 2005: 15), a vision encapsulated in
the renaming of the square, Commercial Square. The reconstruction of
Lisbon was tangible proof of progress in action. From the year zero of a city
virtually razed to the ground, it had emerged as one of Europe’s most
advanced capitals. It was an impressive demonstration of modern technol-
ogy’s ability to transform devastation and chaos into order and elegance.
Religious zeal, however, did not fit into this new, meticulously
planned, rectangular space and in a series of bold moves, Pombal set out
to marginalize the power of the Church, particularly the Jesuits. Their uni-
versity at Coimbra was closed and leading members of the order arrested
and executed or incarcerated. Later, all Jesuit property was confiscated
and the order exiled. This loss of material power was not replicated in the
symbolic sphere, however.
The vernacular archive

In her meditation on photography, Susan Sontag argues that our memories
of events, and the hopes and fears clustered around them, are carried most
forcefully by images; ‘memory freeze frames; its basic unit is the single
image’ (Sontag 2003: 22). The Catholic Church had always understood
this, filling cathedrals and churches with carvings, paintings and stained
glass windows that dazzled the illiterate with visual narratives. Protestantism
set out to erase this reliance on display, demolishing windows, smashing
statues and painting walls a uniform white. In their place, the word of
God, translated into vernacular languages and made freely available by
cheap printed Bibles, was installed as the privileged gateway to personal
spiritual understanding. But alongside books and newspapers, printing
also made images more available than ever before. The Lisbon earthquake
was not only widely reported across Europe, it was also extensively pictured
in engravings and prints. A number of these captured the most dramatic
moments: people fleeing in panic from falling buildings or advancing
fires, the wholesale destruction of ships and quaysides as the huge wall of
water driven by the tsunami hit the harbour. As James and Kozak (2005)
argue, in their detailed analysis of depictions of the disaster, many of these
images combined a scientific world-view dedicated to precise observation
with a new humanitarian concern with the fate of strangers. The fleeing
figures are not sinners suffering divine retribution but ordinary citizens
caught up in an entirely unexpected natural disaster. Reportage has
replaced allegory.
As the first major catastrophe of modernity, the popular images gener-
ated by the Lisbon earthquake were deposited in a vernacular visual
archive constructed around a limited number of master templates that are
available to be continually re-used and refreshed. We see these same basic
compositions and points of view in the posters for some of the most suc-
cessful disaster films of recent years. The family running from the crum-
bling buildings and advancing conflagration in Earthquake in New York
(1998) are direct descendents of the panic-stricken victims of 1755, and
the tsunami engulfing New York in The Day After Tomorrow (2004)
smashes into the waterfront and surges through the streets in much the
32 Graham Murdock
same way as it did then, except that Manhattan is now cast as the iconic
urban landscape of commercial power and modern innovation. Looking at
this constant recirculation of essentially secular sources of imagery, it is
tempting to assume that religious iconography has lost its purchase on the
popular imagination. This is a mistake.
The return of fate

On 16 July 1945, Robert Oppenheimer stood in the New Mexico desert,
his eyes fixed on the horizon. As a young lecturer at Caltech and the
University of California at Berkeley, he had spent his summers lamenting
that since ‘My two loves are physics and New Mexico. It is a pity they
can’t be combined’ (quoted in Buchan 2008: 9). On that July day, on the
Jornado del Muerto (the Plain of Death), waiting to see if the atomic bomb
that he had helped to build would detonate, they fused with a fearsome
finality. Watching the mushroom cloud rise into the sky, he famously
quoted a line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad Gita: ‘Now I am
become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’ His colleague Bainbridge was
more direct, noting, ‘We’re all sons of bitches now’ (quoted in Davis
1969: 310). A few weeks later, Oppenheimer’s intimation was translated
into a terrible reality when bombs using the same design were dropped on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki, reducing the cities to ruins. These new weapons
marked the moment ‘when technological developments made it possible,
for the first time ever, for the human community to inflict massive damage
on the entire planet’ (Rogers 2007: 2).
Almost a decade and half later, the hero of one of Alfred Hitchcock’s
most successful films, North By Northwest (1959), finds himself alone on
a rural road pursued by a light aircraft spraying toxic chemicals, his assas-
sination ordered by spies intent on smuggling state secrets out of the coun-
try. Three years later, the biologist Rachel Carson returns to these twin
threats in Silent Spring (1962), her best-selling polemic against the
increasing use of pesticides in industrialized farming. In Hitchcock’s film
the link is implicit, but Carson is in no doubt that ‘Along with the possi-
bility of the extinction of mankind by nuclear war, the central problem of
our age has become the contamination of man’s total environment with
substances of incredible potential for harm’ (quoted in Bourke 2005: 339).
The fears evoked by these threats were later amplified by concerns about
the safety of nuclear power stations and the destructive impact of crops
that had been genetically engineered to resist chemicals sprayed on fields
to eliminate weeds and pests. Bob Shapiro, the chief operating officer of
Monsanto, one of the major companies involved in producing genetically
modified (GM) seeds, recognized that people saw the two risks as stem-
ming from the same drive to restructure basic natural processes. As he told
a journalist, after a year facing concerted popular opposition to the com-
mercial planting of GM crops:
When people hear about biotech, about how it’s tinkering with the very essence
of life, the immediate association is to nuclear science. It’s dawned on them that
we have probed the mysteries of the universe down to the atomic level, and look
what happens: Boom! You kill millions of people, you poison the air.
(Herrera 2000: 162–64)

Religious imagery played a prominent role in attempts to imagine these

consequences. As Boholm demonstrates in his analysis of the press pho-
tographs that accompanied stories marking the tenth anniversary of the
explosion at the Chernobyl nuclear plant: the images chosen consistently
evoked ‘an event preordained by divine forces striking at a sinful
humanity’ (Boholm 1998: 139).
As we noted earlier, the move from conceptions of fate to calculations
of risk, from resignation to control, marks a decisive break with religious
schemas and ushers in a secular modern attitude to natural forces as there
to be harnessed. But dispassionate calculation does not speak to deep-
seated fears around death and spoliation, and this void offers a space in
which religious imagery can flourish. The protesters who invaded fields
planted with GM crops understood this very well and often dramatized
their position by dressing as the grim reaper, the harbinger of death in tra-
ditional Christian iconography (Murdock 2004: 255). This image has
proved remarkably resilient and has been constantly recycled in news cov-
erage of the continuing debate over GM crops and foods (see Horlick-
Jones et al. 2007: 151).
The sense of steadily accumulating and proliferating risks signalled by
popular concerns around the dangers of genetic modification on the one
hand and nuclear weapons and energy on the other have been further rein-
forced in recent years by the accumulating evidence of global warming and
its devastating consequences. This realization fundamentally alters our
conception of the threats we face. They are no longer a series of discrete
events; they have become a systemic and global consequence of contempo-
rary life. This shift provides the ideal context for the return of fate. As
Zygmunt Bauman has argued:
Viewed retrospectively, the modern wager on human reason […] looks more like
the starting point of a long detour […]. At the end of a long voyage […] under-
taken in the hope that it would place humanity at a safe distance from cruel […]
nature, humanity found itself facing human-made evils every bit as cruel, unfeel-
ing, callous, random, and impossible to anticipate as were the Lisbon earth-
quake, fire, and high tide.
(Bauman 2006: 63)
This sense of the multiplicity and ubiquity of threat, coupled with the
potential scale of destruction, has revived notions of a coming apocalypse.
Apocalypse soon
Secular senses of an ending are grounded in statistics rather than imagery.
As Krishan Kumar points out, they envisage a slow, incremental decline
based on extrapolations of long-term trends; ‘a steady increase in population,
or a slow poisoning of the planet’ (quoted in Bourke 2005: 341). Religious
conceptions of apocalypse imagine a terrible and total collapse unfolding
inexorably within a very compressed time scale.
In 1981, James Watt, the Secretary of the Interior in the first Reagan
administration and a devout Pentecostalist, told the United States Congress
‘that protecting natural resources was unimportant because Christ was
about to return’ (Pearson 2006: 281). He was joined by the 59 per cent of
34 Graham Murdock
Americans who told a 2002 opinion poll organized jointly by Time maga-
zine and CNN that they believed the events prophesied in the Book of
Revelations – the last book in the Bible and the founding text for contem-
porary Christian visions of apocalypse – would definitely come to pass
(quoted in Pearson 2006: 3). This sense of fatalism draws support from
cross-cutting themes in popular culture. As Susan Sontag famously
argued, ‘The imagery of disaster in science fiction films is above all the
emblem of an inadequate response’ (Sontag 1967: 224) of institutions and
planning unable to cope with the immensity of the threat. This sense of
impotence has been underpinned by recent news reporting that global
warming may have reached its ‘tipping point’, and that no amount of
remedial and preventative action can now throw the process into reverse.
Again, it is popular imagery that anchors this fear, in news footage of huge
slices of the Arctic ice sheet melting and crashing into the sea and photos
of polar bears clinging to thin slivers of frozen firmness, cast adrift in an
immensity of water. Ironically, the Arctic wilderness is the setting for the
final conflict between Baron von Frankenstein and the creature he has
created in Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein. First published in 1818,
Shelley’s cautionary tale has been recycled countless times in comic
books, films and stage shows, and has since become a potent focus for
popular fears about the unanticipated consequences of scientific over-
reaching. At the time, warnings that the onward rush of scientific explo-
ration and technological innovation might generate new dangers as well as
novel solutions was drowned out by the chorus of commercial and politi-
cal voices championing progress. Now, faced with a global threat to the
future of mankind’s survival, the unanticipated consequences of progress
are all too easily seen as coalescing into a single constellation.
This realization has provoked contrasted reactions. Defenders of
business-as-usual argue that scientific ingenuity and technological break-
throughs will allow global warming to be addressed without significantly
reducing current levels of consumption. They are opposed by an increasingly
vocal array of social and environmental movements calling for substantial
and urgent changes to prevailing practices based on an ethos of global
responsibility and generational justice. But for many, the scale of the problem
seems impervious to any alternations they might make to their own lifestyles.
For the devout, the narrative of apocalypse offers a convenient escape
route. In the dominant eschatology, Satan’s descent to earth, Christ’s
return and the final conflict between good and evil, Armageddon, will be
followed by the Rapture when the righteous will be instantly removed
from danger and transported to heaven. This is not an abstract belief. It is
anchored firmly in popular culture with bumper stickers across the American
Bible Belt warning passing motorists that ‘In case of rapture, this car will
be unmanned’ (quoted in Pearson 2006: 220). The popular novels in the
Left Behind series which depict, in lurid detail, the misery and violence
visited on those not transported are among the best-selling books in
the United States with a print run of more that 62 million (Fraser 2007: 55).
Predictably, the novels identify the Antichrist with the United Nations, the
major secular agency attempting to address global problems and the main
competitor to the Second Coming. For those able to afford practical relief
from more immediate threats, however, there are privatized disaster services.

When Hurricane Katrina struck the coast of Louisiana, breaking the

coastal defences and inundating New Orleans, the secular division between
the materially elect and the damned was starkly exposed.
The economically secure drove out of town, checked into hotels, and called their
insurance companies. The 120,000 people [...] who depended on the state to
organize their evacuation, waited for help that did not arrive, making desperate
SOS signals or rafts out of their refrigerator doors.
(Klein 2007a: 408)
The news films and photos of the desperate and dispossessed drowned in
the flood or waiting in line for food was excellent publicity for firms, like
Sovereign Deed, offering a ‘comprehensive catastrophe response’ to sub-
scribers caught up in disasters that may ‘cause severe threats to well-
being’ (quoted in Klein 2007b: 34). At first sight, this profane association
of consumption with righteousness seems to cut across the grain of a
Christian commitment to care for strangers, but as we shall see it is
securely anchored in the Protestant tradition and in the continuing struggle
between religion and magic.
Magic
Religion and the persistence of magic
In his path-breaking book, Religion and the Decline of Magic (1997),
Keith Thomas details how the early modern church in England set out
to consolidate its intellectual authority by waging a ceaseless war
against rival power bases rooted in witchcraft and other ‘magical’ prac-
tices. This effort was accompanied by a purge on ‘enthusiasm’ in its
original sense of being possessed by a deity. Practices designed to put
people in touch with the divine through bodily expression were discon-
tinued and replaced by an idealized vision of devotion as the sober
search for spiritual enlightenment though Biblical reading and contem-
plation (Ehrenreich 2007).
This was not a peaceful transition. It was often imposed by rampant
force. In England, efforts to purge the country of magic saw an estimated
40,000 women burned as witches, while violent religious wars between
Catholics and Protestants scarred families and communities. In a strong
reaction to these excesses, the eventual ascendancy of the state-sanctioned
church identified religious observance firmly with respectability recasting
England as ‘a watery, temperate country with a soundly based suspicion of
intensity […] hostile to fervour’ (Marr 2008: 29).
A version of this new ‘reasonable’ Protestantism was taken up with
particular zeal in the newly independent United States, where strenuous
efforts were made to ensure that religious observance displayed ‘no bodily
ecstasies […] no mortifications of the flesh, no demonic agency, and no
hallucinatory provocations’ (Schmidt 2000: 192). They met with only
limited success. Across the continent, evangelical congregations continued
to embrace faith-healing, holy rolling, speaking in tongues and the insis-
tent toe-tapping rhythms of gospel music. At the same time, churches of
every persuasion remained united in their refusal of magic, but again with
limited success.
36 Graham Murdock
Nor did technological innovation succeed in banishing either magic or

unorthodox forms of spiritual observance. On the contrary, they were
locked in an awkward dance.
The 1840s saw the launch of the two innovations, the telegraph and
positive–negative photography, that together laid the basis for a media envi-
ronment based on image saturation and instant connection over distance. In
1844, when Samuel Morse asked the daughter of the commissioner for
patents to nominate the message that he would send from Washington to
Baltimore to demonstrate his new telegraph system, she chose: ‘What hath
God wrought?’ The similarities between the telegraph’s transcendence of
space and God’s omnipresence were underlined in 1858 when the first
transatlantic cable began operations, prompting preachers to reach for bib-
lical references, notably, ‘Their line is gone out though all the earth, and
their words to the end of the world’ (Psalms 19) (Standage 1998: 79–80).
Not only did religious texts furnish potent metaphors for the ‘miracle’ of
the new technology, the telegraph provided a template for new spiritual
practices. When the two daughters of the Fox family clapped their hands in
response to persistent rappings and knockings in their cottage in New York
State in 1848 and elicited a response, they were widely seen as having
‘opened a “telegraphic line” to another world’ (Sconce 2000: 22), a belief
that become the foundation of the new Spiritualist movement in which
‘mediums’ attempted to contact those on ‘the other side’.
One of Spiritualism’s most dedicated supporters was Arthur Conan
Doyle, inventor of the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, the very model
of scientific inquiry based on verifiable evidence and deductive reasoning.
When Conan Doyle saw the photographs taken by Elsie Wright and her
cousin in 1917, purportedly showing fairies in their garden in Cottingley,
in the north of England, he was convinced that he had found incontrovert-
ible proof of the spirit world. For him, the claimed objectivity of photog-
raphy put the issue beyond doubt. Others were more sceptical. Elsie’s
father, Arthur, a trained electrical engineer, immediately declared them to
be fakes, an opinion widely shared by commentators of the time. But
Conan Doyle’s belief remained unshaken, and in 1922, he published a
widely read book, The Coming of the Fairies, defending their genuineness.
Alongside fairies, sorcerers and white witches a variety of other magi-
cal figures have remained stubbornly embedded at the core of popular cul-
ture. In 1797, Goethe published a popular ballad, recounting the story of a
sorcerer’s apprentice who is left to clean his master’s workroom. He dis-
covers an incantation that will get the brooms sweeping and mopping by
themselves but cannot find the spell to stop them. The central image of
brooms marching inexorably onwards, carrying overflowing buckets that
flood the magician’s cell was later appropriated by Walt Disney and given
new vitality as the most famous set piece in his feature-length animation,
Fantasia (1940). Never slow to capitalize on the merchandising possibili-
ties of success, the Disney Corporation has ensured that the figure of
Mickey Mouse as the sorcerer’s apprentice has continued to be widely
available in multiple forms ranging from pillows and decorative pins to
Royal Doulton figurines and a nine-minute clip on YouTube. Magic is also
central to J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter novels, the most successful
sequence of popular fiction of recent times. In 2001, public burnings of

the books took place across America. Where they were disallowed by the
fire department on the grounds of public safety, as in Lewiston, Maine, the
faithful resorted to cutting them up with scissors (Stolow 2005: 120).
These efforts were underpinned by a deep irony, since the Christian
groups who gathered to destroy the Harry Potter books were themselves
thoroughly immersed in magic’s most pervasive expression within moder-
nity: conspicuous consumption.
Romancing the product: the magic of possession

In his reworking of Max Weber’s thesis on the Protestant ethic’s contribu-
tion to the moral basis of capitalism, Colin Campbell (1989) argues that
while the early Calvinist emphasis on asceticism and hard work as signs
of godliness was highly functional in underwriting the initial drive towards
accumulation, the second phase of industrial development required the
expansion of consumption. This was achieved by linking moral goodness
to the sense of beauty displayed by good taste. As a result, he argues, later
Calvinists re-enchanted the rationalized world of production by filling it
with desirable possessions. By the late nineteenth century, rising real
incomes and the explosion of consumer choice in Victorian England had
created an expanding middle class eager to demonstrate both their success
and their moral character through the objects they chose to buy and dis-
play. Faced with 7,000 varieties of bedstead and sideboards in 300 differ-
ent styles, it was essential to make the right choice, and the clergy were
only too eager to advise on which goods signalled the personal qualities
needed for salvation and incorporated consumer advice into their sermons
(Wulf 2006: 10).
Coming from a rabbinical family and growing up in a city divided
between Catholicism and Protestantism, Karl Marx saw at once that pos-
sessions not only signalled moral qualities, they also took on the charac-
teristics of religious fetishes, objects venerated for their intrinsic powers,
like the relics of saints or statues of the Virgin Mary. In an early comment,
written when he was 24, he ridicules the idea that these objects raise peo-
ple above their sensuous desires. On the contrary, he argues, ‘fetishism is
the religion of sensuous desire’ designed to deceive ‘the fetish-worshipper
into believing that an inanimate object will give up its natural character in
order to comply with his desires’ (quoted in Wheen 2006: 43). He returns
to this idea in the famous opening chapter of the first volume of Das
Kapital, where he argues that commodities operate in exactly the same
way, encouraging consumers to invest them with the power to transform
their lives. Every act of purchase is a secular baptism, a chance to be ‘born
again’, to become the person and to lead the life one has always wanted.
Commodities project attention relentlessly forward, to the moment of pos-
session. As Raymond Williams noted, the advertising that sustains their
imagined power and welds it to the deepest human desires operates as a
system of magic, banishing awkward questions about how they have been
made and at what human and environmental costs with a wave of the art
director’s wand (Williams 1980: 189). As the representative of one
American retail chain noted, ‘You’ve got to romance the product […] You
can’t just pile it high and watch it fly. You’ve got to give something extra’
(quoted in Ritzer 1999: 105).
38 Graham Murdock
In 1900 the American author Frank Baum published two books: The
Art of Decorating Dry Goods Windows and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
The first was a pioneering handbook advising stores on how to attract cus-
tomers by creating window displays that dazzled the passer-by with
mechanical eggs and animated tableau. The second became one of the
best-loved children’s books of the century and the basis for a highly suc-
cessful film in 1939 starring the young Judy Garland as Dorothy, a farm
girl who leads a group of inadequate and damaged characters in search of
a fabled wizard with the power to make them whole. By urging manufac-
turers and retailers to display commodities in enchanted settings, Baum
and the advertising agencies, which were mushrooming at the same time,
promised consumers that, like Dorothy and her companions, they could
travel their very own yellow brick road to the promise of personal trans-
formation. This sense of enchantment is central to advertising, much of
which employs the underlying structure Vladmir Propp identified in fairy
tales in his Morphology of the Folk Tale (1928), in which the hero is
helped in his struggle to reach his goal by a ‘donor’ who gives him a magic
object.
As consumption has become a mass phenomenon, so advertising and
promotion have become more pervasive, enveloping and personalized.
Films, television shows and video games are packed with placements that
integrate products seamlessly into the narrative. Social networking sites on
the Web are used for viral marketing campaigns, which present engineered
product endorsements as spontaneous enthusiasm and grassroots opinion.
Synthetic on-line worlds, like Second Life, reproduce the retail environ-
ments of the off-line world in every detail, enveloping users in a shopping
mall without walls. Continually hailed and addressed by the discourses of
marketing, consumers are encouraged to identify themselves through what
they buy, own and display. The clergy may no longer offer spiritual advice
on interior decoration, but the assumption that market choices are a win-
dow of the inner self remains.
The universal language of objects compiled by advertising may speak
powerfully about who we feel we are and wish to be, but it has not
silenced other vocabularies of identity. On the contrary, the global expan-
sion of consumerism has been accompanied by the resurgence of funda-
mentalist forms of belief.
Purity
Fundamentalism takes a variety of forms, but they all have one thing in
common: a refusal to accommodate uncertainty, ambiguity, pluralism and
difference. ‘Fundamentalists inhabit a world of cut-and-dried oppositions’
(Fraser 2007: 55) that draw an uncrossable line between ‘us’ and ‘them’.
In religious systems, this is sustained by enforcing literal interpretations
of sacred texts. In national systems, it is secured by rewriting myths of
national origin and destination as stories of ethnic purity that exclude the
contributions of other groups. Both variants have experienced a resur-
gence in recent years in response to the blurring of boundaries created by
the accelerating flows of peoples, goods and images set in motion by the
globalization of capitalism and the collapse of the counter-utopias offered
by socialism and communism.

As Olivier Roy has argued, the recent resurgence of Islamic funda-

mentalism ‘is more a product of contemporary globalization than of the
Islamic past’ (Roy 2003: 4). Its adherents share the same mode of opera-
tions and the same world-view as the new transnational capitalist class of
financiers and entrepreneurs, who ‘are more or less in control of global-
ization’ (see Sklair 2001: 5). Both are geographically mobile; both oper-
ate in many different countries; both make extensive use of the advanced
communication facilities offered by satellite channels, Internet sites and
mobile phones; and both see themselves as members of a global commu-
nity operating in a single, borderless world.
Al-Qaeda’s structure reproduces exactly the networked organization of
the contemporary transnational enterprise, with a core research and devel-
opment nexus subcontracting operations to locally based franchise holders
and inspiring freelance brand imitators. It is precisely because it is a quin-
tessential ‘modern organisation’ (Gray 2003: 76) that it has become
transnational capitalism’s dark double. In a profound paradox of globaliza-
tion, the same technologies of communication that enable transnational
capitalism to operate effectively also provide the essential infrastructural
supports for its fiercest opponents. We see this same contradiction at work
at the level of the nation state, particularly in countries like India, which are
looking to become major players in new arenas of the global capitalism.
In this changed context, religiosity and nationalism are bound
together in new ways. In India, in the 1990s, the Hindu nationalist
Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) created a new populist political platform
by identifying the country as essentially Hindu and attacking the ruling
Congress party for its secularization and tolerance of hybridity. Against
this, it presented itself as the custodian of ‘ancient Hindu wisdom and
science, empowered to retrieve this illustrious antiquity and to reclaim
its rightful place on the world stage’ (Stolow 2005: 128). Ironically, it
was the hugely successful series of television dramatizations of the great
Hindu myth cycles, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, produced by
the state broadcaster Doordarshan, under the close supervision of the
Congress Party that helped boost the popular currency of this appeal.
A similar claim to restore lost power and redress real or imagined
wrongs and injustices visited by foreign invasion or rule by corrupt gov-
ernments also underpinned Osama Bin Laden’s original project. In a
speech delivered in 2004, he recalls watching news footage of the US-
sanctioned Israeli invasion of Lebanon:
I still remember […] high rises demolished on top of their residents […] As I
was looking at those destroyed towers in Lebanon, I was struck by the idea of pun-
ishing the oppressor in the same manner and destroying towers in the US […]
punishing the wicked with an eye for an eye.
(MEMRI 2004: 1–2)
Over half a century earlier, Hitler had had a remarkably similar vision. As
Albert Speer, one of his closet associates, recalls in his diary:
he pictured for himself and for us the destruction of New York in a hurricane of
fire. He described the skyscrapers being turned into gigantic burning torches,
40 Graham Murdock
collapsing upon one another, the glow of the exploding city illuminating the
dark sky.
(Pearson 2006: 227)
The parallels are not hard to find. Both Bin Laden’s militant Islamicism
and Hitler’s Nazi totalitarianism are fundamentalist systems intent on
purging impurities and installing a worldwide power, the one by restoring
the Caliphate, the other by building a thousand-year Reich. Both view the
United States as the principal enemy, and both see the Manhattan skyline
as the key symbol of a modernity based on promiscuous hybridity and raw
economic and imperial power.
This equation is attractive but also perhaps too simple. As the English
social thinker, John Gray, has noted, capitalist modernity is not simply fun-
damentalism’s ‘other’; it is itself a form of fundamentalism. ‘In contempo-
rary western societies’, he argues, ‘repressed religion returns in secular cults
[and in] the eschatological hopes that shaped [both] Marxian “scientific
socialism” and neo-liberal “free-market economics”’ (Gray 2003: 116).
Adding that ‘The idea that you cleanse the world of evil by converting
everybody to or from something is a very Christian idea’ (quoted in Jeffries
2007: 11). The militant free-market creed originally preached by Milton
Friedman and his disciples in the economics department at the University of
Chicago is ‘like all fundamentalist faiths, for its true believers, a closed loop
[…] If something is wrong […] there must be some interference, some dis-
tortion in the system, a rogue element that must be purged’ (Klein 2007a:
51). As the veteran commentator on African affairs, Anthony Sampson, has
caustically noted, the present-day proponents of neo-liberal economics set
off for ‘the dark continent’ in exactly the same spirit as evangelical mission-
aries. ‘Carrying not the Bible but The Economist’, they assured ‘the
benighted tribesmen that they can be saved by putting their faith in free-
market global capitalism, which will rid them of their local superstitions and
bring them a new era of prosperity’ (Sampson 2004: 11).
So we arrive at the paradoxical conclusion that far from rendering
religion redundant, modernity’s core ideology of progress, rooted in the
rational application of science, has succeeded in installing a thoroughly
Christian eschatology of a fall from grace in the Dark Ages, followed by
the redemption of the Renaissance and the Enlightenment and the com-
pletion of a worldly utopia of choice and plenty through the progressive
triumph of technological innovation. Marshall McLuhan offers an interesting
variant on this end-of-history schema. A convinced Catholic, his recast-
ing of history as the destruction of organic communication by the inven-
tion of printing and its restoration by electronic media, can be read as a
thinly veiled attack on Protestant interiority and a celebration of the
sociality, visuality and orality of High Mass.
As he recognized in his savage early critique of advertising, The
Mechanical Bride: Folklore of Industrial Man (1951), the economy of desire
that sustains the market system depends for its survival on developing ever
more elaborate forms of magic and enchantment. As a recent editorial in the
popular weekly magazine New Scientist noted: ‘To want to cleanse society
of religion before understanding its purpose seems strangely unscientific’
(New Scientist 2007: 3). At the same time, the coagulation of contemporary

threats to personal and collective well-being from pandemic diseases, terror-

ism and climate change, and the growing conviction that it may already be
too late to reverse the effects of the global warming caused by capitalism’s
promise of ever increasing opportunities for personal fulfilment through
consumption, has revivified the sense that the world is moving inevitably
towards its pre-ordained fate when the sin of selfishness will be visited by
cataclysmic floods, droughts, starvation and disease.
As Karen Armstrong has pointed out, however, this is not the only pos-
sible way that religious tradition might contribute to remaking contempo-
rary thought and practice. She argues that the Axial Age, which lasted
from 900 to 200 BC and saw the formation of the great intellectual tradi-
tions that have dominated western thought – monotheism in Israel,
Confucianism and Taoism in China, Hinduism and Buddhism in India and
philosophical rationalism in Greece – was defined by one master ethical
principle: concern and compassion for others (Armstrong 2006: 34–35).
This shared commitment cut across the differences between belief systems
and held out the prospect of a common purpose. We see its ethical legacy
now in the emerging movements for environmental protection and global
justice, and it is here that our best hope for the future lies.
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44 Graham Murdock
NL_6_04_art_Grodal.qxd 6/11/08 2:01 PM Page 45

Born again heathenism – enchanted

worlds on film
Torben Grodal
Abstract Keywords
The article discusses films with fantastic elements using evolutionary Evolutionary theory
psychology. The fascination with the fantastic on film is a by-product of supernaturalism
different evolutionary mental adaptations, like the interest in causality enchantment
with the purpose of control, that create interest in fantastic violation of horror films
naturalist expectations; the horror fear of being preyed upon by power- fantasy films
ful agents (animals or other humans) and the fear of contamination film melodrama
from dead bodies; and the need to enforce moral supervision and sub-
mission to powerful others to enhance group cohesion, and these func-
tions get a powerful emphasis by invention of supernatural agents. The
prominence of supernaturalism in media is not necessarily linked to an
increase in religious interest vis-à-vis science but could also be caused
by a diminished ‘heresy control’ allowing media to exploit a range of
innate dispositions of being intrigued by different supernatural phe-
nomena that might be called ‘heathen’ because it often reuses all kinds
of folk superstitions.
There has, at least since the Enlightenment of the eighteenth century,

been a battle between those that believe in a supernatural world order of
religious origin and those that believe in a non-supernatural, naturalistic
world. Romantic periods that emphasized enchanted and supernatural
dimensions have followed periods with a more naturalistic outlook,
especially in high culture. However, Max Weber’s observation in
Science as a Vocation that the historical tendency has been one of
increasing ‘disenchantment, a spreading out of a scientific outlook to all
aspects of life and a diminishing role of religion’, has often been
accepted as the standard tendency of history. This prophecy has, of
course, not been unanimous, and there have been fluctuations over time.
Thus, in the last decade or so, many have argued that religion is back –
based, for example, on the rise of Christian fundamentalism in the
United States of America, the religious revival in eastern Europe, and
the rise of Muslim fundamentalism – and people may argue that such a
revival expresses an innate urge to have a supernatural world order.
Others claim that, for decades, the attendance of church and similarly
organized rituals has declined worldwide (including the United States of
America), but this decline has been veiled by over-reporting in Gallup
polls (cf. the classical study of Hathaway et al. 1993).

NL_6_04_art_Grodal.qxd 6/12/08 10:32 AM Page 46
This article discusses the use of different supernatural effects in film

and the evolutionary dispositions that support viewer fascinations with
audio-visual enchanting supernaturalism. It argues that the interest in
supernatural phenomena is supported by several distinct mental mecha-
nisms, none of which can be described as religious instincts as such.
The central elements of enchantment are curiosity related to the viola-
tion of basic norms; feelings of empowerment by magical activities;
activation of a series of fear-and-disgust mechanisms (from fear of
invisible predators to fears of contamination of the body); emotions
related to the feeling of guilt and shame; emotions related to social sub-
mission; and coping mechanisms related to social exchange. Mental
models of social exchanges projects mental models that work in social
life, like ‘I give you something and you give me something in return’,
into a general supernatural model in which humans make exchanges
with supernatural agents, like: I provide sacrifices, humble prayers and
so on, in the hope that some supernatural agency will provide some
goods or services in return, like health, eternal life or reparation of feel-
ings of guilt. Science may compete with supernatural procedures by
providing means of empowerment or procedures to deal with illness,
just as a secular society may try to induce submission to social systems
and promise goods and services in return. The fascination with superior
healing powers has the same emotional background – whether felt by a
credulous person in relation to so-called alternative medicine and miracle-
healers or an incredulous person in relation to powerful scientific medicine –
just as the fear of contaminating monsters may feed on the same fear
mechanisms as the fear of cancer. The difference is one of insight and
trust versus mistrust in the scientific project. Modern magic often mimics
aspects of science (magnetic fields or balance in the body). Many people
may try to have it both ways, like going to doctors as well as covering
their options by visiting healers, or beginning to pray to supernatural
beings when the odds for a solution of problems backed up by science
are low.
In this way, many people may be very pragmatic in their attitude to
superstition and science because they are driven by an interest in
empowerment and by fear – and not by any clear ideas of how the world
works. The problem with discussing the disenchantment thesis, as well
as its negation (the idea of a spiritual or religious revival) is that the
realm of the supernatural is a large one that covers fantasies and all
kinds of magic and rituals, as well as religions that claim to have an all-
encompassing theory of the universe. Furthermore, established religions
are not only vehicles for supernatural ideas but also social institutions
that fulfil social functions. One might argue that, for example, the rise of
Muslim fundamentalism is driven by its social functions – that is, to
back up traditional gender roles and family values in a period of cultural
and economic transition or being a rallying organization for nationalistic
or imperial ideas.
Evolution and the supernatural

Models of enchantment or disenchantment presuppose that, somehow,
the historical point of departure for the natural–supernatural dichotomy
46 Torben Grodal
was a state in which people were fundamentally living in a world that

was fully enchanted, and that science then evolved to become the antag-
onist of supernatural ideas. However, from an evolutionary point of
view, naturalist mental functions are older than those that support
supernaturalism. The force behind the millions of years of evolution of
animal and human intelligence has been to the advantage of increased
fitness – by developing instrumental reason and sophisticated mental
models of the world and its inhabitants, these mechanisms enhanced
survival and reproduction. Supernatural ideas are – in an evolutionary
perspective – a relatively recent phenomena (having perhaps only
evolved in tandem with the ability to make symbolic representations
50,000–100,000 years ago). Central aspects of a naturalistic world-view
are products of evolution and are based on a series of innate disposi-
tions, some of which we share with higher animals (for an overview of
evolutionary psychology, see Buss 2005 and Barrett, Dunbar and Lycett
2002). Fundamental physical properties such as causality (the stone
moved because it was pushed), the distinction between animate and
inanimate objects and so on, are not based on late scientific knowledge
but innate dispositions that have evolved because such naturalistic
knowledge enhances survival.
Pascal Boyer (2001) has furthermore shown that the idea that people
living in pre-industrial societies (for instance, in hunter-gatherer soci-
eties) have no clear boundaries between the supernatural and the natural
is wrong. In remote hunter-gatherer societies that have had little contact
with the industrial world, there is a very clear understanding of many
basic physical facts among the inhabitants. Their fascination with the
supernatural exists in the very fact that it is counterintuitive and violates
everyday experiences: for example, trees that are able to hear and remem-
ber, mountains that move, spirits whose acts are counterintuitive and fan-
tastic. Their appeal is partly due to this counterintuitive quality, because
brain mechanisms based on calculating rule-following events are highly
triggered by events that violate such rules. The development of the
human mind is not only one of boosting a general and abstract intelli-
gence. Cognitive psychologists have argued (cf. Cosmides and Tooby
1997) that we have developed a series of specific adaptations of a modu-
lar kind: for example, modules to detect cheaters, modules to perform
fundamental categorizations into plants, animals and so on (cf. Atran
1994). Such modules boost the learning that is necessary to survive. So,
when fantasy films such as Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937),
The Lord of the Rings (2001–03), or the Harry Potter series (2001–)
make composites of plant and animal worlds – for example, trees that
intend and use their branches as arms – they create arousal by violating
fundamental mental dispositions. The mental fascination with processes
that violate the result of such cognitive representations seems to be a
side-effect of those same mechanisms that enhance naturalist representa-
tions. Supernatural features need not necessarily express some deep reli-
gious urge.
The fantastical and supernatural were most likely enhanced when
humans developed language and pictorial representations some
50,000–100,000 years ago, because whereas our senses are constrained

by the natural exterior world, symbolic forms allowed for fantastic com-
binations, such as making composite creatures like sphinxes, or making
violations of categories like plants that see and hear like animals, or
humans that fly. Language supports naturalistic communication but it
also supports fantasy and lies; stories may be true or fantastic, while pic-
tures remove naturalistic constraints on representations. Thus, in gen-
eral, scientific progress continues the evolutionary processes that began
with the development of instrumental reasoning in animals and early
humans, while fantasy and enchanted representation are consequences of
the same development of enhancing cognitive control – because of the
advantages of making representations in some symbolic media that
allow a certain independence vis-à-vis the immediate world of sensory
impressions.
Pascal Boyer (2001) and Scott Atran (2002) have convincingly argued
that there is no single psychological mechanism that disposes humans to
have supernatural and religious beliefs; rather, religious beliefs and other
supernatural imaginations are supported by a heterogeneous body of dis-
positions. Boyer points in particular to five functional fields that are
important in supernaturalism: agency, predation, death, morality and
social exchange. Supernaturalism is intimately linked to ideas about pow-
erful agents who may often prey on humans – the origins of this are pre-
cautionary systems that helped our ancestors to be on the lookout for
dangerous animals and other humans. Death poses a series of problems
including how the spirit may not die with the body but haunt the living;
how corpses are a source of contamination and disgust; and wishful ideas
about eternal life. Supernatural agents may often be implicated in the sur-
veillance of morality and the punishment of sinners; and humans often try
to model how they may bargain with agents, by means of social exchanges
like sacrifices, prayers and so on.
Another way to describe the various dimensions in the supernatural
is to say that one dimension concerns the violations of basic natural laws
and natural properties (like humans that fly or walk on water), a second
dimension concerns supernatural agencies (from fairies to gods), and a
third dimension concerns the relations between society and the supernat-
ural. Central functions of the supernatural are sheer mental salience, but
also magic empowerment, fear and control of fear, including the existen-
tial fear of dying, and moral regulation via the supervisory and/or punish-
ing interference of supernatural agents.
Communicating the supernatural

The mental dispositions for supernatural ideas interact with cultural inven-
tiveness and the reproduction of and transmission of supernatural ideas.
Once invented, mind-grabbing fairy tales or religious, supernatural ideas
may spread from mind to mind. A person or group of persons will have all
kinds of mind-grabbing dispositions that have no clear internal order and
no clear delimitation between the fantastic and the supernatural. Angels,
devils, fairies and so on may be part of fantastic storytelling but may also
be elements in some religions, depending on the degree of beliefs that the
individuals or groups may allocate to such ideas, and the possible links to
rituals and social institutions.
48 Torben Grodal
However, social organizations may also, for different reasons, try to

block the diffusion of certain supernatural ideas. Organized religions that
relate to distinct social groups (eventually in distinct physical locations)
will often pick a subset of the available supernatural ideas as being true,
and try to suppress other, competing ideas and denouncing them to be
heretical and false. This can often lead to punishing or even killing the
heretics. The conflict between different competing religions and other
organized forms of supernatural beliefs has been just as important as the
possible conflict between naturalism and supernaturalism, with all kinds
of possible alliances. In the nineteenth century, the technological superior-
ity of Britain functioned as an argument for the superiority of the British
versions of Christianity compared with the beliefs of people living in areas
with a lower technology. So science and a certain version of monotheism
might be allied in the opposition to the beliefs in local spirits, labelling
these with the pejorative ‘heathenism’. Different strands of Christianity
had different degrees of inclusiveness of enchanted elements such as mir-
acles, exorcisms and so on. Islam, Judaism, Christianity and other
monotheistic religions may in some dimensions enhance an enchanted
world-view by trying to advocate an integrated, supernaturally based
world-view emanating from one powerful source. But they may also by
that very effort be in conflict with other types of enchantment, like the
belief in ghosts and fairies, and the belief in healers and witches, or the
beliefs in local powers (like those haunting specific houses). Such
monotheistic religions depend on social institutions that repeat some core
supernatural elements and that suppress competing superstitions, or,
phrased differently: an important function of religion is to create social
and tribal cohesion.
The Enlightenment weakened the power of organized Christian
supremacy, and in the following Romantic period, in the late eighteenth
and the beginning of the nineteenth century, all kinds of folklore resur-
faced, in gothic tales and in fairy tales, just as pre-Christian mythology
gained strength within the culture. The growth of high culture and mass
entertainment in the nineteenth century did not only consist of developing
disenchanted, ‘scientific’ realism but also in fabricating marvellous or
romantic-mythic stories. Wagner’s operas are examples of the way in
which non-Christian enchanted mythology derived from all kind of
sources competed with the organized religion to create ad hoc mytholo-
gies. The film industry followed the same paths as the previous culture
industry and transformed gothic horror or folk tales and all kinds of fan-
tastic stories into film in parallel with biblical stories. The film industry,
and especially Hollywood, sold their products globally with the purpose
of earning money by making mind-grabbing films, and even the local mar-
ket for Hollywood, USA, was made up of many different religious groups. A
successful strategy in this market has been to make films that activate the
whole spectrum of innate dispositions for enchantment and marvel, even if
this means making films that are clearly outside the mainstream versions
of Christianity. Horror stories started out as a minor genre in the 1920s,
and this genre has grown continuously, just as fairy tales and other types
of enchanted worlds have grown in importance. The youth culture in the
1960s made Asian and indigenous religious forms popular, and films like

The Exorcist (1973) or Rosemary’s Baby (1968) defied a monotheistic

Christian framework by making Satan an alternative to God. Science fic-
tion films were other venues for miraculous agents and happenings, some-
times with the miraculous seen as the prolongation of science, sometimes
with an opposition between the natural and the supernatural. The effect of
the film industry, in many ways, has been to let loose the total global
inventory of supernatural mind-grabbing agents and events, and thus to
loosen the link between the supernatural and a locally organized set of rit-
uals for a community, undermining the dominance of monotheistic sys-
tems that interpret the world as ruled by only one supernatural agent. I am
thus arguing that the increasing role of supernatural themes in media does
not necessarily indicate an increasing interest in the supernatural, but that
the traditional Christian hegemony in the realm of the supernatural has
been weakened in the last fifty years and, therefore, that media and view-
ers have been more free to exploit alternative ‘heretical’ forms of the
supernatural. Of course, due to digitalization, the price of making certain
kinds of marvel has also decreased.
In the following paragraphs, I will discuss in more detail three impor-
tant types of the supernatural on film: the fantastic-marvellous, the horri-
fying and the awe- and submission-inspiring types (for a more detailed
discussion of the different types of supernaturalism in film, see Grodal
(2007) and Grodal (forthcoming)). These types are not genres as the types
of supernatural phenomena described exist in several genres.
Enchantment by marvel and empowerment

The simplest form of the supernatural might be the fantastic and marvel-
lous that we find in many fairy tale films. In such films, there are viola-
tions of basic categorical distinctions, such as animals that talk, empowering
tools like magic wands or brooms, unnatural colours (blue apples) or
supernaturally enhanced natural phenomena (visible, powerful sunrays;
all-encompassing northern lights). Such marvellous phenomena are salient;
they catch the eyes, ears, imagination and memory. Ara Norenzayan et al.
(2006) has investigated the success of fairy tales. They found that those
stories that had a few salient counterintuitive features (like the talking
wolf and the unharmed return of the grandmother from the wolf’s belly
in Little Red Riding Hood) were better remembered than those with none
or too many (too many counterintuitive elements burden memory function
and are therefore difficult to process and remember). Thus, because the
marvellous may deviate from the normal, it becomes salient by the same
mechanisms that other phenomena are salient by deviation. The main
character in the animated film Finding Nemo (2003) is salient for a natural
and a supernatural reason: Nemo is a clown fish with red and white
stripes, thus clown fish are perceptually salient for natural reasons, but
Nemo is also salient because of counterintuitive, supernatural features:
Nemo can talk and he possesses a lot of the other characteristics of human
agency. Just as visual salience is intriguing, so are violations of innate,
intuitive knowledge about the world.
The reasons for the fascination with magical agency as a means of
empowerment are self-evident. Chinese Wuxia films show sword fighters
that are able to fly through the air due to a magical empowerment. The
50 Torben Grodal
way in which wishes for naturalistic and supernatural empowerment bleed

into each other is often obvious in science fiction films, which provide
pseudo-science as explanations for magical empowerment. Science fiction
films, to a certain extent, have also functioned as mental laboratories and
motivators for ideas for technical achievements. The six Star Wars science
fiction films were strongly inspired by fairy tales, but also by the fascina-
tion of technical empowerment, and the first film in the series had a direct
feedback on military thinking as it inspired Ronald Reagan to launch a
defence programme, nicknamed Star Wars. Science fiction has become a
major genre vehicle for fantasy films.
In fantasy stories, which rely on the marvellous and on empowerment,
there are no really strong conflicts between fantasy power and naturalistic
power. The world of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937) is domi-
nantly marvellous, the trees are animated, the animals talk and the evil
stepmother has magical powers. Such fairy tale stories are primarily tar-
geted at children, for whom playing with categorization and dreaming
about empowerment is highly salient. Such stories often have good, super-
natural helpers and bad, supernatural villains, and this similarly reflects
the way in which children rely on and relate to agents outside their active
control. The Harry Potter series (2001–) has had a fantastic success by
upgrading the interest in magic empowerment by mixing the marvellous
elements into stories for older children, so that they too can enjoy the plea-
sures that have previously been more typical in films for younger children.
Enchantment by activation of predator fear

A more complex form of the supernatural consists in the portrayal of
worlds in which there are often traumatic conflicts between natural and
supernatural types of power and control as we find in horror stories, such
as the different versions of the Dracula story, or films like The Evil Dead
series (1981–92). The primary target audience for such films is teenagers
and young adults. Here the worlds are divided in two: on the one hand,
there is a naturalist world inhabited by the characters that the viewers are
supposed to have allegiance to; and on the other hand, there are some dan-
gerous supernatural agencies that have evil intentions vis-à-vis the human
beings that live in a naturalistic world. Such stories are predominantly pre-
dation stories, where there are extremely dangerous predatory monsters or
spirits waiting to prey on the innocent (or guilty) humans. Boyer (2001)
and Barrett (2004) have argued that supernatural stories about monstrous
predators activate mechanisms that have evolved for a different reason in a
different environment. For millions of years, our ancestors have been on a
constant lookout for dangerous animals and therefore developed mental
mechanisms and dispositions to enact such vigilance, because even if
these mechanisms very often triggered a false alert, there was an enor-
mous advantage in avoiding any such mortal encounters. Barrett has given
these mechanisms the name HADD: hyperactive agency detection
devices. Horror stories reveal control problems, given that those threat-
ened only have naturalistic means of defence. So such stories do not only
activate strong fear but also use a series of supernatural antidotes, a rich
collection of magical instruments assembled from heterogeneous tradi-
tions: for example, garlic, silver bullets, crosses, holy water, magic formulas

and magic wands. Since the first horror films were produced in the begin-
ning of the twentieth century, the genre has seen a massive increase in
production and audience, particularly over the last forty years.
Horror films make the existence of supernatural agents highly salient
and their mode of being defies a normal naturalist world. However, the
horror story project consists mainly in control efforts that aim to re-establish
the naturalist world, although by temporarily using all kinds of supernat-
ural means. Furthermore, horror worlds do not typically depict a world
that is controlled by general systems, in contrast to monotheistic systems
with only one power centre. The evil forces inhabit special places, like
graveyards, tombs or old castles, and it is from such places that they move
out to make inroads on humans. The mental models of such evil agents
therefore often have similarities to dangerous animals and to the kinds of
beliefs that have continuously been present in superstition, more than to
monotheistic or pantheistic agencies, possibly possessing universal power
and/or a beneficial moral control. Furthermore, victims of evil predators
cannot negotiate with the assailants nor pray, make sacrificial exchanges
or have any other types of social exchange that are typical of many reli-
gions; it is a fight of life and death.
The worlds of horror films (and splatter films) often have affiliations to
psychological fields that Boyer and others have indicated are central in
religions: functional clusters related to morality, death and supernatural
agencies. Social life elicits the fear of being punished for transgressions of
moral norms. Although the guardians of morality may be nice agents, the
job of getting moral norms obeyed is often conveyed to all kinds of devils
and snake gods, as exemplified in the Christian idea of Satan as a super-
natural agent that devours sinners. Although horror films mostly do not
explicitly state that monsters, vampires and such things punish those that
violate moral norms, nevertheless such agents have preferences for
devouring ‘sinners’. In splatter films, the semi-supernatural monster goes
for sexually active young people and it is often killed by a virtuous,
tomboyish girl (Clover 1992). In The Evil Dead (1981), the young people
violate interdictions and may not fully live up to conservative norms of
sexual behaviour. Horror films equally focus on death, graveyards, bones
and spirits of dead people turned evil. Boyer (2001) suggests that the
prominence of evil agents connected to dead bodies is partly linked to
innate mechanisms that activate disgust in relation to corpses that are
possible sources of infections. Numerous horror stories like Dawn of the
Dead (1978) describe how victims are instantly contaminated by the
undead assailants and turned into the undead themselves.
The way in which horror films that include a series of supernatural
effects have become an important part of the repertoire of films for (espe-
cially) young people may partly be explained as an indication of how tra-
ditional religious institutions has lost its influence in the last fifty years.
Those fears, and the superstitious remedies for those fears, that, for hun-
dreds of years, institutionalized churches have tried to suppress or channel
into their framework (and science has shown to be groundless and ineffec-
tive) are now activated by powerful audio-visual means in media that prof-
its from producing arousal by reactivating ‘dormant’ dispositions (this is
partly because, as mentioned earlier, organized religion has lost some of
52 Torben Grodal
its power to suppress ‘heathenism’). This is especially evident in the way

in which horror worlds rely on devils and witchcraft. Horror films are in
principle produced as untrue fiction to provide thrills, but they have
become an important vehicle for reproducing medleys of thousands of
years of Eurasian superstition. Some strains of horror stories – like The X
Files (film 1998, as well as TV series 1993–2002) – actively reflect a
science–superstition conflict from the point of view of superstition.
Horror stories may therefore have potential learning effects that enhance
the innate HADD mechanisms in the direction of paranoia.
Enchanted submission and social bonding

Fantasy films feed on a mixture of salient violations of innate naturalism
and magical agency enhancement, and horror films centrally feed on
‘predator fear’, including the fear of contamination centrally linked to
death and sometimes also linked to a satanic system of enforcing morality.
However, some melodramas feed on quite different mechanisms that orig-
inate in adaptations to group living and tribal bonding. The emotional
roots of such films are not only predator fear, but also mechanisms of
bonding, dominance and submission. The submission may be linked to the
heroic dead warriors that have sacrificed their lives for ‘God and country’
or some similar higher cause; it may be a kind of primitive social
exchange, where some innocent person is sacrificed, or ‘exchanged’, to
appease some higher power. The supernatural agency or the supernatural
forces are mostly invisible except for some sublime signs, and the focus of
such films is on the acts of submission and bonding. A film like Saving
Private Ryan (1998) is centred on a complex notion that glorifies solidar-
ity between brothers-in-arms, even if that implies death. The main part of
the film consists in violent fights between Germans and Americans (and
other Allied forces). However, the focal frame story consists of a scene of
mourning and the submissive bonding with a dead soldier on a military
burial ground in Normandy, in a landscape of mostly crosses and a few
David stars. The relatively recent Vietnam film, We Were Soldiers (2002),
links the military activities with religious worship performed by the main
character played by Mel Gibson (who financed the successful film about
Jesus) and a cult-like interest in the bringing home of dead bodies. The
fourth film in the Harry Potter series (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
(2005)) is centrally about the bonding that takes place when fighting evil,
and – typical of the way in which the series have changed focus from the
marvellous in the first film to horror confrontation in the third film – ends
with a ceremony of mourning and bonding for Potter’s dead brother-in-arms,
and the Hogwarts school serves as a tribal unit.
An example of the classical function of sacrifice and submission is
Yimou Zhang’s Hero (2002) that provides a kind of founding myth for
China (see Grodal (2007) and Grodal (forthcoming)). The story takes
place more than two thousand years ago. The king of Qin is about to con-
quer what will become China, but four rebels from tribes that have been
conquered by the king decide to assassinate him. In order to train their
martial arts skills and supernatural powers, like the ability to fly, they also
need to learn Chinese calligraphy so that external aggression is counter-
balanced by submission to some symbolic order. What follows is a lot of

aggressive fighting, but then two of the rebels decide to give in to the king
and to sacrifice their lives. The reason is given at the end: the king of Qin’s
effort to unite several kingdoms into one is described as the foundation of
China and all its glory. In the film, the king is represented as an almost
divine person living in awe-inspiring surroundings. Thus, submission to
the king and the sacrifice of one’s own life provides tribal prosperity.
The most successful recent films that represent a supernatural world
based on a combination of aggression, bonding, submission, tribalism and
morality is The Lord of the Rings trilogy (2001–03). The films are about
the necessity of submitting to a moral order, to forge friendships, war-
buddy contracts that serve to forge moral altruistic obligations, so that
they may sacrifice their lives for the benefits of the group. The central
symbolic act is that of giving up personal power and gratification in order
to save the community. In one of the final scenes, there is even a strong
parallelism between the way in which the Hobbits fight with overcoming
individualism, and a fierce, cruel battle between the coalition of the good
and the forces of the evil Sauron. The world is an enchanted one in which
moral-psychological processes, naturalistic processes and processes dri-
ven by supernatural forces interact. The trilogy resembles a horror film in
one respect: the evil predator-Satan, Sauron, is to some extent visualized
(as an eye) whereas those supernatural forces that are behind the good
tribe (for instance the guarantee that giving up the wish for power by
means of sacrificing the ring will cause liberation from evil) are unrepre-
sented, except as incarnated in people like Gandalf and Frodo. However,
in contrast to the supernaturalism of horror films that emanates from spe-
cial places and special agents, the world of The Lord of the Rings is con-
trolled by some universal dualist good–evil metaphysics.
The Oscar-winning Spanish film, Pan’s Labyrinth (2006) exemplifies
a film that uses sacrifice as part of a supernatural social exchange. During
the Spanish Civil War, a 12-year-old girl, Ofelia, is by some mythical
power led into performing three tasks, of which the outcome of the ulti-
mate task is that Ofelia sacrifices her own life in order to save the life of
her younger brother. The film partly uses fairy tale magic in relation to
the girl’s psychological development and partly realism when depicting
the Civil War. However, the underlying symbolism in the film makes
Ofelia’s act of submissive self-sacrifice into an act that symbolizes how
the tribal bonds that have been severed during the Civil War may be
healed by submission.
Tribalism, aggression and the supernatural/sublime

Ethologists Konrad Lorentz (1974) and Irenäus Eibl-Ebesfeldt (1979, 1989),
have argued that although most species of animals only engage in mortal
combat with possible prey or dangerous enemies belonging to other species,
some species like rats, wolves and humans are adapted to group living in
combination with a fierce competition of resources with other groups of the
same species. Such species engage in mortal fights with members of alien
groups. To control the aggression within such groups, these species have a
hierarchal dominance structure. Thus, fear in such groups is not only or pri-
marily mobilized in relation to other species or even other groups, but also
fear of the dominant alphas. Tribal religions, that is, religions that function
54 Torben Grodal
as a sort of superstructure for a given group, strengthen the internal tribal

bonds and support competitions with rival tribes, also by providing a super-
natural dimension to the dominance hierarchy. The key to success in such
tribes is to minimize the individuals’ maximization of their individual fit-
ness or the fitness of their closest kin in order to sacrifice even their lives for
the maximization of the fitness of the group.
Such tribal supernatural systems became increasingly fitness
enhancing as the world’s population grew and the intra-species compe-
tition for resources became fiercer. Central in such supernatural sys-
tems are ceremonies of submission to powerful supernatural agents that
are special to the tribe, eventually supported by different kinds of social
exchange (providing gifts and sacrifices to the powerful supernatural
agent). A central function of such submission is to strengthen group
cohesion. Classical Judaism illustrates the mechanisms in tribal reli-
gions: Yahweh has elected one tribe, the Israelis, and will help them kill
the surrounding tribes, such as the Philistines, if they show absolute
submission to the god and submit to a series of moral rules aimed at
reducing intra-tribal conflict (banning murder, conflict-inducing adul-
tery, theft and so on). Similarly, David Sloan Wilson (2002) has argued
that the success of the early Christian communities was based on the
strengthening of internal group altruism, supported by ideas of submis-
sion to a supernatural agent that guaranteed justice and payback, even-
tually only in the afterlife. In other tribes, for instance, in China and
Japan, kings and emperors have had a semi-divine status as exemplified
in Hero (2002). Similarly, the Islamic fundamentalist revival in the last
twenty years in parallel with the efforts to construct a mega-tribe in the
competition for power with the West and the fight for territory with
Israeli fundamentalists underline how such religions of submission
often feed on the need for a constitution of a tribal identity and blind
submission of its members by supernatural means.
It might be argued that such tribal behaviours are only contingent
cultural constructions and not based on innate dispositions. However,
evolutionary psychologists, prominently Boyd and Richerson (1998) and
Richerson and Boyd (2001, 2005), have argued that as tribal cohesion has
became increasingly important (starting around 50,000 years ago), there
has been a kind of interaction between the cultural and the genetic stream –
those individuals who did not submit to tribal values had poorer chances
of survival than those who did submit. In this way, adaptations to living in
larger tribal groups may be one of the central examples of how culture
provides feedback to biology.
To make films that adhere to a specific religious system and that link
such systems with a specific tribe is clearly in conflict with the way in
which films increasingly are produced for a global market. To fight ‘for
God and country’ may be easier to sell when making British films for a
British audience than for products for a global market. The religious fer-
vour that often backed up older films about clashes between white,
Christian settlers and heathen Indians, which were acceptable in the first
half of the twentieth century, have become increasingly problematic. A
nation has many different religions; and it is media, not congregations,
that bind people together.

The modern trend has been to create increasingly large social organi-
zations so that ‘mega-tribes’ like multinational alliances have become
important. Central in The Lord of the Rings is the formation of an alliance
between many different tribes (reflecting also the way in which World
War II had influenced Tolkien’s book) and the way in which spirituality is
not explicitly linked to a concrete historical cult. Other variations are
earthlings versus aliens with science fiction bleeding into forms similar to
supernaturalism. A strange variation of this is We Were Soldiers, in which
the main character, played by Mel Gibson, participates in Catholic reli-
gious activities, but in a speech to his American soldiers he implicitly
argues that there is only one God that may be called by different names in
different parts of the globe and, as the soldiers come from all over the
globe they are as Americans, living in God’s own country, the chosen free-
dom fighters of the globe.
It is therefore logical that the formation of mega-alliances has become
important for modern versions of spiritual tribalism. One solution is to create
enemies that no possible viewer will identify with, for example, that
Earthlings should become friends to fight the aliens from outer space. An
even more grandiose effort to make a universal system of bonding based on
sublime submission may be found in Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the
Third Kind (1977). Here, some chosen people from all over the world get an
inner religious feeling about the importance of going to a specific mountain
(in Wyoming), and these chosen Earthlings participate in a sublime cere-
mony of bonding with some representatives of some highly developed aliens.
Some ‘prisoners of war’ are released from their stay with the aliens and some
Earthlings enter the spaceship.
Conclusion
I have described different mental mechanisms that support supernatural-
ism in film, and for practical reasons I have divided them into three pro-
totypes: (1) stories about the marvellous that feed on the salience of
counterintuitive phenomena, centrally magical empowerment; (2) stories
about the fear of predator-like supernatural agencies that often function
as snake gods: evil punishers of moral transgressions that are often
related to death as a powerful source of contamination; (3) stories about
aggression, submission and tribal bonding, often linked to social
exchange with counterintuitive agents (exchanges that cross the
life–death barrier), eventually in relation to the propagation of moral
supervision by such agents.
Films increasingly exploit the possibilities of creating viewer fascina-
tion by making films about fantastic and supernatural events that activate
innate dispositions. There are different reasons for this. One reason is
technical: it has become much cheaper to make supernatural films.
Another reason is that the erosion of hegemonic religious control with
public space has set film-makers free to use the global stock of supernat-
ural mind-grabbing phenomena, deemed ‘heathen’ by orthodox churches
(that, for centuries, have provided themselves with an ‘enlightened’ profile
by rejecting, say healing, fighting demons and so on).
To what extent such films create superstition and to what extent they just
create arousal and marvel is quite another matter. Those functions of the
mind that support a naturalistic vision of the world are for the majority of
56 Torben Grodal
viewers strengthened by the disenchantment performed by science, and thus

the salience and pleasure of counterintuitive and supernatural events are
experienced on the background of a firm disenchanted naturalism. Some
types of science fiction films may provide an enchanted aura to technology.
For a minority of viewers, in contrast, for whom the naturalistic world-view
backed by scientific development does not infuse trust and a feeling of con-
trol, the supernaturalism in films and other media may boost supernatural
beliefs and fears, and make supernatural means of control (like rituals,
prayers or social-exchange actions) salient. However, the supernaturalism in
films and other media is not an integrated part of rituals, physical participa-
tion in acts of worship or prayers, and is not backed by social institutions
that may reinforce the contents. Some products, such as Lord of the Rings,
Star Wars or the Harry Potter films have fan clubs and sites, but the primary
way audiences are linked together is by means of the media product. Thus,
the revival of pre-monotheistic and non-universalistic supernaturalism,
‘heathenism’, in films may compete more with organized religion than with
the scientific project and its naturalistic world-view.
References
Atran, S. (1994), ‘Core domains versus scientific theories: Evidence from systematics and
Itza-Maya folkbiology’, in L. Hirschfeld and S. Gelman (eds), Mapping the Mind:
Domain Specificity in Cognition and Culture, New York: Cambridge University Press,
pp. 316–40.
Atran, S. (2002), In Gods We Trust: The Evolutionary Landscape of Religion, Oxford:
Oxford University Press.
Barrett, J. (2004), Why Would Anyone Believe in God? Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press.
Barrett, L., Dunbar, R. and Lycett, J. (2002), Human Evolutionary Psychology,
Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan.
and Ancestors, London: William Heinemann.
Boyd, R. and Richerson, P. (1998), ‘The Evolution of Human Ultroasociality’, in
I. Eibl-Eibesfeldt and F.K. Salter (eds), Indoctrinability, Ideology and Warfare,
New York: Berghahn Books.
Buss, D.M. (ed.) (2005), The Handbook of Evolutionary Psychology, Hoboken, NJ: Wiley.
Clover, C. (1992 [2004]), Men, Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror
Film, Princeton: Princeton University Press, and London: British Film Institute.
Cosmides, L. and Tooby, J. (1997), Evolutionary Psychology: A Primer, available from
http://www.psych.ucsb.edu/research/cep/primer.html. Accessed 5 February 2008.
Eibl-Eibesfeldt, I. (1979), The Biology of Peace and War, London: Thames & Hudson.
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(1989), Human Ethology, New York: Aldine de Gruyter.
Grodal, T. (2007), ‘Pain, Sadness, Aggression and Joy: An Evolutionary Approach to
Film Emotions’, in Projections: The Journal for Movies and Mind, 1: 1, pp. 91–105.
Grodal, T. (forthcoming), Embodied Visions: Evolution, Emotion, Culture, and Film,
New York: Oxford University Press.
Hathaway, C.K., Marler, P.L. and Chavez, M. (1993), ‘What the polls don’t show: A
closer look at church attendance’, in American Sociological Review, December,
pp. 741–52.
Lorentz, Konrad (1974), On Aggression, Orlando, FL: Harcourt Brace.
Norenzayan, A., Atran, S., Faulkner, J. and Schaller, M. (2006), ‘Memory and
Mystery: The Cultural Selection of Minimally Counterintuitive Narratives’, in
Cognitive Science, 30, pp. 531–53.

Richerson, P. and Boyd, R. (2001), ‘The Biology Commitment to Groups: A Tribal

Instincts Hypothesis’, in R.M. Nesse (ed.), Evolution and the Capacity for
Commitment, New York: Russell Sage Foundation.
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(2005), Not By Genes Alone: How Culture Transformed Human Evolution,
Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Wilson, D.S. (2002), Darwin’s Cathedral: Evolution, Religion, and the Nature of
Society, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
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Forms of the intangible: Carl Th. Dreyer

and the concept of ‘transcendental
style’
Casper Tybjerg
Abstract Keywords
The book Transcendental Style in Film, written in 1972 by future film Carl Th. Dreyer
director Paul Schrader, offers perhaps the most extensive analysis of how Paul Schrader
a particular film style might have a specifically religious significance. The religion and film
article provides a critical discussion of Schrader’s theory, with a particu- transcendental style
lar focus on the films of Carl Th. Dreyer. Schrader’s ideas are compared film style
to alternative explanations of the same stylistic features provided by David cognitive film
Bordwell and Torben Grodal. The article concludes that while Schrader theory
identifies a number of pertinent stylistic features, the ‘transcendental film’
is better understood as a subset of the art film mode. Torben Grodal’s
description of the intertwined effect of a salient (often abstract) style and
thematic content indicative of higher meaning, coupled with the contribu-
tion of a suitably disposed spectator, is, the article argues, more plausible
than Schrader’s analysis.
Films are often described as ‘religious’ on the basis of content – they are
called religious because they present biblical stories or other narratives
where the divine or the supernatural appears directly; stories about saints,
priests or other holy figures; or moralistic tales, where religious doctrine is
more or less explicitly presented. In this way André Bazin divides reli-
gious films into biblical films, films about saints and films about priests
and nuns in an important essay from 1951, ‘Cinema and Theology’ (Bazin
2002: §§ 3–5). But Bazin’s essay is also an argument for the significance
of film style for such films. Despite Bazin’s example, later writers have
tended to neglect the aesthetic dimension, argues Melanie Wright in her
recent introduction to the field, Religion and Film: ‘Typically, the narrative
dimension of the films being studied is emphasised, with little attention to
mise-en-scène […], cinematography, editing or sound’ (Wright 2007: 21).
Accordingly, the great Danish director Carl Th. Dreyer is identified as a
‘religious’ director because he made a film about a saint and a film about
a miracle: La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc/The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928)
and Ordet/The Word (1955).
There are some writers, however, who have explored the aesthetic
dimension of religious films in greater detail. They tend to argue that there
is a specific set of stylistic features particularly appropriate for religious

matters. The most prominent of them is probably Paul Schrader. In his

book Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer (Schrader 1972),
Schrader suggests that the styles of these three film-makers may, in effect,
make manifest the divine. This goes against the idea that particular stylistic
effects cannot generally be said to have meaning in and of themselves, and
for that reason alone, Schrader’s book is worth examining closely. In
doing so, I will focus mainly on Dreyer’s films, not only because they are
clearly important to any discussion of whether there are film styles that are
particularly religious or spiritual, but also because I think they best illustrate
both the strengths and the shortcomings of Schrader’s conception. I shall
conclude that while Schrader identifies a number of pertinent stylistic fea-
tures, the ‘transcendental film’ is better understood as a variant of the art
film; in arguing this, I shall be drawing on the theoretical work of Torben
Grodal, which shows that these films combine thematic and stylistic pro-
cedures to create an impression of ‘higher meaning’ that invites or at least
facilitates a religious interpretation.
Dreyer’s ‘frightful chromolitographs’

Schrader distinguishes sharply between films in the transcendental style
and more conventional films that depict a religious subject matter. As
Schrader himself points out, religious films were made from the very
beginning of cinema, but he dismisses nearly all of them because the con-
ventionality of their style renders them incapable of manifesting true
spirituality. It would have been interesting to read what he thought of
Dreyer’s only completed example of biblical film-making, his second
film Blade af Satans Bog/Leaves from Satan’s Book (1919). This film is
divided into four parts, taking place in four distinct historical epochs. In
each epoch, Satan, ordered by God to tempt humanity to sin, tries to
manipulate a vulnerable individual to commit a heinous wrong. The first
episode shows how Judas betrayed Jesus, beginning just before the last
Passover and ending with the arrest of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane.
Schrader, however, does not mention the film at all, probably because he
had not seen it.
The biblical section of Leaves from Satan’s Book exemplifies a stylistic
feature that has been very persistent in biblical films: the use of famous
devotional artworks by the great masters of western art as models for the
film’s images. ‘All [Jesus] films draw extensively upon familiar works of
western religious art’, writes Adele Reinhartz (2007: 7) in her excellent
book, Jesus of Hollywood, which despite its title includes European films.
Reinhartz makes only a cursory reference to Leaves from Satan’s Book,
but her remarks are certainly true of this film as well. The scene of the
Last Supper, in particular, uses the arrangement best known from
Leonardo da Vinci: Jesus and his disciples are seated along a long table
placed parallel to the picture plane, with Jesus in the middle. There are a
number of differences, though; Dreyer was not content to imitate
Leonardo’s famous painting, so he looked at other variations as well. A
handwritten note (opposite page 14) in his personal copy of the screen-
play, conserved at the Danish Film Institute, also refers to the versions
of the scene painted by Ghirlandaio (around 1480) and Eduard von
Gebhardt (1870).
60 Casper Tybjerg
Dreyer thus presents the familiar iconography, but with some interesting
variations. Nevertheless, Dreyer was later strongly critical of his own work.
In 1935, the French director Julien Duvivier made the sombre and ambi-
tious Golgotha, the first major sound film about Jesus, which focuses on
the passion. When it was released in Denmark, the director A.W. Sandberg,
who wrote film reviews at the time, was rather critical of it and suggested
that Leaves from Satan’s Book was a superior Jesus film. Compared to
Duvivier’s Last Supper scene, Dreyer
achieved a much more powerful atmosphere in the same situation in the silent
film Leaves from Satan’s Book; there, both the apostle types, the performances,
the composition, the set, even the photography accorded better with the spirit of
the material.
(Sandberg 1935)
Dreyer immediately wrote a letter to Sandberg (which he subsequently

quoted in an interview in 1954) where he dismissed his own efforts, thank-
ing Sandberg but insisting that his praise was completely unwarranted:
I must definitely protest against this. I haven’t seen Duvivier’s film, but I know
my own, two-thirds of which was just heaps and heaps of histrionics. The
Christ episode was the worst: a frightful collection of chromolithographs. I am
absolutely opposed to having these tyro errors brought out of well-deserved
oblivion.
(Dreyer 1954)
This dismissive attitude towards traditional imagery is by no means exclu-

sive to Dreyer. In fact, it is shared by Schrader, by the French critics he has
been influenced by, and by André Bazin as well. Bazin gently dismisses
Bible films as being ‘simply amplified variations on the Stations of the
Cross or on the Musée Grévin’ (Bazin 2002: § 3), that is, devotional church
images and waxworks displays.
More recently, Bazin’s translator Bert Cardullo has published an article
strongly critical of Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ (2004), which
he believes exemplifies the inescapable, patent inauthenticity of the visu-
ally spectacular religious film:
The fundamental requirement of an authentic spiritual style, or a religiously

significant one, is that it be grounded in naturalistic simplicity, even abstraction –
not in widescreen pyrotechnics of the kind to be found in such sand-and-sandals
epics as Quo Vadis? (1951), The Ten Commandments (1956), and Ben-Hur (1959).
The spirit, after all, resides within – in internal conviction – not in external
trickery or ‘special effects’.
(Cardullo 2005: 622–23)
In Transcendental Style in Film, Paul Schrader took a similar position and

his book supports it with theoretical claims about the very nature of film.
The argument is based on the difference between two kinds of artistic means,
‘abundant’ means and ‘sparse’ means. These terms come from the writ-
ings of the French Catholic philosopher, Jacques Maritain (1882–1973). In

his small book, Religion et culture (1930), he distinguishes between two

kinds of good works: those that sustain physical existence and those that
sustain the spirit. Because the first need tangible resources, Maritain calls
them ‘abundant temporal means’ (‘moyens temporels riches’); and
because the second increase in effectiveness by unburdening themselves
of all material furnishings, he calls them ‘sparse temporal means’
(‘moyens temporels pauvres’). While both are necessary, it is evident that
the first must ultimately serve the second, more important ones: ‘the abun-
dant means keep the body alive so that the sparse means can elevate the
soul’ (Schrader 1972: 154).
Schrader goes on to explain that the distinction applies to art as well;
here, the abundant means keep spectators engaged, while the sparse,
again, elevate their souls:
The abundant means in art […] are sensual, emotional, humanistic, individualistic.
They are characterized by soft lines, realistic portraiture, three-dimensionality,
experimentation; they encourage empathy. […] The sparse means are cold, for-
malistic, hieratic. They are characterized by abstraction, stylized portraiture,
two-dimensionality, rigidity; they encourage respect and appreciation.
(Schrader 1972: 155)
Because film is more lifelike than other arts, showing actual people mov-
ing in real time, it must, by its very nature, overwhelming privilege the
abundant means: ‘[O]f all the arts, I think film is one of the most difficult to
be used in a spiritual manner, because it is so kinetic, so visceral’, Schrader
has told an interviewer (Asika 2002). Similarly, in his video introduction
for the DVD edition of Robert Bresson’s Pickpocket (1959), he says:
Film is not a very spiritual medium, and if you want to convey transcendence or
quietude, film is really not for you. Because film is filmed reality, it’s images,
and it’s images moving in real time, so therefore, what it’s good at is empathy,
evoking emotions and of course movement, so that psychological realism is the
film medium’s strong suit, and action is the high card.
(Schrader 2005)
The conventional religious film relies on emotion, action and identification:

‘For an hour or two, the viewer can become that suffering, saintly person
on screen; his personal problems, guilt, and sin are absorbed by humane,
noble, and purifying motives’ (Schrader 1972: 164). But the experience
this gives the spectator is not an authentically spiritual one; it does not ele-
vate the viewer to the level of the sacred, it brings the sacred down to the
level of the viewer.
Schrader’s understanding of the sacred mostly derives from the
German theologian Rudolf Otto, whose 1917 book Das Heilige: Über das
Irrationale in der Idee des Göttlichen und sein Verhältnis zum Rationalen
(English translation 1923: The Idea of the Holy: An Inquiry into the Non-
Rational Factor in the Idea of the Divine and Its Relation to the Rational)
has had a great deal of influence in religious studies. Otto describes the
holy as ‘das ganz anderes’, the wholly other. It is completely beyond the
mundane; it cannot be grasped by human reason, and it cannot be defined,
62 Casper Tybjerg
taught or properly described. It can only be suggested through the emo-

tional responses it produces. This inexpressible mystery, this ‘unnamed
Something’, is the essence of religion. ‘There is no religion in which it
does not live as the innermost core, and without it no religion would be
worthy of the name’ (Otto 1958: 6).
While this ‘wholly other’, the ‘Transcendent’, cannot be circumscribed
by the human mind, it may be experienced – an experience that Schrader
refers to as ‘transcendence’, – and it is possible for human acts or artefacts
to be ‘transcendental’, to express or reflect at least part of it (Schrader
1972: 5). As Schrader goes on to say, to speak of ‘transcendental art’ – art
that ‘expresses the Transcendent in a human mirror’ – implies an equiva-
lence between art and religion: ‘Transcendence is the imperious experi-
ence; art and religion are its twin manifestations’ (Schrader 1972: 5–6).
And Schrader embraces this equivalence on the first page of his book,
choosing as its epigram a quote from the Dutch theologian Gerardus van
der Leeuw, the founder of the phenomenology of religion: ‘Religion and
art are parallel lines which intersect only at infinity, and meet in God’
(Schrader 1972: v).
The idea of a transcendental style

In arguing that certain films were indeed transcendental art and therefore
could, in effect, function as a sort of alternative religion, it would seem
that Transcendental Style in Film (1972) grew out of Schrader’s own dis-
enchantment with organized religion and consequent loss of faith. An
interviewer remarked that the book ‘gives the impression of being the
work of someone who is still a believer’, to which Schrader replied:
But a believer in spirituality, not a believer in any sectarian notion of God. I was
no longer a member of my church or a believer in its doctrines. […] What hit
me was that religions of that nature are really social institutions, not spiritual
institutions, and that spirituality was just an occasional adjunct of its social and
economic functions.
(Jackson 1990: 28)
It is thus not surprising that Schrader should embrace the phenomenological

accounts of religion offered by Otto and van der Leeuw, where the institu-
tional, social and even moral aspects of religion take a back seat to individual
spiritual experience.
Schrader identifies the style of film-making he believes is most likely
to offer this kind of spiritual experience ‘transcendental style’. In films of
the transcendental style, normally significant elements such as ‘plot, act-
ing, characterization, camerawork, music, dialogue, editing’ are all ‘non-
expressive’, Schrader writes, continuing: ‘Transcendental style stylizes
reality by eliminating (or nearly eliminating) those elements which are
primarily expressive of human experience, thereby robbing the conventional
interpretations of reality of their relevance and power’ (Schrader 1972: 11,
original emphasis).
This stylization proceeds in three progressive steps over the course of a
film during which abundant means are increasingly replaced by sparse
means. The first step is called ‘the everyday’: films in the transcendental

style will present ‘a meticulous representation of the dull, banal common-

places of everyday living’ (Schrader 1972: 39, original emphasis). There
is little dramatic build-up, because the events and actions we see do not
really lead anywhere; they will occur again in much the same way on
another day. Character psychology is submerged in a routine where no
particular action seems more important than any other. The spectators’
potential empathy with the characters is held back, and ‘sparseness’ is
thus achieved by ‘gradually robbing the abundant means of their potential’
(Schrader 1972: 160).
Already, this seems to fit Bresson’s films better than either Dreyer’s or
Ozu’s; it certainly seems odd to me to say that Ozu’s characters ‘seem to be
automatons’ (Schrader 1972: 44); this description might seem more appro-
priate for the characters in Dreyer’s Gertrud (1964), with their controlled
movements and slow, hieratic speaking patterns, but Schrader does not con-
sider it to be an example of transcendental style at all. It also seems diffi-
cult to argue that character psychology is eliminated in Dreyer’s films, and
Schrader acknowledges this; but he argues that the way the long takes in
Ordet allow ‘time for a character to walk the full distance of a room and
engage in conversation without a cut’ is a characteristic example of a tech-
nique belonging to the ‘everyday’: ‘by subrogating the empathetic qualities
of natural life and formalizing its factual detail, everyday creates a cold
stylization’ (Schrader 1972: 133).
The second step is ‘disparity’. This emerges because the spectator
gradually ‘senses there are deep, untapped feelings just below the surface’
(Schrader 1972: 44, original emphasis). The depth and strength of these
feelings seem incompatible with the ‘cold, sparse stylization’ of the sur-
face of the film (Schrader 1972: 161). This creates a disturbing feeling of
unease in the spectator. The figure of Johannes in Ordet is in Schrader’s
view an exemplary instance of this: Johannes is a character ‘who has no
psychological (interior or exterior) cause for his estranging passion’; and
something similar could be said of Jeanne d’Arc (Schrader 1972: 120).
Particularly in La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc, this disparity is reinforced by
a stylistic tension between ‘naturalistic settings’ and ‘contrived camera
position and angle’ (Schrader 1972: 120). Eventually, the increasing sense
of disparity culminates in a ‘decisive action’:
a totally bold call for emotion which dismisses any pretense at everyday reality.
The decisive action breaks with everyday stylization; it is an incredible event
within the banal reality which must by and large be taken on faith. In its most
drastic form, as in Dreyer’s Ordet, this decisive action is an actual miracle, the
raising of the dead. In its less drastic forms, it is still somewhat miraculous: a
non-objective, emotional event within a factual, emotionless environment. [ … ]
The everyday denigrated the viewer’s emotions, showing they were of no use,
disparity first titillates those emotions, suggesting that there might be a place for
them, and then in the decisive action suddenly and inexplicably demands the
viewer’s full emotional output.
(Schrader 1972: 46–47, original emphasis)
Even though Schrader regards the miracle in Ordet as a ‘decisive action

par excellence’, I think that it is somewhat misleading to say that it is
64 Casper Tybjerg
either ‘unexpected’ or ‘implausible’ (Schrader 1972: 134). The dia-

logue refers repeatedly to miracles, and the presence of the Christ-like
figure of Johannes also helps suggest that they might be possible; fur-
thermore, very few people have gone in to see Ordet without knowing
that it ends with a miracle – even when the film was first released,
Danish spectators, at least, would have been aware of the ending: the
play, after all, was one of the best-known plays of Kaj Munk, at the
time probably the most famous contemporary literary figure in
Denmark because of his assassination at the hands of the Gestapo dur-
ing the occupation.
Second, while miracles are inherently implausible, the whole construc-
tion of the film is designed to overcome this. In a note at the end of the
screenplay, Dreyer writes that the spectators must gradually and carefully
be placed in an emotional state like that of guests at a funeral.
Once they have been brought to this condition of reverence and introspection,
they more easily let themselves be induced to believe in the miracle – for the
sole reason that they – being forced to think about death – are also led to think
about their own death – and therefore (unconsciously) hope for a miracle and
therefore shut off their normally sceptical attitude.
(Dreyer 1964: 294)
Moreover, in Inger, the woman who is raised from the dead, Dreyer creates
a character so lively, so caring and full of goodness, so important for the
happiness of all the others, that her death seems profoundly unjust and hard
to accept, creating a strong emotional desire in the spectators for the miracle
to happen, however disinclined they might be to believe that such a thing
could happen.
The third step in the progression is ‘stasis’. In Schrader’s view, the
unearned, arbitrary character of the decisive act – the way a sudden emo-
tional surge occurs without dramatic or psychological justification –
creates a contradiction which cannot be resolved, ‘the paradox of the
spiritual existing within the physical’, and the viewer must accept (or
reject) ‘a view of life that can encompass both’ (Schrader 1972: 82, orig-
inal emphasis). Stasis follows; it is a still, frozen scene at the end of the
film, which ‘represents the “new” world in which the spiritual and the
physical can coexist, still in tension and unresolved, but as part of a
larger scheme in which all phenomena are more or less expressive of a
larger reality – the Transcendent’ (Schrader 1972: 83). As an example,
Schrader evokes the shot, more than half a minute long, of the bare,
charred stake remaining after Jeanne’s death at the end of Bresson’s Le
Procès de Jeanne d’Arc/ The Trial of Joan of Arc (1962); the stake is
‘still a physical entity, but it is also the spiritual expression of Joan’s
martyrdom’ (Schrader 1972: 83).
In a later interview, Schrader summarizes the hypothesis of the three
steps of the transcendental style in a more succinct fashion:
The whole of the Transcendental Style hypothesis is that if you reduce your sen-
sual awareness rigorously and for long enough, the inner need will explode and
it will be pure because it will not have been siphoned off by easy or exploitative

identifications; it will have been refined and compressed to its true identity, what
Calvin calls the sensus divinitatus, the divine sense.
(Jackson 1990: 28–29)
As an interpretation of Robert Bresson’s films, again, this seems quite

reasonable, and Schrader is able to support it with extensive quotes from
interviews with him.
Schrader’s hypothesis does not, however, fit the two other directors as
closely. While Ozu’s films often end in stillness, the claim that this is an
expression of the Transcendent, a spiritual state, depends on an under-
standing of Zen and Japanese culture which more recent scholars have
been very reluctant to take on board. David Bordwell writes in his massive
study of Ozu that ‘any such use of Zen in Ozu is not direct, let alone
directly religious, but will be mediated by proximate historical practices’
(Bordwell 1988: 29).
An explicitly critical account can be found in MitsuhiroYoshimoto’s
book-length study of Kurosawa. Schrader, Yoshimoto writes, ‘tries to dis-
card anything that does not confirm the image of Ozu as a Zen artist’
(Yoshimoto 2000: 13). Schrader uses Zen as a ‘magic word’ to resolve the
striking contradiction posed by the broad popular appeal in Japan of Ozu’s
films – an appeal that would be inexplicable if the films really did sup-
press emotional identification in the way the theory requires. Instead,
Schrader claims that ‘the concept of transcendental experience is so intrin-
sic to Japanese (and Oriental) culture, that Ozu was able both to develop
the transcendental style and to stay within the popular conventions of
Japanese art’ (Schrader 1972: 17). That is just a transparent attempt to
have one’s cake and eat it too, Yoshimoto argues; and it is furthermore
based on a stereotypical conception of ‘the oriental’ as naturally spiritual.
Style without transcendence

Schrader recognizes that there are even greater difficulties in describing
Dreyer’s style as transcendental. Not only are there considerable stylistic
differences among Dreyer’s works, it turns out that not a single one of his
films employs the transcendental style throughout. Dreyer, writes
Schrader, ‘was never able to achieve stasis, the final test of transcendental
art, to the extent that Ozu and Bresson did because, it seems to me, he
never relied on the transcendental style to the extent that they did’
(Schrader 1972: 120). The people’s uprising at the end of La Passion de
Jeanne d’Arc and the affirmation of life at the end of Ordet pull back from
the realm of the Transcendent and remain within the human world. For
Dreyer scholars, obviously, this limits the usefulness of Schrader’s model
somewhat. Nevertheless, his analysis does identify a number of significant
stylistic features and provides a suggestive explanation of their functions.
It is interesting to compare with the rather different analysis of some of
the same features found in David Bordwell’s book Narration in the
Fiction Film (1985). Here, Bordwell describes different ‘modes’ of fiction
film narration. One of them is parametric narration, which is a relatively
rare form; its characteristic feature is that certain stylistic patterns are not
subordinated to the demands of the narrative, but operate ‘systematically
[… ] across the film’ according to their own ‘distinct principles’ (Bordwell
66 Casper Tybjerg
1985: 281, original emphasis). As an example, Bordwell mentions Jean-

Luc Godard’s Vivre sa vie (1962), which is divided by numbered intertitles
into twelve episodes. ‘At the level of visual style, each segment is charac-
terized by one or more variants on possible camera/subject relations’
(Bordwell 1985: 281). Bordwell’s point is that such stylistic patterns need
not be motivated ‘by appealing to thematic considerations’; instead, as in
abstract art, ‘representational meaning may be played down or withheld,
and sheer perceptual order may become strongly profiled’ (Bordwell
1985: 283). The sense of order is its own purpose.
For these patterns to become visible, the film must establish a set of
parameters for the stylistic variations, so that they become perceptible
against a stable background. Bordwell identifies two different strategies
for this. One, which he calls ‘replete’, is exemplified by Vivre sa vie: the
‘strongly articulated sequences’ of this film ‘permit a clear comparison
of different paradigmatic options at the level of style’ – each segment
using a very different style to present a similar kind of scene (Bordwell
1985: 285). The other option Bordwell calls the ‘ “ascetic” or “sparse”
option, in which the film limits its norm to a narrower range of proce-
dures than are codified in other extrinsic norms’; that is, the range of
shot scales, camera angles or compositions employed may be drastically
limited in comparison with mainstream cinema – Bresson, for instance,
‘confines himself to the straight-on medium shot, often of body parts’
(Bordwell 1985: 285).
The main practitioners of this sparse approach turn out to be the same
three directors Schrader discusses in his book: Bresson, Ozu and Dreyer,
although Bordwell also adds Mizoguchi and (in part) Tati. It is worth
pointing out that Bordwell considers the modes of narration he describes,
including the parametric, to ‘transcend genres, schools, movements, and
entire national cinemas’ (Bordwell 1985: 150). This is very similar to
Schrader’s assumption that there are ‘common representative artistic
forms shared by divergent cultures’ (Schrader 1972: 9). The transcenden-
tal style he describes is, of course, such a form.
Bordwell never refers to Schrader in Narration in the Fiction Film. He
does not share Schrader’s interest in spirituality, and his discussion of para-
metric film emphasizes that its ‘richness of texture […] resists interpreta-
tion’; it is, ‘in a strong sense, non-signifying – closer to music than to the
novel’ (Bordwell 1985: 289, 306, original emphasis). Still, Bordwell
acknowledges that this kind of order without meaning ‘tantalizes’ specta-
tors (Bordwell 1985: 305), tempting them to project interpretive schemata
onto impersonal stylistic patterns, sometimes understanding them to be an
expression of spirituality:
It is significant that the most celebrated exponents of the sparse parametric style –
Dreyer, Ozu, Mizoguchi, and Bresson – are often seen as creating mysterious
and mystical films. It is as if a self-sustaining style evolves, on its edges, elusive
phantoms of connotation, as the viewer tries out one signification after another
on the impassive structure. The recognition of order triggers a search for meaning.
Noncinematic schemata, often religious ones, may thus be brought in to motivate
the workings of style.
(Bordwell 1985: 289)

But to impose such a framework of meaning, to insist that the non-signifying

should yield to interpretation, obscures the refinements of the stylistic struc-
ture, and Bordwell suggests that such an imposition should be resisted.
To do so is not easy: the presence of human characters irresistibly
causes spectators to ask questions about their stories, making an appre-
ciation of the film on a purely abstract level hard to achieve; as Schrader
points out, the audience ‘has a natural impulse to participate in actions and
settings on screen’ (Schrader 1972: 160). Torben Grodal has provided a
sophisticated analysis of this impulse and the way it is manipulated by dif-
ferent kinds of film.
A central premise of Grodal’s theory is that viewer engagement in
conventional narrative films is based on an immersive simulation of the
concerns and action tendencies of the protagonist: ‘If, for instance, the char-
acter on the screen takes control of the situation and overcomes the obstacles
presented, then the viewer vicariously experiences voluntary, goal-directed,
motor activity’ (Grodal 2006: 6). This does not mean that there is any
‘ego confusion’ (Grodal 2001: 117) – we do not mistake ourselves for the
character. Rather, it is ‘as if both the brain and the body project themselves
into the external world of the film’ (Grodal 2006: 5).
For instance, several times during The Da Vinci Code (Ron Howard,
2006) the hero Robert Langdon (Tom Hanks) is held at gunpoint by vil-
lains. Watching this, spectators will tense their muscles, simulating a
readiness to dodge the bullet or leap at the gunman. These actions are not
necessarily those that the spectators might perform themselves in such a
situation, but those that they expect a movie hero would perform. As it
turns out, the cerebral Langdon relies far more on his wits and sheer luck
than on strength or agility to overcome the villains, extricating himself
from the life-threatening situations in ways we may not have foreseen.
Nevertheless, we vicariously experience his relief and satisfaction at hav-
ing emerged safely from danger.
In many kinds of film, however, ‘vicarious action tendencies are blocked’
(Grodal 2006: 6). This happens when characters become the passive victims
of forces beyond their control, as is the case in many melodramas, tragedies
and horror films. There is little the characters can do, but if their concerns
have become important to the spectator, he or she will experience a great deal
of emotional pressure. The realization that the characters are powerless
against the forces that victimize them may cause the spectator to experience
involuntary autonomic responses like crying or shivering and accompanying
emotions like pity and fear, providing relief from the emotional tension
(Grodal 2007: 143–46).
Vicarious action tendencies may also be blocked in other ways. The con-
crete here-and-now-like fictional reality that canonical narrative films present
typically confronts the protagonists with practical, non-abstract problems
that can be engaged and surmounted through direct action. Many art films,
however, present realities that diverge from the easily graspable here-and-
now. They can suggest broad, abstract categories or levels of meaning that
exist only in a disembodied way, like ‘Humanity’ or ‘Love’ or, indeed, ‘the
Transcendent’; they can emphasize memories or dreams, states of reality
that are not here-and-now; or, as a third option, they may present a here-and-
now without highlighting those aspects of it that have a pragmatic relevance
68 Casper Tybjerg
for the goals of the protagonist, suggesting instead an undifferentiated ‘flow

of perception’ – life observed, rather than events participated in (Grodal
2000: 36, 47).
These different ways of engaging viewers are often linked to differ-
ences in the saliency of style. In mainstream films like The Da Vinci Code,
‘style serves to flesh out such concrete actions and the correlated emo-
tions’ (Grodal 2000: 36). Viewers, therefore, often do not notice the stylis-
tic orchestration of scenes; as Stephen Prince points out, citing several
empirical studies, ‘viewers tend to attribute the details of stylistic design
to content areas, assimilating them into their pre-existing schemas of char-
acter and situation’ (Prince 2006: 21). However, in some kinds of film –
particularly art films – style is used in such ways that the spectator’s atten-
tion is drawn to it, so that it becomes ‘salient’ for the spectator without
being tied strongly to the storyline. Accordingly, unlike most stylistic fea-
tures in mainstream films, this salient style cannot ‘fully be transformed
into story information’:
The stylistic features, therefore, activate feelings and emotions indicating

‘meaning’ that cannot fully be conceptualised by the viewer. The viewer,
therefore, has a feeling/an emotion that there must be some deep meanings
imbedded in the salient style features, because the emotional motivation for
making meaning out of the salient features is not turned off.
(Grodal 2000: 50)
This is the meaning-making impulse Bordwell believes should be resisted.

I think that Bordwell is quite right to say that some film-makers
play with stylistic elements for their own sake. Vivre sa vie is one
example of this; Ozu’s Ohayo/Good Morning (1959) is another, as
Bordwell’s analysis of its ‘parametric play’ shows (Bordwell 1988:
354). And Bresson, in a 1957 interview, stated that the cinema should
express itself ‘not through images, but through the relation of images’.
He elaborated:
In the same way a painter doesn’t express himself through colours but through
the relation of colours; a blue colour is blue in itself, but if it is next to a green
colour, or a red, or a yellow, it is no longer the same blue: it changes. We must
arrive at the point where a film plays on relations of images; there is an image,
then another which has relational values, that is to say that the first one is neutral
and that suddenly, in the presence of the other one, it vibrates, life bursts into it:
and it’s not so much the life of the story, the characters, it is the life of the film.
From the moment the image lives, you make cinema.
(Bresson 1957: 4)
Allowing the ‘life of the film’ to take precedence over the ‘life of the
story’ could almost be said to be definitional of parametric narration. The
problem of the meaning-making impulse remains, however. The highly
sophisticated directors that we are dealing with here would surely be
aware of it; they would know that most spectators would look for some
sort of meaning behind the stylistic surface. And, at least in the case of
Dreyer, I would argue that that is precisely what he is aiming for.

The function of abstraction

In 1955, shortly before Bresson made his statement on the importance of
the interrelations of colours and images, Dreyer voiced somewhat similar
ideas, also comparing film and painting, in an essay published in English
as ‘Color and Color Films’ and in Danish in a slightly different version
with a title that translates literally as ‘Color Film and Colored Film’.
Dreyer stresses interrelations and the importance of abstract compositional
values:
In black-and-white films light is set against darkness, and line against line. In
color films surface is set against surface, form against form, color against color.
What the black-and-white film expresses in changing light and shade, in the
breaking of lines, must, in color films, be expressed by color constellations.
(Dreyer 1955: 166, original emphasis)
The use of colour, moreover, should not be bound by the restrictions of

naturalism, he urged. ‘Only then will the colors have a chance of express-
ing the inexpressable [sic], i.e., of expressing that which can only be
perceived’ (Dreyer 1955: 166). In the Danish version of the text, the last
part of the sentence reads ‘expressing [… ] that which cannot be explained
but only felt’ (Dreyer 1973: 171).
To accomplish this would also seem to be the purpose of the sparse
style Dreyer employs in his later films: the slow, deliberate pace; the care-
fully choreographed camera movements; the measured delivery of the dia-
logue; what Schrader characterized as the ‘subrogation’, the replacement,
of ‘the empathetic details of natural life’ (Schrader 1972: 133) – all these
stylistic features together form a strongly salient sparse style, but they do
not have any obvious conceptual meaning. They do not create the sort of
narrative ambiguity found in many art films, typically motivated as a
reflection of existential reality, of memory and other psychic processes, or
as symbolic commentary (cf. Bordwell 1979, 2008; Grodal 2000).
Dreyer’s stories are not hard to follow – all the later films are based on
classically constructed plays.
The spectator is thus presented with a story that seems straightfor-
wardly comprehensible but also with a powerful style of an austere inten-
sity not fully motivated by the narrative. This seems an excellent way of
expressing the inexpressible, of creating a sense that there is something
more, something that is unseen, something that cannot be captured directly
in either words or images. The Catholic film critic Amédée Ayfre
expressed it beautifully in an essay from 1964: ‘What the body is to the
soul, what the sacraments are to grace, what the word is to the thought –
that is what Dreyer’s films are to a mysterious world which normally
escapes us’ (Ayfre 2004: 205). It is evident from both the colour film essay
and the films that Dreyer had a strong interest in stylistic patterning, but he
did not pursue it for its own sake alone – it serves a function in the films.
I believe, however, that it is a mistake to impose a particular meaning on
the sense of the inexpressible or ineffable that Dreyer creates. This is, of
course, what Schrader does when he identifies it with the Transcendent; but
in that regard I think it is very revealing that Schrader only mentions Gertrud
(1964) in the most cursory fashion. He calls the film a ‘kammerspiel’ (one of
70 Casper Tybjerg
the stylistic categories he uses to describe Dreyer’s films), a style distinct

from the transcendental style; by implication, Gertrud is not a film in the
transcendental style. Yet it includes many of the same salient features of
the sparse style that we find in Ordet, and it is, if anything, even more sta-
tic and anti-naturalistic. It has a decisive-seeming act towards the end –
Gertrud’s rejection of all her lovers – and a final scene of stasis. Why does
Schrader not consider it to be a transcendental film?
Schrader would probably argue that Gertrud’s decision to walk out is
not a ‘decisive act’. In his terms: it is not ‘an incredible event [ …] which
must by and large be taken on faith’ (Schrader 1972: 46); on the contrary,
the entire story is constructed to support it psychologically. I think, how-
ever, that another reason for the exclusion of Gertrud from consideration
is the complete lack of explicit religiosity anywhere in it. It is a deter-
minedly secular story, unlike Bresson’s films and (if one accepts
Schrader’s problematic claim that they are deeply imbued with Zen) also
unlike Ozu’s. This suggests that Schrader is himself most likely to dis-
cover the transcendental style in films that also contain thematic elements
with religious connotations.
This is not surprising. It agrees well with Torben Grodal’s description
of how the ‘best art films’ will employ ‘two intertwined procedures’ for
the creation of ‘higher’ meaning: they will provide ‘a “symbolic” repre-
sentation of some fields of meaning above the “basic level”’ as well as ‘a
series of salient stylistic features’ that seem relatively isolated from any
‘transparent narrative function’ (Grodal 2000: 50). The vague sense of
higher meaning created by the stylistic features, as we have seen, ‘tanta-
lizes’ the spectator and encourages meaning-making; thematic elements
may suggest some kinds of meaning rather than others, but they will
remain spectator constructions.
To Schrader, it is the artwork that has the potential to reveal the divine;
the spectator needs merely to open his eyes and his mind to it. It seems
more likely, to me at least, that those who experience the ineffable ‘some-
thing’ suggested by the sparse styles of Dreyer and others as intimations
of the divine are those who are disposed to do so. As Astrid Söderbergh
Widding remarks in the brief but incisive discussion of Schrader in her
article entitled ‘Manifesting the Invisible in the Medium of the Visible’:
What Schrader tends to overlook, however, is that to the extent these styles open
up a transcendent dimension in the film, it is at least as much through the gaze
of the spectator that it comes to exist. It is therefore not even enough to include
both aesthetics and thematics in the equation. To at least an equal degree, it is a
matter of the spectator’s participation and creative contribution to the film viewing
process.
(Söderbergh Widding 2005: 83)
One of the great strengths of Grodal’s model is that it allows us to under-

stand how the mind of the spectator makes this creative contribution.
Conclusion
For the understanding of supposedly ‘transcendental’ films, I believe that
Grodal’s model offers a superior analytical instrument to Schrader’s.

Grodal’s description of the intertwined effect of a salient (often abstract)

style and thematic content indicative of higher meaning, coupled with the
contribution of a suitably disposed spectator, seems (to me) more plausi-
ble than Schrader’s belief in the Transcendent and in a particular style
ultimately convergent upon it. That being said, if one disregards the
transcendentalist premises of Schrader’s work, it contains much that is
insightful and suggestive. The stylistic features he identifies and describes
are highly relevant to understanding the workings of the films in question.
In the end, however, the ‘transcendental film’ is best understood as a
subset of the art film mode described by Grodal.
Note
Except where noted all translations are by me. All emphases in the
extracts are in the original.
References
Asika, U. (2002), ‘Sexist jerks in beads and bell-bottoms’, Salon.com, http://archive.
salon.com/ent/movies/int/2002/10/18/schrader/index.html. Accessed 4 November
2007.
Ayfre, A. (2004), ‘L’univers de Dreyer’, in Un cinéma spiritualiste, Paris: Cerf,
pp. 201–06.
Bazin, A. (2002), ‘Cinema and Theology: The Case of Heaven Over the Marshes’,
Journal of Religion and Film, 6, available at http://www.unomaha.edu/jrf/
heaven.htm. Accessed 15 October 2007.
Bordwell, D. (1979), ‘The Art Cinema as a Mode of Film Practice’, Film Criticism,
4: 1, pp. 56–64.
———— (1985), Narration in the Fiction Film, London: Methuen.
———— (1988), Ozu and the Poetics of Cinema, Princeton: Princeton University Press.
———— (2008), ‘The Art Cinema as a Mode of Film Practice’, in Poetics of Cinema,
New York: Routledge, pp. 151–69.
Bresson, R. (1957), ‘Propos’, Cahiers du Cinéma, 75, pp. 3–9.
Cardullo, B. (2005), ‘The Violence of the Christ’, Hudson Review, 57: 4, pp. 620–28.
Dreyer, C.T. (1954), ‘Filmen, der skal aflive myten om jødernes skyld’ (interview),
Dagens Nyheder, 21 February.
———— (1955), ‘Color and Color Films’, Films in Review, 6: 4, pp. 165–67.
———— (1964), Fire Film: Jeanne d’Arc, Vampyr, Vredens Dag, Ordet, Copenhagen:
Gyldendal.
———— (1973), Dreyer in Double Reflection: Carl Dreyer’s Writings on Film (trans.
D. Skoller), New York: Dutton.
Grodal, T. (2000), ‘Art Film, the Transient Body, and the Permanent Soul’, Aura, 6: 3,
pp. 33–53.
———— (2001), ‘Film, Character Simulation, and Emotion’, in J. Friess, B.
Hartmann and E. Müller (eds), Nicht allein das Laufbild auf der Leinwand…:
Strukturen des Films als Erlebnispotentiale, Berlin: Vistas, pp. 115–28.
———— (2006), ‘The PECMA Flow: A General Model of Visual Aesthetics’, Film
Studies, 8, pp. 1–11.
———— (2007), Filmoplevelse: En indføring i audiovisuel teori og analyse, 2nd
edn., Copenhagen: Samfundslitteratur.
Jackson, K. (ed.) (1990), Schrader on Schrader, London: Faber and Faber.
72 Casper Tybjerg
Otto, R. (1958), The Idea of the Holy: An Inquiry into the Non-Rational Factor in the
Idea of the Divine and Its Relation to the Rational (trans. J.W. Harvey), Oxford:
Prince, S. (2006), ‘Beholding Blood Sacrifice in The Passion of the Christ: How Real
Is Movie Violence?’, Film Quarterly, 59: 4, pp. 11–22.
Reinhartz, A. (2007), Jesus of Hollywood, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Sandberg, A.W. (1935), ‘Lidt af hvert’, Ekstrabladet, 4 October.
Schrader, P. (1972), Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer, Berkeley and
Los Angeles: University of California Press.
———— (2005), Pickpocket video introduction [DVD], Criterion Collection.
Söderbergh Widding, A. (2005), ‘Att gestalta det osynliga i det synligas medium’, in
T. Axelson and O. Sigurdson (eds), Film och religion: Livstolkning på vita duken,
Örebro: Cordia, pp. 77–95.
Wright, M.J. (2007), Religion and Film: An Introduction, London: I.B. Tauris.
Yoshimoto, M. (2000), Kurosawa: Film Studies and Japanese Cinema, Durham, NC:
Duke University Press.

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NL_6_06_art_Hornbeck.qxd 6/11/08 2:34 PM Page 75

Virtual reality as a ‘spiritual’

experience: a perspective from
the cognitive science of religion
Ryan G. Hornbeck and Justin L. Barrett
Abstract Keywords
Virtual reality (VR) is often described as a gateway to a religious or virtual
spiritual experience – but why? In this article, using theories and evi- cognitive
dence taken from the cognitive science of religion (CSOR), we hypothe- religion
size that human minds may interact with VR-hosted phenomena in a Second Life
manner highly similar to that in which they interact with supernatural touch
concepts. Specifically, we note that both VR inputs and supernatural
concepts contain information that (1) contradicts the intuitive set of
expectations we bring to an ontological category of phenomena (for
example, natural objects, animals) and (2) allows us to draw a super-
abundance of inferences from our social cognitive mechanisms with
minimal effort. We then summarize these points by illustrating a com-
mon VR phenomenon – ‘virtual touch’ – wherein counterintuitive repre-
sentations and strategic information coalesce to create an emotionally
salient experience that is itself counterintuitive and by some accounts
spiritual-like.
Since the virtual reality (VR) boom of the 1990s, VR platforms and
interactive worlds have been strong attractors for religious concepts. On
the one hand, we see established religions, such as Christianity, Islam
and Judaism using VR worlds as a place to congregate and evangelize
(Grossman 2007). On the other hand, we often find that VR platforms
are perceived as a gateway to a different, often ‘spiritual’, reality.
Cyberpunk genre novels, many of them inspired by William Gibson’s
revolutionary and now classic Neuromancer (1984), frequently equate
VR’s immaterial properties to concepts of heaven and body transcen-
dence (Wertheim 1999). Researchers working with sensory-immersive
VR platforms (the types with the headgear and motion sensors) have
described VR as ‘interactive mythology’ (Rogers 1997) and ‘mythologi-
cal space’ (Pesce 1997). Julian Dibbell, author of several popular books
on VR and consultant to Linden Labs, creator of Second Life, was
quoted in USA Today saying, ‘virtual reality is in some ways an essen-
tially spiritual experience’ (Grossman 2007). Buddhist practitioners
writing for websites such as http://www.secondseeker.com review the
best VR sites for meditation. By these accounts and others considered

NL_6_06_art_Hornbeck.qxd 6/12/08 11:28 AM Page 76
1. Social anthropologist below, it would seem that VR and religious concepts go quite well
Tom Boellstorff has
together – but why is this so?
pointed out that using
the term ‘real’ to In this article, we present theories and evidence drawn from cognitive
describe non-computer science of religion (CSOR) that address this question. These findings
mediated interactions might be of use to other researchers interested in the ‘mediatization’ of
is problematic in that it
falsely presumes there
religion and the ‘enchantment’ of popular culture. Research in CSOR
is nothing ‘virtual’ has shown that supernatural concepts the world over share certain prop-
about such interactions erties with respect to the way they interact with the mind’s social cogni-
(Lattin 2007). We tive mechanisms and its natural and early-developed base of intuitive
consider this to be a
valid point but we have
knowledge. In brief, supernatural concepts in religions contain informa-
retained the use of tion that (1) contradicts the intuitive set of expectations people bring to
‘real’, by which we an ontological category of phenomena (i.e. natural objects, animals, etc.)
mean non-computer and (2) allows people to draw a superabundance of inferences from their
mediated interactions,
in order to minimize social cognitive mechanisms with minimal effort. In addition to briefly
confusing language outlining some of these findings, we suggest that human minds may
and theoretical asides. interact with VR-hosted phenomena in a manner highly similar to that in
which they interact with supernatural concepts. Quite simply, VR
representations frequently manipulate ontological norms, and VR world
residents, enjoying anonymity and plasticity of representation, readily
advertise the type of information that excites social cognitive mecha-
nisms but which may be highly inappropriate or disadvantaging in the
‘real’1 world. If religious concepts and VR-hosted phenomena do share
properties that make them highly similar cognitive inputs, this might
help to explain why VR is often referred to as a spiritual experience and,
to a lesser extent, why it is a popular new frontier for religious evange-
lism. We then summarize these points by illustrating a common VR
phenomenon – ‘virtual touch’ – wherein counterintuitive representations
and strategic information coalesce to create an emotionally salient expe-
rience that is itself counterintuitive and, by some accounts, spiritual-like.
We intend these latter observations to serve (rather tentatively, we realize)
as a preliminary empirical footnote to what is otherwise a conceptual
analysis. Finally, we conclude by suggesting that if VR worlds can gen-
erate experiences that are subjectively referred to as ‘spiritual’, then
such worlds can be a productive laboratory for CSOR researchers and
media theorists alike.
Throughout this article we frequently use Second Life (SL) as a base
of reference for our observations about VR. Though VR technically
refers to any technology that allows a user to interact with a computer-
simulated environment – this could be anything from a chat room to a
sensory-immersive CAVE platform – we have selected SL for several
reasons. For one, SL’s popularity makes it representative of many peo-
ple’s perceptions of VR. SL currently hosts over eight million open
accounts and approximately 40,000 residents are online at any given
moment. For another, SL’s impressive graphic and interactive capacities
make it one of the most potentially immersive (i.e. ‘otherworldly’) VR
worlds created to date. Finally, because SL is entirely imagined, created
and owned by its users, the content therein reflects a relatively democra-
tic expression of human cognition, as opposed to heavily themed content
designed by a team of professional developers. With these reasons in
mind and in order to prime the reader with a better understanding of VR
76 Ryan G. Hornbeck and Justin L. Barrett

Figure 1: Welcome to Second Life.
and VR-based relationships, we wish to preface the main body of this

article with a brief introduction to SL.
Introduction to Second Life

Every day, people all over the world interact with each other in SL, a VR
world that is entirely imagined, created and owned by its users. Residents
inhabit SL in their virtual bodies – their ‘avatars’ – humanoid or other-
wise, which they construct with limits set only by their imaginations and
artistic abilities using SL’s built-in content creation tools. Unlike mas-
sively multiplayer online role-playing games (MMORPGs), such as the
popular World of Warcraft, SL has no objectives or pre-programmed activ-
ities. Rather, SL simply encourages residents to recreate their lives ‘in-
world’ – to find a means of deriving an income (SL boasts a fully
integrated economy that transacts over one million US dollars – real
money – per day), buy a cosy virtual home, fall in love and socialize with
fellow residents. Indeed, there are numerous venues in which to socialize.
SL is filled with museums, beach parties, shopping malls, research institu-
tions, picturesque gardens, support groups and worship services.
Management consultants meet and give presentations on private islands.
Directors film movies in SL and exhibit them at SL film festivals. Charity
organizations host galas and raise thousands of US dollars for various
causes. And so on.
Avatar interactions in SL feature prominently in this analysis, so a
little background might be helpful. SL residents are situated in SL by
way of an avatar, which serves as a resident’s ‘zero point’ of perception
and social contact. One can go a little outside, but cannot move entirely
beyond one’s avatar. For example, one cannot be viewing books in a SL
library while one’s avatar is soaking up rays on the beach. Resident and
avatar are inextricable, and so the latter is an important part of one’s
online identity. Consequently, great amounts of time, effort and money go
into avatar construction. Avatars are almost infinitely malleable; and for
those who lack the artistic talent or software skills to develop their own
appealing avatar, hundreds of privately owned boutique shops trading in
body shapes, skin colours, hairpieces and even genitalia enable residents
to look their best.

These avatars communicate with one another in various ways. The

most basic form of communication is text based. Typed messages may be
sent privately or displayed to all avatars in a general area. Avatars may
also create or buy gestures; these animate the avatar into a themed
sequence of movements, such as ‘wave hello’ or ‘roaring laugh’. Or, avatars
may be animated into certain motion sequences by clicking on pose balls,
which initiate a sequence of animations (frequently used for dancing and
cuddling) that is circuitous and continues until the user(s) wishes to stop.
Lastly, SL has recently gained voice-over capabilities. These enable a res-
ident to speak in real time with other residents.
The cognitive appeal of supernatural concepts

CSOR research shows that supernatural concepts tend to cluster around
phenomena that (1) contradict the intuitive set of expectations we bring to
an ontological category of those phenomena (i.e. natural object, animal,
etc.) and (2) allow us to draw a superabundance of inferences from our
social cognitive mechanisms with minimal effort. Starting with point (1),
we might begin to explicate these findings by way of a simple question: do
you find it requires more mental effort to solve ‘345 x 729 = ?’ or to recog-
nize your cousin at an annual family reunion? Most of us would agree that
multiplying three-digit figures is more difficult than recognizing a family
member, even if we have not seen him or her in a few years; but why is this
so? What is happening in our minds that we can process the minutiae of
one’s facial details and match those details to an image set down in mem-
ory a year ago, yet a multiplication problem taken from an elementary
school textbook requires paper, pencil and time? Why are our minds more
receptive to some forms of information than others?
Cognitive scientists studying the way human minds organize and
develop during childhood generally agree that either from birth or during
childhood human minds develop numerous functional subsystems that
carry out particular information-processing tasks (Pinker 1997). These
functional units operate with such fluency and automaticity, especially
when performing tasks that are fundamental to human survival, that we
often process them without conscious effort or awareness. To illustrate, for
most humans recognizing familiar faces requires no studying of features
or deliberate attention to detail; rather, this task is automatic.
Along with this automaticity, or what might be called cognitive natural-
ness (McCauley, forthcoming), come certain cognitive biases. That is,
within a given domain our minds automatically assume certain kinds of
relationships and tend towards certain kinds of understandings. Again, this
intuitive knowledge makes good sense in terms of survival. For instance,
developmental psychologists have demonstrated that within the first few
months of life babies provide behavioural evidence (typically looking
behaviours) indicating that they understand that physical objects (1) do not
pass through one another, (2) must move as cohesive wholes, and (3) must
move continuously from one place to another (instead of disappearing and
reappearing) (Spelke and Kinzler 2007). These expectations of physical
objects can be understood as intuitive knowledge in the sense that people
intuitively assume it is true of any object encountered. Experimental evi-
dence suggests that humans routinely acquire domain-specific intuitive

knowledge concerning – and sometimes specific to – a range of ontological

categories for things as ordinary as physical objects, artefacts, animals and
other living things, and intentional beings such as people (Sperber,
Premack and Premack 1995).
Cognitive scientists studying cultural expression have found it produc-
tive to ask how the intuitive knowledge generated by cognitive systems
informs and constrains the generation and transmission of cultural expres-
sion. For instance, the psychologist, Thomas Ward, discovered that when
trying to create novel extraterrestrial beings, adults’ creations were highly
constrained by the assumptions of our intuitive ontological knowledge con-
cerned with living things. Novel beings overwhelmingly exhibited bilateral
symmetry and at least one pair of major sense organs and limbs, even
when adults were explicitly told to be as creative as possible and not
worry about believability (Ward 1994, 1995). Similarly, the psychologists
Michael Kelly and Frank Keil (1985), found that the metamorphoses
in the writings of Ovid and Grimm’s Fairy Tales were not arbitrary or
uniformly distributed over theoretically possible types of transformations,
but appeared to be closely constrained by intuitive cognitive systems.
Transformations to ‘neighbouring’ ontological categories (based on child-
hood concept formation) appeared to be more effective story devices than
other types of transformations.
Perhaps the most developed area in this cognition and culture field is
CSOR. In the area of religious expression, too, scholars have suggested that
culturally successful ideas must closely conform to the intuitive expecta-
tions or biases of early developing cognitive systems. Such intuitive ideas
are more likely to be spontaneously produced and successfully communi-
cated because their elements already lurk in human conceptual systems.
But being completely intuitive is not always a good thing. When competing
for human attention, the intuitive can be overlooked. Intuitive is often bor-
ing. Cognitive scientists of culture have noted that better than being wholly
intuitive is being slightly counterintuitive (Barrett and Nyhof 2001; Boyer
2001; Sperber 1996).
Compare the idea of a cat that has kittens with the idea of a dog that
has kittens. As much as one might enjoy a moving tale about a cat having
kittens, hearing about a dog having kittens is likely to be much more striking
and worthy of retelling. Why? The anthropologist and psychologist Pascal
Boyer suggests that it is because one version is wholly intuitive and the
other modestly counterintuitive. Research has shown that young children
intuitively know that animals have offspring of their own kind, passing on
those features that have biologically functional consequences (Keil 1989;
Springer and Keil 1989). A dog having kittens is thus counterintuitive, in
this technical sense, and more striking than other unusual arrangements.
Experiments demonstrate that concepts with a single counterintuitive fea-
ture are better remembered and communicated than comparable wholly
intuitive concepts (Barrett and Nyhof 2001; Boyer and Ramble 2001).
These technical senses of intuitive and counterintuitive allow for a con-
cept to be intuitive in two ways. First, a concept may be specified by nat-
urally developing cognitive systems; for example, that solid objects cannot
pass through other solid objects appears to be a default assumption of nat-
ural cognitive systems. The idea of a brick not being able to pass through

a tree is intuitive because it conforms to default assumptions. A second

way in which an idea may be intuitive is by simply not violating expecta-
tions. The idea of a 100-pound rodent is intuitive (even if surprising)
because natural systems do not specify how much rodents can or cannot
weigh.
A clarification may be helpful at this point. In keeping with Boyer’s and
others’ previous research in this area, we reserve the term ‘counterintuitive’
for ideas that violate naturally developing intuitive knowledge, what
McCauley (forthcoming) calls ‘maturationally natural’ cognition. That is,
cognition that develops as part of normal human maturation regardless of
cultural settings. Nevertheless, with special cultural aids such as explicit
instruction, opportunity for rehearsal and supporting artefacts, individuals
may acquire tremendous cognitive fluency in particular areas. McCauley
dubs this culturally dependent kind of cognitive mastery ‘practiced natural-
ness’. Consider, for instance, chess or calculus mastery. Scripts for social
interactions (such as what to do when ordering at a restaurant) or schemata
(such as the expected temperament of different breeds of dogs or the size
limits of rodents) exemplify the sort of individually or culturally specific
conceptual structures that arise through practised naturalness. We might
term ideas that violate these practiced natural expectations counter-
schematic. Counterschematic ideas, then, violate expectations that have
arisen through practised natural systems and are analogous to counterintu-
itive ideas that violate expectations that have arisen through maturationally
natural systems. To illustrate this, asking for the bill at a sit-down restau-
rant before the ordered meal has arrived could be counterschematic but not
counterintuitive. The idea of a 100-pound rodent or a high-strung Labrador
might be counterschematic, but neither is counterintuitive. Whether or not
something is counterschematic is individually and culturally variable.
Whether or not something is counterintuitive is a matter of normal human
development.
Concepts that are counterintuitive can be more attention demanding,
but this advantage is not without limits. Rather, Boyer (2001) suggests an
optimum. Concepts that are mundanely intuitive are acceptable candidates
for being successfully spread within a population; those with just a minor
counterintuitive tweak are better; and those with too many counterintuitive
features are disastrous. Consider a liquid dog that gives birth to invisible
artichokes made of cardboard whenever someone thinks about something
that will happen next Tuesday. Such a dog concept (if indeed it can be
called a concept) so greatly violates the intuitive conceptual structure that
it is hard to understand and difficult to communicate effectively without dis-
tortion. Furthermore, its counterintuitive structure renders it cumbersome
for generating predictions, explanations or inferences. A large, brown dog
with floppy ears, a white-tipped tail and a pleasant disposition that gives
birth to kittens does not present the same conceptual challenges for its
communication or for its ability to generate predictions, explanations or
inferences.
Applying these cognitive insights to supernatural concepts, Boyer and
his colleagues have argued that the vast majority of supernatural concepts
that feature in religious belief systems across cultures have a number
of defining features (see, for example, Atran 2002; Barrett 2004; Boyer

2001, 2003). First of all, they tend to be minimally or modestly counterin- 2. By ‘system’, ‘mecha-
tuitive; that is, one or two intuitive expectations are violated. For example, nism’, or ‘device’ we
refer to a functional
a statue that can listen to petitions is an artefact to which has been added unit of the brain that
the property of having a mind. Forest spirits in some places might be char- may or may not be
acterized as essentially invisible people – invisibility being the single driven by a particular
important counterintuitive feature. A second common feature of religious localized section of the
brain devoted to a
concepts is that their counterintuitive feature enhances their inferential particular task. Our
potential in important realms, such as survival or social interaction. By mental hardware for
inferential potential we refer to these concepts’ abilities to rapidly generate vision, for example, is
further ideas, inferences, explanations and predictions, particularly about mostly located in six
specific areas (V1 to
those things that matter to us. V6) of the occipital
We can be more clear here about ‘inferential potential’ and ‘those lobe. Even where the
things that matter to us’ by way of a brief introduction to evolutionary location, or locations
(tasks may be highly
psychology and, specifically, the importance of our unique, evolved social distributed), of the sys-
cognitive mechanisms. These social cognitive mechanisms2 enable our tem may be debatable,
species to communicate and cooperate in a manner that is unique in scope we may be relatively
and complexity. Relative to other species common to our evolutionary certain that some task-
centric bounded entity
milieu – the African savannah of Pleistocene onwards – humans are in exists in the mental
many respects an outmatched class. Humans are not particularly fast or hardware because, as
strong, they cannot easily navigate treetops, and they have no protective the following examples
covering. Their large brains create birthing hazards, require additional show, some persons
who have sustained
time to develop and consume a disproportionate share of nutritional head injuries or abnor-
resources. Without the unique set of cognitive abilities that enabled the mal brain development
formation of cooperative bonds and the transmission of accumulated have lost the ability to
information, humans would never have enjoyed such spectacular evolu- perform the particular
task in question
tionary success. (though all other brain
To illustrate this, one such social cognitive mechanism, ‘theory of functions may be
mind’ (ToM), refers to the human mind’s unique3 ability to form assump- unaffected).
tions about another person or animal’s mental state. ‘Theory’, in this case, 3. Neither autistic
refers to our ability to postulate, or form a theory about, what other people humans nor primates
might be thinking. For example, if a friend stops waving to me as I pass seem to share our ToM
capacities, though
him on my daily commute to work, I might assume that in his mind he is the status of a
angry with me. Or, if a co-worker’s promotion was mentioned in an e-mail chimpanzee’s theory of
to all employees, when I go to congratulate her I will assume that she mind is contentious.
knows that I know she was promoted. Here I am not just theorizing about Some researchers deny
chimps have provided
her mental state, I am also theorizing about what her mind might be theo- any clear evidence
rizing about my mind. This is an instance of what we would call ‘second- of ToM capacity
order’ ToM. An instance where Jack assumed that Jane thought that Bob (Povinelli and Vonk
suspected Linda of thievery would be an instance of third-order ToM. 2003), whereas others
believe chimps have
These multiple-order ToM exercises represent the day-to-day condi- rudimentary ToM
tions of social interaction, that is, the conditions contributing to prosperity (Tomasello, Call, and
or failure. We are constantly stressing about and trying to gain access to Hare 2003). Nearly all
scholars in this area
the information that others have about us. ‘Does my boss think I am doing
agree that chimps are
a good job?’ ‘Was Jason suggesting that Michael is out to get me?’ These not capable of the ToM
are important questions. And tens of thousands of years ago, figuring out capacities of three-
who was of a cooperative mind and who was liable to cheat was a daily year-old children and
certainly do not reach
matter of life and death. Given the importance of ToM in both our evolu- third-order ToM.
tionary history and contemporary circumstances, these types of thoughts
enjoy privileged access to the conscious realm of our minds. Even seem-
ingly non-related tasks often feed back into ToM, such as when a child

NL_6_06_art_Hornbeck.qxd 6/12/08 11:31 AM Page 82
4. By emotional practises her algebra so that her parents might form positive mental repre-
incentive, we refer to
sentations of her. Consider also that ToM exercises that are decoupled
those biochemical
processes that result in from the consequences of real social interaction make for fascinating,
mental states that are emotionally charged entertainment. People all over the world love to
commonly referred to exchange gossip about what some people think about other people
as love, sadness, anger,
jealousy and so forth.
(Gambetta 1994; Haviland 1977). Fans of detective thrillers and
From an evolutionary Shakespearean dramas delight in figuring out who has access to what
perspective, these bio- information and what inferences can be drawn from that information
chemical processes and (Dunbar 2004; Stiller, Nettle and Dunbar 2004). In fact, ‘dramatic irony’
their associated mental
states were crucial in
by definition occurs when the audience has important information that the
motivating and guiding characters lack. That we pursue these exercises even when there is nothing
our behaviour to practical to be gained points to another important characteristic of social
sustain important cognitive mechanisms – they are often accompanied by strong emotional
social relationships
(Fessler and Haley incentives.4
2003; Fiske 2002), Given, then, its importance in our evolutionary history and its access
especially when these to powerful emotional states of mind, ToM is always tugging at the con-
required action that scious realm of our mind, looking for inputs – or strategic information –
was inconsistent
with our immediate that will help ToM produce helpful inferences about what is going on in
self-interest. other people’s minds. We might briefly examine the relationship between
5. Access to strategic
these two: first, what qualifies as strategic information will differ for each
information is also part person and circumstance. For example, the information that you have a
of what separates gods new, expensive, red mountain bike in your garage is not necessarily
and spirits from coun- strategic to me, unless I am missing such a bike. If I am missing such a
terintuitive but
decidedly non- bike, the information becomes strategic and is seized upon by my social
religious concepts, cognitive mechanisms, which generate inferences that motivate and guide
such as a cartoon my next actions. With respect to ToM, I now infer that you might be har-
animal that can speak bouring other uncooperative thoughts in your mind. I am now angry or
English. Aside from
not being postulated to fearful and well motivated to take precautions to safeguard against your
exist or act in the real anti-social tendencies. In summary, our minds are always receptive to
world, counterintuitive information that enables us to infer what others are thinking about us,
fictional characters
because getting this information was crucial to our survival in our evolu-
have little inferential
potential in day-to-day tionary past.
activities. This brings us back to the second common feature of religious concepts –
their counterintuitive feature enhances their inferential potential in realms
important to humans, such as survival or social interaction. Gods always
seem to know more than people do – particularly about the intentions of
others or which herbs in the forest heal us, rather than human intestinal
length or how many frogs live in Colombia. Sometimes gods have access
to this strategic information by virtue of super knowledge or super percep-
tion, but others gain it through invisibility or counterintuitive spatial or
physical properties (Boyer 2001). Supernatural entities could be counter-
intuitive by virtue of vanishing every new moon or experiencing time
backwards, but these counterintuitive properties do not stimulate interest-
ing questions and speculations about who might know what I did last night
with whom.5
In summary then, supernatural ideas are distinguished by the special
use they make of our ordinary cognitive capabilities. They get our atten-
tion and stimulate our naturally developing cognitive systems by (1) strik-
ing a balance between understandable intuitiveness and attention-grabbing
novelty; and (2) including properties that enhance (rather than detract

from) inferential potential in matters of importance, particularly social

ones. These two properties give supernatural concepts in religious systems
cognitive appeal – they demand attention, support conceptual exploration
and often generate strong emotional experiences. We suggest that these
two features also factor prominently in VR worlds and suggest a reason
why participants in SL and other virtual spaces often compare their expe-
riences to the spiritual and religious. From a cognitive science perspective,
SL is populated by analogues of supernatural beings and prompts pseudo-
supernatural experiences. But how exactly is this so?
The cognitive appeal of VR inputs

Consider first that SL is replete with counterintuitive representations. An
avatar, for example, preserves most of the same expectations we would
have of a real person: it has a specifiable location in space and time, self-
awareness and expressive mental states, moves in goal-oriented ways and
understands language and communication. Also, avatars interact in a man-
ner that is largely intuitive (even if a bit surprising): they gossip, play
sports, attend social events, engage in intimate behaviours and so forth.
Yet an avatar, even one that looks strikingly real, also presents a few criti-
cal violations. The most obvious of these is that avatars lack materiality.
Avatars can go through walls (if the VR physics generator permits), move
objects without coming into contact with them, disappear, fly and radi-
cally alter their anatomy.
This immaterial property of VR simulations has long fascinated VR
enthusiasts, who frequently equate this property with religious and spiri-
tual concepts. In Gibson’s Neuromancer (1984), the protagonist, Case, is
at one point banished from the digital paradise of cyberspace (an event
referred to as ‘the Fall’) and condemned to a life of ‘imprisonment’ in the
flesh (i.e. embodiment and its corporeal restrictions). Fortunately for
Case, in the end he regains ‘the bodiless exaltation of cyberspace’ (Gibson
1984: 6), and presumably a release from those intuitions predisposed to a
material world, when his digital form is fed into the matrix to live forever
in cyber-paradise. Gibson’s next protagonist, Bobby Newark, achieves a
similar end in Mona Lisa Overdrive. In fact, this vision of body transcen-
dence is a popular theme throughout the cyberpunk genre. Journalist and
non-fiction author, Margaret Wertheim, summarizes great tracts of this
genre when she observes that ‘nothing epitomizes the cybernautic desire
to transcend the body’s limitations more than the fantasy of abandoning
the flesh completely by downloading oneself to cyber-immortality’
(Wertheim 1999: para. 10). Wertheim suggests that this desire reflects the
cyberpunk belief that ‘at core a human being is reducible to an array of
data’ (Wertheim 1999: para. 15), and this separation of the person or self
from the body shares much with the cross-culturally recurrent religious
notion that a soul or spirit may be separated from the body (for example,
Cohen (2007); see also Bloom (2004) for an account of dualism’s origins
in human cognitive development).
This association with religious phenomena makes even more sense
when we consider that immateriality enhances one’s access to strategic
information by enabling an analogue of the super perception enjoyed by
so many ancestors and deities. Without material constraints, avatars can

teleport instantly to any location in SL, see through walls and across great
distances, and become invisible. Like many gods and spirits, they can be
anywhere at any time and can evade detection.
Additionally, SL is teeming with strategic information that is not neces-
sarily built into, but is nonetheless associated with, these counterintuitive
representations. Computer mediated communication (CMC) researchers
and theorists have long noted that online relationships, particularly
romances, are often vulnerable to a ‘boom or bust phenomenon’ (Cooper
and Sportolari 1997). This phenomenon occurs where a rapid process of
self-disclosure leads budding relationships to develop at a highly acceler-
ated pace towards success or failure. For CSOR researchers, this ‘boom or
bust phenomenon’ might seem to be what naturally happens when social
cognitive mechanisms are super-stimulated. Given access to plentiful
stores of strategic information, i.e. a potential mate’s preferences, values
and so forth, our social cognitive mechanisms are able to process disposi-
tions towards others much more quickly than they could in the real world,
where strategic information is hard to acquire. We can identify at least two
mechanisms of this phenomenon in SL.
First, most residents in SL observe strict boundaries between SL and
what they frequently refer to as ‘1st’ life. Simply clicking on the ‘1st
Life’ tab of a resident’s profile often produces a pithy defence of
anonymity such as ‘Don’t ask.’ Many theorists have commented on the
affordances gained by this anonymity. Lea, Spears and DeGroot (1995:
202), for example, have noted that:
The visual anonymity of the communicators and the lack of co-presence – indeed
the physical isolation – of the communicators add to the interaction possibilities,
and for some this is the ‘magic’ of on-line relationships.
Undoubtedly, some of these ‘interaction possibilities’ and part of this

‘magic’ also resides in the immunity to negative consequences that might
be suffered for being too forthcoming with strategic information in the
real world. For example, to blatantly advertise oneself as a potential sexual
partner in the real world could be quite damaging to one’s social status.
But in SL, such information might be displayed on one’s profile, as might
one’s values, accomplishments, scandals and so on. With anonymity, peo-
ple can (and do) do whatever they please, and this includes trade freely
with pieces of strategic information.
Second, SL’s content creation tools enable a resident to shape visual,
audible and, if using a haptic interactive device, tactile, rhythmic or pro-
prioceptive information into strategic information. Evolutionary psycholo-
gists have noted that some physical traits tend to be highly sought after
when selecting mates. Women are usually attracted to men approximately
6 inches taller than themselves and who show physical signs of dominance
such as musculature and a square jaw (Ellis 1992). Among other features,
men value youthful appearance – younger than themselves – (Buss 1989)
and facial symmetry (Grammer and Thornhill 1994). Theoretically, these
features suggest a high degree of evolutionary fitness to a potential mate,
who of course wants to maximize his or her progeny’s chances for sur-
vival. In SL, one may design one’s avatar in accordance with these features

Figure 2: Strategically proportioned avatars.
or any other visual, audible or tactile properties that are likely to be seized
upon by one’s social cognitive mechanisms.
VR concepts, then, like supernatural concepts, are distinguished for
making special use of ordinary cognitive capabilities. They get our atten-
tion and stimulate our naturally developing cognitive systems by (1) strik-
ing a balance between understandable intuitiveness and attention-grabbing
novelty; and (2) including properties that enhance (rather than detract
from) inferential potential in matters of importance, particularly social
ones. These two properties give VR concepts cognitive appeal – they
demand attention, support conceptual exploration and can be accompanied
by powerful emotional experiences. However, it should also be clear that
VR concepts do not work at an optimum. They are weak analogues, not
functional equivalents, of those supernatural concepts that feature in popu-
lar religions. It is possible that focusing on this gap in affective content could
be productive for both CSOR researchers and media theorists. We will return
to this suggestion in our conclusion.
Virtual touch: a case of combining counterintuitive

representations and social inferences
As a tentative empirical footnote to these observations, we wish to illus-
trate a phenomenon in SL (we have termed it ‘virtual touch’) in which the
two inputs discussed here (counterintuitive representations and strategic
information) combine to produce an experience that might resonate as
supernatural or ‘spiritual-like’.
In previous examples, strategic information was visual (Y can see
X’s treachery) or audible (Y hears that X has a crush on her); but it can
also be kinaesthetic. Consider the satisfaction one feels when one
receives a hug or a caress from a loved one. The pleasure of touch is no
accident; it is, rather, an important part of our evolutionary heritage.
Anyone who has been to the zoo knows that chimpanzees spend a lot of
time grooming one another. This is not just idle folly on the part of the
chimpanzee. Rather, chimpanzees are social animals that depend on
cooperative bonds for survival; and because chimpanzees have no lan-
guage, touch is an extremely important form of communication. When
one chimpanzee removes parasites and other detritus from the back of

another chimpanzee, the groomed chimpanzee registers a spike in endor-

phins (Dunbar 2004). It feels good to be touched and groomed, and these
good feelings provide a strong emotional platform for cooperative
bonds. It is the same with humans. Gently touching a human infant’s
body releases oxytocin, a ‘feel good’ hormone that predisposes the
infant to develop an attachment to the mother and is essential to the
infant’s proper mental and bodily development (Uvnas-Moburg 1998,
2003). This relationship between touch, pleasure and social cooperation
persists in adulthood and has been demonstrated in many studies
(Hertenstein, Holmes, Kerestes and Verkamp 2006). It follows that
touching someone is an embodied and powerful form of social cognition
because it can catalyse oxytocin and predispose the recipient to think in
a certain, social way – that is, affectionately and cooperatively – about
his or her peers. And touching, like many forms of strategic information,
is much more regulated in the real world than it is in SL.
Now consider that SL avatars are constantly touching one another
through the use of pose balls and animations. Lovers stroll through a park
arm-in-arm. Churchgoers hold hands during a worship service. Friends
greet one another with a hug, a slap on the back or perhaps a kick to the
chest. A common but curious feature of these activities can be found in
reports of extended embodiment by way of tactile sensations registered
through the avatar. That is to say, if one’s avatar is touched on the arm or
chest, one sometimes registers tactile sensations on the corporeal arm or
chest. Consider these examples, taken from various blogs and websites, in
which SL residents report or suggest corporeal sensations and oxytocin-
like benefits (all interactions described are between avatars in SL):
The SL hug is a high fidelity representation of the actual experience, and even
though no one would confuse the virtual hug with the real one, the virtual one
will still make you respond in the same way – it evokes a remarkably warm and
fuzzy ‘feeling’ of being hugged.
(Johnson 2007)
The [sadomasochism] desk allows an animation where he can caress my ass

before spanking it. Then seeing his hand rise and fall with the blows …Ohhhhh
*shivers and grins* …it’s very very sensual.
(Horton 2007)
Odd how all of SL fades when we are together – that the ‘touch’ of another avatar
is better than the sweetest singer or most breath-taking view; that a kiss or caress
distracts me from my need to dance or travel.
(Website is no longer available)
‘It could get pretty hot and erotic at times,’ Farrant said. ‘You see your avatar
placing your hands on another avatar, which is a very sensual thing.’
(Machalinski, McConnon and Nicholson 2006)
SL hugs warm the heart – OK not like a real life hug, but that person still
touches you.
(Viklund 2007)

Figure 3: Avatars touching.
These reports have been analysed elsewhere for what they can tell us
about the cognitive foundations of instances of extended embodiment
(Hornbeck 2007). Here we simply wish to note that SL residents who were
highly focused on VR phenomena (for example, for more information
on ‘presence’ or ‘being there’ in VR worlds, see Garau, Slater, Pertaub
and Razzaque (2005) and Yee (2005)), which included counterintuitive
representations (avatars, VR terrain) and strategic information (touching and
any profile, visual or other information), reported an emotionally salient
experience – corporeal sensations and ‘warm’, oxytocin-like effects – that
was itself counterintuitive! That is, to register tactile sensations where no
material agent has administered them violates intuitive expectations of the
relationship between touch and sensation, and might by some accounts be
considered a ‘spiritual-like’ experience by virtue of this counterintuitiveness.
If something remotely ‘spiritual-like’ can be imparted by technology that
is very tame in comparison to those other worlds represented in cyberpunk
literature, future VR developments could inspire experiences that are, by
all accounts, religious or spiritual.
Conclusion
Making special use of ordinary cognition seems to characterize many reli-
gious concepts and experiences as well as many VR concepts and experi-
ences. Specifically, religious cognition and VR cognition only modestly
violate intuitive cognitive expectations in such a way as to yield unusually
high levels of inferential potential, particularly in social domains. Perhaps
because of these parallels, for some the conditions already seem sufficient
to qualify VR experiences as quasi-religious or spiritual. This is potentially
significant. For CSOR researchers, VR suggests a new way of examining
the mind’s resources. Cognitive scientists have long recognized that it can
be productive to look at brain-damaged patients who have lost the capacity
to perform certain tasks – to look at how the system responds when some-
thing has been knocked out (Gazzaniga, Velletri and Premack 1971). In VR
worlds such as SL, on the other hand, where we can retain control over
phenomenal inputs, we may proceed by examining what has been put into
the user. Which conditions suffice for a religious or spiritual experience,

and which do not? Perhaps by using VR and borrowing from media theo-
rists specializing in religious content, we can approach these questions with
greater precision. For media researchers, examining this gap in affective
content and how this gap narrows or widens with new technologies could
help to explain how VR, and media generally, contributes to the ‘mediati-
zation’ of religion and to the ‘enchantment’ of popular culture. The CSOR
material we have presented here is only a brief introduction to a large body
of work that could be valuable to those researchers.
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Understanding superpowers in
contemporary television fiction
Line Nybro Petersen
Abstract Keywords
The presence of the supernatural is a recurrent component in contempo- superpowers
rary television fiction series. From Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003), television fiction
to Charmed (1998–2006), and Heroes (2006–), audiences follow the nar- cognition
ratives of otherwise ordinary characters that are attributed extraordinary daydreams
abilities. Naturally, superheroes have been the focus of research within collective mourning
different fields, offering understandings within the framework of psychol- popular culture
ogy and anthropology (Bettelheim 1976; Barrett 2004; Boyer 2002) or
sociology, and as cultural myth (Partridge 2004 and 2005; Lawrence and
Jewett 2002). The article argues that the salience of superpowers should
not solely be understood through a sociological framework or as a com-
mon psychological feature in humans, but rather that both approaches are
relevant when attempting to grasp the phenomenon. Thus, the article
attempts to uncover questions of ‘gratification’ and ‘fascination’ for audi-
ences on a mental, as well as on a societal level.
The phenomenon of superheroes has notably been a relevant field of study

for researchers ranging from media studies and psychology through to
social theory, but also in religious studies and semiotics. In the field of
psychology, or cognition, the primary interest of researchers, such as
Justin Barrett (2004) and Pascal Boyer (2002), has been the seemingly
permanent and universal fascination with the supernatural as it often
emerges within religious contexts. On the other hand, sociologist Graham
Murdock (1997), Christopher Partridge (2004, 2005) and others mainly
discuss the persistence with which magical narratives remain a crucial part
of modern western communities that, for the most part, consider them-
selves secularized. In this context, both fields of study allow us to pose
two relevant questions: ‘How can we understand audiences’ fascination
with stories about supernatural agents?’ and ‘What gratification do these
stories offer audiences?’ By exploring the audiences’ ‘gratification’, I focus
mainly on the possible reasons that people might indulge in stories of super-
heroes. Thus, the analysis of the three contemporary serials, Buffy the Vampire
Slayer (1997–2003), Charmed (1998–2006) and Heroes (2006–) considers
aspects of the supernatural through both universal and sociocultural per-
spectives. It is relevant to consider the relation between the two research
fields, cognition and sociology, since society is certainly shaped by human
minds developed through evolution, but human minds are also affected by
the structures of society, thereby evolving our cognitive predispositions.

Eviatar Zerubavel discusses the advantage of taking a theoretical approach

that considers both the cognitive and the sociological:
In highlighting the social aspects of cognition, cognitive sociology reminds us

that we think not only as individuals and as human beings, but also as social
beings, products of particular social environments that affect as well as constrain
the way we cognitively interact with the world.
(Zerubavel 1997: 6)
Thus, the initial part of this article briefly frames the analysis of the
selected serials, with the particular focus on superheroes, as central to
American popular culture. Following this introductory section, I turn to
the two questions posed earlier, commencing with a discussion of two
main cognitive and psychological aspects: our fascination with the
supernatural (which seems to have universalistic features) and the grati-
fication of such stories (which I argue are comparable to our daydreams
by providing a mental escape from the insecurities of life). A similar
frame for indulgence is then discussed in the light of social theory, as I
propose that these stories can be viewed as ‘tools’ in shaping modern
identities. Finally, I return to the issue of fascination, which seems to be
enforced within the more culturally specific features of these stories,
namely American heroism.
The salience of superpowers in contemporary television

Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charmed and Heroes are representative in the
sense that they underline the constant popularity of characters with super-
powers: Buffy and Charmed ran seven and eight full seasons respectively,
while Heroes, as a newcomer, was the highest rated show in the autumn of
2006, with 14 million American viewers (Mahan 2006). A quick view of
other contemporary serials illustrates how an iteration of specific super-
powers can be found. The characters Phoebe in Charmed and Isaac in
Heroes have the ability to see the future, and similar psychic abilities are
also played out in serials such as Medium (2005–), Ghost Whisperer
(2005–), The Dead Zone (2002–) and 1-800-Missing (2003–06). In Buffy
the Vampire Slayer, Buffy’s extreme physical strength, which enables her
as a young woman to fight much larger and presumably stronger vam-
pires, can also be recognized in the female characters of Niki from Heroes
and Max in Dark Angel (2000–02). As we shall see, this iteration is not
due to a lack of imagination, but may rather be understood as cognitive
memorable constructions. Buffy has a classical quality in the sense that the
serial centres around one heroic figure, while both Charmed and Heroes
have several heroic figures and thereby become an ensemble of supernat-
ural abilities. The multi-plot narrative reflects a dominating contemporary
tendency in serial dramas.
It should be clearly noted that the scope of this article does not include
the extensive history of superhero characters in American popular fiction,
but only briefly recognizes that these serials certainly have close ties to the
superhero genre that is explored intensively in Marvel comics and other
comic books with famous figures, such as Spiderman and Superman. The
latter was adapted into television serials several times throughout television
92 Line Nybro Petersen

history, the latest being both Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of
Superman (1993–97) and Smallville (2001–). The connection to comic
book superheroes is even made explicit numerous times in Heroes when
the Japanese character Hiro Nakamura constantly refers to his own situa-
tion as being parallel to that of his fictional heroes and, concurrently, his
future is narrated in a comic book drawn by the character Isaac Mendez,
who has the ability to draw the future. Characters that were created with
great reference to the comic book-style hero can be found in television
fiction serials from as early as The Six Million Dollar Man (1974–78),
which was later spun off into the Bionic Woman (1976–78). These televi-
sion programmes spurred on a wave of comic book heroes in television
fiction (Brooks and Marsh 2003). Notably, a remake of Bionic Woman
premiered on US television screens in 2007 and on Danish television
(TV3) in 2008.
Generic relations to, for example, science fiction should also be con-
sidered. From the television series The Twilight Zone (1959–64) in the
Golden Age of American television and onwards, science fiction can be
seen as a genre that heavily comments and reflects upon contemporary
society, and is allowed to do so because of its out-of-this-world setting.
As Steven D. Stark claims about the creator of The Twilight Zone, Rod
Serling: ‘Serling had turned to science fiction primarily because it
offered him more freedom to make statements about political and social
conditions’ (Stark 1997: 87). Therefore, such genres, in spite of the dis-
play of the supernatural and fantastic, offer a level of realism incorpo-
rated within the fiction, which then mirrors society. ‘The Twilight Zone
implicitly dealt with our newfound national inability to trust anyone or
anything – even reality itself. Beneath the facade of fifties unity there
were doubts, after all’ (Stark 1997: 89). I will return to this issue to dis-
cuss whether the contemporary serials reveal collective feelings in con-
temporary society.
Finally, Stark (1997) comments that the devoted audience within the
science fiction genre were typically teenage boys and young men, but a
new tone or direction can be detected in the portrayal of superheroes.
While the superhero genre can, as such, be seen initially as male domi-
nated, with the aforementioned classical comic book heroes and few
female characters, (post-) feminism seems to have entered the scene in
a serious way and, in this way, attempts to attract a wider female audi-
ence. The examples chosen for this article illustrate this as all three
serials have female characters with superpowers, but more can be found
in series such as Sabrina, The Teenage Witch (1996–2003), Dark Angel,
and Tru Calling (2003–05). It is furthermore worth noticing that a sig-
nificant part of these serials appeals to a teenaged audience.
Christopher Partridge explains the appeal in these terms:
Positive images of witchcraft portrayed in popular series [… ] have transformed

the popularity of occult figures to the extent that they are seen as symbols of
‘girl power’. They seem to offer the hope of a degree of control to teenagers
seeking to negotiate the complex emotional world of relationships and identity
formation.
(Partridge 2004: 134)

The targeting of a young audience is not only illustrated by representing

young protagonists, it is also done with the appeal of the horror genre
which ‘invaded the domestic space and opened up the family room to
the horrific world outside the traditionally private and safe domain’
(Freedman 2005: 159) and appeals to teens through ‘...expressing the anx-
ieties of inbetween-ness – a metamorphosing body caught between child-
hood and adulthood’ (Freedman 2005: 161). We can argue that the deliberate
use of well-established generic elements aids in targeting the fascination
of a specific audience that is often younger and, to a higher degree than
previously, female.
Mental fascination with supernatural agents

In an effort to uncover this issue, I will discuss superpowers of ordinary
characters in terms of cognition. Cognitive anthropologist Pascal Boyer
argues that our fascination with such constructions is quite natural,
which explains why these types of stories hold such a permanent place
in our minds. The central issue is discovering patterns in supernatural
agents, and we shall see how the serials discussed here cover the most
frequently used structural tools in terms of how these powers are con-
structed.
Pascal Boyer uses the term ‘counterintuitive properties’ in order to
define the supernatural (Boyer 2002), and an example from the first
episode of Heroes illustrates this. The character Peter Petrelli has recur-
rent dreams that he is able to fly and, eventually, the dreams become so
convincing that he jumps off the roof of a building to test his theory. He
realizes instead that his brother, Nathan, is the one with the flying abili-
ties, while he himself adapts superpowers from the people he comes into
contact with. This means that when he is near his brother, he can fly.
Peter quickly understands the responsibility of being special and quits
his day job as a male nurse so that he can pursue his destiny. Just as for
Peter, the serials discussed in this article all deal with normal human
beings discovering their superhuman abilities. The hero is, in other
words, always created in the form of a human and this illustrates, as
Pascal Boyer points out in his Religion Explained (2002), the similari-
ties to the structure found in religion: ‘That Gods and spirits are con-
strued very much like persons is probably one of the best-known traits of
religion’ (Boyer 2002: 162).
Boyer argues that supernatural concepts are not the result of random-
ness or strangeness, although it might seem this way on the surface
(Boyer 2002). Television producers might think that by allowing a main
character to do strange things will make a new series interesting but, as
Boyer says, this strangeness will always be constructed in a certain way
in order for it to be memorable, plausible and salient in viewers’ minds.
The question of individual and collective recollection is important, since
it is the constant recycling of the same construction in new settings that
allows us to consider that these figures have some impact on our
thoughts, whether it is in popular culture or in the world’s major reli-
gions. Boyer applies a simple formula to his theory: supernatural beings
are always the fusion of a subject [person] with counterintuitive properties

(Boyer 2002: 73). For Peter and his brother, the formula would look
like this:
Peter [person] + special biological property (absorbs others’

superpowers)
Nathan [person] + special physical property (disregards forces of
gravity)
Buffy, as another example, is the vampire slayer of her generation, a des-

tiny her family has tried to avoid by moving from Los Angeles to small-
town Sunnydale. Alas, her destiny cannot be ignored as Sunnydale turns
out to be the world centre for vampires. By the beginning of episode one,
Buffy therefore already knows her own superpowers; she has incredible
physical strength, especially for a normal-sized teenage girl. Thus, the same
formula applies to her:
Buffy [person] + special physical property (extreme physical power)
The special feature, whether it is physical, psychological or biological is

always something that counters our intuitive ontology about human abili-
ties, thus creating a superhuman. In the construction of many superheroes,
though, it is certainly true that they have a range of counterintuitive prop-
erties. For example, female superhero Jaime Sommers in Bionic Woman,
who obtains her powers following a bionic operation that saves her life.
She has great physical strength in her right arm, legs that give her great
speed and the ability to hear over long distances. These characteristics are
not unlike those of Superman (1978–2006, movie serial). The point is that
the nature of such powers is always constructed within the context of
physical, biological or cognitive properties. Boyer concludes that since
supernatural concepts are constructed in this simple fashion ‘… there is
only a rather short Catalogue of Supernatural Templates that more or less
exhausts the range of culturally successful concepts in this domain’
(Boyer 2002: 90). The iteration of certain superpowers explored in televi-
sion fiction that was mentioned earlier underpins Boyer’s argument.
We might also view our fascination in light of the events that often com-
pel superheroes to act. These serials are morality plays; they deal with what
is wrong and what is right. They also deal with the injustice and misfortune
of the innocent, such as young teenagers getting killed by hungry vampires at
Sunnydale High in Buffy the Vampire Slayer or perhaps, the more relative
theme of the threat of an atomic bomb exploding in New York killing thou-
sands of people, which was the main plot in season one of Heroes. Justin
Barrett (2004) argues that when we stand before unexplainable events, we are
cognitively predisposed to search for a ‘who’ to explain the ‘why’. In other
words, we search for agency, supernatural or not. Barrett labels this mecha-
nism as a hyper agency detection device (HADD), which is activated when
rational reasoning does not seem to suffice as an explanation. It is the same
ability that enables us to determine correlations about absolutely normal
events in our lives (Barrett 2004). ‘Because people are so good at tabulating
regularities, however, we often overestimate the connection between factors’
(Barrett 2004: 51). This is the ‘hyper’ part of HADD, which most of us will

recognize for example, as being, when a series of small but unfortunate

things happen to us within a short period of time, we explain them by claim-
ing ‘someone must really be out to get me’. Mysterious and unfortunate
events activate HADD and encourage us to search for an explanation outside
rationality. Thus, superheroes and the stories that involve them trigger our
evolutionistic cognitive remains, which aid in deciphering a possibly danger-
ous situation and let us know whether we are about to ‘eat or be eaten’. These
are situations that we, living in civilized societies, are no longer exposed to
on a daily basis, thus the stories offer a rare (and safe) form of excitement.
Furthermore, psychologist Bettelheim discusses the meaning and
importance of fairy tales in The Uses of Enchantment (1976) and argues
that they appeal to us in the same way as daydreaming.
… although the events which occur in fairy tales are often unusual and most
improbable, they are always presented as ordinary, something that could happen
to you or me or the person next door when out on a walk in the woods. Even the
most remarkable encounters are related in casual, everyday ways in fairy tales.
(Bettelheim 1976: 37)
The same can be said for stories of superheroes. In Heroes, the characters
discover their powers by coincidence, prior to which they lived rather normal
lives at all levels of society: as policemen, teenage cheerleaders or single
parents. This makes it possible for the viewer to identify with the characters
at different levels, and it seems that part of the attraction lies simply in apply-
ing superpowers to these ordinary people. Furthermore, in Heroes, the usage
of very common names such as Peter, Claire and Jessica strengthens the
accessibility for identification. This generic construction of characters is not
only developed through commonly used names, but also through establishing
stereotypical figures – such as the shy journalist Clark Kent, who only
succeeds with the opposite sex when he turns into Superman. In Buffy the
Vampire Slayer, the main character is seemingly just another teenage girl,
and the three sisters in Charmed are just normal women, with normal jobs
and normal lives – at least until they discover their destiny. Eco discusses
identification in his ‘The Myth of Superman’ (1979) and emphasizes that the
double identity is important in the sense that ‘any accountant in any
American city secretly feeds the hope that one day, from the slough of his
actual personality, there can spring forth a superman who is capable of
redeeming years of mediocre existence’ (Eco 1979: 108). Notably, most
commercials play on the same feelings of hope as the product is the catalyst
for a change in social status, whether it is the newest mobile phone or car.
We can detect a development from the classical superhero to the con-
temporary television hero, exemplified by Buffy who has the ability to feel
both self-assured and insecure about the events in her life and is, therefore,
not as stereotypically characterized as the Clark Kent figure. The super-
heroes discussed here are slightly more rounded characters, where the
emphasis is placed on the individuality of the character, thereby allowing
the viewer to reflect on the characters as complex modern individuals, not
unlike themselves. This newly discovered reflexiveness is discussed further
when we move on to consider social theory. In short, three levels of attraction
can be identified in the cognitive science of religion and psychology: first

of all, the cognitive construction ensures that the characters are memo-
rable; second, these stories invite us to search for agency; while, third, they
offer us accessible identification.
Superpowers and the gratification of daydreaming

Cognitive theory in this way provides us with an understanding of why we
find supernatural beings interesting and fascinating, but cognitive theory of
religion also deals with the significance and influence of these phenomena,
which are often considered to have a greater impact within the realms of
religion than elsewhere. However, to dismiss the importance of the so-called
non-serious supernatural representations would be a mistake ‘because there
is no difference in origin between concepts in the serious and non-serious
registers. Indeed, concepts often migrate from one to another’ (Boyer 2002:
105). Basically, what has a cultural impact is constantly changing; so, while
we might consider popular culture phenomena as part of the non-serious
register, it can still have an impact on a mental level. Supernatural concepts
within popular culture are, as Boyer’s formula illustrates, clearly similar to
those of gods and spirit within religion and activate the same cognitive infer-
ence systems. In the reality game show Who Wants to Be a Superhero
(2006–), eager young participants create their own superhero character in
the hope of becoming the next American superhero. The show illustrates
how people are encouraged to erase the borders between the fictional and
the real, and to establish schemas for social success on either level.
In Heroes, the origin of the powers themselves is explained in terms of
genetic evolution:
They say that man uses only a tenth of his brainpower. Another per cent, and we
might actually be worthy of God’s image. Unless, of course, that day has already
arrived. The Human Genome Project has discovered that tiny variations in man’s
genetic code are taking place at increasingly rapid rates. Teleportation, levitation,
tissue regeneration. Is this outside the realm of possibilities?
(Heroes 2006: episode 1, ‘Genesis’)
These words are spoken by the Indian genetic scientist, Mohinder Suresh,
while teaching a class during the first episode of Heroes, but the idea of
alternate DNA was already played out in the television serial Prey (1998).
Although, in Prey, the advanced human race is the enemy rather than the
saviour, and the protagonist Dr Sloan Parker does not have any superpowers
herself. Hence, Prey is not a story of superheroes but a more general science
fiction narrative. It is an imperative element in stories of superheroes that the
identification lies with the protagonist who has superpowers. But at the
same time, the antagonists are also equipped with superpowers: the vam-
pires in Buffy, the warlocks in Charmed and evil Sylar in Heroes. We might
argue that this element simply reinforces the importance of the superhero.
Superpowers can only be fought with superpowers. Without vampires,
Buffy’s abilities would not be needed, and a display of her powers would
seem foolish rather than heroic. The representation of good versus evil is
therefore crucial, and one necessitates the other. In this sense, this narrative
construction legalizes the presence of a rather egocentric way of life by
manifesting viewers’ moral sympathies with the protagonist.

Stories of superheroes, as well as daydreams, offer two main things:

first and foremost, they provide a refuge from the insecurities of every-
day life; and second, they are at the same time valid places to live out
egocentric thoughts and desires. An explicit example is the Internet
stripper and mother, Niki Sanders, in Heroes. She has a lot of trouble
making ends meet, and her son Micah is expelled from private school
during the first episode because of her debts. Just when things cannot
get any worse, Niki’s alternate personality, her superego Jessica, comes
forth and saves the day by killing the evil-minded men who are trying
to collect the debt. In contrast to Niki, Jessica is in absolute control of
her life and continues to provide for her family by working as a hired
gun. This loss of control in one’s own life is recognizable to most peo-
ple at some level, just as the desire to regain control. Bettelheim sum-
marizes the possibilities that daydreams offer in these terms, ‘...the
fulfilment of wishes, the winning over competitors, the destruction of
enemies...’ (Bettelheim 1976: 36). In other words, the world of super-
heroes, just as our daydreams, is the ultimate source of self-realization
and mastering of the world.
Along the same lines, we can then understand the gratification of
superheroes as a source of identification in which new grounds for self-
worth can be found. In the first episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy
is the new student at a high school and the entire episode deals with the
issue of her fitting in, finding the right group of friends and re-establishing
a self-identity. This is a recognizable situation for most people entering a
new social environment but for Buffy, her new friendship with the girl,
Willow, is quickly solidified as Buffy saves Willow from the deadly bite of
a vampire and so what could have been a long process of finding one’s
own place within social structures is quickly resolved for the superhero.
Her insecurities about how to establish a sense of her own worth are
‘fixed’ by her extraordinary abilities.
I also mentioned the egocentric nature of the superhero figure. Peter
Petrelli in Heroes cries out, ‘It’s my turn to be somebody now, Nathan’
(Heroes 2006: episode 1, ‘Genesis’), before jumping off the roof of a build-
ing. This quote demonstrates the desire to be special that often unfolds in
such stories. What characterizes daydreams is that they are often so ego-
centric that we would consider them socially unacceptable, so they remain
as part of our inner thoughts. Thus, stories of superheroes become play-
grounds for displaying such grim feelings, but the need for discretion is
transferred into the fictional world in order for the story to maintain plausi-
bility. In Buffy the Vampire Slayer, it is imperative to the story that Buffy’s
strength is kept secret to the general public because, if not, the story would
take a dramatically different course focusing on the attention, disbelief and
questioning that Buffy would face. This would simply get in the way of her
saving the community time and time again from evil vampires, thus violat-
ing the frame for the daydream.
Finally, we can argue that the narratives in stories of superheroes, as
well as the direction in daydreams (in contrast to regular dreams), are
controlled. This means that whatever we wish to happen will happen. In
Charmed, Piper is lured into a trap by her boyfriend Jeremy, who turns
out to be a witch murderer. He attempts to kill her and attain her powers.

In the same pilot episode, Prue bumps into Andy, an old friend, but the
meeting is somewhat awkward as Prue obviously fancies Andy. But for
our superheroes everything is resolved: Piper is saved, the warlock is
killed and Andy stops by the manor to ask Prue out on a date. This,
Bettelheim would argue, is similar to the understanding of fairy tales,
which he says is
very much the result of common conscious and unconscious content having been
shaped by the conscious mind, not of one particular person, but the consensus of
many in regard to what they view as universal human problems, and what they
accept as desirable solutions.
(Bettelheim 1976: 36)
While the serials might deal with basic universal desires, the framework is
often determined by the social context in which they are produced. Thus, the
daydream, as well as superhero narratives, is structured around a fluid tran-
scendence between the everyday-like and the egocentric – one legitimizing
the other. The same issues, namely the issue of personal insecurity and con-
trol, are also at stake, when we consider the issue of fascination in terms of
social science.
Superheroes mirroring late modern identities

The cognitive science of religion and the studies of Bettelheim illustrate a
universalistic mental attraction to the supernatural, but they fail to answer
questions about the salience found in western, particularly American, popu-
lar culture. Why do supernatural agents seem to play such a dominating role
in contemporary American television fiction? And can this salience be
understood according to sociologists’ thoughts on late modernity? The fol-
lowing focuses on the latter question and the matter of ‘gratification’, before
turning to the issue of ‘fascination’. Cognitive theory deals mostly with the
non-conscious and perhaps even non-reflected actions of humans, but as
Anthony Giddens points out about people living in late modernity, ‘… agents
are normally able, if asked, to provide discursive interpretations of the
nature of, and the reasons for, the behaviour in which they engage’ (Giddens
1991: 35). It is the reflected responses to one’s own role in contemporary
society that might enable us to understand the issue of superheroes as an
indication of a societal state of mind.
As mentioned, superpowers are constructed in such a way that the people
holding them are exempt from recognizable insecurities about social
exchange, and superheroes are also in the position of being offered the cer-
tainty of destiny. But the question of ‘destiny’ is constantly placed within
the frame of late modernity, which means that it is considered as something
that can be negotiated. When the teenage cheerleader, Claire, in Heroes,
initially discovers that she has special abilities, she searches for answers to
where those powers came from. She gets the high school nerd, Zach, to
videotape her as she jumps from a construction building, as a sort of mani-
festation of her powers of tissue regeneration. Claire is obviously, in con-
trast to Zach, popular in school; she is pretty, has long blonde hair, and
wears her cheerleading outfit. Throughout the first half of season one,

Claire struggles with her newly discovered identity. In the third episode,
she rejects her powers in order to claim her normalcy:
Zach: ‘So that’s it? You’re just gonna go pump your pom-poms and pretend
you’re no different than any other girl on the squad?’
Claire: ‘Yes, actually.’
Zach: ‘But you are, Claire! You are different. Don’t you see that? Don’t
you see that none of this matters? School spirit doesn’t matter. Being
a pretty blonde cheerleader doesn’t matter. It’s not who you are
anymore.’
Claire: ‘Who am I? So what, I can crawl through a wood chipper and live to
tell about it. That narrows my choices in life to freak or guinea pig,
in most cases both. What’s wrong with wanting to be normal? You
should try it.’
(Heroes 2006: episode 3, ‘One Giant Leap’)
This rejection of one’s destiny can be seen as a classical trait of modernity,

which places emphasis on individuality, ‘The idea that each person has a
unique character and special potentialities that may or may not be fulfilled
is alien to pre-modern culture’ (Giddens 1991: 74), and also argues that
‘modernity effectively involves the institutionalisation of doubt’ (Giddens
1990: 176). Claire finally discovers the superficial nature of her relation-
ship with the popular cheerleaders and embraces her friendship with Zach,
whom she has come to trust. She accepts that she is special. The construc-
tion of ‘Claire’ as a character underlines Partridge’s notion that girl power
and the appeal to a young female audience is in focus. In connection with
the preceding discussion about daydreaming and identification with the
protagonist, this rejection becomes important in order for viewers to iden-
tify with Claire. Her decision is based on values that can easily be trans-
ferred from fiction into society – namely, the basis of choosing your
friends. This also illustrates how Heroes draws upon characteristics of the
self-reflexive individual as described by Giddens, ‘At each moment, or at
least at regular intervals, the individual is asked to conduct a self-interro-
gation in terms of what is happening’ (Giddens 1991: 76).
Giddens recognizes the dualistic nature of late modernity, because the
openness towards the future means insecurities for the individual and for
society ‘opening itself up to a problematic future’ (Giddens 1991: 111). This
openness that was incorporated in late modern societies can then lead to a
search for greater meaning, whether in established religions, New Age or
even in popular television fiction. Graham Murdock argues that religion or
the search for greater meaning can be understood as a commodity that can be
purchased and tried on for size, simply to be discarded and replaced at a later
stage in life. But Murdock argues that consumer culture at all levels of
society leads to a feeling of redundancy: ‘We have entered the age of the
“dispensable self”. Consumption could offset the boredom of the assembly
line, but it cannot easily compensate for this deep loss of dignity and
self-worth’ (Murdock 1997: 95). Perhaps superpowers can be seen as a sort
of commodity, whose functions are compensatory for feelings of redundancy.
This display of ‘destiny’ that is found in the serials discussed here has
evolved from the definition of destiny that is often displayed in religious

narratives or classical mythology. Umberto Eco deals with the classical

superhero figure and suggests that such heroes are instruments in maintaining
the idea that personal responsibility is obsolete (Eco 1979). Eco’s argument
is that if the world is unchangeable and the hero is trapped by destiny, he
cannot be held accountable. Rather, in contemporary narratives, superheroes
are constantly held accountable for the way in which their actions affect
society. In Spider-Man (2002), Peter Parker’s decision not to stop a robber
leads to the murder of his grandfather, who uttered the telling phrase ‘with
great power comes great responsibility’ only hours before his death.
The duality also becomes explicit within other elements of the narra-
tive structure, which illustrates the openness of modernity but reveals it as
flawed. According to Giddens, the self-reflexive individual finds self-
worth in knowing one’s direction in life. The Charmed sister, Phoebe, is in
many ways the family’s black sheep, as she lives a life without goals and
prospects in the beginning of episode one. Nonetheless, the discovery of
her powers almost immediately leads to a sense of peace and purpose for
her. In contemporary society, we are no longer expected to follow the foot-
steps of our parents but instead to find our own path in life. This, Giddens
argues, leads to great insecurities as a result of constantly re-inventing
oneself (Giddens 1991). Hence, these narratives offer some comfort of not
having to make that decision, and we might assume that we are drawn to
them for this reason. The three sisters in Charmed realize that they have
inherited their powers as witches from their mother and grandmother, and
they follow in their footsteps. Throughout all of the seasons of Charmed,
both mother and grandmother return as ghosts to guide the inexperienced
witches, and this new understanding of their roots leads to a tighter family
bond. Thereby, Charmed uses elements of a more traditional society and
the more classical traits of superheroes to reinforce the notion of destiny.
Thus, the duality built in to the narrative structure of modern-day super-
heroes illustrates what is offered to audiences following the serials: first, the
reflexiveness with which the characters are established allows for accessible
identification and the opportunity to reflect upon the insecurities in the audi-
ences’ own lives; and second, the level of identification allows viewers to
fall into the utopian dream of a predestined life – a life of making morally
correct decisions and finding security and identification in their roots.
Cultural appeal of the American hero

I have argued that the construction of supernatural beings fascinates us on
a basic cognitive level, but some of our fascination can also be understood
as being more culturally determined. Taken within a more specific cultural
framework than the more general notions about late modernity outlined
above, American culture takes centre stage. ‘Superhero narratives clearly
give substance to certain ideological myths about the society they address:
the USA’ (Reynolds 1992: 74). There are two ways in which stories of
superheroes can be said to be particularly appealing to an American audi-
ence: they represent the journey of the individual saviour as well as the
establishing of an ‘us-against-them’ theme.
An early manifestation of the superhero as an American icon is the comic
book series Captain America, which, according to creators Jack Kirby and
Joe Simon, was created as America entered the fight in World War II
NL 6 91–106 © Intellect Ltd 2008 101

1. As a Marvel comic (Simpson, Rodiss and Bushell 2004). Captain America was a true patriotic
book hero, Captain
America returned
superhero who single-handedly fought the Nazis. And certainly he represents
as a member of the specific characteristics that apply to modern-day superheroes as well.1
Avengers comic book Patriotism is still a popular issue, particularly in Heroes, as the phrase ‘Save
series beginning in
1963. The Avengers
the cheerleader. Save the world’ becomes significant in saving New York
was a team of the (and thus the world) from the explosion of an atomic bomb. Peter Petrelli is
strongest heroes that the lead motivational figure in the resolution of this plot and is therefore
also included Thor,
a character solely
similar to the Captain America figure; it is one man’s fight against the world.
created on the basis In the multi-narrative of Heroes, Peter is joined by his fellow superheroes.
of Asgardian religion. They leave their families behind, so the journey of the superhero is a journey
This is one of many
examples of the
that you travel alone. This also underpins the appeal to a youthful audience,
similarities in the as the serials basically mirror the transformation into independence. An
construction of important feature of the superhero is the self-sacrificing individual nature.
religious figures and
superheroes, which
Character Hiro states, ‘A hero never uses his powers for his own good’
makes a transition (Heroes 2006: episode 1, ‘Genesis’) after discovering his ability to stop the
from one universe into time-space continuum when his friend Ando challenges him to stop time and
the other plausible.
reappear in a ladies bathroom. Loeb and Morris use the following distinction
in their definition of the superhero, ‘The more powerful a person is, the less
he or she would risk in fighting evil or helping someone else [...] if you are
actually heroic in your actions, it must be because you indeed have a lot to
lose’ (Loeb and Morris 2005: 12). The sacrificing of family or close relation-
ships is therefore what makes the superhero truly heroic.
The superheroes fight for ‘truth, justice, and the American way’ as the
tag line says in the television serial Adventures of Superman (1952–58)
(Garrett 2005). Garrett claims that:
The traditional superhero myth suggests that power in one set of capable hands
is the surest way to achieve justice, that democratic systems can’t be trusted to
perform their tasks alone, that anyway, the hero would never take advantage of
those he serves, and that the world requires American superheroism.
(Garrett 2005: 77)
Strong arguments for this are certainly illustrated in the rather obvious
allegory of the unpreventable events of 9/11 found in the plot of Heroes. It
is an element that is visible within a range of television series, from
Jericho (2006–) to every season of 24 (2001–); they revisit a sort of men-
tal processing of terrorist attacks on American soil. Furthermore, there is
an element of a collective processing of feelings, as understood according
to Stig Hjarvard’s thoughts on the renewed role of the media as a space for
collective mourning and celebration,
Treatment of collective feelings is not reserved for the big catastrophes, but is a
recurrent feature of the media and they may not only be responsible for emotional
guidance, but facilitate the construction of collective emotions in the first place.
(Hjarvard 2006: 10)
The discourse in Heroes unmistakably puts forth the notion that a solution
to such world events are indeed preventable and can be resolved by the
hands of one or a few true heroes, and such is the outcome of season one.
In a way, what viewers are watching through the narrative is the rewriting

of history, and the narrative addresses the collective national feelings

about such events. This also illustrates the connection of the stories men-
tioned earlier to generic elements of the sci-fi genre, which is specifically
open to comment on current events. Quentin Schultze writes about the role
of such narratives within mass media:
Stories both enable humans to see what is wrong with the world and equip them
to imagine a better, redeemed world. Stories thus enable people to talk of begin-
nings and endings, to connect those delimiting events to the present, and to
relate the stories to their own life.
(Schultze 2003: 182)
He continues to say that such stories invite ‘audiences to join in the

expressions of these stories by thinking wishfully with others’ (Schultze
2003: 187), and this is certainly what is provided here. That stories of
superheroes create a space for wishful thinking follows the argument of
the similarities to our daydreams that unfolded previously, and in doing so
represents an utopian society or, as Reynolds puts it, ‘The superhero by
his very existence asserts American Utopianism, which remains [...] a
highly potent cultural myth’ (Reynolds 1992: 83). So, we might say that
these stories reflect a society that urges the creation of stories, which can
replace the unbearable events of the past and insecurities about the future.
These stories are at the same time a place for the exploration of collective
feelings, which might reflect a sense of unity within a society.
This unity is reinforced by another important element as the conflict
between good and evil in stories of superheroes is constructed around a
clear axis of ‘us versus them’. In Charmed and Buffy the Vampire Slayer,
the fight against evil is illustrated as very clear-cut. There are rarely any
doubts about who might be considered to be evil, since vampires and war-
locks are often portrayed as hideous-looking creatures. These serials both
operate with this narrative structure, which might be understood as being
particularly American – the united society against an outside enemy.
Although, in Heroes, the structure is somewhat different: throughout sea-
son one, ‘evil’ is represented through Sylar, a young man who kills people
with extraordinary abilities and takes on their powers as his own, but Sylar
tricks people into believing that he is good. Those who believe him die a
terrible death. This narrative is similar to the Christian narrative of the
Book of Revelation, in which the Antichrist rises in the shape of a saviour,
only to expose himself before Judgement Day and leave his followers
doomed from salvation. Partridge notes that this type of Satanization of
others is connected to Christian eschatological thinking, which particu-
larly appeals to an American audience (Partridge 2005).
Eschatological themes are indeed salient within the tales of super-
heroes, which are often about death and world destruction, and Garrett
implies that the link to Christianity is evident, ‘comics deal with issues
near and dear to our hearts: faith, hope, belief, guilt, justice, redemption,
ultimate meaning, ultimate evil [...] the American monomyth is actually
an ongoing retelling of the Judeo-Christian story of redemption’ (Garrett
2005: 25). The references to spirituality or even institutionalized religion
are noticeable within all three serials. In Charmed, an Ouija board is used
NL 6 91–106 © Intellect Ltd 2008 103

as a tool that opens up the sisters’ awareness of the spirit world, and in
Heroes, Professor Suresh mentions that if God created himself in his own
image, it would be that of a cockroach, since the cockroach has adapted
itself to survive almost any circumstance. The many and obvious refer-
ences to religion and spirituality can be understood in two ways. First of
all, we can consider these intertextual references as a structural device
used to indicate to audiences that the serial contains a layer other than just
solid entertainment. In other words, the series position themselves as pro-
viding food for thought and invites us to search for connections hidden
beneath the surface. In accordance with Barrett’s cognitive approach dis-
cussed earlier, these types of serials then attempt to activate our HADD.
The use of references of any kind is extremely widespread within televi-
sion fiction and is described by Catherine Johnson in these terms, ‘These
programmes signalled themselves as literate, complex, and “deep”, while
simultaneously offering the familiar pleasures of “everyday” television,
inscribing different reading positions within one text’ (Johnson 2005: 58).
And second, these references are connected to a general American interest
in themes about the Apocalypse and, as Garrett points out in his Holy
Superheroes (2005), that:
It’s not that people don’t get killed, that destruction on a massive scale doesn’t
take place, that in a sense, the world doesn’t end. All of those things take place.
It’s just that all of those events happen for a reason – which is what apocalyptic
literature always tells us.
(Garrett 2005: 130)
Thus, we can understand stories of superheroes as being about disregard-

ing notions of despair, almost in the same way of thinking as within mes-
sianism or millennialism (Partridge 2005). We are invited to hope, to
daydream, to aspire and to desire. But this invitation is not random,
Schultze argues, ‘In short, popular culture can serve as a mythopoetic
function in Americans’ lives, creatively reflecting and directing audiences’
sentimental desires through the expression of quasi-religious stories’
(Schultze 2003: 185), and he continues, ‘Americans desire predicable litur-
gies of hope’ (Schultze 2003: 191).
The conjunction of the cognitive and the social

When 14 million viewers in the United States tune into Heroes week after
week, we might understand their fascination and interest in relation to the
issues discussed here. The examples brought to the forefront in the analy-
sis illustrate the usefulness of applying different theoretical perspectives,
when discussing viewers’ experience of the supernatural in television fic-
tion. By pointing to some of the main issues within cognitive as well as
social theory, we can see where the fields of study overlap and where each
field provides new aspects and nuances in answering the two questions
posed here: ‘Why do these figures fascinate us?’ and ‘How do they pro-
vide gratification to audiences following them?’ The representation of
a magical universe and humans with extraordinary abilities appeals to us
on a basic cognitive level because of counterintuitive and therefore
memorable properties. This is parallel to the recycling of religious figures

across cultural borders as well as time. The recirculation of recognizable

constructions of supernatural beings implies that we should consider them
as culturally successful and possibly impacting on our thoughts.
The superheroes’ double identities and, in particular, the ‘normal’
aspects of their personalities attract our attention by simple means of iden-
tification. The point about accessible identification is small, but it aids us
in the understanding of some of the gratification that these stories provide.
On a psychological level, identification establishes sympathy with the
morally correct hero, thereby allowing for the acting out of egocentric
thoughts, such as the desire to be special. On a more societal level, identi-
fication is strengthened by means of reflecting late modernity and the
reflexiveness of the individual. This, then, creates a space for a ‘search for
meaning’ in terms of offering something to believe in that has the comfort
of traditions and roots, as well as a predetermined future without personal
accountability. The offer to ‘believe’ that is presented to audiences can
almost be understood as being commodities that are presented to con-
sumers; it is socially and personally without cost to enter the beliefs pre-
sented in the fiction, as opposed to, for example, entering an established
religious community. This is similar to aspects of the psychological,
which I determine is the creation of a space for self-actualization and con-
trol of the surrounding society.
From a media scholar’s standpoint, the narrative construction of intertex-
tual references paid to religiosity and so on provides another level of fascina-
tion that draws the viewer in by appealing through eschatological mysteries,
thereby activating our HADD. Once again, these stories provide closure and
reason to unbearable events or fictitious events that are often transferable to
society, thus providing a space for collective mourning and re-establishing a
sense of ‘unity’. The question of fascination with stories about eschatology, a
clear-cut narrative about good and evil and the promotion of the individual
hero becomes especially evident in the light of culturally specific features of
American culture. Finally, the universality explains the success with which
these serials are internationally exported, while still having elements of a
more limiting cultural nature to attract the native audience.
Filmography
Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003), Created by Joss Whedon for 20th Century Fox
Television. Episode 1 entitled ‘Welcome to the Hellmouth’.
Charmed (1998–2006), Produced by Brad Kern, E. Duke Vincent and Aaron Spelling
for Spelling Television. Episode 1 entitled ‘Something Wicca This Way Comes’.
Heroes (2006–), Created by Tim Kring for NBC Universal Television, Episode 1,
‘Genesis’.
References
Barrett, J. (2004), Why Would Anyone Believe in God? Lanham, MD: AltaMira
Press.
Berger, P.L. (1969), A Rumour of Angels: Modern Society and the Rediscovery of the
Supernatural, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc.
Bettelheim, B. (1976 [1991]), The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and
Importance of Fairy Tales, London: Penguin Books.
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and Ancestors, London: Vintage.
Brooks, T. and Marsh, E. (2003), The Complete Directory to Prime Time Network and
Cable TV Shows: 1946–Present, 8th edn., New York: Ballantine Books.
Campbell, J. (1968), The Hero With A Thousand Faces, Princeton: Princeton University
Press.
Eco, U. (1979), ‘The Myth of Superman’, in The Role of the Reader: Explorations in
the Semiotics of Texts, Bloomington and London: Indiana University Press.
Garrett, G. (2005), Holy Superheroes! Exploring Faith and Spirituality in Comic
Books, Colorado Springs, CO: Pinon Press.
Giddens, A. (1990), The Consequences of Modernity, Cambridge: Polity Press.
———— (1991), Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern
Age, Cambridge: Polity Press.
Hjarvard, S. (2006), ‘The Mediatization of Religion: A Theory of Media as an Agent
of Religious Change’, paper presented to the 5th International Conference on
Media, Religion and Culture.
Johnson, C. (2005), ‘Quality/Cult Television: The X Files and Television History’, In
M. Hammond and L. Mazdon (eds), The Contemporary Television Series,
Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.
Lawrence, J.S. and Jewett, R. (2002), The Myth of the American Superhero, Cambridge:
Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co.
Loeb, J. and Morris, T. (2005), ‘Heroes and Superheroes’, in T. Morris and M. Morris
(eds), Superheroes and Philosophy: Truth, Justice, and the Socratic Way, Peru, IL:
Open Court/Carus Publishing Company.
Mahan, C. (2006), ‘Ratings: Heroes goes up and away’, http://www.tv.com/story/
6868.html. Accessed 24 October 2006.
Murdock, G. (1997), ‘The Re-enchantment of the World: Religion and the
Transformations of Modernity’, In S.M. Hoover and K. Lundby (eds), Rethinking
Media, Religion, and Culture, Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications.
Partridge, C. (2004), The Re-Enchantment of the West: Alternative Spiritualities,
Sacralization, Popular Culture and Occulture, vol. 1, London: T. & T. Clark
International.
———— (2005), The Re-Enchantment of the West: Alternative Spiritualities,
International.
Reynolds, R. (1992), Superheroes: A Modern Mythology, Jackson: University Press of
Mississippi.
Stark, S.D. (1997), Glued to the Set: The 60 Television Shows and Events that Made
Us Who We Are Today, New York: The Free Press.
Schultze, Q.J. (2003), Christianity and the Mass Media in America: Toward a
Democratic Accommodation, Ann Arbor: Michigan State University Press.
Simpson, P., Rodiss, H. and Bushell, M. (eds) (2004), The Rough Guide to Superheroes,
London: Rough Guides.
Wikipedia.org (2006), Messianism, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Messianism. Accessed
10 October 2007.
———— (2007), Avengers (comics), http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avengers_%
28comics%29. Accessed 21 October 2007.
Zerubavel, E. (1997), Social Mindscapes: An Invitation to Cognitive Sociology,

NL_6_08_art_Christopher Partridge.qxd 5/22/08 3:16 PM Page 107

The occultural significance

of The Da Vinci Code
Christopher Partridge
Abstract Keywords
The popularity of books such as The Da Vinci Code is interesting in that it Da Vinci Code
would seem to support surveys indicating at least a general level of public occulture
interest in the spiritual and the paranormal. More specifically, an analysis re-enchantment
of the dominant ideas articulated in The Da Vinci Code suggests that it is mediatization
a book reflecting key themes within western ‘occulture’ which have become sacralization
central to the shift from ‘religion’ to ‘spirituality’ in western societies: spirituality
the sacralization of the self; the turn from transcendence to immanence;
the emergence of the sacred feminine; the focus on nature and the pre-
modern; and a conspiracist suspicion of the prevailing order and domi-
nant institutions, particularly the Church.
The popularity of The Da Vinci Code raises important questions for those
who have been persuaded by classical secularization theories because,
rather than simply indicating a penchant for an exciting story, it suggests
the continuation of the appeal of a particular type of world-view (Partridge
2004a: 29–59, 2004b: 39–67. See also Heelas 2006, 2007; Hervieu-Léger
2006). This is not to deny that secularization is taking place. There is, cer-
tainly in the case of traditional institutional Christianity, a gradual erosion
of attendance at formal worship in the West, particularly in Europe and
Scandinavia (Bruce 2002, 1992; Martin 1978; Partridge 2004a: 8–16;
Norris and Inglehart 2006). However, whilst there is an erosion of theistic
supernaturalism, books like The Da Vinci Code are enormously appealing
to westerners. It won ‘best book’ in the 2005 British Book Awards (BBC
2005), it has sold more than 30 million copies in 40 languages, and
Penguin Books have even produced a guide to the context of the novel in
its ‘Rough Guides’ series (Haag and Haag 2004). Moreover, the contro-
versy it has caused is also indicative of its success. For example, Easter
2006 saw the Vatican condemn the book, the Archbishop of Canterbury
attacked its veracity in his Easter sermon (Williams 2006), Trinity College
Dublin hosted six public lectures examining the issues raised by the book
(January–March 2006), and over 25 books have been written, as well as
DVDs and videos produced contesting its claims (e.g. Burstein 2004;
RBC Ministries 2006). The reason for this reaction is, I suggest, not only
because it challenges some traditional orthodoxies but also because clerics
and scholars have, generally speaking, been bemused by the phenomenon
in supposedly secular societies. Why, they wonder, in a largely secular
society, are so many people fascinated by ancient rites, persuaded by
NL 6 107–126 © Intellect Ltd 2008 107

1. In 1930, occult books revised sacred histories and interested in alternative religious convictions?
constituted 7% of reli-
Could it be that disenchantment is not the whole story of the West?
gious books published.
This gradually rose to Whatever your view, it is certainly the case that the existence of wide-
17% in 1990, dipped spread interest in and commitment to non-traditional belief is significant
to 11% in 1995, and and that, to some extent, it problematizes classical or strong secularization
rose again to 15% in
2000 (see Brierley
theories. What I want to argue, therefore, is based on the premise that such
2000: 666–67). theories of secularization in the West need modification. Without some
acceptance of western re-enchantment, the conspicuous fascination with
alternative spiritual beliefs (which are becoming increasingly main-
stream), spiritually oriented conspiracy theories, the paranormal and the
phenomenal success of popular cultural texts such as The Da Vinci Code,
are difficult to make sense of.
Subjectivization and the re-enchantment of the West

The reason for The Da Vinci Code’s appeal is that it explicitly and posi-
tively references contemporary spiritual themes and, as such, taps into a
broad stream of popular spiritual interest. Indeed, as Stig Hjarvard has
shown, The Da Vinci Code, as mediatized spirituality, not only reflects but
stimulates alternative religious interest. In a Danish survey, ‘more than
half of the respondents report an increased interest in religious issues after
reading [The Da Vinci Code and Angels and Demons]’ (Hjarvard 2008).
As to the book’s articulation of popular spirituality, not only is, for exam-
ple, Wicca explicitly mentioned in the book (Brown 2004: 42), but key
contemporary pagan themes, such as goddess worship (Brown 2004:
42, 43, 61, 172), are prominent, as are discussions of popular and sub-
culturally trendy symbols, such as the pentacle (Brown 2004: 59–62),
practices such as the Tarot (Brown 2004: 129) and romanticized rituals
such as the hieros gamos (Brown 2004: 409–10; see Urban 2006: 53–54,
257). This interest in non-traditional esoteric spirituality, reflected in The
Da Vinci Code’s enormous success, has, in recent years, experienced a
sharp rise. For example, the fact that the percentage of ‘occult’ books pub-
lished since 1930 has more than doubled1 and, according to a recent report
in The Economist, ‘sales of books about yoga and reiki […] have exploded
[…]’ (Economist 2002: 35) is indicative of the steady increase of popular
interest in alternative spiritual literature. Again, according to recent polls,
whilst the numbers of people claiming belief in God or in heaven and hell
are decreasing, once questions are asked about non-Judaeo-Christian
beliefs, or framed in a non-Judaeo-Christian way, a different picture
emerges – one which reflects growing levels of interest in alternative
beliefs and practices. Indeed, it is clear that whilst some people would not
regard themselves as being ‘religious’ (almost certainly because of the
institutionally Christian baggage that term carries), they do understand
themselves to be ‘spiritual’. Hence, whilst the numbers of people believ-
ing in ‘God as personal’ are falling, those believing in ‘God as spirit’, or
‘universal spirit’, or ‘life force’ are rising (e.g. Heelas 2007; Barker 2004),
as are the numbers of people believing in paranormal phenomena.
Hence, bearing this in mind, it is not too surprising that a recent study
of spirituality in Kendal – a small town in Cumbria, north-west England –
identified a religio-cultural shift from organized ‘religion’ toward a more
subjective form of ‘spirituality’ (Heelas and Woodhead 2004). It should be
108 Christopher Partridge

noted at this point that ‘religion’ and ‘spirituality’ have specific meanings
in such discussions (see Partridge 2004a: 45–60). In particular, ‘spiritual-
ity’ is understood very clearly in terms of the turn to the self, or ‘subjec-
tivization’, rather than being related to mystical forms of traditional
religion as, for example, the French term spiritualité suggests. In other
words, we are not here thinking of the interior knowledge and experience
of a transcendent reality external to the self. Hence, following, for exam-
ple, Eric Hobsbawm, Anthony Giddens and Charles Taylor (see Giddens
1993; Hobsbawm 1995; Taylor 1991), Heelas and Woodhead identify
what they believe to be ‘a major shift […] away from life lived in terms of
external or “objective” roles, duties and obligations, and a turn towards life
lived by reference to one’s own subjective experiences (relational as much
as individualistic)’ (Heelas and Woodhead 2004: 2). The point is that this
emphasis on the subjective turn describes the thinking informing The Da
Vinci Code. Indeed, also clearly articulated in The Da Vinci Code, there is
what might be described as a purposive bohemian shift, a shift away from
that which is expected of us in society, towards the subjective life and to
the development of its potential, a shift which, I have argued (Partridge
2004a: 96–105, 151–75; see also Albanese 1992: 68–77), can be traced
back to the 1960s, to Beat culture, and to influential individuals such as
Aldous Huxley and Alan Watts – although, of course, one can go even fur-
ther back to manifestations of bohemianism, alternative spirituality and
holism in the nineteenth century. However, the general point is that it is
particularly in the 1960s that we see the emergence of strong grass roots,
self-oriented, ecologically aware holistic forms of spirituality so clearly
evident in The Da Vinci Code (see Fulder 1996: 16). This turn towards
the subjective life in the West has to do with, as Heelas and Woodhead
argue,
states of consciousness, states of mind, memories, emotions, passions, sensations,

bodily experiences, dreams, feelings, inner conscience, and sentiments – includ-
ing moral sentiments like compassion. The inner subjectivities of each individual
became a, if not the, unique source of significance, meaning and authority.
(Heelas and Woodhead 2004: 3–4)
It is a state in which the individual achieves ‘the good life’ through per-
sonal discipline and commitment to the path they have chosen. They seek
life skills, depth of understanding and spiritual insight to enable them to
truly know themselves and to be their own authority (Partridge 1999; cf.
Hervieu-Léger 2006).
This subjectivity-centred mode of life is, however, quite different from,
and even, as in The Da Vinci Code, antagonistic to what Heelas and
Woodhead refer to as ‘life-as’ modes of being:
the key value of life-as is conformity to external authority, whilst the key value
for the mode of subjective-life is authentic connection with the inner depths of
one’s unique life-in-relation. Each mode has its own satisfactions, but each finds
only danger in the other, and there is deep incompatibility between them.
Subjectivities threaten the life-as mode – emotions, for example, may easily
disrupt the course of the life one ought to be living, and ‘indulgence’ of personal
NL 6 107–126 © Intellect Ltd 2008 109

feelings makes the proper discharge of duty impossible. Conversely, life-as

demands attack the integrity of subjective-life. This is because the latter is nec-
essarily unique.
(Heelas and Woodhead 2004: 4)
This has enormous implications for our understanding of the extent of

‘religious’ commitment and influence in the West. We cannot simply seize
on the decline of ‘religion’, dismiss ‘spirituality’ and declare ‘secularization’.
Things are rather more complicated than that. Hence, the ‘re-enchantment
thesis’ seeks to explain both secularization and sacralization. While Heelas
and Woodhead have not attempted to account for the dynamics and signifi-
cance of what I would refer to as ‘occulture’, and while they do not claim
to offer the only explanation, they do claim to have provided a theory that
significantly contributes to an overall understanding of why, on the one
hand, ‘religion’ (especially traditional, institutional Christianity) is declin-
ing, and why, on the other hand, ‘spirituality’ is replacing it. Their central
thesis is relatively straightforward. Invoking the commonsense Durkheimian
principle that people are more likely to find appealing those forms of the
sacred that correspond most closely to their own values and beliefs than
those which do not, they point out that one would expect ‘spirituality’ to
follow the contours of the subjective turn:
Life-as forms of the sacred, which emphasize a transcendent source of signifi-

cance and authority to which individuals must conform at the expense of the
cultivation of their unique subjective-lives, are most likely to be in decline […]
Subjective-life forms of the sacred, which emphasise inner sources of signifi-
cance and authority and the cultivation or sacralization of unique subjective-
lives, are most likely to be growing.
(Heelas and Woodhead 2004: 6)
Hence, the argument is not that the subjective turn will encourage people
towards a sacralized interpretation of life, only that, because there is ‘a
massive subjective turn of modern culture’, when individuals do seek the
sacred they tend to be persuaded by those forms of ‘spirituality’ that are
consonant with their own values and beliefs – which have, in turn, been
shaped by the subjective turn. Those forms of ‘religion’ that do not follow
the contours of this late-modern subjective turn cease to be appealing and
thus lose adherents. Unlike the rhetoric of ‘spirituality’, that of ‘religion’
lacks cogency in the western mind (Hervieu-Léger 2006; Heelas 2007;
Partridge 2004a). Again, the point is that it is essentially this process of
subjectivization, along with the related theory of ‘occulture’ (to which we
will return below), that explains the popularity of texts such as The Da
Vinci Code.
The mainstreaming of previously obscure and exotic beliefs is funda-
mental to and symptomatic of the process of re-enchantment. Consequently,
alternative spiritual theories and practices, bizarre conspiracies and revised
histories are gradually being linked together and disseminated within
popular culture. For example, any one of the many recent enormously
successful series, such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003), Angel
(1999–2004), The X Files (1993–2002), Supernatural (2005–), Dark Angel

(2000–02), Heroes (2006–) or, in the United Kingdom, Most Haunted 2. See http://www.
livingtv.co.uk/mosthau
(2002–) (the massive popularity of which significantly helped to revive the nted/. Accessed 20
channel Living TV2), introduces the viewer to an eclectic mix of spiritual September 2007.
terminology, esoteric practices, paranormal phenomena and alternative
spirituality. It is perhaps no surprise, therefore, that, of the couple of
dozen people that I have spoken to about The Da Vinci Code, including
some students, all of them without exception considered its overall thesis to
be generally persuasive. Indeed, one person made the point that the ideas
in the book were not new to her, but when questioned further, could not
recall where she had learned them. As with others I have spoken to, they
appeared to be ideas she just knew and found plausible. That is to say, it
would seem that ambient ideas had been absorbed about the Church and
various conspiracies, which then gave the fictional narrative of The Da
Vinci Code the ring of truth. This brings me to what I want to call
‘occulture’.
Occulture
In 1972, the British sociologist Colin Campbell argued that cultic organiza-
tions arise out of a general cultural ethos, a ‘cultic milieu’, which, he argued:
can be regarded as the cultural underground of society. Much broader, deeper

and historically based than the contemporary movement known as the under-
ground, it includes all deviant belief systems and their associated practices.
Unorthodox science, alien and heretical religion, deviant medicine, all comprise
elements of such an underground.
(Campbell 1972: 122)
The cultic milieu includes networks and seedbeds of ideas as well as vari-
ous authoritative sources and particular groups. More recently, Jeffrey
Kaplan and Heléne Lööw have returned to the concept, identifying it as a
‘zone in which proscribed and/or forbidden knowledge is the coin of the
realm, a place in which ideas, theories and speculations are to be found,
exchanged, modified and, eventually, adopted or rejected by adherents of
countless, primarily ephemeral groups’ (Kaplan and Lööw 2002: 3). And,
as I have argued, there are established individuals, organizations and tradi-
tions feeding ideas into this constantly growing and changing milieu, as
well as emergent individuals, organizations and traditions becoming estab-
lished and influential as a result of their engagement with it. In Campbell’s
words, the cultic milieu:
includes the collectivities, institutions, individuals and media of communication

associated with these beliefs. Substantively it includes the worlds of the occult
and the magical, of spiritualism and psychic phenomena, of mysticism and new
thought, of alien intelligences and lost civilizations, of faith healing and nature
cures. This heterogeneous assortment can be regarded, despite its apparent
diversity, as constituting a single entity – the entity of the cultic milieu.
(Campbell 1972: 122)
This concept of the cultic milieu is an extremely helpful one for under-
standing contemporary commitment to the alternative spiritual and
NL 6 107–126 © Intellect Ltd 2008 111

3. Broadening the typol- paranormal. However, for the purposes of clarification, I want to argue
ogy that distinguished
that when one draws the above lines of thought together and identifies
between ‘church’,
‘denomination’, and key themes within the milieu, the term ‘occultic’ suggests itself as a more
‘sect’, Roy Wallis precise adjective than the older sociological term ‘cultic’ (see Partridge
added another category 2004a: 24–29).3 This is certainly the case if, as Campbell tends to do,
into which religious
organizations can
‘cultic’ is, following Ernst Troeltsch’s schema, interpreted primarily in
be placed, namely terms of the ‘mystical’. Indeed, Campbell argues that many of the central
‘cults’ – a category ideas within the milieu lead to the formation of cults that are ‘mystical’ in
which was initially the sense that there is an emphasis both on immediate religious experi-
introduced by Howard
Becker in 1932 and
ence and on particular monistic cosmologies, anthropologies and theolo-
then influentially gies (e.g. divine–human unity). However, whilst the milieu has elements
developed by J. Milton that are both ‘mystical’ and ‘cultic’, the term ‘occult’ describes the melange
Yinger in 1957. ‘Cult’, of beliefs, practices, traditions and organizations more accurately.
as defined by Wallis,
has similarities with Although the term ‘mystical’ describes some fundamental aspects of the
both Becker’s and milieu, it does not cover the breadth of religious belief and expression
Yinger’s definitions, listed by Campbell as constituting the ‘cultic milieu’.4 Moreover, the
and can be interpreted term itself is problematic in that, as theologians and students of religion
in terms of a develop-
ment of Troeltsch’s will be aware, ‘mysticism’ carries a lot of well-established baggage that
mystical religion. could lead to misinterpretation. For example, whilst some within the
Wallis understands the milieu might draw inspiration from the Christian mystical tradition,
cult to be, like the sect,
deviant, in that it exists
because the ideas are extracted from a Christian theological context and
in some tension with reinterpreted within an occult context, they are often understood quite
the dominant culture, differently than they are by Christian thinkers. (Indeed, although kept
but, unlike the sect, is within a Christian context, even Troeltsch’s use of the term ‘mysticism’ is
not epistemologically
exclusivist. It is, in
distinctly idiosyncratic.) That is to say, many Christian mystics were
Wallis’s terminology, devout, often exclusivist Christians who understood the Church to be
‘epistemologically ‘uniquely legitimate’. They identified the divine with the God of Jesus
individualistic’ rather Christ and, as Grace Jantzen has noted, they distinguished, as many new
than ‘epistemologically
authoritarian’ (Wallis
religionists fail to do, between ‘experiences of God (specific visions,
1974: 304). The locus voices, moments of intense emotion or ecstasy) and experience of God in
of authority is within a much broader, ongoing sense’ (Jantzen 1988: 11). They emphasized,
the individual (see ‘not […] intense moments, significant though they may be, but rather
Partridge 1999).
Charisma is […] the long-term union of their wills with the will of the God of justice
internalized. and love’ (Jantzen 1988: 11. Emphasis in the original.), the aim being the
4. This is evident from
transformation of their lives in accordance with that will. Hence, to
the breadth covered in describe the alternative culture as essentially ‘mystical’ or, in this sense,
Kaplan and Lööw ‘cultic’, is misleading.
(eds) (2002), The The overall point I am making, therefore, is that the term ‘occult’ most
Cultic Milieu. Robert
Ellwood’s recommen-
accurately describes the contemporary alternative religious milieu in the
dation on the cover of West. As Stark and Bainbridge argue, ‘the occult can be characterized as a
the book is worth true subculture – a distinctive set of cultural elements that flourish as the
quoting: ‘What do property of a distinctive social group’ (Stark and Bainbridge 1985: 322).
deep ecologists, neo-
Nazis, Goths, black Although they make no reference to Campbell’s work, this is essentially
nationalists, and urban what Campbell had argued of the mystical/cultic milieu. However, whilst
shamans have in com- the research of both support the notion of a distinct community, collectiv-
mon? They are all part ity or subculture, Stark and Bainbridge are right to identify its essential
of a “cultic milieu”,
an underground nature as occultic. Although, they argue, ‘occult interests may reflect a
culture that embraces […] superficial phenomenon’, being a ‘transitory and relatively private
everyone, right or left, amusement that is not supported by significant social relations’, it can also
good or bad, that
be ‘a true subculture’ (Stark and Bainbridge 1985: 322). Indeed, this is, to

some extent, what I am suggesting. What we are witnessing is the emer- thrives on standing in
opposition to the social
gence of an ‘occulture’. mainstream.’
When thinking of ‘occulture’, the narrow, technical understanding of
the occult within western esotericism is broadened to include a vast spec- 5. Both Thorsons and
Element titles are
trum of beliefs and practices. Indeed, to some extent, what A.D. Duncan now published by
said of occultism per se is equally true of ‘occulture’ generally: it ‘is not HarperCollins:
so much a religion or a system as a “general heading” under which a http://www.thorsons.
huge variety of speculation flourishes, a good deal of it directly contra- com/default.aspx.
Accessed 1 October
dictory’ (Duncan 1969: 55). Western occulture includes a range of ideas 2007.
and practices, including extreme right-wing religio-politics, radical envi-
ronmentalism and deep ecology, angels, spirit guides and channelled
messages, astral projection, crystals, dream therapy, human potential
spiritualities, the spiritual significance of ancient and mythical civiliza-
tions, astrology, healing, earth mysteries, tarot, numerology, Kabbalah,
feng shui, eschatological prophecies, Arthurian legends, the Holy Grail,
Druidry, Wicca, Heathenism, palmistry, shamanism, goddess spirituality,
Gaia spirituality and eco-spirituality, alternative science, esoteric
Christianity, UFOs, alien abduction and so on. Indeed, returning to the
significance of popular literature, good examples of the way such fungi-
ble ideas are utilized, understood and disseminated are the various series
of very basic, emic introductions to spirituality and well-being. For
example, some years ago two very popular series of books were pub-
lished: ‘Principles of…’ (published by Thorsons) and ‘Elements of…’
(published by Element).5 Overall, they constituted a general introduction
to the more ‘respectable’ occultural beliefs and practices. Although some
of the books, such as Principles of Numerology, Principles of Wicca,
Principles of Tarot, and Principles of Your Psychic Potential are clearly
‘occultic’ in the narrower sense of the term, others, such as Principles of
Buddhism or Principles of Colonic Irrigation, discuss subjects that are
not ‘occultic’ in themselves but have, nevertheless, become occultural
ingredients. They are occultural quorn in that, when added to an occul-
tural stew, they absorb its aromas and flavours and are thereby trans-
formed, becoming the perfect ingredient for the particular flavours of the
stew. In other words, within occulture, it is not, for example, Buddhism
per se that people are interested in – not that which might challenge
occultural bricolage – but rather the principles or elements of Buddhism.
As such, Buddhist ideas and practices are de-traditionalized. That is to
say, such consumers of occulture are not particularly interested in becom-
ing devout Buddhists, but rather want simply to acquaint themselves with
some principles of Buddhist belief and practice, which can then be
merged with some elements from other systems in the service of the self.
It is not the whole Buddhist dish that people want, but rather some tasty
ingredients which can then be stirred into the occultural stew with other
appetizing ingredients, the aim being to create one’s own occultic dish
according to one’s own occultic tastes. As Danièle Hervieu-Léger puts it,
‘today, individuals write their own little belief narratives using words and
symbols that have “escaped” the constellations of meaning in which a
given tradition had set them over the centuries’ (Hervieu-Léger 2006: 59).
This accounts for the enormous plurality within occulture, within which
continuities can exist between profoundly discontinuous belief systems.
NL 6 107–126 © Intellect Ltd 2008 113

The left-wing, peace-loving environmentalist may share certain basic

beliefs with neo-Nazi Satanists.
Popular cultural texts, such as The Da Vinci Code, are central to the
efficacy of occulture, in that they feed ideas into the occultural reservoir
and also develop, mix and disseminate those ideas. Put starkly, popular
occulture is sacralizing the western mind – introducing it to new spiritual-
ities, mainstreaming older esoteric theories, championing the paranormal
and often challenging traditional, particularly Christian, forms of religion.
This is certainly true of The Da Vinci Code, in that it selectively and eclec-
tically introduces people to alternative spiritual theories, challenges tradi-
tional authorities and rationalizes everything with conspiracy. Hence,
regardless of whether the narrative and style of the book is good or not, its
subject matter reflects the occultural zeitgeist. Because, particularly since
the 1960s, the balance between mainstream disenchantment and alterna-
tive re-enchantment has shifted, occulture has become increasingly ‘cool’.
It has accrued what, following Pierre Bourdieu’s analysis of ‘cultural cap-
ital’ (1984), Sarah Thornton (1995) has described as ‘subcultural capital’
(cf. Clark 2003). In other words, to put the point rather simplistically,
occulture, on the whole, stands over against mainstream Christian religion
and spirituality, encourages countercultural attitudes, tends to support con-
spiracy theories about the dark side of the mainstream and is, therefore,
invested with significant kudos and popular authority. Hence, again, read-
ing through The Da Vinci Code, it is not difficult to trace significant occul-
tural streams of thought from Indian spirituality, to Paganism and Earth
mysteries, and to a range of conspiracies relating to ideas of global domi-
nation. Indeed, Brown’s earlier book, Angels and Demons (2000), which
first introduces his protagonist, Robert Langdon, concerns one of the most
enduring and widespread modern conspiracy theories relating to world
domination, namely that of the Illuminati. The Da Vinci Code simply
develops this popular conspiracist approach in relation to ‘life-as’ forms of
religion generally, and to the Church, Opus Dei, the Prior of Sion and the
Knights Templar in particular. It is, in other words, an explicitly occultural
attack on organized religion. It is the popular occultural challenge of, to
use Heelas’s recent terminology (2007), the ‘spiritualities of life’ to the
‘spiritualities for life’.
In order to unpack The Da Vinci Code’s occultural and sacralizing sig-
nificance, it will be helpful to excavate a couple of broad themes within
the book that directly reflect current interests and shifts in contemporary
alternative spirituality. The first of these is what might be described as the
romanticizing of the premodern and the turn to nature, which includes an
emphasis on the retrieval of the sacred feminine.
Romanticizing the premodern, nature spirituality

and the sacred feminine
For an increasing number of westerners there is significant scepticism, not
simply about religious authorities, but also about political and scientific
authorities. More particularly, while technological advances are appreci-
ated and used, there is a growing emotional, if not actual, turn away from
the notion of a technological society towards the premodern and towards
what is perceived to be natural and ‘of the earth’ (see Szerszynski 2005;

Partridge 2005: 42–81).6 Indeed, for many people, to turn from the mod- 6. That this shift is
more idealistic and
ern to the premodern is not to turn from the conceptually advanced to the emotional than actual
conceptually primitive. There is a conviction that contemporary thought is evident in the
has much to learn from premodern and indigenous cultures and that, in massive occultural
some ways, the modern period has seen a regression rather than a progres- significance of the
Internet and
sion of our understanding of reality and the human condition. Hence, information technology
whether drawing on eastern spirituality or first-century Gnosticism, new (see Davis 1998;
spiritual seekers and occultural bricoleurs in general have been keen to Partridge 2004a:
show that, far from being a recent phenomenon, much new spiritual think- 135–64).
ing is, in part, the resurgence of ancient knowledge. Whether one worships 7. For an influential
a goddess, maps the stars, practices supposedly ancient rites or reads texts Christian theological
articulation of a similar
that claim to be of antique provenance, there is a strong sense of continu- approach to spirituality
ity with the past. This powerful, sentimental attachment to the distant past and sexuality, which is
is directly continuous with a romanticized understanding of ancient cul- typically critical of the
tures and spiritualities. For example, our ancestors, it is often believed, mainstream Christian
tradition, see Fox’s The
used to live in a harmonious, symbiotic relationship with the planet. They Coming of the Cosmic
were in touch with nature, themselves and each other. This continuity with Christ (1988: 163ff).
the natural world, it is argued, has been interrupted by mainstream patriar-
chal religion, modern technology and Enlightenment rationalism and needs
to be recovered if we are to survive into the next century and live happily
and peacefully in the present. Indeed, it is claimed that there are many per-
sonal, societal, spiritual and ecological maladies that can be directly traced
back to this interruption.
This thesis is clearly evident in The Da Vinci Code. For example, its
discussion of human sexual relations contrasts the practice of ‘the
ancients’ with that of the Church, the former being natural and spiritually
beneficial, the latter being corrupt, unnatural and constructed in order to
retain power. The protagonist, Robert Langdon, tells Sophie that
‘Historically, intercourse was the act through which the male and the
female experienced God. The ancients believed that the male was spiritu-
ally incomplete until he had carnal knowledge of the sacred feminine.’
Langdon later goes on to point out how,
for the early Church […] mankind’s use of sex to commune directly with God
posed a serious threat to the Catholic power base. It left the Church out of the
loop, undermining their self-proclaimed status as the sole conduit to God. For
obvious reasons, they worked hard to demonize sex and recast it as a disgusting
and sinful act.
Hence, he asks,
Is it surprising that we are conflicted about sex? […] Our ancient heritage and
our very physiologies tell us that sex is natural – a cherished route to spiritual
fulfilment – and yet modern religion decries it as shameful, teaching us to fear
our sexual desire as the hand of the devil.
(Brown 2004: 410–12)
As Vivienne Crowley comments in her introduction to Paganism, ‘unlike

Christians, [Pagans] believe that sex between consenting adults is natural
and permissible’ (Crowley 1996: 10).7 Again, this celebration of the sexual
NL 6 107–126 © Intellect Ltd 2008 115

8. For an excellent survey as natural and the condemnation of sexually repressive attitudes, particu-
of the shifting attitudes
larly when they are supported by religious doctrine, is a thesis that many
to sexuality in the
West, see Allyn’s would recognize and support today.8
Make Love, Not War Central to the idea of returning to the premodern and the natural is
(2000). the belief that ancient wisdom is the uncorrupted wisdom of a humanity
unrepressed by external dogma, rationalism and the authority of later
institutionalized religion and culture. Again, these ancient cultures (and
contemporary indigenous cultures which are understood to retain ancient
wisdom and live in a symbiotic relationship with the environment) are
often believed to be spiritually superior to our own, and therefore as spir-
itual and cultural paradigms. The transition from right-brained thinking
to left-brained thinking, from earth-centred spirituality to the rape of the
planet’s resources, is traced back to the transition from an ancient pagan
orientation toward the sacred feminine to the rise of Christendom. Hence,
at the door of the Church many maladies of western history are laid (see
Partridge 2005: 51–54). For example, Christianity has for some years
borne the brunt of much criticism because of its alleged contribution to
the current eco-crisis. This thesis has been perhaps most influentially
argued by the historians Lynn White and Arnold Toynbee. Christianity,
they argue, ‘bears a huge burden of guilt’ for the contemporary environ-
mental crisis (White 1967: 1206; cf. Toynbee 1974). But, more particu-
larly, it is argued that, whereas Paganism’s sacralization of nature would
not have allowed large-scale exploitation, Christianity, by situating the
divine outside nature, not only left the natural world vulnerable, but pos-
itively encouraged its exploitation. Hence, White explicitly linked the
eco-crisis to Christianity’s rejection of the Pagan world-view:
The victory of Christianity over paganism was the greatest psychic revolution
in the history of our culture […] Christianity, in absolute contrast to ancient
paganism and Asia’s religions […] not only established a dualism of man and
nature, but also insisted that it is God’s will that man exploit nature for his
proper ends. In Antiquity every tree, every spring, every stream, every hill had
its own genius loci, its guardian spirit […] Before one cut a tree, or mined a
mountain, or dammed a brook, it was important to placate the spirit in charge of
that particular situation, and to keep it placated. By destroying pagan animism,
Christianity made it possible to exploit nature in a mood of indifference to the
feelings of natural objects […] The spirits in natural objects, which formerly
had protected nature from man, evaporated. Man’s effective monopoly on spirit
in this world was confirmed, and the old inhibitions to the exploitation of
nature crumbled.
(White 1967: 1205. Emphasis added)
Hence, it is argued that nature religions that encourage a holistic, eco-

centric attitude of respect for the natural world were replaced by a form of
religion that desacralized nature, divorced humans from their relationship
with the earth and encouraged exploitation. This in turn formed the theo-
retical foundations for a scientific revolution that objectified nature,
viewed it as passive and thus encouraged humans to control and manipu-
late it to their own ends. Disenchanted, nature became little more than raw
material.

To a Christian a tree can be no more than a physical fact. The whole concept of
the sacred grove is alien to Christianity and to the ethos of the West. For nearly
two millennia Christian missionaries have been chopping down sacred groves,
which are idolatrous because they assume spirit in nature.
(White 1967: 1206)
Theologically central to this rejection is the theistic conception of a tran-

scendent deity who creates the world, but does not invest the divine being in
it in a way that sacralizes it. Deity and nature are ontologically divorced.
Whether indigenous, pre-Christian cultures were as green as some sug-
gest, and whether monotheism’s alleged displacement of God from nature
necessarily leads to irresponsible attitudes to the planet have been matters
of some debate (see Szerszynski 2005: 32–37). But, whatever the facts,
within the popular imagination and certainly within occultural texts such
as The Da Vinci Code, there is no question as to Christianity’s culpability,
the value of ancient cultures and the need to turn back to a harmonious
relationship with the environment.
Moreover, this emphasis on the value of ancient cultures is often linked
to notions of a recovery of the sacred feminine, which, in turn, are under-
stood to engender environmentally friendly attitudes (see Merchant 1982;
King 2004; Roach 2003; Sjöö and Mor 1991). This type of thesis is evi-
dent within, if not central to, much Pagan and eco-feminist thought. Riane
Eisler, for example, explicitly contrasts
the Neolithic religious pantheon with the Christian one. In the Neolithic, the
head of the holy family was woman: the Great Mother, the Queen of Heaven, or
the Goddess in her various aspects and forms […]. By contrast, the head of the
Christian holy family is an all-powerful Father.
(Eisler 2004: 455)
The former encouraged ecologically responsible attitudes, the latter

tended to encourage exploitative attitudes.
Again, the point is that The Da Vinci Code reflects such concerns. The
enormous popular emphasis on the displacement of the sacred feminine by
the Church, which is related to humanity’s exploitation of the natural
world, is rehearsed continuously. For example, Robert Langdon’s author-
ity is to some extent established when we are told that he is working on a
book entitled Symbols of the Lost Sacred Feminine (Brown 2004: 43).
Again, symbolizing the Church’s oppressive relationship to the ecologi-
cally responsible Pagan goddess religion, we are told that the Church of
Saint-Sulpice is built over the ruins of a temple in which worship of the
Egyptian goddess Isis had taken place (Brown 2004: 125). There is also
some attempt to educate the reader about the true nature of Paganism as an
ancient nature religion rather than, as the Church would have it, devil wor-
ship (Brown 2004: 60). Hence, over against the Church, Paganism is
explicitly commended. Langdon says,
The ancients envisioned their world in two halves – masculine and feminine.
Their gods and goddesses worked to keep a balance of power. Yin and yang.
When male and female were balanced, there was harmony in the world. When
NL 6 107–126 © Intellect Ltd 2008 117

9. This passage is a good they were unbalanced, there was chaos […]. Early religion was based on the
example of contempo- divine order of Nature.
rary spiritual bricolage
and anachronism, in (Brown 2004: 60)9
that popular ideas from
the East, such as yin If we are to find true spirituality, balance in life and a oneness with the
and yang, are mixed environment, then, The Da Vinci Code tells us, we need to look to the past,
with idealized notions
of ancient western to early nature religion. Indeed, it is quite interesting that, in passages such
Paganism. as this, Brown gives the word ‘Nature’ an upper case ‘N’.10 Nature is sacral-
10. This is typical not
ized. It has a spiritual, even divine quality. It is never merely ‘nature’.
only of contemporary My argument, therefore, is that – as in occulture generally, so in The
Pagans, but also of Da Vinci Code – ancient and indigenous cultures tend to carry the same sort
earlier Romantic pan- of authority and to inspire the same degree of blind faith that western sci-
theists such as Goethe
(see Goethe 1949:
ence has inspired during the modern era. That is to say, a matter can be
73–77). This is signifi- settled in occulture by a simple appeal to some premodern belief or prac-
cant, of course, in that tice. Because the ancients did it or believed it, it must be true; it must be
much contemporary good for us; it must be beneficial to the environment; it must be spiritually
alternative spirituality
has its roots in sound. Hence, references to continuity with the premodern are almost
Romanticism (see ubiquitous in occultural literature. Indeed, the feeling of authenticity and
Heelas 1996: 41ff; truth seems to be enhanced if, for example, publicity material is adorned
2007: 2–3; Partridge with ancient symbols, such as runic characters, or those that simply have
2004a: 89ff; 2005:
44–50). the look of antiquity. Symbols suggest hidden meaning and antiquated
symbols suggest occulted, premodern truth. They, therefore, engender
intrigue in the occulturally curious mind. Hence, it is no surprise that The
Da Vinci Code’s protagonist is an expert in what Brown calls ‘symbology’
(which, of course, is not a real discipline, the nearest actual equivalent
being perhaps ‘semiotics’). Indeed, the book’s commitment to the author-
ity of the premodern and its related fascination with premodern symbol-
ism and hidden meaning is staggering – though not unusual. Hence, as
within occulture generally, much is built on the shakiest of supposedly
premodern foundations. Take, for example, the interpretation of Da
Vinci’s painting The Last Supper. The figure that we have been told is
John the Baptist, sitting to the right of Jesus, is in fact Mary Magdalene:
Sophie examined the figure to Jesus’ immediate right, focusing in. As she stud-
ied the person’s face and body, a wave of astonishment rose within her. The indi-
vidual had flowing red hair, delicate folded hands, and the hint of a bosom. It
was, without doubt…female.
‘That’s a woman!’ Sophie exclaimed […]
‘Who is she?’ Sophie asked.
‘That, my dear’, Teabing replied, ‘is Mary Magdalene.’
Sophie turned. ‘The prostitute?’
Teabing drew a short breath, as if the word had injured him personally.
‘Magdalene was no such thing. That unfortunate misconception is the legacy of
a smear campaign launched by the early Church. The Church needed to defame
Mary Magdalene in order to cover up her dangerous secret – her role as the Holy
Grail’ […]
He paused. ‘More specifically, her marriage to Jesus Christ […] It’s a matter of
historical record’, Teabing said, ‘and Da Vinci was certainly aware of the fact. The
Last Supper practically shouts at the viewer that Jesus and Magdalene were a pair.’
(Brown 2004: 327–29)

Interpretations such as this – which are common within those streams of

occulture concerned with the Knights Templar and Grail mythology, and
which have been most influentially articulated by Lynn Picknett and Clive
Prince (1997) – are considered true because a premodern source believed
them to be true. The problem is, of course, that not only do scholars of Da
Vinci reject such speculation, but even if Da Vinci did paint Mary
Magdalene, believing her to be the Grail, that does not make it true. To
then claim that Jesus and Mary had children who worshipped the sacred
feminine and who should have governed the Church, and that the Priory of
Sion was founded to protect these truths, and that Da Vinci and other sig-
nificant historical figures, such as Isaac Newton, were leaders of the orga-
nization is, to say the least, fanciful. However, it is just this type of
reasoning, based on a romanticized view of history, a belief in the reliabil-
ity of particular interpretations of the premodern and a fascination with
symbolism that beguiles so many of our occulturally curious contempo-
raries. Moreover, it becomes all the more convincing when it is claimed
that such symbolism was necessary because there has been, throughout
western history, a Christian conspiracy to suppress the truth.
Conspiracy culture and semiotic promiscuity

Central to much occultural speculation, new religious reasoning and,
indeed, the success of many films and books, is the suspicion of conspir-
acy. Whether it is speculation about the deaths of celebrities, such as John
F. Kennedy, Elvis or Princess Diana, concern about the machinations of
the Antichrist and the end-times, erroneous theories about Jewish world
control, such as those most influentially disseminated in the scurrilous
booklet The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion, or the belief in
extraterrestrial invasion through alien–human hybrids, there has probably
never been a time in history when there has been such a variety of con-
spiracy theories, not to mention the high level of credulity concerning
them (see Barkun 2003; Partridge 2005: 270–76, 315–25). Indeed, as
Michael Barkun has shown, conspiracy culture has become increasingly
more visible since 9/11:
Immediately after the terrorist attacks, strange reports burgeoned on the Internet
[…] Among them were that Nostradamus had foretold the attacks; that a UFO
had appeared near one of the World Trade Center towers just as a plane crashed
into it; that the attacks had been planned by a secret society called the Illuminati;
that US president George W. Bush and British prime minister Tony Blair had
advance knowledge of the attacks; and that the attacks signaled the coming of
the millennial end-times prophesied in the Bible.
(Barkun 2003: 1–2)
This type of speculation is fundamentally occultural and typical of the

thinking informing The Da Vinci Code, much of which follows a popular
conspiracy model.
A standard academic definition of a conspiracy is a belief that ‘an
organization made up of individuals or groups was or is acting covertly to
achieve some malevolent end […] A conspiracist world view implies a
universe governed by design rather than by randomness’ (Barkun 2003: 3).
NL 6 107–126 © Intellect Ltd 2008 119

Although such conspiracies are unnerving, because they suggest the con-
trol of history by a malign will, they are appealing because, like religious
belief per se, they affirm that everything has a purpose, that nothing hap-
pens by chance and that, therefore, life has meaning.
This might be understood as a rational strategy in what Anthony
Giddens (1991) has identified as a ‘risk society’. It is not so much that
people are exposed to new forms of danger, although they may be, but more
that everything seems open to contingent events and that their activities
appear not to follow a predestined course. Life seems to be aetiological and
subject to random forces. People must therefore learn to be strategic in their
approach to ‘open possibilities of action’ that engage them on a daily basis
(see Giddens 1991: 28). Conspiracy is a strategy that patterns this apparent
randomness and gives meaning to the sense of risk. Hence, a contemporary
conspiracy, such as that unpacked in The Da Vinci Code, tends to manifest
itself in three broad principles: first, nothing happens by accident –
everything in history is willed; second, do not trust what you are told, for
nothing is as it seems. Because conspirators disguise their identities and
activities, those who seek the truth about history need to look beyond imme-
diate appearances to underlying patterns. ‘Symbology’, to use Brown’s
term, is, therefore, an important discipline to master in the conspiracist’s
world. Finally, if the first and second principles are correct, then everything
is connected. There is no room for coincidence and chance – all events are
part of a larger map of conspiracy. Secret societies, strange symbols,
the covert activities of large organizations, significant world events and the
progress of history are all linked in a complex web of conspiracy. Whether
you are tracing the influence of the Illuminati, the covert activities of the
Church or the secrets of the Templars, the truth can be found through deci-
phering codes and interpreting events in a way that uncovers the connections.
This focus on the deciphering of codes, the identifying of signs, and
what might be described as ‘semiotic promiscuity’ is central to The Da
Vinci Code. Almost everything is a sign; a symbol pointing to something
else that reveals a world-changing conspiracy. There are few artefacts that
do not have a deeper meaning. Indeed, as within conspiracy culture gener-
ally, so within The Da Vinci Code, the truths revealed are, says Teabing
(Brown 2004: 391), ‘capable of altering history forever’. However, the
point is that, again, in a semiotically promiscuous book like The Da Vinci
Code, there is no shortage of that which signifies this history-altering
truth. Whether one is looking at old paintings or cartoons of Mickey
Mouse, there are hints of one’s favourite conspiracy. The following passage
is a good example of this:
Langdon quickly told her about works by Da Vinci, Botticelli, Poussin, Bernini,
Mozart and Victor Hugo that all whispered of the quest to restore the banished
sacred feminine. Enduring legends like Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, King
Arthur and the Sleeping Beauty were Grail allegories. Victor Hugo’s Hunchback
of Notre Dame and Mozart’s Magic Flute were filled with Masonic symbolism
and Grail secrets.
‘Once you open your eyes to the Holy Grail’, Langdon said, ‘you see her
everywhere. Paintings. Music. Books. Even in cartoons, theme parks, and popu-
lar movies.’

Langdon held up his Mickey Mouse watch and told her that Walt Disney had 11. On Monday
made it his quiet life’s work to pass on the Grail story to future generations. 27 February 2006,
Brown attended
Throughout his entire life, Disney had been hailed as ‘the modern-day Leonardo London’s High Court,
Da Vinci’ […] Like Leonardo, Walt Disney loved implanting hidden messages accused by Michael
and symbolism in his art. For the trained symbologist, watching an early Disney Baigent and Richard
movie was like being barraged by an avalanche of allusion and metaphor. Leigh of stealing ‘the
whole architecture’ of
Most of Disney’s hidden messages dealt with religion, pagan myth, and sto- research that went into
ries of the subjugated goddess. It was no mistake that Disney retold tales like their book The Holy
Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White – all of which dealt with the incar- Blood and the Holy
Grail. Baigent and
ceration of the sacred feminine.
Leigh sued Brown’s
(Brown 2004: 348–49) publisher, Random
House, which success-
Hence, not only is semiotic promiscuity and X Files-type conspiracism fully denied the
allegation. The court
ubiquitously apparent in western society, being particularly prevalent case concluded on
within occulture, but it is, I suggest, central to the appeal of Brown’s work. 7 April 2006. On the
Whether we think of the Illuminati in Angels and Demons or Opus Dei conclusion of the
and the Priory of Sion in The Da Vinci Code, what we are presented with court case, see:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/
is a basic form of conspiracism that many of our contemporaries find dif- 1/hi/entertainment/488
ficult to resist and very familiar because it is continually rehearsed within 6234.stm. Accessed 10
popular culture. August 2006;
http://news.bbc.co.uk/
It is, indeed, worth noting that there is evidence to suggest that the plot 1/hi/entertainment/488
of The Da Vinci Code is lifted almost wholesale from an already enor- 8506.stm. Accessed
mously popular work of revisionist history and conspiracy, namely The 10 August 2006. On
Holy Blood and the Holy Grail by Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh and Leigh’s theories
and writings, see
Henry Lincoln. Brown’s indebtedness to this volume is made explicit, in http://www.egoetia.
that, as is well-known, the name of the villain in The Da Vinci Code, com/. Accessed
Leigh Teabing, is made up of the names of two of its authors, Teabing 10 February 2006.
being an anagram of Baigent. Published in 1982, The Holy Blood and the
Holy Grail does little more than set out, as fact, the conspiracist view of
western religious history underpinning The Da Vinci Code. Indeed, as is
now well-known, Baigent and Leigh attempted to sue Brown for having
plagiarized their book.11 The point, however, is that The Da Vinci Code
draws explicitly on popular conspiracies about western Christianity and,
as Baigent, Leigh and Lincoln had done, includes within it theories about
the Priory of Sion and the Knights Templar, which had been popular
within occulture since the 1960s. Again, as noted above, another popular
occultural text that Brown makes significant use of is The Templar
Revelation by Picknett and Prince. Indeed, the whole idea of a ‘Da Vinci
code’ is taken from this book. Again, a little later, Margaret Starbird’s
popular book The Woman with the Alabaster Jar argues the thesis that
Mary Magdalene was Jesus’s wife and, as such, became the Holy Grail in
the sense that she bore his children and, thereby, passed on the holy blood
(Starbird 1993). So, what The Da Vinci Code offers us is a very popular
stream of occultural thought that has been around for some time.
It should perhaps be noted at this point that, as with a great deal of this
type of speculation, there is little evidence for much of it. There is, for
example, no evidence of a medieval secret society known as the Priory of
Sion with a long history dating back to the first crusade, for which the
Knights Templar were its military and financial wing and public face.
Although the Prieuré de Sion has, since the 1970s, been popular in many
NL 6 107–126 © Intellect Ltd 2008 121

esoteric works of fiction and non-fiction, it was actually founded in France

on 7 May 1956 by Pierre Plantard at Annemasse as an esoteric Christian
organization (see Introvigne 2005). Indeed, Sion referred not to Jerusalem,
but to Mont Sion near Annemasse, where Plantard intended to purchase a
property and turn it into a retreat centre. According to Plantard, the Priory
would restore medieval chivalry and establish an initiatory system of three
‘orders’. Although the Priory remained obscure for several years and
failed to attract many members, in 1964 Plantard began to fabricate a his-
tory of the Priory, a history that quickly found its way into occulture. It
then attracted the attention of the actor Henry Lincoln, who had been
involved in the occult milieu for some years. He then persuaded the pro-
ducers of the BBC documentary series Chronicle to commission a televi-
sion series on the subject. Aware of the potential, the BBC agreed, and the
stage was set for this particular stream of occulture to bubble to the sur-
face and to be introduced to the British public. Intriguing viewers with its
conspiracist revelations, the public response was, as the BBC expected,
massive. Key occultural ideas were on their way to becoming mainstream.
The logical next step was a book to take advantage of its phenomenal suc-
cess. Lincoln teamed up with Baigent and Leigh to write The Holy Blood
and the Holy Grail, which quickly became a New York Times bestseller.
The rest is occultural history.
The point is that The Da Vinci Code is simply the latest manifestation
of a rich vein of western conspiracy occulture. It is typically occultural
and typically conspiratorial, in that, in its attempt to demonstrate that
everything is connected and willed by oppressive ecclesiastical authorities
seeking to hold on to the reins of power, it eclectically references numer-
ous other occultural themes, from Rosicrucianism to Wicca, and from the
Baphomet insignia to King Arthur (Brown 2004: 42, 231, 268–69, 349,
380, 419).
Conclusion
The popularity of The Da Vinci Code tells us much about what our con-
temporaries value and find plausible. Individuals would seem to be far
more convinced by intriguing ideas circulating within occulture, by attrac-
tive arguments founded on weak logic and by compelling conspiracy the-
ories disseminated within popular culture than they are by serious
historical, religious, cultural, sociological and theological enquiry. This, of
course, is to be expected. We are saturated with popular culture, manipu-
lated by its narratives, educated by sound bites and moved by entertain-
ment. Few people would rather plough through tomes on sociology, history,
classics, religion and theology than watch The X Files and Supernatural or
read The Da Vinci Code.
Popular culture is, of course, both an expression of the cultural milieu
from which it emerges and formative of that culture and, as such, influ-
ences what people accept as plausible. In other words, stories can be
‘vehicles for constructing subjectivities, and hence what stories are circu-
lated is socially consequential’ (Traube 1996: xvi). For example, Lynn
Schofield Clark relates the findings of one survey in Minneapolis, in
which ‘by a ratio of two to one […] young people said they believed in
the possibility of extraterrestrial life’. While this is perhaps unsurprising,

it is significant that ‘they cited a variety of evidence for their views,

including television programmes or films such as Unsolved Mysteries,
Contact, Independence Day and The X-Files. They mentioned docudra-
mas on alien autopsies, alien abductions, and Area 51.’ Moreover, she
notes, ‘religious beliefs came up with surprising frequency among the
responses’ (Clark 2003: 3–4; Hjarvard 2008). My point is simply that,
whatever is intended by authors such as Dan Brown, there is little doubt
that people are both developing religious and metaphysical ideas by
reflecting on themes explored in literature, film and music and finding
their own speculative theories simply and cogently articulated in popular
culture. Hence, The Da Vinci Code, as a site of meaning-making, is one
of the many popular occultural texts that are helping people to think
through theological and metaphysical issues. Whether we are convinced
by its claims or not, many of our contemporaries are finding such narra-
tives to be important spiritual resources. Indeed, it is worth noting that, as
a result, particular organizations and movements are thriving on popular
occultural exposure and the sub-cultural capital that they are conse-
quently being invested with. It is no surprise, for example, to learn that
several secret societies have experienced significant growth since the
publication of The Da Vinci Code. For example, Freemasonry Today
(edited by Michael Baigent) reported in 2005 that membership of semi-
Masonic groups had ‘risen by more than 20,000 in the past two years’
(Goodchild and Glendinning 2005). Again, it has been reported that ‘at
least 18 “other orders” affiliated to freemasonry, including organizations
such as the Rose Croix and the Red Cross of Constantine’ have benefited
from popular occulture. ‘Numbers are said to have reached 100,000 – a
year on year rise of more than 12 per cent. The greatest rise has been with
Christian orders which uphold ancient traditions and rituals based on
moral principles’ (Goodchild and Glendinning 2005). While these figures
should be treated with caution, that there appears to have been an
increase in commitment, possibly a substantial increase, since the publi-
cation of The Da Vinci Code is of some significance.
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One re-enchanted evening – the

Academy Awards as a mediated ritual
within celebrity culture
Helle Kannik Haastrup
Abstract Keywords
This is a case study of the Oscars ceremony 2007, analysing how the awards show
awards show works as a mediated ritual within celebrity culture. In the celebrity culture
analysis, I characterize the Oscars as an example of a live media event, stars
and then I analyse how it is connected to celebrity culture and, eventually, media event
I discuss whether it can be said to have religious affinities and perhaps mediated ritual
even be an example of a replacement strategy for the decline in organized religion
religion. In my analysis I combine sociological analysis of the media event
genre as presented by Dayan & Katz, as well as Couldry, with cultural
analysis of celebrity culture and stars as argued by Rojek, Turner, Morin
and Dyer. On the basis of this analysis, I want to argue that the Academy
Awards ceremony can be seen as a re-enchanted evening on several levels:
as a live media event, a mediated ritual and as presenting glamorous stars
as objects of identification.
In 2007, in the United States alone, 39.9 million viewers watched the live
Oscars ceremony, and this does not even include the many millions of
viewers around the world. The Oscars has always been a popular televi-
sion show; however, in the past few years the award genre in general is
featured more prominently on television. In this article, I propose that this
is in part explained by the special combination of being a live mediated
ritual and having a close connection to the pervasive celebrity culture. In
Celebrity (2001), Chris Rojek argues that as a consequence of the decline
in organized religion, celebrity culture can be seen as ‘one of the replace-
ment strategies that promote new orders of meaning and solidarity’ (Rojek
2001: 99). I believe that it is in some ways possible to regard the awards
show as an example of such a replacement strategy. In order to investigate
this, I have chosen the 79th Oscars ceremony in 2007 – officially called
the Academy Awards – as my case study, because the Oscars ceremony is
one of the most viewed and well-known of the live broadcast awards
shows.
This case study of the 2007 Academy Awards is guided by the fol-
lowing research questions: how does the Oscars ceremony of 2007
work as a media event genre and mediated ritual, and how does it artic-
ulate celebrity culture as a live media event broadcast worldwide as
NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008 127

well as a mediated ritual? Does celebrity culture in general and the

awards show in particular have religious affinities as a possible part of
this replacement strategy to warrant being labelled ‘a re-enchanted
evening’, and if so, in what way? Previous research has focused either
on the relationship between celebrity culture and stars (Morin 1960;
Dyer 1982; Stacey 1994; Rojek 2001; Turner 2004; and Cashmore
2006) or on analysis of the genre of media events as a particular form of
communication and as mediated rituals (Dayan and Katz 1992; Couldry
2003; and Cottle 2006). In this article, I combine these two approaches:
the cultural studies analysis of the star as a phenomenon within
celebrity culture; and the sociological analysis of how the media event
genre is a mediated ritual. First, I analyse how the 79th Academy
Awards work as a live media event and mediated ritual (Dayan and Katz
1992; Couldry 2001; and Cottle 2006). In my analysis, I also take into
account how this global broadcast experience is challenged by local
framing, that is, the Danish framing of the awards show and how it suc-
ceeds in creating a cult-like viewing. Second, I analyse the overall dra-
matic structure of the show, which can be divided into what can be
called ‘the Red Carpet’ section and the ceremony itself (Meyrowitz
1985; Rojek 2001; and Cashmore 2006), demonstrating that celebrity
culture is an integral part of the event. Finally, I discuss how the awards
show can be seen as an example of re-enchantment in prime time enter-
tainment and how it fits in with celebrity culture’s religious affinities
(Dyer 1982; Rojek 2001; Turner 2004; and Cashmore 2006). Originally,
Durkheim (2001) characterized modern society as disenchanted
because of the decline in organized religion. I intend to argue that it is
in many ways possible to regard the awards show in general and the
Oscars ceremony in particular as a re-enchanted form of entertainment,
because of its special blend of celebrity culture and mediated ritual.
The awards show as a mediated ritual and a media event

In order to characterize the workings of the awards show as a genre I use
the definition of the media event by Dayan and Katz (1992). They argue
that the media event is characterized by being an interruption of the rou-
tine and normal flow of the schedule; that this interruption is monopolistic
(all channels switch away from their normal programming); the event is
live and organized outside the media; it is pre-planned and advertised in
advance; it is presented with reverence and ceremony; it electrifies very
large audiences; and it integrates ‘societies in a collective heartbeat’ and
evokes ‘a renewal of loyalty to the society’ (Dayan and Katz 1992: 4–9).
Dayan and Katz also operate with three kinds of events: contests, con-
quests and coronations. An example of the contest type of event is a foot-
ball match, the conquest type of event is landing on the moon and the
coronation type of event is a royal wedding. Dayan and Katz define the
Academy Awards as a contest that has evolved into a coronation, but they
also recognize that an event can evolve from a contest, turning into a con-
quest and ending up as a coronation, using the moon landing in 1967 as a
case in point. However, I want to argue that the Oscars ceremony is
defined as being a mix of the two types of events: the coronation and the
contest.
128 Helle Kannik Haastrup

The Oscars ceremony does not fit with all the elements in the Dayan 1. The decision was
apparently inspired by
and Katz definition of the media event. First, the Oscars does not interrupt the American Music
the normal schedule on every TV station, but only on ABC, and in Awards and not the
Denmark it does not affect the normal programming at all, because the infamous breast-
live broadcast is in the middle of the night. Second, the Oscars ceremony showing incident at
the Super Bowl half-
is only what you could call ‘almost live’. The show was originally broad- time show.
cast live; however, in 2004, the network decided to broadcast with a delay.
The actual length of the delay is not disclosed, but it is probably approxi- 2. This is according to
Nielsen.com.
mately five seconds. It is not a secret that the show is not live; however
they (the Academy and the ABC network) seem to downplay the fact in
order to keep the event appealing.1 Thus, I will henceforth call the
Academy Awards ‘almost live’, because the show still retains an important
element of simultaneity.
The Academy Awards ceremony is not organized outside the media; it
is to a large degree organized in collaboration with the media – the ABC
network (who were the ones to decide that there should be a delay) and the
E! channel (the network that broadcasts the Red Carpet section). The
Oscars ceremony is pre-planned, but it is not presented with reverence,
even though a certain degree of ceremony is upheld; for example, the
event does have a host but he/she is usually a stand-up comedian.
However, the event does have a very large audience: the annual Academy
Awards is a live global media event with millions of viewers worldwide,
and as mentioned previously, in the United States alone there were 39.9
million viewers in 2007,2 making the Oscars one of the most watched tele-
vision shows of the year, surpassed only by the Super Bowl.
The Oscars ceremony presents itself as an important cultural ritual, and
in this sense it does integrate society and renew loyalty. It has become a
trademark of the event that it has never been cancelled; the Oscars
ceremony has only been postponed a few times: in 1968, when Martin
Luther King was assassinated, and in 1981, after the assassination attempt
on President Ronald Reagan (Levy 2003: 19). More recently, after 9/11
and the war in Iraq, the event was toned down but not cancelled, thus
upholding the popular Hollywood cliché: that the show must go on. Levy
even characterizes the Oscars as ‘a sacred ritual in American culture’
(Levy 2003: 19).
The definition of the media event by Dayan and Katz is contested by
more recent analysis of what constitutes a media event. A media event
does not always have to be ‘manufacturing consent’ as argued by Simon
Cottle (Cottle 2006). There are many different forms of media events as
media rituals. This is true of media events like 9/11 and the O.J. Simpson
case. These are not media events that integrate society or renew loyalty
(Cottle 2006: 418). These media events are not contest, conquest or coro-
nation events, but they are conflicting media events. From another per-
spective, Couldry (2003) in Media Rituals argues that with media rituals it
is difficult to operate with the notion of an event at society’s centre. This
holds true for the Oscars as well, at least in the Danish broadcast on the
TV2 channel, because of the Danish talk show in the commercial breaks.
Even though the Oscars fail to meet all the requirements of a media event,
the distinction between contest and coronation is still very useful in describ-
ing the dramatic structure of the event.
NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008 129

3. Every year it is The Oscars – a contest and coronation type of event

possible to participate
in a lottery to win
In the coronation type of event, the drama is defined as: ‘Will the ritual
a bleacher seat at succeed?’ The ritual reaffirms tradition and symbolizes continuity. The
http://www.oscars.org/ event is noticeable in the public sphere because it takes place – at least
bleachers. partly – in the street, often in combination with a church. The role of the
4. According to Levy audience is ‘renewing contact with the centre of society’, and the ‘time
(2003: 169) 23 per orientation’ faces towards the past (Dayan and Katz 1992: 33) in the
cent of the Oscar wins sense that tradition is important, because both weddings and coronations
are historical epics
(counted in 2002). connect to past lineage and, through marriage, create a new future for a
monarchy.
Compared to the Oscars, there are many similarities between a corona-
tion and the awards show. The Oscars ceremony takes place not in a
church, but in the Kodak Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard, which was
built especially for the event. In terms of geography, the theatre and the
adjoining streets are used for the stars to arrive in their limousines and
walk past the press – giving interviews on the red carpet – and to provide
space for the large tents that are used for security checks. The general
public is not allowed to watch closely – this part of Hollywood Boulevard
is closed off, unless you apply and are selected for a seat in the bleachers.3
The bleachers are a type of enclosure for the spectators (the fans) and
are placed very close to the red carpet, thus providing the screaming
and yelling when popular stars walk by. The Oscars ceremony is, within
the film industry and film culture in general, a symbol of continuity. This
is emphasized in different ways during the show: usually a montage is
shown, commemorating those who have passed away, and a lifetime
achievement award is presented to a great actor or director, who for some
reason has never received an Oscar. In this sense, the ‘time orientation’ of
the event faces towards the past and creates a strong sense of nostalgia.
Receiving an award is thus becoming a part of a tradition of excellence and
being celebrated by your peers for the work you have done – in the words
of popular Oscars host Billy Crystal: ‘If you get an award, you are shaking
hands with Spencer Tracy.’ At the same time, receiving an award can be
life altering for an actress or a director and, in this sense, the awards show
holds some very real-life consequences and can be important for the future
of those involved.
In the contest type of event the set-up is a little different compared to
the coronation (Dayan and Katz 1992: 33). The contest type of event is
fixed, recurring at the same time every year, with rules that are agreed
upon. The drama is: ‘Who will win?’ The role of the principal is to play
by the rules in a ‘the best man will prevail’ spirit, while the loser is given
a second chance. The role of the audience is to ‘judge’ the performance;
the rules are supreme, and the ‘time orientation’ faces the future. As
mentioned above, the Oscars is definitely also about winning – and even
though they (the Academy) changed the phrase from ‘The winner is …’
to ‘The Oscar goes to…’, you do win an Oscar! But there is no second
chance for the loser other than the next film he or she can make – next
year. It is also traditional to reward a special kind of film and a special
kind of performance: grand epic films are often chosen for ‘Best
Picture’, such as Titanic (1997), The English Patient (1996) or Gone
with the Wind (1939);4 and actors/actresses who play a role where they

have to transform themselves physically are also often rewarded, for 5. This is also criticized
by Nick Couldry in
example, Nicole Kidman in The Hours (2002) or Daniel Day Lewis in Media Rituals (2003)
My Left Foot (1989), according to Levy (2003: 243). You play by the where he argues that
rules in so far as the winners are decided upon through a voting system – it is not necessarily
by Academy members who comprise past winners and people from the only media events as
live broadcasts that
industry – but it is a secret ballot and in that sense the rules are supreme. establish media rituals,
Even though the rules are specific, you cannot be sure that you have ‘a but also the final
winner’ on your hands. Time orientation faces towards the present in so episode of a popular
far as the result can be a very important factor for the future career of an fiction series that can
have that status.
actor or director. Before and frequently during the show there are refer-
ences to the website of the media event: http://www.oscar.com.
Oscar.com invites people to bet on who will win as well as to host their
own Oscars party, with invitations, and a list of nominees available to be
printed from the site. This is one way of making what Dayan and Katz
called ‘festive viewing’ – a private performance playing dress-up in
front of the television (Dayan and Katz 1992: 121). The Academy
Awards ceremony is thus a combination of the coronation and the con-
test type of live media event. The tension between the almost-live
broadcasting – ‘Will the show proceed according to plan?’ and ‘Who
will win the best actress award?’ – is most prominent in concordance
with the tension between the past (nostalgia) and the future in defining
the suspense that is the drive behind the mediated ritual of the Academy
Awards.
As a media event and as a mediated ritual, the awards show has a dou-
ble structure – it is a combination of a contest and a coronation type of
event, and it combines affirmative and consensual elements. However, it
has a structure that consists of two parts: on the one hand we have the Red
Carpet broadcast by the E! channel with a focus on the live performance,
while on the other hand we have the ceremony itself broadcast by the ABC
network focusing on the awards given for past professional achievement.
Two different agendas are collaborating on the same event. The Danish
framing is an example of such a small disruption on a structural level as a
result of the live broadcast in Europe. In the United States, the producers of
the Oscars control (Levy 2003: 32) the kind of commercials that are shown
to ensure that no inappropriate content could spoil the event – such tight
control is not possible when broadcasting overseas, so to speak.
The Danish framing and the event as being

at the centre of society
In Denmark we have two versions of the Academy Awards – the long one
and the short one, or the ‘almost live’ and the edited version shown the
following evening. If you watch a live media event that is pre-planned
but not a routine live transmission, you are part of the shared experience
at society’s centre, according to Dayan and Katz (1992: 13). Nick Couldry
(2003: 61) argues in his Media Rituals the notion that the shared experi-
ence is not really at society’s centre anymore.5 This is a valid point even
though the Oscars have many viewers, especially in the United States.
However, perhaps his point is even more relevant when it comes to the
Danish broadcast of the event. Due to the time difference, in Denmark the
pre-show (the Red Carpet) commences at about 1 a.m. when it is sent
NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008 131

live (or almost live) from Los Angeles. The Danish television network, TV2
Film, has decided, as in previous years when broadcast on DR2, to stage a
talk show during the commercial breaks. The talk show is hosted and the
invited guests comprise a blend of film buffs, fashion experts and people
from the film industry who have a special interest in the Oscars (previous
Oscar nominees or winners even). All of the guests, as well as the host, are
dressed up as though they are going to the Oscars themselves, and drink
champagne to celebrate. This talk show is a cheering squad for the Danish
contestants in the ceremony, but it also works as a simultaneous evaluation
of the event itself from a European perspective: the performance of the
host; the awards being handed out; was it the right winner; did she have a
nice dress on; and discussions, anecdotes, and behind-the-scenes knowl-
edge. In this way, the Oscars ceremony is framed into a specific Danish
context. Taking Couldry’s critique into account, you could say that the
Danish framing is an example of a global event being localized, but it is
also an example of the Oscars becoming an event in more ways than one.
The time difference between Denmark and the United States consequently
moves the Academy Awards ceremony from prime time to midnight and
thus invites a cult-like viewing of a mainstream event. In that way the
Oscars are not establishing a centre of society. The Academy Awards
ceremony dates back to 1929, but it was not until the 1950s that the
Oscars became an audio-visual live media event (it had been live on radio
though) (Levy 2003). When the Oscars were first broadcast, the attraction
of the media event was to watch movie stars on television. Today, you see
movie stars all the time on TV – in talk shows, reality shows, lifestyle pro-
grammes and on the Internet. In this respect, I would argue that the attrac-
tion today is connected to the simultaneity of the almost-live broadcast
creating ‘actual connectability’ (Couldry 2003: 98) – sharing the stars’
excitement over whether they are going to win or not, or rooting for your
favourites. The Danish framing is comparable to the journalists reporting a
sports event and, as mentioned above, the Oscars ceremony is also a con-
test – the way the event is discussed; who is most likely to win and so on.
This framing comments on the pre-show as well as the ceremony itself,
thus inserting an extra evaluative frame.
The Oscars are a mediated ritual and in this sense are comparable to
an annual religious holiday. In the Danish context, an extra evaluative
frame is added giving the global event a local, national flavour and,
because of the time difference, it establishes a cult-like viewing. However,
in order to be able to characterize the structure of the awards show genre
in general, and the Oscars specifically, it is necessary to analyse the struc-
ture closer, including how it connects with the event as a part of celebrity
culture.
Awards show as a genre – the structure of the awards

show as a media event
Basically, the Academy Awards ceremony is divided into two major parts:
the pre-show, which is also known as the Red Carpet, and the actual event
itself – the Ceremony. At the Oscars 2007, the broadcast was split between
two networks: E! (the Entertainment Channel) that produces the Red
Carpet section entitled An Evening at the Oscars and Countdown, and

ABC that produces the Ceremony. The first part, the Red Carpet, is only
shown at the almost-live broadcast and not in the edited version.
The stars are not the only participants in the Oscars ceremony, but they
are the ones in focus. Edgar Morin compares the stars to half-gods: ‘the
star is of the same double nature as the heroes of the mythologies – mortals
aspiring to immortality, candidates for divinity, [ …] half-men, half-gods’
(Morin 1960: 105). The analogy is supported by Rojek who instead
chooses to call it ‘the celebrity ceremonies of ascent’ and maintains that
celebrity culture, even though it is secular, ‘draws on myths and rites of
religious ascent and descent’ (Rojek 2001: 74). He further argues that
three themes can be detected: elevation, magic and immortality. Elevation
is the social and cultural process that raises the star above the ordinary
public, literally on bill boards advertising films or other products, but also
in terms of wealth and a glamorous lifestyle (Rojek 2001: 75). Magic is
invoked by the shaman, according to Rojek, with trickery. However, in
relation to film stars this is comparable to what they do on celluloid: for
example, action stars perform incredible stunts and romantic stars look
particularly stunning. Morin speaks of a ‘spillover effect’ in the sense that
the actor’s heroic performance on screen becomes part of his or her star
persona (Morin 1960: 38). The last theme is immortality, where Rojek
proposes that ‘in secular society the honorific status conferred on certain
celebrities outlasts physical death’ (Rojek 2001: 78). Marilyn Monroe is
an obvious example of an immortal star, but other contenders are James
Dean and Greta Garbo. Rojek uses a very broad concept of religion,
including magic. However, in this context the concepts are useful in
describing the workings of the celebrity of film stars in particular. If we
take these concepts and apply them to the Oscars ceremony, it is clear that
ascent, magic and immortality are relevant themes both on the red carpet
and at the ceremony, as we shall see.
The Red Carpet (An Evening at the Oscars and Countdown)

This section does not focus on the awards, but focuses instead on the stars’
performance on the red carpet and the fashion, and it functions as a pre-
sentation of the players in the contest. In order to characterize the Red
Carpet in relation to celebrity culture, I will focus on the following points:
the stars’ behaviour; the balance between the back and front regions
(Meyrowitz 1985); Rojek’s distinction between achieved, ascribed, and
celetoid type of celebrity; and the themes of magic and ascent. However,
I will also discuss Morin’s notion of stars as half-gods and how fashion
plays a significant part as well as how the aesthetics of the Red Carpet as
a catwalk works.
The Red Carpet is where the viewer can watch the stars arrive at the
ceremony, and the event is presented ‘from the outside’ – we are shown
clips from the nominated films and the journalists/film critics present the
event, interviewing the nominated stars and primarily reviewing the
women’s fashion. The Red Carpet constitutes what Meyrowitz defines as
the ‘middle region’ – where the front region represents a person’s public
appearance and the back region represents his or her private life. In-between
is the middle region where you have to strike a balance between the
two. Meyrowitz’s example is of politicians who can no longer get away
NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008 133

with only answering questions about their professional life, because the
media are also asking questions concerning their private life. This is
comparable to film stars who, on the other hand, have always had to cope
with an interest in their private life, from the beginning of the star system
in Hollywood where the questions and answers concern both their profes-
sional lives as well as their private spheres. The consequence of this type of
questioning is to look for ‘the ordinary’ in the very extraordinary lives of
the stars, and create a point of identification (Dyer 1982) for the audience.
Only the most important celebrities are interviewed on the red carpet.
In 2007, the interviewees were stars like Clint Eastwood, Kate Winslet,
Leonardo DiCaprio, Will Smith, Jennifer Lopez, Cate Blanchett, Helen
Mirren, Catherine Deneuve, Nicole Kidman and Naomi Watts. They were
all nominees or past Oscar winners, so they are examples of what Rojek
(2001) defines as having achieved celebrity, because they have earned
their celebrity by merit. This can be compared to ‘ascribed celebrity’, such
as royalty, who have inherited their status, and ‘celetoids’ – people who
become very famous very quickly, for a short period of time; for example,
reality stars (Rojek 2001). My point is that you do not find any celetoids at
the Oscars, because everybody who is there is there because they have
performed on or ‘behind’ the screen, and they are there by merit. One
exception is perhaps where, in 2007, Jennifer Hudson, who was known
from American Idol, a reality singing competition show, was given a part
in the film Dreamgirls (2006) as a result of her singing skills. All of this
information is provided in the Red Carpet section by the reporters and the
climax is when she wins the Oscar and in her acceptance speech tells this
story once again. We are thus as an audience witnesses to the birth of a
star – from being a mere participant in a reality show. Turner call this
tendency – of ordinary people becoming stars through reality television –
for ‘the demotic turn’, because celebrity status somehow becomes readily
available to ordinary people getting massive exposure over a short period
of time. It is the same fascination that reality competitions such as
American Idol and an awards show such as the Oscars have in common –
we as viewers are witnessing the ascent of stars. This is part of the fasci-
nation of live and media events we ‘all’ see it happen at the same time.
Another dimension of the Red Carpet is fashion. Fashion and the
movie industry have been closely connected since the implementation of
the star system, where specific movies and stars were made into trendset-
ters, from Joan Crawford to Audrey Hepburn, and from Diane Keaton to
Gwyneth Paltrow. The Red Carpet is a way of displaying ‘the magic’ of
the celebrity – showing off extreme wealth and glamour by wearing
expensive haute couture dresses and diamonds worth millions of dollars.
There are two commentators: a journalist and a designer, who review the
dresses of the female stars. When a dress is commented upon we see it up
close and in slow motion replay (just like the goals in a football match),
this is often in combination with the camera going up and down showing
the details of the dress as well as the body wearing it. The fashion tenden-
cies and trends are summed up at the end (also in the Danish framing).
Most of the dresses are not only couture, they are just off the runway and
thus predicting what ‘we’ are going to be wearing this summer. Also part
of the discourse is the fact that the dresses and jewellery are loans and as

such they have to be delivered back at the end of the evening before leav- 6. In Denmark the E!
ing the theatre, in Cinderella-like fashion. The commentators do not fail to programmes are shown
on TV2 Zulu.
mention that this is the greatest fashion show on earth in terms of viewers.
The evaluation of the star’s fashion sense, or lack thereof, is often also a
moral evaluation, for example, showing too much cleavage or not dressing
for your age. Catherine Deneuve was criticized for showing her arms. On
the other hand, most agreed that Helen Mirren looked stunning despite
being over 60, because she glowed and was wearing a dress that fitted her
body and her age.
As mentioned before, in order to create the right ambience, there are
bleachers alongside the red carpet, where selected fans, representatives of
the audience, can view and salute the stars and to provide enthusiastic
screams when a ‘heart throb’ arrives. In 2007, this was Leonardo
DiCaprio and George Clooney. This parade or performance by the stars,
posing in their couture clothes, focuses on fashion and appearance.
However the function of the Red Carpet pre-show is also to set the tone,
briefly presenting the films, the nominees, the special performers and
preparing the viewer for what is to come. This is the line-up (as in a sports
match) and corresponds nicely with the awards show in part being a con-
test type of event.
The E! channel, which produces the Red Carpet section of the Academy
Awards, is a tabloid channel and website (http://www.eonline.com) with
news and reality shows about the rich and famous, syndicating many of
their programmes outside the United States as well.6 Even so, the Red
Carpet presents the more dignified version of tabloid coverage; this is
done in a calm and celebratory fashion – there are no paparazzi photogra-
phers or coverage resembling the usual tabloid style. It is pure glamour
and movie star magic. There are two major players in this game: the fash-
ion magazines/sites and the tabloid/gossip/society magazines/sites where
the Red Carpet photos circulate from the Oscars ceremony, as well as the
other awards shows like the Emmy, Grammy, MTV Movie and Music
Awards. My point is that the Red Carpet section of awards shows has a
very long afterlife in the magazines and on the websites, one that far
exceeds the few seconds shown on television.
The Red Carpet also works as a framing device for the ceremony: we
are informed that there are millions or even billions of viewers watching,
and that journalists are coming from more than 120 countries covering this
event. Rhetorically, placing itself as the main news event – the event at
society’s centre, which everybody ‘all over the world’ is interested in. At
the same time, the Red Carpet is a live presentation of ‘the magic’ of
movie stardom, with the stars parading their glamour and where we as an
audience are able to watch many unique celebrities at the same time, thus
we are able to compare what is otherwise perceived and marketed as one
of a kind.
The ceremony
Just like other media events, the countdown to the Oscars is hyped in the
media, from the disclosure of who is the host to who are the nominees,
and finally culminating in the ceremony itself. In a sense, the media hype
is in gear several months before the event takes place in late February.
NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008 135

The beginning of the year is often called the Awards season, with awards
shows like the Golden Globes (The Hollywood Foreign Press Association)
and the BAFTAs (The British Academy for Film and Television) broad-
casting earlier in the year than the Academy Awards and very often these
awards are indications of who will eventually win an Oscar.
The defining elements of the awards show in general (apart from the
Red Carpet) and the Oscars in particular are the following: the master of
ceremonies; the winners of the award giving the acceptance speech
(accepting the award is what the show is about); musical numbers and
comedy; montages with special themes (sometimes there also seem to be a
recurrent theme in the comments); the winners of particular awards; and
even the musical performance mixture between scripted and non-scripted
performances. At the Oscars, the host is our guide and the glue of the
show, introducing presenters and special awards. She or he has an intro-
ductory monologue that sets the mood – and again usually emphasizing
that ‘we’ have a ‘billion viewers’. This comic monologue is usually a spin
on the situation itself, the nominated films and the stars that are present.
Ellen DeGeneres was the host in 2007, she is a stand-up comedian and
talk-show host and a very popular media personality in the United States.
However, the host has to be funny and usually this means popular main-
stream funny – not too political, because hosts are chosen to please a wide
audience, not only the Hollywood audience but also the rest of the United
States. In the last decade, Billy Crystal has been popular as Mr Oscar host-
ing several Academy Awards, but also Whoopi Goldberg, Chris Rock, Jon
Stewart, and Elle DeGeneres have taken the seat (Levy 2003: 32). The
host has to be able to pick up on what happens during the show and
strengthen a common experience, making the audience feel comfortable,
and at the same time distinguishing themselves from the stars who are pre-
sent and being on the side of the viewer on the outside of the Hollywood
establishment: in 2007, Ellen DeGeneres had her picture taken with Clint
Eastwood at his seat by Steven Spielberg, who was sitting in the same row,
and later she ‘accidentally’ presented Martin Scorsese with a film script.
In this way, she pokes fun at herself as being star-struck and trying to pro-
mote her own career and transgresses the usual structure with the host on
stage and the audience in the theatre, making it easy for the audience to
identify with her.
The acceptance speech is a key element of the show. If we take a look
at what you could call the acceptance speech aesthetic, it usually begins
with the presenters opening the envelope and the big screen in the theatre
(and on the television screen as well) shows the five nominees anxiously
waiting. When the recipient’s name is announced, the image of the winner
fills the screen and shots of the winner hugging his/her family or col-
leagues are shown, as well as reaction shots of those who did not win,
where they put on a brave face and applaud the winner. The music playing
is usually a theme from the film that the Oscar is being awarded for and
sometimes images from the film are shown as the recipient makes their
way to the stage. The presenters congratulate the winner and then they
have to give an acceptance speech. The speech is, as mentioned, not
scripted. Officially, the Academy recommends writing something down,
because each winner is only allotted a certain number of seconds. If they

are too long-winded, the music begins to play very loudly in order to get 7. The last time a black
them to stop. The acceptance speech is often an occasion to see the woman received an
award was in 1939
celebrities in a more emotional state – often trying hard not to cry or to (Levy 2003: 132).
forget to thank anyone important, and very often thanking God and family.
Sometimes there are political statements, such as Michael Moore’s critique
of Bush, and speeches with a film historical perspective, like Halle Berry
being the first black woman to win the category of Best Performing
Actress in a Leading Role.7 During the acceptance speech, there are a
series of carefully choreographed and definitely scripted reaction shots of
the fellow nominees, the cast from the film, and family and friends, some-
times resulting in an embarrassing moment when someone is not thanked
or mentioned in the speech. When the winner has accepted their Oscar,
they go backstage and not back to their seat. Some of the winners mention
being stressed by the teleprompter’s countdown of seconds adding to the
pressure on the winner to say something coherent, funny and personal as
well as being appropriately grateful and happy. The acceptance speech
aesthetic is thus a combination of the scripted and carefully produced and
sometimes the unexpected physical or emotional outburst: like when
Roberto Benigni was jumping on the back of the chairs in order to get to
the stage, or when Jack Palance, well into his 70s, was doing one-handed
push-ups. The real surprise is the unscriptedness of the event. In a sense,
the acceptance speech is the whole event in a nut shell: being selected by
the Academy, being chosen and found worthy of the award. Just as on the
red carpet there is a balance between the front region and the back region,
because the winners in their speeches both thank their co-workers, agents
and employers (the front region) as well as their family, God and dear
ones (the back region). The musical entertainment is always a presentation
of the nominees in the Best Song category including the original artist per-
forming their song live; in 2007, it was diverse artists such as the pop star
Beyonce Knowles, the rock singer Melissa Etheridge and singer-song-
writer Randy Newman. There are usually several montages, and the mon-
tage of those who passed away since the previous year’s show is a staple.
In 2007, the montages included one to honour the nominees, made by doc-
umentary film-maker Errol Morris; an honorary montage to composer
Ennio Morricone; a tribute to the Foreign Film Awards 50 years’ anniversary
by Guiseppe Tornatore; a tribute to the American film ‘America Through
its Movies’ by Michael Mann; and a tribute to those who passed away.
The main theme of the Oscars ceremony in general is nostalgia, with
tributes and homage to the history of the movies and deceased film work-
ers, as mentioned above. However, in 2007 the theme also seemed to
revolve around global warming, with the film An Inconvenient Truth
(2006), featuring Al Gore and directed by Davis Guggenheim, winning
‘Best Documentary’, Melissa Etheridge winning ‘Best Song’ (the title
song for An Inconvenient Truth). Her acceptance speech focussed on Al
Gore and on what we, ourselves, can do to change the climate. Finally, Al
Gore and Leonardo DiCaprio as presenters mentioned the importance of
taking action in relation to global warming.
In a sense, the Oscars articulate an example of a television show having
a function comparable to what Fiske and Hartley (1978) called a bardic
function; that is, a television programme as articulating consensus – to
NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008 137

8. This is inspired by celebrate and justify the doings of the individual cultures and to ‘convince
Gamson as the process
the audience that their status and identity as individuals is guaranteed by
where the practices
of entertainment enter the culture as a whole’ (Fiske and Hartley 1978: 88). The awards show
the sphere of politics would like to present itself as having such a function, even though, as
(Gamson in Rojek mentioned above, media rituals do not always ‘manufacture consent’
2001: 186). Rojek,
however, further
(Cottle 2006) neither do they always establish a ‘centre of society’
develops the concept (Couldry 2003). However, the Oscars ceremony still presents itself at the
to include celebrity centre of society and as a manufacture of consent with respect to global
in general. warming, at least rhetorically. At the same time, the awards show in gen-
eral and the Oscars specifically seem to qualify as being examples of the
much-hyped experience economy, where the product for sale is part of a
larger experience. The Oscars ceremony in 2007 thus distinguishes itself
by the recurrent theme of global warming, signalling that it is politically
correct to take care of the environment, but this does not exclude the tradi-
tional theme of nostalgia as almost inherent in the montages presented and
homage given.
The awards show, celebrity culture and the religious parallel

The awards show is a part of celebrity culture in several ways. The
Oscars are about celebrating achievement and merit in film and on televi-
sion in a very glamorous and high-profile fashion, as well as making it a
live media event and a mediated ritual. You could argue that the awards
show in general is the epitome of celebrity culture with its combination
of celebrities being exposed and evaluated for their performances in one
of the most popular art forms – the movies. The awards show also pre-
sents the performance of the celebrity, which is especially prevalent in
the Red Carpet section and during the acceptance speech. These two
topoi of performance are central examples of what being a celebrity in
the media entails: walking the red carpet with photographers and cameras
following your every move and the acceptance speech where you have
been ‘found worthy’ by your peers. The awards show can also be seen as
an example of a so-called celebrification process.8 Celebrification is a
‘general tendency to frame social encounters in mediagenic filters that
both reflect and reinforce the compulsion of abstract desire’ (Rojek 2001:
187). ‘Mediagenic’ is defined by Rojek as ‘elements and style that are
compatible with the conventions of self-projection and interaction, fash-
ioned and refined by the media’ (Rojek 2001: 187). This is exactly what
the awards show does with its special characteristics of the Red Carpet
and the acceptance speech, both situations instantly recognizable through
mediagenic filters. These are ways of performing in the media that we
have learned by watching television – other well-known topoi could be
a handshake between statesmen, or stepping out of a building and being
harassed by a bunch of photographers.
Celebrification also encompasses ‘a reward culture in which individu-
als are differentiated from another by monetary and status distinction’
(Rojek 2001: 198). In this context, the awards show is not mentioned at all
in Rojek’s argument, even though it fits the bill perfectly. The awards
show is very clearly both an example of celebrification (by being a platform
for celebrities to be seen and as mediagenic filtered topoi with the Red
Carpet and the acceptance speech) and as an example of a reward culture

(selecting the nominees and giving away awards – thus picking winners 9. One of the crucial
and also making minor celebrities into even more famous celebrities). points as to what
constitutes a celebrity
Celebrity culture must be understood as a modern phenomenon depen- is the star system in
dent upon the mass circulation of newspapers, radio, film and television – Hollywood, starting
a fact that the different analyses of celebrity culture can agree upon off with the Florence
(Turner 2004; Rojek 2001; and Cashmore 2006). As Turner argues: ‘The Lawrence incident in
1910. The company
really interesting (and perhaps most surprising) aspect of celebrity is the started a rumour that
degree to which it has become integrated into the cultural processes of our she had died in an
daily lives’ (Turner 2004: 17). One of the explanations for this is the many accident – it later
programmes on television that feature celebrities: talk shows, lifestyle turned out that she was
indeed alive, and this
programmes, celebrity reality shows and, of course, the awards show. boosted her popularity.
In the film industry, the star system worked (since 1910) as a way of Two elements are of
creating a specific image for the actor/actress who played specific types of interest here: the use of
the press to promote a
roles, often in the same kind of genre films.9 This often entailed creating a star from a film, where
specific look and personality that appealed to the audience. In her study of the name of the actor
female spectatorship in post-war Britain, Jackie Stacey (1994) analyses was not considered an
how fans described their relationship to their favourite star. She makes a asset economically,
and the use of the
distinction between the identification in the cinema and the extra-cinematic actor’s private life to
identification – where the inspiration from the stars transforms into prac- what we could today
tices such as pretending, copying and resembling. This could be anything call ‘spin’.
from buying a dress like the star, rolling ‘Bette Davis eyes’, or playing
Hollywood. What these women had in common was that the movie stars
made a difference in their life and in how they conducted themselves. The
point in this context is that the movie stars were role models both as them-
selves and as their roles. As Richard Dyer points out, a star’s image con-
sists of all her films and her public persona as a continuous intertextual
relation (Dyer 1982). This intertextual relation is comparable to the spill-
over effect of Morin. The mass media play a crucial role in creating a para-
social relationship between the star and the audience. The symbolic
distance between the star and the audience has become smaller in the sense
that the tabloids seem to come closer and closer with their paparazzi lenses,
making very intimate visual evidence available to the interested viewer.
When looking for religious affinities in celebrity culture as well as the
awards show, is it really possible, as Rojek argues at the beginning of the
article, that the decline in religion has been replaced by celebrity culture,
‘thus becoming one of the mainstays of organising recognition and belong-
ing in society?’ (Rojek 2001: 58). This point of view is supported by
Turner, who points out that this gap – the declining interest in religion – has
partly been filled with celebrities (Turner 2004: 25). Turner goes on to
explain that celebrities are a location for the interrogation and elaboration
of cultural identity, ‘Celebrities are signs of how society uses stars as
means of thinking about the individual’ (Turner 2004: 25). The study per-
formed by Stacey supports the argument that film stars can be an inspira-
tion for extra-cinematic identificatory practices. Another connection is the
well-established connection between celebrity culture and consumer cul-
ture (Cashmore 2006); this is not a new development either – the connec-
tion with fashion and beauty products was an integral part of the star
system in the Hollywood Golden Age. The combination of film stars as
role models both in terms of personality and commodification, style and
beauty, fashion and success are trademarks of the awards show.
NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008 139

There are definitely parallels between religion and celebrity culture:

Rojek characterizes celebrity culture as a giant paradox that democracy,
‘the system which claimed moral superiority on the basis of extending
equality and freedom to all, cannot proceed without creating celebrities
who stand above the common citizen and achieve veneration and god-like
worship’ (Rojek 2001: 198). Whereas Rojek also analyses celebrity cul-
ture as being a result of a culture focused on the individual and thus ‘moti-
vates intense emotions of identification and devotion […] it is basically a
fragmented, unstable culture that is unable to sustain an encompassing,
grounded view of social and spiritual order’ (Rojek 2001: 98). The Oscars
ceremony seems to include several of the elements that can be seen as par-
allel to religion in celebrity culture: the focus on the star as half-god, a site
of identification and the ritual of the event from the Red Carpet to the
acceptance speeches (where God is often mentioned), and the event’s
annual broadcast as comparable to a religious holiday or civil religion
(Dayan and Katz 1992: 16). On the other hand, the event is very much a
commodification of film and stars, as well as fashion – thus, embodying
the focus on commodification by Turner and the focus on religion and
individualism by Rojek.
Concluding remarks – distance and closeness

The Oscars ceremony can indeed be regarded as an example of a
re-enchanted evening in more ways than one. As an almost-live media
event, it combines the contest and coronation type of events in creating
suspense, but it is also an example of how a mediated ritual not only con-
stitutes a national unifying experience of consent. The Oscars are simulta-
neously a national (North American) and a global broadcast, and also have
a local framing accentuating the specific Danish agendas. The cult-like
viewing of a mainstream event that this Danish framing establishes is also
a duplication of the festive viewing introduced by the journalists in the
Red Carpet section, and presumably the experience by the viewers in front
of the television.
Dayan and Katz’s seminal definition of the media event is thus chal-
lenged by this analysis, because the Oscars ceremony is only almost live
and does not, at least in the Danish broadcast, change the normal pro-
gramming. However, the contest and coronation type of events are very
useful concepts to characterize the Oscars’ basic dramatic structure and to
demonstrate how the ritual works. The Danish framing also challenges the
notion of the event being at the centre of society, as was pointed out by
Couldry. Simultaneously, the Oscars have a double structure with the Red
Carpet section presenting the players (broadcast by the E! channel) and
the ceremony itself of handing out the awards (broadcast by ABC), thus
being an event with more than one centre, so to speak. The two sections of
the Academy Awards also accentuate different elements of celebrity cul-
ture. The Red Carpet section seems to focus on the performance of the star
with primarily achieved celebrity on the red carpet, as well as the fashion
element, thus being examples of the commodification part of the celebrity
culture. The acceptance speech during the ceremony, on the other hand,
focuses on the ascent or confirmation of half-god qualities of the stars in
relation to the winners. At the same time, the acceptance speech is the

chaotic non-scripted moment of the almost live event. On the one hand, the
Oscars ceremony has religious affinities as the ritual annual holiday that
never cancels and, on the other, it connects with celebrity culture with the
participation of the glamorous half-gods.
Even though they all approach the topic of celebrity with different
goals in mind using different theories with their different concepts, they
generally all support the same key issues: Morin focuses especially on the
phenomenon of the film stars, Rojek focuses on celebrity in a more gen-
eral sense from sports to criminals and celetoids, and Turner analyses the
lesser-known celebrity workings from an institutional point of view. The
common conclusion reached by Morin, Turner and Rojek is that celebrity
culture and stardom are about individualism and identification in a media
(mediated) society. According to Rojek, celebrity culture and stardom are
about having several religious affinities in terms of ascent, magic and
immortality, as well as in terms of the stars being half-gods, creating the
spill-over effect from glamorous movies to the actual actor (Morin 1960).
However, Turner points out that both celebrities and film stars are used as
instruments in a more general sense to think about the individual, and this
is empirically supported by Stacey in her analysis of extra-cinematic
identification.
Celebrity culture today affects how we think about the individual,
whether it is through watching stars, or the process of celebrification or
using mediagenic filters – there is no doubt that the pervasiveness of this
phenomenon calls for further research either in the tradition of Stacey’s
qualitative reception analysis or in text analysis of how celebrity is medi-
ated in other programmes from news, talk shows, lifestyle programmes
and celebrity reality competition shows. In a broader perspective, it
could also be rewarding to analyse how celebrities, as well as ordinary peo-
ple using mediagenic filters, are at work at social sites such as Facebook.com
and Youtube.com, where you can manufacture yourself and your image in
terms of taste, fashion, looks and interests.
One of the key factors of celebrity used to be a distance between the
audience and the stars. This para-social relationship now seems to have
evolved into something else, which you can perhaps call a digital close-
ness. This closeness is established through the tabloid sites on the Internet
where photographs from the private lives of the biggest stars are shown on
a daily basis. In contrast, events, such as awards shows in general and the
Oscars in particular, represent the other end of a continuum – the old-
school glamorous version of celebrity, with the special feature that the
stars are shown live, thus generating a simultaneous experience with the
most famous people in the entertainment business.
Even though celebrity culture has been characterized as a possible
replacement strategy, the Academy Awards ceremony is not a religious
ritual, but it is a mediated ritual with religious affinities on different levels,
particularly in relation to the stars. First of all, the Academy Awards cere-
mony is an illuminating example of contemporary media culture, because
it is a mixture of mediated ritual (a live media event and celebrity culture),
and it presents a blend of consumption (movie-going, fan culture and
fashion) and achievement (reward culture and distinction) in a re-enchanted
way. Second, the Oscars are re-enchanted in the sense that tabloid paparazzi
NL 6 127–142 © Intellect Ltd 2008 141

photos are banished and the glamour and performance of style and poise is
immaculate on the red carpet and at the ceremony. Third, the Academy
Awards ceremony is an event that celebrates the achievement of the indi-
vidual – the American dream – by staging what success looks like in the
media in well-known mediagenic filters. The Academy Awards ceremony
is thus an example of how a mediated ritual creates re-enchantment in
close collaboration with celebrity culture. The Academy Awards cere-
mony succeeds in creating an annual special evening that never cancels,
thus emphasizing a reliable sense of community and closeness in time
(being almost live) nationally and internationally, and offers a rare simul-
taneity with movie stars on television – an actual connectability that view-
ers all over the world can enjoy religiously or otherwise.
References
Cashmore, E. (2006), Celebrity/Culture, London and New York: Routledge.
Cottle, S. (2006), ‘Mediatized rituals: beyond manufacturing consent’, Media, Culture &
Society, 28: 3: 411–432.
Couldry, N. (2003), Media Rituals: A Critical Approach, London and New York:
Routledge.
Dayan, D. and Katz, E. (1992), Media Events: The Live Broadcasting of History,
Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press.
Durkheim, E. (2001), The Elementary Form of Religious Life, London and New York:
Dyer, R. (1982), Stars, London: BFI Publishing.
Fiske, J. and Hartley, J. (1978), Reading Television, London and New York: Routledge.
Levy, E. (2003), All About Oscar®, New York and London: Continuum.
Meyrowitz, J. (1985 [1992]), No Sense of Place: The Impact of Electronic Media on
Social Behaviour, London and New York: Oxford University Press (1992 edition).
Morin, E. (1960), The Stars, London and New York: Grove Press, Inc.
Rojek, C. (2001), Celebrity, London: Reaktion Books.
Stacey, J. (1994), Star Gazing: Hollywood Cinema and Female Spectatorship, London
and New York: Routledge.
Turner, G. (2004), Understanding Celebrity, London and Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

NL_6_10_art_Schofield.qxd 6/12/08 2:30 PM Page 143

Religion, philosophy, and convergence

culture online: ABC’s Lost as a study
of the processes of mediatization
Lynn Schofield Clark
Abstract Keywords
Following Henry Jenkins’s argument (2006) that online fan discussions Lost
contribute to ‘collective intelligence’ that then feeds into the creative television
processes of the media industries, this article explores the ways in which popular culture
online fans of the ABC television programme Lost discussed the religious religion
and philosophical references of the programme as well as the directions philosophy
the series seemed to follow as a result. By considering the ways in which mediatization
both popular entertainment producers and fans of popular entertainment online fans
contribute to the emergent norms of plural religious and cultural repre- collective
sentation in media and expectations regarding the plural religious envi- intelligence
ronment more generally, this article adds to our understandings of the Henry Jenkins
processes through which the mediatization of religion is occurring.
Note to self: Give in to the realization that you will, henceforth, analyze every
person on every flight you take for the rest of your life, wondering, if you crash
and are stranded on a tropical island full of unexplained phenomena, who will be
the leader?
(Blankenship 2007)
On 22 September 2004, an impressive number of television viewers

willingly entered the surreal world of a group of strangers whose plane
crashed on a mysterious and possibly dangerous tropical island.
Mystery and suspense, intriguing characters with hidden flaws and an
island of smoke monsters and manipulative rival residents (the ‘others’)
combined to land the ABC television series Lost (2004–) on the short-
list of favourites among both critics and audiences within weeks of its
introduction. Cover stories in Entertainment Weekly, Variety, Time, TV
Guide and Newsweek featured the cast; the programme garnered
Emmys and People’s Choice awards; parodies emerged on NBC’s
Saturday Night Live, Fox’s MadTV and in more amateur YouTube
entries; and the programme was even highlighted in the most widely
read media studies introductory textbook as a series that made its audi-
ence think (Campbell, Martin and Fabos 2007). In addition to strong
Nielsen audience ratings, DVD releases of the first three seasons saw
strong sales and rentals, and Lost was frequently in the top of the
iTunes and ABC.com downloads.
NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008 143

By the end of the third season, however, the series had seen a signifi-
cant ratings decline (Jensen 2007). ABC then took the unprecedented
course of announcing a fixed end date for the series, thereby promising to
Lost fans a final resolution to the programme’s mounting mysteries while
also attempting to win new viewers through ‘catch-up’ episodes and renewed
promotional efforts. Offering plot summaries for new and returning audi-
ences while promising ultimate resolution seemed an appropriate strategy,
for as television scholars Jonathan Gray and Jason Mittell argued, based
on their survey of Lost viewers, ‘the best way to experience the complex
narrative is for viewers to put their faith in the producers’ ability to deliver
the thrills and head-twisting revelations that the show regularly offers’ (Gray
and Mittell 2007).
By 2008, the series had spawned its own magazine, a series of novel-
izations and an online scavenger hunt called The Lost Experience, in
addition to numerous online forums, blogs, and websites, some of which
were directly affiliated with ABC’s parent company and others emerging
from enterprising fans. With all of its online content and various series
tie-ins, Lost was proclaimed as a triumph of the Internet age: the first
television programme to capitalize on the fan participatory culture made
possible through the Internet and its related technologies. Indeed,
because the programme’s online manifestations helped viewers track the
programme’s many clues, word plays and hidden references, they were a
model of what media theorist Henry Jenkins (2006), drawing on Pierre
Levy (1997), has termed ‘collective intelligence’. As Jenkins explained,
‘None of us know everything. Each of us knows something. And we can
put the pieces together if we pool our resources and our skills’ (Jenkins
2006: 4). Convergence culture, Jenkins continued, demonstrates that fans
not only work together to make sense of programmes like Lost but as pro-
ducers listen to fans through these online forums, fans actually exercise
some power in directing future content through such discussions. And in
the process of contributing to media content, Jenkins (2007) argued, fans
learn how to become active in our collective lives together in other arenas
as well.
To what extent do fans exhibit collective intelligence, especially in
specific areas such as knowledge about religion, philosophy and
mythology? The programme Lost offers a great deal worthy of discus-
sion with regard to these topics, as evidenced by forums explicitly
devoted to its religious and philosophical references (see Marcus
2007b; Lostpedia.com 2008). But do such discussions actually result in
greater understanding?
Such a goal would certainly be worthy. Prominent scholars have
argued that greater tolerance for and understanding of religious and philo-
sophical differences is an increasingly important area for our collective
lives together (see Eck 2001; Prothero 2007). And many consider the
Internet an emergent public space that holds the potential for bringing
together people from divergent backgrounds for increased understanding
and cooperation (Castells 2000; Rheingold 2000). Finding common ground
across difference is an important predictor of a satisfying communication
encounter between people of differing backgrounds (Chen 1998), and it may
be that interactions across difference are likely to take place in relation to
144 Lynn Schofield Clark

discussions of popular culture (Lizardo 2006). Moreover, intercultural

communication theorists have found that people who have a high toler-
ance for ambiguity might be particularly well suited for conversations that
cross differences of nation, race and culture (Chen 1998; Miller and Samp
2007). With its unresolved tensions and cryptic plotlines, it may be that
the religious, philosophical and mythic referents in Lost provide fodder for
discussions of religious difference that increase understanding in a reli-
giously plural world.
Thus, online forums devoted to Lost hold the potential to appeal to
people who are interested in contributing to and learning from collec-
tive intelligence about religion and philosophy as they enhance their
enjoyment of the programme. To what extent, then, might this process
of contributing to collective intelligence about religion and philosophy
in relation to a ‘smart’ television programme like Lost result in changes
in how those participants interact in our collective experience more
broadly conceived? In other words, do people seem to learn skills
online that translate into our collective lives together, as Jenkins (2007)
has suggested? If there is evidence for this kind of learning that results
in social change, it might be argued that online interactions contribute
to mediatization processes, or the processes through which social and
cultural activities and interactions gradually come to be shaped by
media environments that they then become increasingly dependent
upon (Hjarvard 2007).
Analysis of more than 500 online entries devoted to the television pro-
gramme Lost revealed that some fans do discuss the religious, philosophi-
cal and mythical references of the programme, and in some cases they do
gain greater understanding. There is scant evidence that they learn skills
directly translatable to our collective lives, however. Still, this article will
argue that there is evidence of mediatization processes, although perhaps
in a less direct way than the theory of collective intelligence might imply.
This article found that when people believe they are posting about Lost’s
religious and philosophical references in a context that may include per-
sons from a variety of religious and philosophical commitments (as is the
case in public online forums), they do so within a norm of tolerance and
curiosity. The television programme Lost does not actively promote this
norm, but the programme may appeal to those who already embrace it.
Moreover, through online discussions, participants become aware of and
then operate within that norm. When Lost’s producers read contributions
to these online forums, they become aware of this norm of tolerance and
curiosity and of their need to remain within it in order to continue to
appeal to their core audiences (although such awareness of norms on the
part of producers or online contributors is rarely conscious). In this more
limited sense, then, this article will argue that popular culture may con-
tribute to the mediatization of religion not only because religion and phi-
losophy are increasingly represented in media or are increasingly discussed
in our collective lives as a result of fan activities, but because through pub-
lic online forums, people come to recognize and act within certain norms
when it comes to religion and philosophy. In the case of Lost, online par-
ticipants learn that religion and philosophical differences are most
appropriately discussed within norms of tolerance and curiosity – which,
NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008 145

in turn, influences future representational decision-making on the part of

producers. The mediatization of religion, in this case, refers to the ways
in which popular culture may provide a venue through which people can
consider and to some extent consensually agree upon the norms that govern
representations and interactions that relate to religious and philosophical
differences. To use the phrase of Newcomb and Hirsch (1994), mediatization
may be conceptualized as the process through which television, web-
based materials and other forms of popular culture have become a ‘cultural
forum’ for debates about cultural values.
Lost and the mediatization of religion

Mediatization has become an interesting way to theorize the transforma-
tive role of the media within social life in the contemporary period (Hepp
2007; Hjarvard 2006; Mandaville 2007). Schulz (2004) proposed four
different aspects of mediatization: (1) media extend the natural limits of
human communication capacities; (2) the media provide a substitute for
social activities and social institutions; (3) media amalgamate with various
non-media activities in social life; and (4) actors and organizations of all
sectors of society accommodate to the media logic. Mediatization, there-
fore, refers to both the processes by which social organizations, structures
or industries take on the form of the media, and the processes by which
genres of popular culture become central to the narratives of social phe-
nomena. Applying the concept of mediatization to the analysis of religious
change, Hjarvard (2006) observed:
The media facilitate changes in the amount, content, and direction of religious
messages in society, at the same time as they transform religious representations
and challenge and replace the authority of the institutionalized religions.
Through these processes, religion as a social and cultural activity has become
mediatized.
(Hjarvard 2006: 5)
In recent years, a number of US studies have explored processes of medi-

atization in relation to religion. These studies have largely considered the
practices of individuals and groups that self-identify as religious, and the
commercially available religious phenomena they consume. Hendershot
(2004) argued that the Religious Right’s enthusiastic embrace of the media
for their own purposes resulted in the negation of the purported distinc-
tiveness between evangelical and North American culture. Warren (2005)
similarly argued that the popular video series Veggie Tales, originally an
outgrowth of the US evangelical desire to socialize children into the fold
through religious products, ultimately echoed the norms of North
American culture. Sullivan (2005) traced the changes in Catholic identity
practices that were reflected in and propelled by mainstream media of the
1950s and 1960s. McCloud (2003) looked at how media coverage of new
religious movements shaped how subsequent religious movements were
understood. Einstein (2007) considered how various US religions have
employed branding techniques to adapt to the commercial marketplace, a
topic also addressed in relation to concerns of religion, market and national
identity in Clark (2007).

Exploring mediatization through the religious practices of individuals

and their patterns of media consumption, Hoover (2006) argued that the
plethora of media available for consumption feeds the trend toward
‘seeker’ religion. Also in tracing the religious practices of individuals in
relation to media consumption, Hjarvard and his colleagues surveyed
more than one thousand adults in Denmark (Hjarvard 2006). They found
that whereas most conversations about spirituality, faith and religion occur
among family members and close friends (30 per cent), more than 25 per
cent of those surveyed noted that they engaged with questions of spirituality,
faith or religion through television programmes, films, non-fiction books
and the Internet. This is especially interesting given the secular nature of
Danish society.
What does such engagement with spirituality, faith and religion mean
for individuals and religious groups? Surely, viewers and readers of popu-
lar culture have been enchanted with fictional narratives that contain reli-
gious or spiritual referents, such as the popular Lord of the Rings (2001–03)
and The Matrix series (1999–2003) and Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code
(2006). Earlier research into popular teen narratives of the supernatural
found that there are indeed reasons to believe that such enchantment can
shape religious imaginations for young people in some contexts (Clark
2003, 2005, 2006). Yet earlier research, focused on individual and familial
levels, did not explore how processes of enchantment relate to emerging
norms regarding the increasingly plural religious and cultural landscape in
which we live. This is an important area of concern for those interested in
how the processes of mediatization are shaping the collective lives of soci-
ety’s members. Through an analysis of how online fans share collective
intelligence regarding religious and philosophical references in the television
programme Lost, therefore, this article sets out to explore the processes
through which religion and philosophy become mediatized, as norms about
representing and discussing religion and philosophy are increasingly shaped
and reinforced in venues related to the media rather than in venues related
to religious institutions.
Methods: cultural analysis and qualitative methodologies

Over the past few decades, studies of media audiences have been
guided by an understanding of audience members as participants in
interpretive communities, who in turn are constituted as audiences by
the media industries (Ang 1985; Fish 1980; Lemish 2004; Meehan
2007; Naficy 1993). Most audience research in media studies has been
concerned with identity construction (Jenkins 1992; Mazzarella and
Pecora 1999), although some scholars continue to study the processes
of ideological reproduction as it occurs in relation to media consump-
tion practices (Andrejevic 2003; Seiter 1999). Within these approaches,
scholars embrace a methodology that brings traditional textual analysis
into conversation with interviews and, more recently, with discourse
analysis of collective online forums in order to understand processes of
cultural production (Baym 1999; Clark 2003; Gray and Mittell 2007;
Murphy 2005).
This study engaged in a similar discursive analysis of online discus-
sions about the television programme Lost, exploring interactions and
NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008 147

statements made about the programme’s religious and philosophical ref-

erences in online forums and on personal web pages. The project fol-
lowed what Schneider and Foot (2004, 2005) have termed ‘Web sphere
analysis’, in which the Web sphere is conceptualized as ‘not simply a col-
lection of websites, but as a hyperlinked set of dynamically defined digi-
tal resources spanning multiple websites deemed relevant or related to a
central theme or “object”’. Web sphere analysis explores ‘the structural
and feature elements of websites, hypertexts, and the links between them’
(Schneider and Foot 2004: 116; see also Foot 2006). Web sphere analysis
also acknowledges the dynamism of the Web, where pages may change
from day to day and researchers may uncover new links and sites as the
study unfolds. Web sphere analysis can be related to the semiotic analysis
Klaus Bruhn Jensen (1995) identified as ‘super-themes’, a term that ref-
erences the ideological and cultural frameworks through which people
interpret news stories, thus locating meaning within interpretive commu-
nities. Thus, when Lost fans contribute something that eventually
becomes part of the Lost ‘Web sphere’, they are making certain assump-
tions about how to understand the topic. The way the web pages are inter-
connected through blogs, forums, comments pages and other materials
suggests an organizational pattern that also recognizes underlying themes
and relationships.
For my sample, I analysed conversations about religion, philosophy
and related topics as they occurred in 18 online forums and 28 blogs, and
in the ‘comments’ sections of 14 online locales related to books and news
articles about Lost. In addition to searching for blogs and online forum
discussions using Google search strings such as ‘lost and religion’, ‘lost
and spirituality’, ‘lost and philosophy’, I also searched on the titles of key
episodes that explicitly referenced or depicted something related to religion
or philosophy, as bloggers and posters often grouped their comments in
relation to specific episodes. More than 500 online entries were reviewed
in the public online forums: lost.com, lost-tv.com, tv.com/lost, abc.go.com/
primetime/lost, lost-media.com, losthatch.com, oceanicflight815.com, tvsquad.
com/category/lost, lost.cubit.net, lostlounge.tv, and losttv-forum.com, among
others. Online entries mentioning Lost’s religious and philosophical refer-
ences also appeared in the comments sections related to stories about
the programme from news outlets ranging from the New York Times to
beliefnet.com, and in other philosophically themed public blogs, including
internetinfidels.com and philosophynow.com. Religious and philosophical
references to Lost were also located and reviewed in several personal
blogs, identified here as ‘fansites’ to protect anonymity. Entries were
analysed and coded according to religious and philosophical references
including ‘Christian’, ‘Buddhist,’ ‘Islam’, ‘other’, ‘Greek/Roman mythology’
and ‘general discussion of religion’.
Findings: religion, myth and philosophy in Lost

In the world of Lost there are several obvious religious, philosophical and
mythical referents that occur in relation to the characters. Three charac-
ters are named for the philosophers John Locke, David Hume
(Desmond), and Jean-Jacques Rousseau (Danielle). The only baby on the
island is Aaron, whose name is discussed in one episode in relation to

Moses (in the Talmud and Old Testament, Aaron is Moses’ brother). And
the story of Desmond and his desire to reunite with his long-lost love
named Penelope after a worldwide journey across the sea calls to mind
Homer’s epic The Odyssey. Other names from Greek mythology are
found on one of the island’s hidden stations, the Hydra (the monster
Hercules battled), and on the security system named Cerberus (the three-
headed dog said to guard the gates of Hades). Additionally, episodes
titled ‘Exodus’ and ‘The 23rd Psalm’ bring to mind sacred scriptures
within the Jewish and Christian traditions. Numerous other references
have been located and catalogued by the programme’s fans (see, for
example, http://lostpedia.com/wiki/Religion).
Although most of the island’s inhabitants are not explicitly reli-
gious, a few are depicted in relation to a faith commitment. Sayid, a
former member of the Iraqi Republican Guard, is twice depicted in the
Muslim practice of Salaat, or daily prayer; Rose, a US Christian, refer-
ences prayer and at one point prays with Charlie, the lapsed Catholic
who is a former Australian rock star and a recovering heroin addict.
Hurley, the hapless lottery winner, was raised by a devout Roman
Catholic mother. Eko, a Nigerian drug runner, assumed the religious
identity of his brother, the (possibly Anglican) priest. Desmond, who
developed psychic powers after a strange magnetic blast, was at one
time a practising novice in a monastery. John Locke, whose legs were
miraculously healed upon landing on the island, seems at times to artic-
ulate Buddhist teachings. Locke also built a sweat lodge on the island
(on the spot where Eko had first begun to build a church) where he
experienced a kind of vision quest. In the fourth season, the cryptic
Matthew Abbadon introduces himself as an employee of the doomed
Oceanic Airlines – Abbadon being a Hebrew word from scripture asso-
ciated with the destruction of the apocalypse. Also significant in the
religious and philosophical references within the programme are the
mentions of the Dharma initiative, revealed to be a psychological exper-
iment with utopian themes and depicted in several places on the island
with the wheel of destiny from the I Ching. Moreover, the programme’s
narrative addresses themes in relation to redemption, purgatory, for-
giveness and karma.
For the general audience, these references offer a lot to decode and
digest. Not all of the programme’s online fans were interested in dis-
cussing the religious, philosophical and mythical dimensions of the pro-
gramme, and not all fans recognized the referents. Patterns emerged in the
ways fans discussed the various religious, mythical and philosophical ref-
erents in the programme, however: (1) the references to Christianity were
the most easily decipherable, but also the most problematic and generated
the greatest discussion; (2) references to Islam and Judaism, in contrast,
were perhaps the least commented upon; (3) references to ancient Greek
mythology were discussed in relation to literary references, whereas refer-
ences to Roman, Egyptian, Sumerian and Norse mythology only appeared
in the ‘official’ lostpedia entry on religion and ideology; and (4) within
fan discussions, references to Buddhism, Hinduism, Taoism and philoso-
phy were the most puzzling. These patterns are discussed in more detail
below with reference to the unfolding of the Lost narrative and its relation
NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008 149

to an emergent norm of tolerance and curiosity with regard to discussions

of religious and cultural representations.
‘Redemption Island’
In the first two seasons, Christian bloggers quickly picked up on the refer-
ences to their faith embedded in Lost. Within a month of its premiere,
HollywoodJesus.com had posted a review of the series, noting its theme
of redemption (Broaddus 2004). Later that same month (October 2004),
another amateur film reviewer observed, ‘I’d call it more Redemption
Island than the Island of Second Chances [ … ] characters may be redee-
med from being on the island’ (Rotten Tomatoes 2004). Lynette Porter and
David Lavery’s book, Unlocking the Meaning of Lost (2006), included
two chapters devoted to spirituality and the subject of redemption in
the series.
Just before the premiere of the second season, Christian film and tele-
vision critic David Buckna (2005) penned what became a widely circu-
lated quiz of twenty questions that highlighted the Christian references in
the programme’s first season. The quiz noted Charlie’s struggle with
heroin addiction and his visit to a confessional, and also pointed out that
the last name of central character Jack was Shepard. In his desire to high-
light the Christian imagery in the programme Buckna noted:
One of the recurring numbers on the show is 23. Psalm 23 begins ‘The Lord is
my shepherd…’ Jack and his fellow passengers board Oceanic Airlines Flight
815 (8 + 15 = 23) at gate 23, and [he] was assigned seat 23B.
(Buckna 2005)
The quiz also included more dubious connections, such as an alleged link
between Claire’s necklace with its Chinese symbol ‘ai’ (love) and a refer-
ence to Christian scripture.
Buckna posted his quiz into the comments section of many forums and
blogs referencing Lost. Christian ministers such as Jollyblogger and
rhettsmith posted the quiz on their blogs without comment. By the premiere
of the third season, Buckna’s quiz had been expanded to 101 questions in
order to include new Christian references, and when (Los Angeles) Daily
News television critic David Kronke (2006) received a copy of the
expanded quiz, he reposted it on his blog with the comment, ‘If you get a
passing grade on this quiz (without cheating), you should seriously consider
getting psychiatric attention.’ About.com’s Bonnie Covel (2007 also high-
lighted the expanded version in her online compendium of Lost resources.
Yet by the second season, some viewers were quite frustrated with the
idea that all of the mysteries of Lost might be explained within a Christian
framework. As one self-described non-Christian blogger wrote in
response to Buckna’s third season update, ‘I’m sorry, but if this show turns
out to revolve around one particular religious belief, I may have to stop
watching [… ] If it’s all about sin and redemption, it was a long road to
nowhere, IMO …’ (Anonymous 2006). Others expressed frustration at the
attempt to read Lost as a Christian allegory. When Christian Piatt’s book
LOST: A Search for Meaning (2006) was released early in the third season,
one Amazon.com reviewer deemed it ‘a preachy bore’, calling the

Christian reading ‘nebulous’ and accusing Piatt of committing a fan’s

unforgiveable sin: he got many of the series’ facts wrong (Piatt comment
2007). Yet not all references to Christian allegory were treated so harshly.
Late in the third season on one fan site, a self-avowed ‘newbie’ who con-
fessed that her knowledge of Christianity was primarily informed by Jesus
Christ Superstar and The Da Vinci Code, put forward the theory that the
island may be an allegory for the New Testament, with Jack cast as Jesus,
Kate as Mary Magdalene, Ben as Pontius Pilate and so forth. A first
responder wrote generously, ‘Although I think that theory is really inter-
esting, I highly doubt that is where the show is going’, noting the many
threads in the programme that seemed unrelated to Christianity: the listening
station with men speaking Portuguese, the utopian society, the possibility
of genetic mutation (Fansite 2007). Another agreed, noting, ‘you can easily
integrate many religious or cultural beliefs into Lost, that’s what has made
this a great show’. This example illustrates that the way in which such ref-
erents could be interpreted with a specific agenda, rather than the Christian
referents themselves, were the problem.
The Christian referents in the series did indeed become particularly
overt in the second season. A downed plane on the island was discovered to
hold a very enigmatic set of objects: statues of the Virgin Mary that contained
heroin. The statues were part of an ingenious plan hatched by priest-poseur
former drug smuggler Eko – who, upon landing on the island, began to
assume the role rather than merely the costume of his brother, who had
been a priest (episode: ‘Fire + Water’). In a key episode, Charlie had a
dream featuring his mother and Claire who demanded that he must ‘save
the baby’. Dressed as angels in blues, golds and reds, the image reproduced
the Andrea del Verrochio painting, The Baptism of Christ. Eko interpreted this
dream for Charlie in relation to a Christian framework, leading to his baptism
of Claire and her baby, Aaron. Explanations of this imagistic quotation of
Figure 1: In a scene from Lost that received mixed reviews, Claire and her
baby Aaron were baptised on the island by Mr Eko, a former drug runner
that fellow island residents believed was a priest.
NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008 151

Renaissance and Baroque art appeared in online fan locations such as

lost.cubit.net, losthatch.com and in several individual blogs. And shortly
after the episode featuring the baptism, someone began a thread titled,
‘Anyone else mildly pissed off at the overemphasis of religion in Lost?’ on
‘Internet Infidels’, which proclaims itself to be the ‘Secular Web: A Drop
of Reason in a Pool of Confusion’ (Internet Infidels 2005). In reply to one
question, ‘Why did religion have to creep in and screw this show up???’
Another replied diplomatically,
Eh, didn’t bother me. A lot of people are Christian, it would make sense that
you’d have at least a few Christians who would want the baby baptized on the
island. Besides, consider that the Christian who did the baptism was a murderer
and drug runner [ …] I have no doubt plenty of Christians were pissed off about
how their religion was portrayed in Lost.
(Internet Infidels 2005)
Another added, ‘I was fine with Rose being religious, and Eko being reli-
gious [ … ] but “converting” Claire rubs me the wrong way’ (Internet
Infidels 2005). This prompted another measured response:
I’m waiting to see where they go with it before I decide whether or not to get
annoyed. It’s true that they’ve had much in the way of Biblical allusions and
religious symbolism so far, but that doesn’t automatically mean that the show
is promoting religion [… ] Charlie was raised in the Catholic faith, so it’s not
surprising his vision would be cloaked in religious imagery.
(Internet Infidels 2005)
Another agreed: ‘The religious stuff doesn’t bother me as long as it’s

interesting’, and another replied: ‘I don’t feel any fundie overtones from
the show’ (Internet Infidels 2005). These discussions of religious repre-
sentation are particularly interesting in that they appear in a forum to
which self-identified atheists and agnostics post. They suggest that even
those least likely to be entertained by religious references did not find
those representations problematic, as long as they remained consistent
with the programme’s characters and plotline.
Contributors to a different forum were frustrated that some fans seemed
to want to dismiss the Christian dimensions of the series: not because they
themselves were believers, but because they felt that Christian imagery
played such an obvious role in the series. Late in the second season, one
contributor wrote, ‘Absolutely equal to the scientific portion of the show is
the faith aspect. No one’s [sic] saying you have to believe in religion, just
understand how it may correlate to the scientific principals [sic] being
shown’ (Lost.com 2006). Another responded in agreement:
There’s no way religion or its baby brother psychotherapy aren’t important here
[ …]. What we need is a clear-minded discussion of the role of religion in LOST
[ …] If one were to not recognize the religious importance in the series then they
would be missing out on a great part of it all. That’s part of the beauty of the
show, and the reason it sucks the more intelligent of us in.
(Lost.com 2006)

In these statements, fans of the programme seemed to defend the right to

discuss the religious referents that appeared in Lost, arguing that doing so
increased understanding and was not akin to promoting a particular faith
aggressively. The fact that online contributors made these statements indi-
cates their feeling that any discussions of Christianity might be considered
part of the strong-armed tactics of the Religious Right. Fans seemed to
want to distance themselves from those hard-line devotees, even as they
repositioned Lost’s religious referents in relation to the ‘intelligence’
required to solve the programme’s mysteries.
Those fans who wrote online did seem to enjoy self-identifying as
‘intelligent’. Few of these fans, however, seemed to notice the lack of Jews
in the programme: at least, until Lilit Marcus posted an article on
Beliefnet.com to that effect early in the third season (Marcus 2006). ‘I’m
not asking for a whole subgroup (on the island) – just some representation,’
she wrote, adding, tongue-in-cheek,
Slap a Chai necklace on someone. Give one of the background characters a

yarmulke and make sure the audience notices. By the end of the episode, there
will be at least eight websites devoted to what the yarmulke might mean and
what role it plays in the mythology of the show.
During the midseason break in year three, one person started a thread in
the ‘lostaways’ forum of lost.tv titled, ‘Nu, such a mechaiyeh! (aka The Nice
Jewish Thread)’ (Nu 2007). Rather than mentioning Marcus’s article or
main point, however, the vast majority of the over 100 posts in the thread
were devoted to humorous trading of Yiddish expressions. Jewish fans of
Lost had apparently found one another online, if not in the series itself.
Beliefnet blog contributor Lilit Marcus made an online observation
about Sayid, Lost’s Muslim Iraqi, a few months further into season three.
She wrote:
For one episode, (Sayid) got a semblance of peace because he was compassion-
ate and fair. He showed mercy where none was deserved, which is significant for
a guy who has spent far too many scenes getting shot and torturing others.
(Marcus 2007a)
In season one, Sayid, a former expert in military torture, had prayed in a

mosque as a means of infiltrating a former friend’s terrorist cell. Yet
Sayid’s religious background did not emerge in other posts, save in one
thread titled, ‘Will the island know it’s Christmas?’ One contributor
responded, ‘They didn’t celebrate Halloween. Not to mention that it’s
assumed that Sayid, Jin and Sun aren’t Christian so are less likely to cele-
brate a Christian holiday’ (lost-forum.com 2007).
Dharma, karma and enlightenment

Notwithstanding the lack of Jews and the singular Muslim, by the end of
the second season, it was clear that another religion had gained promi-
nence in the mythology of Lost: Buddhism. Viewers first saw the number
‘108’ in the first episode of the second season, painted on the wall on the
inside of the hatch (episode: ‘Man of Science, Man of Faith’). The logo
NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008 153

Figure 2: In a flashback within an episode of Lost, a sign with the Buddhist/

Hindu greeting ‘Namaste!’ welcomed early visitors to the island and to
the Dharma Initiative.
for the Dharma Initiative was then introduced in the following episode
(episode: ‘Adrift’), and in an orientation film featuring an Asian doctor
who ended his message with the Indian greeting, ‘Namaste’, a phrase
with religious overtones which means, ‘I recognize the divinity in you’.
The word ‘Dharma’ comes from a Sanskrit word meaning ‘to hold’, and
the word refers to holding a person to his or her purpose or moral duty.
Hinduism’s use of the word refers to one’s obligation with respect to
caste, custom or law, whereas in Buddhism Dharma refers to the duty to
undertake a pattern of conduct advocated by the Buddha in order to reach
enlightenment. It also refers to ‘The Path of the Teaching’, or ‘the jour-
ney of the student that ends ultimately in the alleviation of suffering
and/or the undoing of karma’ (lost.about.com 2007; see also Tamney
1998; Venugopal 1998). The Dharma Initiative’s logos, which appeared
in several episodes in seasons two, three and four, featured a wheel of
destiny from the I Ching. Occasionally viewers also saw a dharmacakra,
which lostpedia.com identifies as an 8-spoked wheel representing the
eightfold path to enlightenment in Buddhism and Hinduism (Lostpedia.
com 2008).
By midway through the second season, critics and fans had begun to
pick up on the references to Buddhism within Lost. Writing for the
Buddhist magazine Tricycle, Dean Sluyter penned an article on the sub-
ject that noted the many symbolic references to the process of awakening
within the series, including the dilating pupils in the opening shots of sea-
son one and season two, and the references to light and dark and to
ancient wisdom. ‘What’s going on here?’ he wrote. ‘Is mainstream TV
really making a meaningful foray into the Buddhist world? Or is it
merely rummaging through the thrift shop of Buddhist terminology for
the odd hat or trinket in which to play dress-up?’ (Sluyter 2007). He then
pointed out the significance of the number 108: ‘maintaining mindfulness
in increments of 108 being a familiar activity, of course, to anyone who

has used a standard 108-bead mala to count off repetitions of mantra’

(Sluyter 2007). He also argued that the character John Locke is repre-
sented as a Buddha of sorts: he taught young Walt that the seeming struggle
of dark and light was a mere game of changing perspectives; he noted
that other survivors needed to relinquish efforts at control; and he sat
cross-legged in peace and total acceptance at the prospect of changing
weather. As fans learned of his pre-plane crash background as a frustrated
office worker and his embrace of new life on the island, Sluyter pointed out,
we see that ‘Yes, even schmendricks like us may rise to be bodhisattvas’.
The very idea of being lost, Sluyter argued, is central to the Buddhist
concept of enlightenment: ‘we must be willing to get lost, to cast off the
moorings of what we know or think we know’, and in the sense that the
series continues to lead its audience into its mysteries, it ‘has provided
a kind of mass-audience quasi-meditative experience’ for its viewers,
he argued.
Chicago Tribune writer Maureen Ryan highlighted Sluyter’s article
shortly after its initial publication (Ryan 2006). Unlike the tongue-in-cheek
‘Where are the Jews?’ article published nearly four months earlier, ‘The
Buddhism of Lost’ article was not only republished on beliefnet.org but
also quickly made the rounds on the Web, with more than twenty Lost-
related bloggers linking to it to their sites in the two months that followed
the Tribune article.
Despite the article, and unlike the overt Christian references in the tele-
vision programme, it seemed to take more time for the English-language
online fans to sort through the Buddhist references in Lost. ‘Several of
the sayings seem to have a Buddhist flavor (didn’t one say something
like ‘we cause all our own problems?’)’, one blogger observed midway
through the third season on a blog called Completely ‘Lost’ (Fansite 2006).
Around the same time on another blog, a viewer made a similar observa-
tion: ‘The Buddhist references in this show permeate everything.’ He sup-
ported his argument with the fact that several of the crash survivors
seemed to be interconnected, mentioning also the prominence of the number
108, The Dharma Initiative, illusions, desire and reincarnation:
Locke, the Bald Buddhist Monk in the group, repeats instructions to ‘Let Go’
and goes with the flow of things. And one thing that Buddhism is huge on [… ]
Karma from your past life having a direct effect on suffering in your present
circumstances (i.e. Fate) until you rectify your misdeeds. Every character in this
show has some dark past …
(Lostwiki 2006)
On a different forum related to lost.com, toward the end of the third sea-
son, a viewer wrote that he had become curious about ‘the Dharma thing’
and had looked it up. He then pasted in some information on Buddhism
including material that noted that ‘Dharma’ was the method of eliminating
ignorance by practising the Buddha’s teachings. ‘If we integrate Buddha’s
teaching into our daily life, we will be able to solve all our inner prob-
lems and attain a truly peaceful mind’ (lost.com 2007). Unfortunately,
this writer did not elaborate on how he believed that this material related
to Lost (2004–).
NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008 155

Another blogger noted late in the third season that she was beginning
to see the benefits to the theory that the island was ‘some sort of Buddhist
Shangri-La’ (Fansite 2007). On the official Lost forum at ABC.com, in a
location where fans are encouraged to share their theories, 713 people
gave approving ratings to an early third-season post that pointed to the
importance of Buddhism in the unfolding developments on the island.
After several months of discussion in this forum, a new poster added this
comment: ‘I am a Buddhist and I can tell you that 108 is NOT “the most
sacred number …”’ (Cub3d 2007). A few weeks later, another poster
added this correction:
In response to Jim Cub3d stating that he’s Buddhist and that 108 is not the most
sacred number. The number 108 comes up repeatedly in Hinduism and Buddhism.
My father is a Buddhist and I have learned dharma and meditated for years. A
traditional mala (like a rosary) has 108 beads. Malas are used for reciting
mantras. The 108 beads are said to represent the number of human desires we
must conquer to find enlightenment. Also it’s said that there are 108 energy lines
that make up the heart chakra [ …] 108 is an auspicious number.
(Abc.lost.com 2007)
Two other posters who self-identified as Buddhists confirmed the belief that
there are 108 desires one must overcome in the pursuit of enlightenment.
Other posters added these comments: ‘Notice [that] everyone in the original
Dharma group greeted each other [with] “Namis dai” – not sure if that
is the original spelling, but it means how are you in Indian which is
where Hinduism started’ (Abc.lost.com 2007). And weeks after a lengthy
discussion of the numbers and other aspects of Buddhism, another poster
wrote this:
In Ben’s flashback when it showed Ben arriving on the island, Ben’s dad and some-
one else said ‘Namaste’ to each other and then shook hands. I wondered what it
meant and so I went on Google and typed in Namaste and found out it is a term
used in the religion Wicka [sic] to greet someone. So now I’m starting to think the
others have something to do with Wicka [sic]. I really hope the show doesn’t turn
out to be supporting Wicka. That would suck! I’m a Christian, NOT a Wickan.
(Abc.lost.com 2007)
As is clear from these posted comments, there are some interesting

exchanges about Buddhism that have occurred because of references
within the programme. There is also evidence of continued misreadings
and opportunities online for people to find information that supports
their world-view (for example, that Wicca is problematic for Christianity,
in a post that somehow overlooked Buddhism or conflated it with Wicca).
This makes an earlier comment in this forum by Jim Cub3d seem espe-
cially relevant:
When a mystery or puzzle is presented in popular culture, the authors have to

present a solution that can be understood by the audience once it’s revealed,
something they can relate to, something they can go back and see how ‘that
makes sense now’ or ‘Sure, I should have seen that!’ Basing a TV show puzzle

on esoteric Buddhist or Hindu arcana probably doesn’t fill the bill. Interesting
how these things fit, sure; but I can’t believe ABC would be asking its viewers to
piece together something absolutely none of them have a snowball’s chance in
hell of piecing together.
(Cub3d 2007)
This last contribution commented not only on the Buddhist references

within the series, but also on the implausibility of a television network
employing Buddhist references as key aspects to a plotline.
Discussion: popular television and the mediatization of religion

This article set out to explore the role of the media in transforming society
from one of comfortable distance between religious cultures to one of
increased interaction with and desire for understanding among differing
cultures. Relying upon theories that suggest popular culture may provide
common ground across differences of nation, culture and religion, the article
reviewed how fans of the television programme Lost built collective intel-
ligence as they discussed the references to religion, philosophy and myth
in various online locations. Several patterns emerged within these online
discussions.
First, it is evident that many of the English-speaking fans brought
some understanding of Christianity to the series (even if it was from Jesus
Christ Superstar and The Da Vinci Code), and this informed their ability
to decipher at least the more overt Christian references in the early sea-
sons. Second, surprisingly few seemed to comment on the fact that Sayid,
the series’ sole Muslim, practised his faith even when he carried out some
despicable duties. Third, few commented on the lack of Jews.
Fourth, it is notable that Buddhism’s entrance into the series occurred
not through a character, but in relation to the ongoing mysteries of the
island itself, suggesting that there may have been a religious/philosophical
reason for the Dharma experiments, and perhaps even for the ‘lostaways’
state on the island. The fact that Buddhism was only vaguely recognized
by the series’ fans may have heightened the programme’s mysterious,
exotic appeal, reinforcing Buddhism as an emergent and important ‘other’
in the context of US faith and philosophical traditions.
In order to continue appealing to both its devoted fan base and its
wider collection of less-invested viewers, the creators of Lost must employ
religious and philosophical references in ways that reflect, but do not chal-
lenge, viewers’ core assumptions. In reviewing the online conversations
of religious representation, therefore, we gain insights into what those
core assumptions might be. Christianity, while a recognizable source of
imagery and symbolism for many in the audience, is not embraced
unequivocally by viewers, as demonstrated by responses to online evan-
gelical quizzes and other attempts to interpret the programme as a Christian
allegory. On the other hand, dismissals of the programme’s allusions to
Christianity were met with equally passionate concern. Fan consensus
suggested that Christianity could be a source of allusions within the series
as long as those allusions did not support a narrow viewpoint: namely, that
of evangelical Christianity and its penchant for conversion or its claims to
unequivocal truth.
NL 6 143–163 © Intellect Ltd 2008 157

It is interesting to note that some representations of Christianity

seemed to go unquestioned in the series, such as Desmond’s stint in a
monastery, Charlie’s visit to a confessional and Eko’s decision to assume
his brother’s role as a priest. On the other hand, online fans seemed
disgruntled about what they interpreted as Claire’s ‘conversion’ and the
positive portrayal of Aaron’s baptism as a resolution to Charlie’s per-
ceived problem. Fans also expressed mixed feelings about representations
of Rose as a spiritually expressive African American woman, and several
mentioned a distaste for Eko as a negatively coded African American man
using religion for his own purposes. This reveals that certain representa-
tions are more consensually accepted than others, providing insight into
norms governing Christianity’s discussion and representation with respect
to race and gender.
In contrast to the heightened awareness of Christian imagery in the
programme, fewer online discussions centred on representations of Sayid
as a Muslim or the lack of Jews on the island, even among fans who were
self-identified as Jewish or Muslim. When Buddhism and eastern philo-
sophical traditions emerged in the third season, online fans seemed
intrigued but often perplexed and sometimes downright befuddled. Indeed,
as one fan suggested, the lack of familiarity with Buddhism among the US
population in effect relegated Buddhism to a side interest. The series could
lose its casual viewers if its mysteries involved references to a philosophical
system that was remote to the majority.
Fans and viewers do not directly construct the narratives of a series
like Lost – but increasingly, their desire to invest in online joint inter-
pretation strategies of ‘collective intelligence’ may help to dictate the
direction and level of complexity such a series can embrace. Message
boards, forums, blogs and other forms of expression have become sites
for thoughtful discussions about religion that cross faith commitments
in a quest to understand and enjoy the narratives of prime time televi-
sion. Perhaps it is not coincidental that the producers, known for read-
ing the online discussions of fans, made several key decisions over the
course of the third season (spoiler alert!): Eko was killed, and later
Charlie, removing all referents to Catholic and Anglican religious cul-
ture save references to Desmond’s past in a monastery. In one online
discussion venue, viewers said that the most intriguing mysteries of
Lost included the reasons for Desmond’s psychic abilities, the black
smoke monster, the significance of Claire’s baby Aaron, and the numbers
(BuddyTv.com 2007) – all of which have been associated with religious
referents that may or may not have added meaning for the programme’s
viewers.
While there is evidence of mediatization of religion and the collective
intelligence regarding religion and philosophy, the data here point to the fact
that it is limited in several ways: first, those who choose to participate and
those who do not choose to participate in these discussions limit the
scope; second, it is limited by norms in online fan communities that privi-
lege short over long entries and distant rather than engaged communica-
tion; and third, perhaps most centrally, by the lack of interest in delving
more deeply in difference. Put simply, the barriers are too high for mean-
ingful intercultural conversations in online fan communities.

This does not eliminate discussions of popular culture from intercul-

tural communication efforts; it merely points to the fact that rarely do
meaningful exchanges happen online. Future research needs to explore
how intentional efforts to build intercultural and interreligious conversa-
tions can be fostered through the common ground of fandom in relation to
television programmes. Similar conversations are already taking place
with regard to the mediatization of politics and programmes such as The
Daily Show. How might popular culture similarly provide common
ground for discussions across religious and cultural differences? This is an
especially crucial time for such explorations, as fear-based interactions
grow and positive intercultural communication is needed more than ever.
Conclusion
This article has illustrated the many ways in which online fans of the tele-
vision programme Lost contribute to processes of collective intelligence.
Due to the limits of online communication, however, the article also high-
lighted the limitations in how participants might engender skills directly
translatable to our collective lives together. Although this highlights lim-
its of the collective intelligence concept, the article does provide evidence
of the processes of the mediatization of religion. First, programmes like
Lost evoke religious symbolism and narratives within contexts that are
outside the bounds of what is normally considered ‘religious’; second, by
reframing traditional religious symbols and narratives within these new
contexts, they create a means by which to understand religion through the
lens of popular culture. Third, such programmes extend considerations of
religion into locations outside of religious institutions. Finally, mediatiza-
tion can be said to occur as a result of the emergence of norms in public
online forums that reflect, and perhaps shape, norms of discussion that
are occurring throughout society and that in turn shape popular cultural
representations. Based on the data from this study, I argue that mediatiza-
tion is in part constituted as popular entertainment producers increase the
scope of religious- and cultural-mediated representation of the plural reli-
gious environment within these norms, illustrated in the popularity of Lost
as it delved into a vast array of religious, philosophical and mythological
referents.
The mediatization of religion, in this case, refers to the ways in which
popular culture may provide a venue through which people come to con-
sensually agree upon the norms that govern representations and interac-
tions that relate to religious and philosophical differences. To the extent
that this process of norm-making about representations of religion and
philosophy occurs outside the formal institutions of religion, this article
has observed one aspect of the processes of the mediatization that, in turn,
are shaping our religious and cultural environment.
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Magic spells and recitation contests: the

Quran as entertainment on Arab
satellite television
Ehab Galal
Abstract Keywords
Religion in the Middle East is, in general, related to political discussions Arab satellite TV
on Islam’s position and influence on the development of democracy. The Islamic media
same approach has been dominant in research into new media in the Quran
Islamic world. The argument of the article is that the mediatization of healing
Islam with the latest development of religious popular culture supports a magic
process, where a political and rational version of Islam is increasingly Quran recitation
being replaced by a more individualized and consumer-based version. The
article analyses two different types of popular religious programmes on
religious satellite TV: the Quran recitation competition and the Quranic
healing programme. By analysing the media’s use of the central symbol of
Islam, the Quran, it is possible to discuss the question of re-enchantment
as a part of popular culture. It is, in this way, illustrated how traditional
religious practices are perceived as instrumental for constructions of ‘the
Islamic self’.
The Quran is seldom associated with popular culture, due to the common 1. By the term ‘Islamist’,
tendency to view the Quran as a book connected to Islamic orthodoxy. As I refer to persons pro-
moting Islamism.
the Quran is defined as the directly revealed words of God, it is a book to Islamism is here
sanctify and treat with respect and awe. At the same time, the rejection of defined as a political
modern popular culture has been a core element of the Islamist project in ideology of establish-
the 1970s and 1980s. Based on political activism and the principle of ing a society and
policy on Islamic prin-
dissociation from a decadent, westernized society, the Islamists1 rejected ciples. In practice, the
its corrupt values, excesses and consumerism (Abdelrahman 2006). term ‘Islamism’ covers
Modern popular culture was condemned as non-Islamic and an expression a range of different
of hedonism and idolatry. Despite the denial among some conservative reli- policies, from radical
to moderate, due to
gious authorities as well as Islamists, Islam and popular cultural practices different interpretations
have always lived in fruitful interdependence. of the Islamic
Contrary to the self-ascription by some Islamists as being the purifier principles.
of Islam from superstitious, heretical, modernist and western practices,2 2. One of the main
researchers have argued that the Islamic revival is a result of moderniza- figures to inspire criti-
tion processes, including processes of individualization and consumption. cism of the western,
and particular
This development has made room for Islam as a powerful discourse creat- American, culture, was
ing religious and consumer identities (for example, Roy 2004). In this per- Said Qutb (1906–66),
spective, it is possible to see the development of a particular Islamic an Egyptian and a
prominent member
NL 6 165–179 © Intellect Ltd 2008 165

of the Muslim popular consumer culture as indeed a result of the political dissociation
Brotherhood, who
from western culture. With the introduction of Islamic satellite channels,
was executed by the
Egyptian state. the media also offer different and new variations of Islamic cultural con-
sumption, contesting the secular popular culture: an Arab popular culture
that – historically and to the present day – includes all kinds of cultural
practices that have no reference to Islam, including pop music, interna-
tional quiz concepts, reality shows and so on (cf. Abaza 2006, Armbrust
1996, Abdelrahman et al. 2006). The mediated Islamic popular culture
challenges these practices by claiming an Islamic perspective on all cul-
tural practices.
The question is: how is this claim realized in Islamic TV? What kind
of symbolic inventory is presented? How are Islamic symbols and global
media genres combined? What kinds of identities are proposed in medi-
ated Islamic popular culture? The Islamic satellite channels are part of
broader religious, cultural and social changes in the Arab countries and, in
this perspective, it is particularly interesting to look at the Quran in rela-
tion to popular culture because of the Quran’s explicit religious status and
symbolic power. The article proceeds as follows: I start by presenting
some theoretical and methodological perspectives before briefly outlining
the background of contemporary development in Arab-Islamic satellite
television. I then turn to the analysis and discussion of different genres,
such as fatwa programmes, Quran recitation and Quranic healing. Finally,
I conclude with some reflections about the Quran, Islam and mediated
popular culture.
New media and the return of religion

By using concepts like re-enchantment, re-sacralization and return of
religion, media research draws attention to a development where media
seems to become increasingly ritualized due to its performative genres as
well as occupied with religious topics of great variety (cf. Hoover and
Lundby 1997; Hoover 2002). The use of concepts reveals that the process
described is contesting an expected, supposed or, at least for some time,
prevalent lack of religion in media. Max Weber defined the modern world
as characterized by rationality and secularization and, by its disenchant-
ment, excluding religion from the public sphere (Weber 1976). The
understanding of religion as a leftover from traditional society has since –
on empirical grounds – been criticized by several researchers (for
example, Casanova 1994; Hoover 2006). Casanova provides a number
of examples of religion playing an active role in the political changes of
different countries, while Hoover analyses religion’s place in American
television.
The concepts of re-enchantment and re-sacralization have, in media
research, mainly been applied to issues in western media (cf. Clark
2002), but a similar development can be identified in Arab media as well.
It is, however, striking that the analytical perspective on religion in Arab
media seems mostly to be occupied with its position as either an obstacle
or potential for the development of a civil society, democracy and liberal
values (cf. Alterman 1998; Eickelman and Anderson 1999; Galal 2002).
From a critical perspective, one could argue that the analytical
166 Ehab Galal

approaches towards Middle Eastern media are still waiting for the devel-
opment of liberalization and democratization, as though this develop-
ment, with the West as an example, is an evolutionistic precondition for
further changes. I am not rejecting the importance of looking into the
media’s role in the development of a civil society and democracy in the
Middle East, but at the same time I find that by focusing on institutional
political change alone, one risks ignoring other aspects of the religious
and cultural development in the Middle East. If one only studies the
development of religion in Arab media as formal political issues, where
religious interpretations either support or reject a democratic develop-
ment, it is easy to blindly repeat western discourses that point at the
Islamic revival as being mainly a matter of political opposition and a non-
democratic movement. The result is not only the ignorance of its connec-
tion with issues closely related to globalization, like individualism,
consumption and identity policies, but at the same time as a construction
of Muslims only being guided by religious prescripts presented by reli-
gious authorities.
Furthermore, despite the lack of democracy, most Middle Eastern
countries have been through a process of secularization. So, when Islam
finds its way into new media, it is not a question of traditional Islam just
moving into the media and making use of new technological possibilities.
It is as a highly modern movement, in which the new Islamic revival has
embraced new media, such as video cassettes, fax machines, satellite TV
and the Internet (Eickelman and Anderson 1999). If we look at Arab TV’s
development since its introduction in 1956 in Iraq, religious TV is a new
and explosive element starting in the 1990s. Particularly with the introduc-
tion of transnational and commercial Arab TV, religious TV has grown in
numbers and diversity. Not that there have not been religious TV preach-
ers before, or Quran radio, but these were given an isolated platform, like
the Sunday service previously shown on European public service TV.
Furthermore, Syria, for example, still does not transmit the Friday prayer
on national TV. The new media do therefore challenge the nationally con-
trolled and, in most Arab countries, distinctly secular public service TV,
and have made room for religious public culture and re-enchantment. Of
course, this might have consequences for the political development, but it
might also affect religion and religious identities. It is the last aspect that
is the scope of this article.
Being inspired by the American media professor, Stewart Hoover, and
his approaches to religion and media (Hoover 2006), I will analyse the
use of the Quran in Islamic media as an example of the construction of
meaning and identity. Hoover argues that the media take part in the con-
struction of cultural and religious meaning by offering a symbolic inven-
tory that is used by the viewers in their negotiations and constructions of
their identity: being religious, ethnic, gender, class and other identities.
Hoover further argues that religion in late modernity is characterized by
subjective processes of negotiation and individualization and, as such, the
analysis needs to take into account the practices in which individuals
engage (Hoover 2006: 36). The individualization of religious identity has
been described as part of the Islamic revival as well (for example, Roy
NL 6 165–179 © Intellect Ltd 2008 167

3. Iqraa is the imperative 2004). Hoover is arguing for the necessity to carry out reception analysis,
of the verb ‘read’. The
but his theoretical approach is also helpful for the content analysis. As
word ‘read’ was the
first word revealed such, I am analysing the symbolic inventory of the different programmes:
to the Prophet how are they constructed, from which cultural sources and, in the per-
Muhammad, according spective of the scope of this article, how do they combine Islamic sym-
to Islamic belief.
Today, Muslims often
bols and practices with other more global popular cultural genres and
refer to this revelation practices? The Islamic channels are in this regard seen as a cultural prac-
as a reminder of the tice, where programmes are a product of, and present means for, negotia-
importance to Muslims tion and construction of meaning. One aspect of this construction is
to educate themselves.
defined by the motives of the broadcasters, and before going into the spe-
4. The number of cific content of examples of programmes, I will dwell on the Islamic
American citizens is
channels as a recent media phenomenon.
a little less than 300
million, which is close
to the number of Arab and Islamic
Arabs, estimated to be On Arab TV, a number of Islamic as well as Christian satellite channels
around 300 million.
Both regions are
have been launched since the first Islamic channel, Iqraa (Read),3 was pre-
characterized by sented in 1998. And since 9/11, the number of new religious channels has
having one official exploded, so that today, at least 21 Islamic and 11 Christian Arab satellite
common language channels are being broadcast. Islamic channels are, in my definition, chan-
(English and Arabic,
respectively)
nels whose main purpose is to mediate Islamic values and perspectives.
functioning as a lingua The increase in religious channels must be viewed in relation to a general
franca in the media. huge increase in Arab satellite channels. Since the introduction of the first
5. Hoover also states the Arab satellite channel, the state-owned Egyptian Satellite Channel
most recent number of (ESC1), in 1990, the number of Arab satellite channels has increased to at
American religious least 350 Arab satellite channels. Compared to religious TV channels in
radio stations, which
include 800 radio sta-
the United States, the number of Arab Islamic TV channels seems to be
tions, where at least lagging behind.4 Hoover writes that, in 2000, there were 245 commercial
part of their daily pro- and 15 non-commercial religious television stations (Hoover 2006: 60).5
grammes are religious, Arab media and Arab TV are in this context defined as any media or
650 radio stations
called Gospel, and 34
TV channel that uses Arabic as the main language. It follows that some of
radio stations that the Arab satellite channels might very well be broadcast from non-Arab
define themselves as countries, which has often been the case, especially in the 1990s.
New Age (Hoover Channels, such as the Saudi-owned MBC, started broadcasting in London
2006: 60).
in 1991. The location in Europe has been attractive, due to a higher degree
of editorial freedom. With the introduction of commercial and private TV
in many Arab countries, more and more channels are being launched from
within the Arab world. This is true for the religious channels as well. For
example, the channel Iqraa was launched by ART (Arab Radio and
Television). Today, ART comprises nineteen thematic commercial chan-
nels which include, for example, film, sport, cartoon and news channels.
When ART started in 1994, the company broadcasted from Rome, Italy,
with a smaller number of channels. Today, while the head office is still in
Rome, ART has studios in Egypt, Jordan, Saudi Arabia and Lebanon
where programmes are produced. Commercial stations, like ART, typi-
cally buy foreign entertainment channel programmes, rather than produce
their own, while the religious programmes broadcast on Iqraa come
mainly from their own production team.
The new Islamic satellite channels do not, unlike many web pages and
different kinds of pamphlets with more obvious sectarian affiliation,
emanate from religious groups or organizations, but rather from business
168 Ehab Galal

investors and consortia. While many of the Christian channels are 6. Among the Christian
channels are, for exam-
launched by churches or religious leagues,6 the Islamic channels are ple, Sat7, launched in
mostly non-denominational, with Islam proclaimed as a shared value, but 1996, and governed
not declared as officially identifying with a legal school, interpretation or by an independent
creed. So, Islamic channels like Iqraa, Al-Majd and Al-Risala are all international board
where the majority
owned by Saudi multimillionaires with close affiliations to the Saudi of the members are
royal family. The religious channels are established as part of greater elected representatives
business empires, which might include other media and other kinds of of Middle Eastern
business investments. Iqraa is an example of this tendency. The owner of and North African
churches and
Iqraa is Saudi multimillionaire, Salih Kamel. The focus of the programmes ministries. Tele
on Iqraa is stated as being ‘Islamic values’, which are not defined more Lumiere (1991) and
specifically. The channel states that it promotes a moderate Islam. It Noursat (2003) are
broadcasts a variety of programmes, from children’s programmes and talk both supervised by the
Assembly of Catholic
shows, to lifestyle programmes – all with a so-called Islamic perspective. Patriarchs and Bishops
The commercial aspect in the business of Islamic satellite TV does not in Lebanon, and are
mean that the main players do not differ in religious interpretation and ide- directed by a commit-
ology, and nor does it mean that they cannot have a political, as well as a tee involving religious
leaders from various
religious, aim. Obviously, the aim is to spread knowledge about Islam and denominations and a
to promote Islamic values and lifestyle. While the interpretation of Islam group of laity. Aghapy
differs, the general view is that an Islamic approach exists to all aspects of TV was launched in
2005 by the Coptic
life. The majority of the channels are Sunni Muslim channels, although Orthodox Church
some have Sufi7 affiliations, and others are Salafi,8 with close connections in Egypt.
to the Saudi religious establishment. But even the Saudi-owned channels
7. In 2008, a new private
differ greatly; Al-Majd is much more conservative in promoting Saudi cul- channel is being
tural practices, whereas Iqraa is moderate and, to some degree, addresses launched in Egypt,
Muslims all over the world, thereby representing different cultural prac- defining itself as Sufi-
tices. But in general, the Islamic channels do not directly or openly sup- affiliated (according to
a personal interview
port any state or political movement.9 Instead, they highlight a pious and with the BBC, 17
religious lifestyle and promote specific Islamic identity policies. Instead of December 2007).
discussing economic and foreign politics, the channels present and dis- Sufism is a philosophi-
cal, sometimes denoted
cuss the lifestyle of the individual Muslim and the moral and ethical ideals
as a mystical,
of the Muslim community. The presentation claims to be universal, but movement within
might implicitly be more or less in accordance with national cultural Islam, aimed at fulfill-
traditions, which, as mentioned, is the case with Al-Majd, for example. ing the love between
God and man.
As such, the channels can be seen as a politico-religious strategy for the
Islamic mission (the Arabic concept of Dawa), dominated by Saudi 8. Salafi refers to the
Salafi tradition. celebration of the
first Islamic leaders,
It is important to note that the increase in Arab satellite channels paral- namely the Prophet
lels the development of transnational media in general. It has resulted in a Muhammad and the
growing specialization, where religious channels are just one among a three leaders who fol-
range of other specializations. A range of new programmes mixing popu- lowed him – seeing
them as the incarnation
lar culture, Islam and religious teaching has been introduced. It is not only of the true Islamic
the religious satellite channels that broadcast religious programmes, but society and practice,
many of the 350 secular satellite channels are also now broadcasting a and therefore as exam-
ples to follow.
greatly diverse range of different programmes, including religious pro-
grammes. Entertainment is the most popular genre, which applies to 9. It is possible to discuss
Islamic TV as well. Concepts of entertainment are the same: quizzes, car- whether a channel
like Al-Manar
toons, films, lifestyle programmes, talk shows and so on. The religious (The Lighthouse)
programmes are in turn influenced by Islamic symbols, rituals and identity is religious and/or
positions; for example, in programmes about ‘How to find a spouse in the
NL 6 165–179 © Intellect Ltd 2008 169

political. The channel proper Muslim way’10 or ‘How to wear your Muslim headscarf in different
is owned by
Hezbollah, and the
fashions and styles’.11 In addition, the core ritual elements of Islam, such
goal is mainly as Quran recitation, praying and the interpretations of halal and haram
political, not religious. (lawful and unlawful in Islam) have assumed media form. Few have until
Despite its self- now studied the Islamic media as part of popular culture. Even though a
description as
promoting the values range of religious programmes use the very popular talk-show concept, in-
of sharia, Islam is only depth studies of these programmes (Galal 2003; Roald 2001; Skovgaard-
seldomly included in Petersen 2004) focus first and foremost on the changes in interpretation of
its programmes or the Quran, but only peripherally include the relationship to popular culture.
argumentation. I am
therefore not including
it in the types of chan- Between text and sacred power
nels discussed and The Egyptian-born professor, Abuzaid,12 writes about the meaning of the
presented in this
Quran in his introduction to his book:
article.
10. Shabaab aiyz ytgawwiz The Quran is a text which we can describe as centrally representative of the
(2004–05, young peo-
ple wanting to marry)
Arab cultural history. It is not because I want to simplify the description of the
at Iqraa. Arab-Islamic civilization that I name it a ‘text civilization’. […] When the cen-
tre of the civilization is the text, considered one of the bases, there is no doubt
11. Migalit al mar’a
(2001–2006, women’s that the exegesis, regarded as the other face of the text, is a very important
magazine) at Iqraa. instrument in the cultural and civilizing production of knowledge.
12. Abuzaid lives in the
(Abuzaid 1990: 9)
Netherlands, having
moved there from Abuzaid is an example of the secular approach to Islamic interpretation,
Egypt because of the where intellectual effort is the core element that replaces the sacred power
troubles he encountered
due to his interpretation of the book. In his book, Abuzaid focuses on text analysis, stressing that
of the Quran. the Quran is only the Quran because human beings continuously authorize
its divine meaning. As such, he challenges the literal interpretation that
some neo-fundamentalists would defend, and his approach can be seen as
a part of a process, where religious authority is harshly challenged and, as
a result, fragmented.
What I am going to argue is that the reconstitution of the importance,
influence and meaning of the Quran is not, and nor has it ever been, only
in the hands of the authorized scholar. The influence of the Quran has not
only survived because of text analysis or interpretation within an Islamic
legal school. It has also survived because of its inclusion in popular cul-
ture, where it has been reconstructed as a meaningful symbol and sacred
power by the Arab-Muslim population. Despite the importance of the
written word and interpretative imperatives, most Muslims, from a histor-
ical perspective, have not been able to read, let alone understand the text.
This is partly due to a high degree of illiteracy in the Arab world and
partly due to the classical Arabic of the Quran, which is difficult to under-
stand without scholarly or linguistic training. Other means of maintaining
the emotional and spiritual relationship between Muslims and the Quran
have therefore been necessary, and of a less intellectual character. As the
Quran is considered to be the direct word of God, it does not only consti-
tute the Islamic law (the Sharia), it also embodies all the mystical power
of a holy symbol and therefore every single printed edition of the Quran is
considered sacred, powerful and blessed. On this basis, the Quran, as writ-
ten text, has been transformed into popular use, such as using calligraphy
to write Quranic verses to decorate wall pictures, books or buildings and,
170 Ehab Galal

after the introduction of the printing press, as mass-produced books that 13. Sunna refers to
practices undertaken
were available to anyone. In this context, the Quran has, together with other or approved by
religious goods, been the basis for the development of Muslim religious the Prophet and
commodities, such as prayer beads, skullcaps and prayer rugs, as well as established as legally
‘bumper stickers, key chains, posters, board games, jigsaw puzzles, colour- binding precedents.
ing books, fans, clocks’ (Starrett 1995: 53), all framing Quranic verses. The
Quran has likewise in Egyptian cinema been given this symbolic status as
part of everyday ritual (Galal 2006). The diffusion of these commodities
tells us that the Quran is not for reading only; the Quran has a ritual value
due to its status as God’s words. For example, one can find the Quran
wrapped in a plastic cover – it is not supposed to be unwrapped and
read – and placed in the window of a car, protecting the people in the car
from misfortune and, at the same time, indicating the religious identity of
the owner (Starrett 1995: 53). The Quran is considered a sacred power in
itself, affecting the surroundings and persons nearby.
The sacred power of the Quran is widely distributed in the new Islamic
TV, not only as text-based meaning constructions, but also as the centre of
symbolic and ritual practices. As argued, researchers in new Arab media
have been particularly occupied with Quranic exegesis, trying to reveal
any changes in dogmatic interpretations. What I want to argue is that
the Quran can also be analysed as a part of popular culture – popular,
partly due to its ritualized forms and partly to its inspiration on lifestyle
and consumption.
Some programmes, like the fatwa programmes, accentuate the posi-
tion of the Quran as a basis for the interpretation of the Quran as a text-
book. A fatwa comprises religious advice by an Islamic scholar and, in
the fatwa programme, an Islamic scholar answers questions about how to
live a Muslim life in accordance with the Quran and Sunna.13 Viewers
raise the questions, calling in by phone, or by sending a fax or e-mail.
The objective here is the creation of legal opinions, meaning and infor-
mation. But the programme is not only about exegesis, it is also about
religious interaction and practice. Viewers take part by calling in and ask-
ing the questions, and thereby define what is important for them. The rit-
ual form of the fatwa programme is obvious in its repetitive and endless
questions of the same or similar content. Any serious religious channel
has one or more fatwa programmes. Iqraa broadcasts at least five fatwa
programmes, each with their own religious scholar or sheikh to answer
the questions. The question from the believer, followed by an answer
from the scholar, could be analysed as a way to practice Islam. The
amount of fatawa given on Islamic TV is so huge and, at the same time,
contradictory that it is always possible to find a different interpretation in
another programme. But what is certain is that the scholar of the pro-
gramme will always be able to answer any question with reference to
Islam, stating that Islam has a perspective on any everyday practice. In
this way, the mediation of the fatawa strengthens a development where
fragmentation of authority is prevalent, and where the responsibility to
take part in the negotiation of the right Islamic behaviour and identity is
more and more the responsibility of the individual Muslim. It is the
responsibility of the individual Muslim to choose the programme and
thereby the religious authority; it is the responsibility of the individual
NL 6 165–179 © Intellect Ltd 2008 171

14. The British channel Muslim to ask the relevant questions. To take part in this mediated ritual
‘Islam Channel’ also
can be seen as a way to state and negotiate one’s Islamic identity. At the
broadcasts Quran
recitation contests. The same time, the questions raised in the programmes are dominated by
competitors are British questions related to lifestyle rather than motivated by interest in theolog-
Muslim children, and ical discussions. The mediation of fatwa programmes seems in this way
the participants’ home
towns in Britain are
to support individualization and consumption, despite its authority-and
always emphasized dogmatic-based foundation.
and not their ethnic Other Islamic programmes are even less interested in the textual con-
background, symboliz- tent of the Quran. In these programmes, the Quran, as a sacred power,
ing that it is a
competition between
combines Islam with other globally popular forms of what one could call
British Muslims and ‘consumer rituals’. Examples of these are Quran recitation contests and
not between ethnic Quranic healing programmes.
minorities in Britain.
Recitation contests
The recitation of the Quran is known from the Kuttab (Quran schools),
where children are taught how to recite. In the schools, contests are com-
monly used as an instrument to encourage the children to practice and per-
form the recitation. With the introduction of the recitation contests in the
media, another element has been added. First, it is presented as a national
competition or a competition between national states as in the Eurovision
Song Contest, and second, the competition is seen as a possible way to
become famous, such as in American Idols, The X Factor, and other real-
ity shows.
Recitation competitions are broadcast throughout the various channels,
such as the religious Arab channels Al-Majd, Al-Risala and Iqraa.14
Sometimes the competition is between adults, sometimes between chil-
dren. One of the programme styles is to let the participants come into the
studio, where the competition takes place. Another programme style takes
the form of a phone-in competition, where the participants call and recite
by phone. Typically, the host of the programme is joined by two or more
experts, who sit in the studio and comment on the performance of every
participant. As in other contests, there is a quarter-final, semi-final and
final, ending up with a reward for the winner. Iqraa broadcasts an annual
international contest – the most recent was in 2007 – where each partici-
pant represents his country, and dresses in the traditional clothes of that
country. In this particular case, only men participated, whereas in most of
the children’s competitions, both boys and girls participate.
The participants are judged on their ability to recite verses from the
Quran perfectly in both pronunciation and intonation. The programmes do
not enter into interpretation and, even though the recitation is in classical
Arabic, some of the participants might be from non-Arab countries and
may not be able to speak Arabic. The recitation is a question of providing
a spiritual experience, enchanting the listener, and not a question of inter-
pretation. It is a spiritual experience regardless of the civil status of the
participants, whether children or adults, neither is it a question of religious
authority of any kind. Most of the programmes do not make references to
a Quran school or name the persons who taught the participants the disci-
pline. The focus is not the religious affiliation or belief but the individual
performance and effort, and partly the national or local affiliation. In this
way, the contests combine the late modern demand for individual
172 Ehab Galal

achievement as central for identity construction and the ritualized embod- 15. For example, Moez
iment of Muslim practice. Masoud and his
programme Stairway
Reciting the Quran has, with good reason, been a part of religious to Paradise (2006).
practice since the early days of Islam. Recitation has been the only way to
mediate the Quran from person to person, for those who are not able to
read it. It has an affinity with Arab popular culture in the appreciation of
the skills of the person reciting and the recitation’s influence on the audi-
ence. A good recitation leads the listener into a state of spiritual ecstasy
and might be expressed through the listener’s exclamations, such as ‘ah’
or ‘ya salam’, which are understood as ‘how marvellous!’ (Hirschkind
2006). A popular twentieth-century film singer, the late Umm Kulthum, is
said to have had the same effect on the audience when she sang classical
Arabic songs as well as religious songs. Charles Hirschkind argues in his
study on cassette sermons in Egypt that the musical term ‘tarab’ indicates
a special relationship between the singer and the audience (often associ-
ated with Sufi performances), which enables an exchange of feelings and
harmony between the two (Hirschkind 2006: 36). With the religious chan-
nels, religious substitutes for the old popular singers are introduced – not
only in the form of the Quran recitations, but new and fairly young Islamic
spiritually orientated singers have, in recent years, also had great success
as popular singers or as interpreters of the Quran, mixing Islam, youth and
popular culture.15
The recitation of the Quran gives the participant the embodied experi-
ence of being a Muslim; it not only initiates the child or youth into the
Muslim community, but also into the spiritual aspects of Islam. More than
an intellectual appropriation of knowledge, the Quran recitation is a ques-
tion of embodiment, evoking the moment of revelation (Nelson 2001:
188). The recitation contests illustrate the successful function of the media
as mediator of religion, where religion today – in the words of Hoover – is
much more ‘a public, commodified, therapeutic, and personalized set of
practices than it has been in the past’ (Hoover 2002: 2).
Healing by Quran therapy

Listening to the Quran recitations can, as suggested, result in a spiritually
ecstatic experience, but it also has a healing potential. This is promoted in
what I categorize as Quranic healing programmes. In the healing pro-
gramme, the viewer phones in with a specific problem, and the expert or
healer prescribes a specific verse of the Quran for him or her. The Quranic
verse has the function of healing, like a magic spell.
The programmes are characterized by using a known model, like an
agony column in a magazine, or as a variation of the American pro-
grammes, such as The Oprah Winfrey Show (1986–) and Dr. Phil (2002–),
though less sophisticated and professional in its programme setting. The
viewers phone in and ask for advice and help with illnesses or other kinds
of problems. The host of the programme leads the conversation, having at
her side an expert in healing, either a man or a woman, with special skills
that come from a special power and religious knowledge ‘of the Quran and
magic’. Typical problems are childlessness, sickness, the sorrows of love,
marriage conflicts, conflicts with friends and economic problems. Some
programmes specialize in certain problems, such as marriage and family
NL 6 165–179 © Intellect Ltd 2008 173

16. A female religious problems, while others deal more with psychological problems. When the
scholar.
expert has all the information necessary, he or she provides a diagnosis
17. The verse ‘The and a prescription.
Chair’ is, according At least two Arab satellite channels broadcast these programmes.
to traditional
interpretation, consid-
They are called Shahrazad TV (2006) and Konouz TV (2006, Treasure
ered to be the most TV). Shahrazad TV only broadcasts religious healing programmes, while
effective verse in Konouz TV broadcasts a variety of programmes. Shahrazad is the name
the Quran for the of the storytelling queen in the Arabic tales 1001 Nights, whose stories
protection of humans.
There are therefore include magic, sorcery and spirit possessions, and is therefore a well-chosen
many Muslims, both name for the channel. Konouz TV transmits music and family entertain-
men and women, who ment, and a number of different healing programmes; for example, sci-
have the verse written
ence-based health programmes, where the set-up is exactly the same as in
on a necklace, or as a
decoration at home, or the religious programmes, but the expert is an educated doctor of medi-
hanging from the mir- cine who gives advice based on medical knowledge. One might also
ror in the front window find programmes on Konouz TV where the expert finds the answer in
of their car.
coffee dregs. Again, the set-up is the same. One can therefore say that the
need for magic spells has different designs.
How is the Quran then a part of the healing? Let me use an example
from Konouz TV that was broadcast on 31 March 2007. The programme
is introduced by the hostess, a young woman wearing jeans and a tight
blouse, and no headscarf. Seated at the other side of the table is the
woman healer, Sheikha16 Nohan, wearing traditional colourful clothing
and a headscarf, though not in the new hijab-fashion but rather in a semi-
bourgeois fashion. They are sitting in a studio with a very simple setting
and a rather static camera positioning. In the introduction, the viewers are
encouraged to phone in ‘without postponing the solution to their prob-
lems’, as the hostess phrases it. While waiting for the first caller, the
hostess asks Sheikha Nohan to describe the symptoms of a man who is
possessed. Sheikha Nohan elaborates on a diagnosis, until they are inter-
rupted by a viewer calling in. The person to call is a man, who claims to
be calling on behalf of his family, meaning his wife and a daughter aged
24. After the traditional greetings, the hostess starts by asking the names
and ages of the family, and about their problem. To remain anonymous,
the husband gives only the first letter of their names and says that their
daughter, N, always feels tired and constantly feels unwell. But the mother
also feels ill and has a fever, while the husband feels sad. He claims that N
has a harsh fate. Someone has enchanted her, and magic is the main reason
for her sufferings. The hostess promises the husband that Sheikha Nohan
will help them and will make them relax, ‘by the will of God’. As they are
talking, the hostess and Sheikha Nohan both take notes on their sheets of
paper. After they look at the notes and mention the name of God several
times, Sheikha Nohan concludes that the family is suffering because of an
enchantment. After a while, she asks to talk to the wife and repeats the
same conclusion. She then asks her to recite the Quranic verse ‘Ayt Al-
Kursi’ (The Chair).17 The wife starts to recite, but stops when she is inter-
rupted by Sheikha Nohan, who asks the wife why her voice is trembling
and stuttering. The wife disagrees and points to the fact that it is not her,
but the daughter who is seeing strange things at home. Sheikha Nohan
maintains that the wife is also experiencing strange things, but asks to
talk with the daughter. The same procedure is repeated with the daughter,
174 Ehab Galal

N. Sheikha Nohan asks if she, or her hands, or feet are trembling. N says
that her hands are trembling a little. She is also asked to recite the ‘Ayt Al-
Kursi’, which she does. Sheikha Nohan then asks how N now feels, and
she answers that everything is as usual. Finally, Sheikha Nohan recites a
religious psalm, and ends by asking the good spirited djinns to make a
fence of the Quran around the family. Once again, N is asked if anything
has changed, and she says that she only feels a little calmer. Again, she is
asked to recite ‘Ayt Al-Kursi’, but this time seven times in a row, seven
times during the day, over a glass of water, which she then has to drink.
Sheikha Nohan then says that this is the last thing that she needs to do, and
that the family should contact her after completing the task. The girl will
also need to be diligent in keeping clean and to wear an amulet, according
to the sheikha. The hostess finishes the programme by wishing a happy
feast to everyone, as the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday is coming soon.
The set-up is typical of the healing programmes. The expert will often
advise the caller to listen to Quran recitations several times daily. A very
unspecific diagnosis is typical, such as when a woman phones in asking
for help because of a problem with her husband. The healer provides a
diagnosis that ‘an acquaintance, not a relative, and not unknown’, wants
to hurt the person who is calling. The expert then prescribes a quote from
the Quran, which the expert writes on a note and sews into a small cloth
packet to send to the caller. The caller is told to wear the small packet
under her clothes as protection against the evil-minded acquaintance who
wishes her harm. In some of the programmes, most of the time it is the
evil-minded acquaintance who is to blame for the problem presented.
Sometimes the healer explains that the wicked spell involves the interfer-
ence of djinns. A djinn is a spirit, which might be evil or good. As djinns
are mentioned in the Quran, Islamic orthodoxy acknowledges their exis-
tence, but maintains that djinns belong to the other world and therefore
cannot possess the living. A more popular interpretation is that djinns visit
the world of the living; an interpretation which is said to be more common
among the less educated and economically strained people (Hammond
2007: 83–84). When interacting with an evil-minded djinn, the Quranic
quote becomes protective. The way to give the healer authority is through
her use of religious language. Throughout the programme, Sheikha Nohan
repeatedly uses religious Islamic phrases and thereby establishes that her
own role is in accordance with Islam, and that she is a religious specialist,
which is further emphasized by her use of classical Arabic in-between the
use of colloquial Arabic. Both the hostess and the callers speak only col-
loquial Arabic. Even the title that she has been given, ‘sheikha’ – which is
the feminine of ‘sheikh’ and refers to either an old and wise man or a reli-
giously knowledgeable person – emphasizes her position as talking from
within the religion.
The healing programmes, like the recitation contests, draw attention to
the embodied and ritual practices, where the textual interpretation of the
Quran only has a marginal influence, if any, and where spiritual and
enchanted elements are obvious. One can argue that satellite television in
this way supports keeping people in ignorance. Mehdi argues that
Pakistani TV also promotes a kind of religious magic, reflecting a tradi-
tion among the lower classes to rely on supernatural forces. The use of
NL 6 165–179 © Intellect Ltd 2008 175

supernatural forces is, according to Mehdi, used in the rural areas of

Pakistan to explain both civil and criminal cases, and she finds that satel-
lite television is legitimizing superstition among Pakistani immigrants in
Europe – thereby taking part in preventing growth and development in
family relations (Mehdi 2008).
Healing through the Quran has been known since early Islam. If a per-
son is ill or in despair, listening to Quran recitation is believed to have
healing virtues. In traditional societies, the person skilled in Quran recita-
tion could visit a house struck by illness or despair to give recitations.
With the emergence of mass-produced media, the distribution of Quran
recitation on cassette tapes, on the radio and on transnational television
has been widespread and available on demand. Starrett argues that the dif-
ferent kinds of religious commodities are especially in demand in seasons
that are related to life cycles, ‘whose sickness, crises, and transitions
mobilize both strong individual emotion and the social networks of material
exchange’ (Starrett 1995: 54). Quranic healing has lately gained some
respect, for instance in Cairo, where there are some 30 official practitioners.
One sheikh, Hosni Rashwan, has written a book about his work, and a
psychiatrist, Gamal Abul-Azayem, has devoted a chapter of his book to
the phenomenon of Quranic therapy (Hammond 2007: 86). According to a
Saudi sheikh, Muhammad Abdullah Al-Ayed, Quranic healing can ‘treat
certain hidden illnesses that affect a person’s psyche, such as envy (the
evil eye), sorcery, and harm from the devil’ (Abdul Khaliq 2003). On the
Internet, a huge number of articles and Islamic web pages also pay atten-
tion to Quranic healing. Despite the critics from religious establishments
like the Egyptian Islamic university, Al-Azhar, Quranic healing has become
a part of popular culture.
How the magic works is interpreted in different ways. Sometimes it is
interpreted as a direct intervention from God, and sometimes as a psy-
chological process, where listening to the Quran gives a person the men-
tal power and spiritual strength to face the world and his or her problems.
When Quranic healing is interpreted to be the result of a psychological
process, where listening to the Quran is understood to be comforting and
reassuring, Quranic healing becomes acceptable to the educated and
modern-minded Muslim. In general, the use of the Quran as a magic spell
is rejected as superstition by the Islamic orthodoxy, which considers the
Quran to be only healing if the guidelines of the text are followed. The
popular use of the Quran, as presented in these programmes, is in general
considered as exploitation for commercial uses. How the experts are paid
is not quite obvious, but the caller might be paying for each call, and is
sometimes asked to call again after the programme to have a special and
private consultation with the expert, without being told what costs can be
expected. Viewers are always encouraged to call several times to increase
their chances of being chosen by the computer as a participant.
Conclusion: Islam as a consumer culture

The discussion until now has tried to present some analytical starting
points for the study of what one could call ‘the re-enchantment of the
Quran on Arab satellite TV’. The Quran’s presence in recitation contests
and healing programmes is understood to be an element in a general
176 Ehab Galal

re-enchantment on Arab satellite TV. The broadcasted programmes are 18. Jama’at means ‘asso-
examples of media consumption defined and legitimized either by the pro- ciations’. It is used in
this context to refer to
grammes’ Islamic content and/or by their Islamic ritual. By using global Muslim groups that
forms of popular culture in a culturally or religiously particularistic fash- were established as
ion, the programmes offer identification with a global cultural identity in a political oppositional
globally recognizable fashion. The symbolic inventory borrows not only and sometimes violent
groups, which
from Islamic tradition, but also from global symbolic resources. The main dominated the Islamic
imperatives in these programmes are style and signature or, in other revival in the 1970s
words, performance. Taking part in and being absorbed in Quranic and 1980s.
enchantment and practice seems to be the objective. The programmes
reconstitute, in this way, the important symbolic and ritual value of the
Quran; first, in relation to its value as being the basis for legitimate guid-
ing principles or second, as the basis for different kinds of ritual practices.
The ritual practices are, as a media performance, in accordance with the
individualized and subjective religiosity, where institution, community
and locality have less importance compared to the self-expression and
self-presentation of the individual.
In this context, the mediatized Islam can, as suggested, be seen as
part of a wider consumer culture, where to be Muslim is to be chic. With
Islamic-defined consumption, success has become associated with being
Islamic (Abaza 2006: 198). Abaza argues that this trend has developed
from being identified with ‘the underground, harsh looking jama’at18 anti-
establishment and pro-Iranian revolution movement, to being associated
with a better-off looking, Saudified and petro-Islamized ideology’ (Abaza
2006: 199). In relation to the Islamic movement, it can be seen as a post-
Islamist piety – an active piety which is thick in rituals and thin in politics
(Abdelrahman 2006: 74). The believer’s relationship to religious practices,
such as recitation and healing – which might look traditional – is different
from their traditional use. Quran recitation is no longer a necessary instru-
ment for the survival of the Quran, as the Quran has become much more
accessible for ordinary Muslims. Neither is Quranic healing primarily a
way to manage or navigate a society where people’s behaviour or thinking
is guided by fears of the sacred. On religious satellite television, partici-
pating in Quran contests and healing is the believer’s chance to live an
Islamic lifestyle and to use Islamic traditions as an instrument for identity
constructions. In this perspective, religious TV gives the viewer the means
to consume, practice, emotionally identify with and ritually engage in
Islam due to a choice of programmes.
Some would argue that the development towards transforming the
Holy Quran into a banal consumer object might have proved to be the
victory of the global capitalistic economy over the Muslim culture. Some
Muslims would raise their voices to reject part of the Islamic media with
this argument, explaining the development as disenchanted consumer
practices. One of the explanations of the development is the spread of a
market-driven economy, which is reflected by the typical owner of the
Islamic channels. As Starrett argues, the variety of religious commodities
has expanded as a result of innovation required by a market-driven econ-
omy at the same time that economic changes have increased the demands
for these commodities (Starrett 1995: 52). The same can be said about
Islamic TV.
NL 6 165–179 © Intellect Ltd 2008 177

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Animated animism – the global ways

of Japan’s national spirits
Lars-Martin Sørensen
Abstract Keywords
This article discusses the tremendous global success of Japanese anime, anime
its uses and negotiations of Japanese religious and nationalist mythology, Shinto
and the way these features are appropriated domestically and abroad. banal nationalism
Emphasis is given to the works of Hayao Miyazaki, whose films have been occulture
categorized as ‘de-assuring’ Japaneseness and as promoting an environ- Miyazaki
mentalist agenda. It is discussed whether the indigenous religion, Shinto, fan culture
which has historically served as a vehicle for nationalism, can be applied
to progressive ends unproblematically. The article argues that while the
intended meaning of Miyazaki’s films may be to further ecological aware-
ness, another concern of Miyazaki’s, namely to promote traditional cul-
tural values, puts his work at risk of being construed along the lines
of contemporary Japanese nationalism. Finally, the broader workings
behind the global success of those apparently highly culture-specific films
are discussed.
In 2004, the Japan External Trade Organization (JETRO) published a 1. An exception to this
report on the current boom in Japanese creative industries, which at the general rule is found
in Levi (2001: 43) in
time accounted for 10 per cent of Japan’s gross national product (JETRO which the film Blue
2004: 3). According to JETRO, the income from music, computer games, Seed and its Shinto
anime, art, films and fashion had seen an increase of 300 per cent from input is characterized
as ‘blatant
1992 to 2004. In comparison, the total increase for Japan’s export in that nationalism’.
same period was 20 per cent.
The advent of the success was noted by film scholars as early as
1996, when Antonia Levi, who has published extensively on anime,
summed up the insatiable appetite for importing anime among American
youngsters in the following words: ‘What this flood of dubbed and sub-
titled video cassettes really represents is a cultural exchange so ambi-
tious that neither the Japanese nor the American government would have
dared to plan it’ (Levi 1996: 1). And soon, another influential scholar of
Japanese pop culture joined in, conjuring up nothing less than the
‘Japanization of European Youth’ in the title of one of her articles on the
spread of what had now been termed ‘J-Pop culture’ (Kinsella 1997).
Among western scholars of Japanese animation, it is an uncontroversial
and – largely speaking – unproblematic fact that some of the most
world-famous Japanese anime draw heavily on the myths, characters and
themes of Japan’s indigenous religion: Shinto.1 Domestically, however,
NL 6 181–196 © Intellect Ltd 2008 181

2. The term ‘de- there is controversy over the political uses of Shinto, which is tainted by
assurance’ was coined
its past track record as a vehicle for militarism and nationalism, and by
by Napier (2001: 477)
to signify undermining its present role as a lever for conservative politicians aspiring to boost
or destabilizing. It Japanese neo-nationalism. In the heart of Tokyo, there is a Shinto shrine
relates to Robin where Japan’s war dead – including fourteen convicted Class A war
Wood’s term ‘cinema
of reassurance’, ‘which
criminals – are enshrined. Over the last decade, Japanese prime minis-
promotes a vision of a ters have repeatedly paid their respects at the Yasukuni shrine (literally:
world in which all the shrine of the peaceful country). By doing so, the power holders are
problems are solved engaging in a practice known in Japan as nemawashi (digging around
and harmony is
restored under the
the root): if you want to move an old tree that is firmly rooted in the
aegis of US ideology ground, it is best to dig the roots up little by little, over a period of time,
and values’ (Napier before you move the tree. And the ‘tree’ that is considered ripe for
2001: 465). removal is Article 9 of Japan’s constitution, the ‘no-war clause’ that pre-
vents Japan from matching its economic superpower status with military
might, which was dictated by the United States after World War II. The
sensitivity of this issue – the unease felt by part of the Japanese elec-
torate over this development – needs wearing down, it seems. And to
this end, Japanese power holders are reviving Shinto-nationalistic mani-
festations – the Yasukuni visits – and engaging in attempts to sanitize
Japan’s war history. The Yasukuni shrine kills two birds with one stone
in this respect. Situated within the temple grounds is a museum, the
Yushukan, which clearly promotes a version of Japan’s war history that
can only be categorized as ‘revisionist’ – in fact ‘propagandistic’ is a
more apt term (Jeans 2005). Here, for instance, the Japanese kamikaze
pilots are presented as noble young men, praised for their spiritual purity
and the sacrifice of their lives for the nation.
So we are facing an apparent schism: on the one hand, a globaliza-
tion of the spread of Shinto through J-pop cultural artefacts can be
detected; on the other hand, Shinto is being re-nationalized by power
holders in Japan. The pop cultural uses of Shinto are, as mentioned,
generally deemed unproblematic, whereas especially Japan’s neigh-
bouring countries have repeatedly voiced their outrage over the nation-
alist uses of Shinto and revisionist history writing. But where do the
political and the pop cultural uses of Shinto join, overlap and/or merge?
And what are the implications and attractions of Shinto-influenced
anime to non-Japanese viewers? In order to approach these questions, I
shall be analysing three films by Hayao Miyazaki. Miyazaki is widely
known as an ecologist, a cosmopolitan and as someone who draws
extensively on Shinto mythology. Moreover, his films have been cate-
gorized by influential scholars as de-assuring2 hegemonic versions of
‘Japaneseness’. This begs further analysis of both the films in question,
and the scholarly arguments employed to substantiate this categoriza-
tion. One may ask: is it at all possible to apply Shinto to de-assuring
ends? Or is that an oxymoron?
A few delimitations need to be stipulated. By focusing my attention
on Miyazaki, I am guilty of ignoring everything but the tip of the iceberg.
The sheer volume and heterogeneity of the phenomenon known as
‘contemporary Japanese anime’ necessitates a cogent focus in order to
have some degree of detail in one’s analysis. This inescapably carries with
it sins of omission. Also, ‘Shinto’ will be used in its broadest sense. Due
182 Lars-Martin Sørensen

to the highly syncretistic nature of religious practice in Japan, elements

from different religions and folklore may blend into what I refer to as
‘Shinto’. Substituting ‘Shinto’ with a more general term such as ‘Japanese
religion’ or ‘belief in the supernatural’, however, entails a loss of anchor-
ing in the culture-specific and highly politicized history of institutional-
ized Shinto.
Shinto – the way of the kami

According to religious historian, Ian Reader, Shinto is an
explicitly Japanese religion concerned with the Japanese people [...]. The kami,
the gods of Shinto, occur in the Japanese world, and the myths and legends of
Shinto concern the creation and beginnings [...] of the land of Japan and its peo-
ple [...] in many senses Shinto and being Japanese are synonymous.
(Reader 1993: 64)
This view, which obviously reduces the role played by imported reli-
gions, is substantiated by a survey conducted by the Agency of Cultural
Affairs, which concluded that Shinto provides ‘a cultural matrix [...] for
the acceptance and assimilation of foreign elements’ (Wright 2005: 4).
Through the ages, Shinto has demonstrated a remarkable inclusiveness
to other religions. Placing a statue of the Virgin Mary at a Shinto altar (a
kamidana) is not considered sacrilege by adherents to Shinto, for she is
obviously a powerful kami. So what passes for kami is rather flexible
too. According to the aforementioned survey, however, it is Shinto that
constitutes the firm basis, whereas foreign religions are comparable to
the icing on the distinctly Japanese cake. Thus, whenever Shinto is
mediatized, ideas and notions of ‘Japaneseness’ are almost inevitably
called into play. The central tenet – that the Sun Goddess put her grand-
son on the throne as the first Japanese emperor, and that all subsequent
emperors descend in an unbroken lineage from the Sun Goddess – is crucial
in this respect.
The Japanese word shinto consists of two characters: ␹㆏ – the
character for ‘god’ or ‘spirit’ (shin/kami) and the character for ‘way’
(too/michi). Thus, Shinto is normally translated as ‘the way of the
Gods’ – a way which leads to a monistic world-view. The kami belong
to the world of humans, and are a part of nature, just like humans are.
There is no perceived dualism between man and kami or man and
nature, and kami are often conceived of as non-anthropomorphic enti-
ties. In this way, Shinto lends itself neatly to the promotion of an envi-
ronmentalist agenda: a river can be kami, an old tree can be kami, a
kami may reside in a well, but anthropomorphic kami also exist. In fact,
both dead and living people can obtain the status of kami, as in the case
of the Japanese emperor before and during World War II – the zenith of
Shinto nationalism.
Secondary sources on Shinto often dilate on the untranslatability of
the term kami. Here, it is useful to refer back to one of the prime scholars
behind the restoration of Shinto in the late eighteenth century, Motoori
Norinaga, who wrote that: ‘In ancient usage, anything whatsoever which
was out of the ordinary, which possessed superior power, or which was
NL 6 181–196 © Intellect Ltd 2008 183

3. The remedy is awe-inspiring was called kami’ (Matsumoto 1970: 84). This description
sometimes referred to
is in accordance with the concept introduced by cognitive scientists of
as a haraigushi, see
Lidin (1985: 35). religion: that god concepts are ‘minimally counter-intuitive agents’
(Barrett 2004). In this understanding, it is the likeness to humans that
makes supernatural entities intriguing and cross-culturally contagious.
They are minimally counter-intuitive entities that are just like ordinary
people, only with a tweak; they walk like humans, but also boast the abil-
ity to walk on water, and this is what makes them universally fascinating
to mankind.
Like most religions, Shinto consists of an interaction between religious
practices and written sources. Two works are of particular importance
here, namely the Kojiki (translated in 1969 as The Record of Ancient
Things) and the Nihongi (translated in 1956 as The Chronicle of Japan).
Compiled in the eighth century under the auspices of the imperial court,
these chronicles present the creation myths of Japan, the legends of the
imperial house, introduce the hierarchy of ancient kami, and the universal
order of Shinto.
For our intents and purposes, it is sufficient to note a few points.
First, these sources constitute a formidable warehouse of pungent sto-
ries, themes and characters begging to be plundered by makers of pop-
ular fiction. The ancient kami are shown to be very human-like and
extremely down-to-earth. For instance, defecating on each other’s
thrones as a means of demonstrating dissatisfaction is not abstained
from. Hurling dead cattle at each other is another salient divine pas-
time. These traits are indicative of Shinto’s preoccupation with purity
and purification. The kami are capable of bringing about good fortune,
but may also punish humans in various ways if insulted by pollution.
Purification thus constitutes a basic principle of religious life. Impurity
caused by the two most important Shinto taboos, blood and death, and
by various sins, separates man from his fellow men and from the kami.
The oldest remedies against any kind of impurity are wind, water and
salt. Thus, when the suicide pilots of World War II were called
kamikaze (literally: kami-wind = divine wind), their status as purifiers
was underscored, and upon fulfilling their missions they became gun-
shin (soldier-kami) and were enshrined at the Yasukuni shrine along
with their deceased fellow soldiers. There are less spectacular ways of
cleansing oneself, for instance, by participating in Shinto festivals and
ceremonies, where priests perform purification rituals, known as harai
or oharai. When entering sacred places, physical ablutions are the rule,
whereas at ceremonies symbolic purification is conferred on partici-
pants by, for instance, waving a gohei3 (a wooden stick with strips of
paper folded into zigzags) over their heads. The purpose is to enable
the purified to meet the world with makoto (sincerity)-an ethical and
religious sincerity of heart and mind that can lead to harmonious rela-
tions among people, and between man and nature (kami). And, perhaps
inevitably, the imbuing of makoto through propaganda was exploited
by those bent on fanning the flame of rabid nationalism before and
during World War II (Sorensen 2006: 64). The idea of the purity of
‘us’, as opposed to the impurity of demonic enemies, has always
served despotism.

The princess of de-assurance

In several of Miyazaki’s films, the relationship between man and nature
is centre stage, as is the case with Shinto. Mononokehime/Princess
Mononoke (1997) is set in fourteenth-century Japan. The main protagonist
of the film, Prince Ashitaka, is cursed by a vengeful boar-god when killing
it and leaves his native village to find a cure for the disease caused by the
curse. His quest places him in the midst of a battle between the forces of
nature, animals and kami, and, most prominently, the technological progress
represented by the humans of the Tatara clan. Ashitaka teams up with San,
the ‘possessed princess’ (mononokehime), who has been reared by wolves
and is firmly placed on the nature (kami) side of the conflict. San and
Ashitaka gradually grow intimate, but San is at war with Lady Eboshi, the
head of the Tatara clan. In the climactic ending sequence, Lady Eboshi
beheads the Great Forest god in order to defy the forces of nature, and
unleashes instant ecological disaster, but San and Ashitaka succeed in
putting the head back in place. The film ends on a tone of uncertainty; the
forest is restored to its lush greenness – but for how long? And is the Great
Forest god really alive and kicking? Ashitaka decides to settle with the
Tatara clan, and he and San agree to see each other every now and then –
but will they? In other words, the film prompts ecological anxieties over
future relations between man and nature.
In her influential work on Japanese anime, Susan Napier (2005, 2001)
emphasizes the subversive capacity of Princess Mononoke. In Napier’s
view, it is a film that de-assures the hegemonic narratives of Japanese his-
tory and mythology, stereotypical gender roles and the traditional
Japanese view of nature as something wild that can be tamed and culti-
vated. De-assurance of the traditional Japanese view of nature is brought
about by Miyazaki’s portrayal of the forest and its creatures as ‘beautiful,
sacred, and awesome, but [...] also vengeful and brutally frightening’
(Napier 2005: 244). Given the psychoanalytic-feminist theoretical frame-
work employed by Napier, the taming of wild nature in turn implies that
‘Abjecting the Other (female, supernatural, premodern, etc.) allowed the
modern male Japanese subject to develop’ (Napier 2005: 243). Thus, it is
the standard notions of the Muromachi period, ‘the apex of Japanese high
culture’ (Napier 2005: 233) in which the film is set, and the development
toward modern Japan’s male dominance and technological advance at the
expense of nature and women, which is being de-assured by Miyazaki.
The alleged deconstruction of Japanese history is partly hinged on
Miyazaki’s statement that ‘the main protagonists are those who usually do
not appear on the stage of history. Instead, this is the story of the margin-
als of history’ (Napier 2005: 233). These ‘marginals’ are represented by
headstrong female characters (Lady Eboshi, San and her wolf-mother,
Moro), and by the ethnic background of Ashitaka, who belongs to ‘the last
of the Emishi’, as stated in the dialogue of the film. The Emishi, or Ainu,
the indigenous people of Japan, were driven away by the Yamato tribe, the
primary ancestors of the contemporary ethnic Japanese. While there is
some truth to the claim that Princess Mononoke offers a different depic-
tion of the Muromachi period in comparison with, for instance, the innu-
merable films based on the quintessential myth of the feudal loyalty and
revenge of the 47 masterless samurai (genroku chushingura), it is fair to
NL 6 181–196 © Intellect Ltd 2008 185

say that the feminist part of Napier’s analysis is heavily hinged on struc-
turing absences. What we are watching is not modern Japanese male chau-
vinism, but female beasts and beauties waging savage war and a sensible
human prince trying to make peace. And the story’s distinct focus on a
sensible male protagonist is, in my view, at odds with Napier’s notion that
Miyazaki is offering an ‘alternative, heterogeneous, and female-centered
vision of Japanese identity for the future’ (Napier 2005: 232) with
Princess Mononoke.
Finally, there is the aforementioned question: is it possible to subvert
hegemonic narratives of ‘Japaneseness’ by drawing extensively on Shinto?
As mentioned, in the judgement of Ian Reader, Shinto and being Japanese
are in many senses synonymous. If Miyazaki’s film subverts ‘Japaneseness’,
it would seem to be a requirement that the film should also subvert Shinto.
So, aligning the film with the fundamental sources on Shinto mythology is
the task at hand. And this exercise shows that while the film proclaims to
be set in the fourteenth century, the sources drawn from by Miyazaki are
of an earlier date.
As noted by Levi (2001: 40), Ashitaka’s quest seems based on the mer-
its of Yamato Takeru, an emissary of the emperor, described in both the
Kojiki and the Nihongi. On one occasion, Takeru was sent east to subdue
the unruly deities and people of that region (Philippi 1969: 238ff.). Hence,
people were on a par with kami in the ancient myths, just like in
Miyazaki’s film. The unruly people referred to are in fact the Emishi, the
ethnic group Ashitaka belongs to. So here we see a reversal of roles.
Yamato Takeru, as his name shows, belongs to the Yamato, the ethnic
Japanese, who play a minor role in Princess Mononoke. Not casting
Yamato Japanese in the roles of the most important historical agents is
rather unusual for a period film, and may be construed as de-assurance of
hegemonic historical discourse. After all, the concept of the Yamato race
was used in roughly the same manner by Japanese World War II militarists
as ideas on the Aryan race were used by Nazi ideologists. Whether lay
viewers discern this feature in the here and now of reception is a different
matter. When Takeru sets out, according to the Nihongi (Aston 1956: 205),
he is offered a sword by his beloved, just as Ashitaka is given a knife as
gift of parting by a girl when he leaves his native village to head west –
not east as is the case with Yamato Takeru. Again, we can note a slight dif-
ference in the way Miyazaki formats the material. On his way to subdue
the Emishi and the unruly deities, Takeru kills a ‘master god’ (Aston
1956: 209) that has ‘assumed the form of a white deer’ (Aston 1956: 208),
which is in fact one of the forms in which the Great Forest god of Princess
Mononoke manifests itself. After killing the deer god, Takeru falls ill, just
as Ashitaka does after killing the huge boar god in the opening scene of
Princess Mononoke. In the Kojiki, it is a god’s messenger in the shape of a
‘wild boar the size of a cow’ (Philippi 1969: 246) that crosses Yamato
Takeru’s path and causes the illness that eventually kills him. Interestingly,
the disease spreads by very natural means. The deity causes a violent hail-
storm that dazes Takeru in the Kojiki (Philippi 1969: 246), and in the
Nihongi (Aston 1956) it is the breath of the deity that causes his disease
when he is ‘bursting through the smoke, and braving the mists’ (Aston
1956: 208) of Mount Oho-yama. So, we can conclude that nature is

‘vengeful and brutally frightening’ in both the Nihongi, the Kojiki and in
Princess Mononoke. Also, we can conclude that the central motif of
Princess Mononoke, humans killing kami in the form of a ‘boar the size of
a cow’ and a white deer ‘master god’, is almost directly copied.
As for the gender issue, Napier emphasizes the historical accuracy in
that iron-mining towns like Tatara did exist in Princess Mononoke’s his-
torical era. De-assurance is brought about by the fiction ‘that such a com-
munity would have been led by a woman, and one who was both a military
commander and a fiercely determined fighter’ (Napier 2005: 239–40).
While this may ring true of the Muromachi period, armies segregated by
gender (Aston 1956: 119) and armies led by women Aston 1956: 157)
were features of ancient mythological Japan, and hence not pure fiction
conceived by Miyazaki. Moreover, the recording of the Kojiki was com-
pleted under Empress Gemmei, who was also the first ruler of the Yamato
capital, Nara – often exalted as ‘the cradle of Japanese civilization’
(Philippi 1969: 6–7). So, not just armies of women, but also empresses,
and Sun goddesses are crucial features of ancient mythological Japan.
Therefore, the exposition of strong women can hardly be said to constitute
a subversion of the Japanese tradition presented by the chronicles. If we
sum up the above observations on the similarities between Miyazaki’s film
and the chronicles, both the Kojiki (1969) and the Nihongi (1956) would
have to be considered subversive in order for Princess Mononoke to be
‘de-assuring’ Japanese tradition. A more apt description is that Miyazaki
is mapping the myths and spiritualism of the ancient records onto the
Muromachi era. In Wright’s words:
Essentially, his films attempt to re-enchant his audiences with a sense of spiritual-
ity that eschews the dogmas and orthodoxies of organized religions and politics,
instead reaching for the original, primal state of spiritualism in human history and
how it can be lived today.
(Wright 2005: 3)
Does this make the film conducive to contemporary nationalism? Hardly, if

you note the use of the past, which is almost as unsettling as Miyazaki’s
vision of the future in the post-apocalyptic dystopia Kaze no tani no
Naushikaa/Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind (1984). While nationalism
may feed well on dystopian visions of the future, because they nourish
nostalgia for the past (a staple of nationalism everywhere), unsettling visions
of Japan’s past, viewed separately, appear directly counterproductive to
Japanese neo-nationalism. Otherwise, why would Japanese right-wingers
devote so much energy and prestige to sanitizing Japan’s war history? Before
jumping to conclusions, however, it is crucial to note that the above-listed
intricacies may be of very little import to the meaning-making of lay audi-
ences. We cannot assume that the details of Miyazaki’s use of Japan’s mytho-
history sink in with lay audiences in Japan or anywhere else, just as we
cannot expect audiences to fasten upon the structuring absences that Napier
hinges her feminist argument on. A cinemagoer’s experience at the cinema
does not allow for entertaining such intricacies and abstractions – not in the
here and now of reception at least. Judging by the make-up of the film, the
most salient feature of Princess Mononoke appears to be the mystical beauty
NL 6 181–196 © Intellect Ltd 2008 187

of the forest scenes depicting the Forest god and the thousands of little
kodama (infant-like forest spirits) in contrast to the haunting images of eco-
logical collapse. And perhaps this collision of beauty and destruction is what
strikes the responsive chord with audiences. Perhaps this is not just the last,
but also the lasting impression of the film: the evocation of an unspoilt, soul-
ful and natural past being destroyed by the technological advance and the
greed of humans. In conjunction, Shinto-animism and ecological anxiety
make up a powerful and highly marketable cocktail, it seems.
Historically, Shinto has repeatedly been redefined and has gained
prominence at times when Japan was under pressure from the outside
world. The ancient chronicles were written down at a time when the influ-
ence of especially China was growing in Japan (Philippi 1969: 6). As
mentioned, Shinto was restored and redefined again in the late eighteenth
century by – most prominently – Motoori Norinaga. He was the architect
behind kokugaku (national learning), a school of thought that promoted a
return to the ancient roots and values at a time when Japan had been
forcibly opened up by the American navy after centuries of seclusion from
the world. Kokugaku laid the foundation for the racist ideology of mili-
tarist Japan and its construction of kokka-Shinto (national Shinto), with its
divine emperor as both religious and political high priest. These days,
the effects of globalization and global warming are increasingly felt in
Japan and elsewhere. Not even island nations like Japan are islands in the
world any longer. And both the return to the old values and Miyazaki’s
ecological anxieties are distinct in his films, and can be substantiated by
numerous quotes. In his outline of the purpose of Sen to Chihiro no
kamikakushi/Spirited Away (2001) Miyazaki writes that:
Children are losing their roots, being surrounded by high technology and cheap
industrial goods. We have to tell them how rich a tradition we have [...]. In an era
of no borders, people who do not have a place to stand will be treated unseri-
ously. A place is the past and history. A person with no history, a people who
have forgotten their past, will vanish like snow, or be turned into chickens to
keep laying eggs until they are eaten.
(Miyazaki 2001)
While Miyazaki is often quoted for being critical of kokka-Shinto (Wright

2005: 10), his fear of globalization and his exaltation of national tradition
and history here comes perilously close to that of extreme right-wing ideol-
ogists. As was once noted by a famous and infamous German ideologist, in
some aspects the political spectrum is not linear, going from right to left,
but rather a curve where ‘the extremes of left and right meet’ (Sorensen and
Bruslund 1993: 72). The name of the ideologist was Joseph Goebbels.
Spiritual literacy, ‘occulturalism’ and neo-orientalism

Spirited Away tells the story of a 10-year-old girl, Chihiro, who winds up
in the realm of kami together with her parents, who are soon turned into
pigs by a witch. In order to save her parents and herself, Chihiro has to
overcome the will and the spell of the witch by working at a bathing house
for kami. Here, she teams up with a boy of her own age, Haku, who is also
under the spell of the witch.

Essentially, Miyazaki is presenting a coming-of-age story, where the

young protagonist Chihiro grows from a somewhat timid and sulky child
into someone who learns to overcome fear, and to approach others with an
open mind. And obviously, purification is foregrounded by the bath-house
setting. In Shintoist terms, Chihiro achieves a state of makoto – she learns
to be ‘sincere’. To the Japanese-speaking viewer, the references to Shinto
are abundant and instantly realized. It is clear from the opening title that
Chihiro is in for a test of some sort. Her name means ‘1000 fathoms’
(Chi = 1000, hiro = fathom, inquire, look for), so it is reasonable for a
Japanese-speaking viewer to hypothesize that trials and tribulations await
her. The film’s Japanese title, Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi, literally
translates into ‘Sen and Chihiro’s spiriting away by kami’. The term
kamikakushi means to be hidden by kami, a designation taken from folk-
lore to explain whenever someone inexplicably disappears – upon the
return of the missing person, people would say that they had been hidden
by kami. So, what to a fair share of western mainstream audiences is most
likely conceived of as a fantasy film, set in an exotic locale, populated by
chimera, is instantly anchored in Shinto by the Japanese viewer, and this,
of course, has consequences for the construed meaning of the film. The
most important specific effect that can be theoretically deduced pertains to
Chihiro’s relationship to Haku. At a universal level, Haku performs the
role of a somewhat ambiguous helper and a potential boyfriend to Chihiro.
However, to the viewer who is familiar with the Japanese backgrounds,
Haku is more than just a bewitched boy who intermittently transforms into
a dragon. According to Boyd and Nishimura:
The character Haku is in some respects the embodiment of what we are calling
traditional Japanese cultural values. His attire resembles that of the Heian period –
he wears something similar to a hakama, part of a Shinto priest’s formal cos-
tume. Besides this courtly dress, his speech is formal and traditional. When he
refers to himself, he does not use the more colloquial ‘boku’ but the more formal
‘watashi’. And when he addresses Sen, he uses the ancient, more noble aristo-
cratic term ‘sonata’. In fact, Haku’s full name, nigihayami kohaku-nushi, is rem-
iniscent of a reference in the Kojiki [...] ‘nigi haya hi no mikoto’ the name of an
ancestor to one of the families of high courtly rank in ancient times.
(Boyd and Nishimura 2004: 24)
Haku is in fact not a just a bewitched boy, but a kami, or a nushi, which is
roughly the same thing. So the proto-love relationship between the girl (in
her early pubescence) and boy is, at another level, a meeting of a girl and
a kami. Consequently, Chihiro does not only struggle among chimera in a
bathing house to get the boy. She has to struggle in order to purify herself
of her sulky and timid demeanour, she has to achieve makoto, and in order
to become sincere, Chihiro has to be intimate with Haku, the ‘embodiment
of traditional cultural values’ – in Boyd and Nishimura’s wording. Only
then is she capable of standing up to the witch and freeing her parents who
were turned into swine because of their materialism and their gluttonizing
of kami food only minutes after their entry to the realm of the spirits.
But this is not the only feature that is lost in translation. For instance,
the title used when the film ran in Danish cinemas, ‘Chihiro and the
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Witches’, also did its fair share to dislocate the experience of Danish cin-
ema-goers from the realm of kami. The general conception of a ‘witch’
does not necessarily entail a religious entity or even supernatural status – a
witch is a human with special magical abilities, and this is a pretty far cry
from the kami of the Japanese title.
The general impression that this is a film of a spiritual nature, however,
has been widely noted. For instance, in 2002, Spirited Away was among
the top ten of the most ‘spiritually literate films’ listed on the homepage of
the New York-based organization ‘Spirituality & Practice’, which clearly
renders its services to New Age soul seekers. Part of the motivation for
recommending the film reads as follows: ‘Little Chihiro does what spiri-
tual seekers will recognize as “shadow work” – taking back her projec-
tions, learning to love all parts of herself, including those mirrored by
others – healing both herself and those around her in the process’ (Brussat
2002). So, if we take this particular homepage as a point of departure,
Spirited Away with its main protagonist, who must look a thousand times
in order to fathom the ‘cultural values of traditional Japan’, is appropriated
and recommended as a ‘resource’ for those prone to ‘spiritual journeys’.
Thus a certain amount of neo-orientalist, quasi-religious mysticism also
appears to be part of the attraction. The British philosopher and religious
historian Christopher Partridge has coined the term ‘occulturalism’ to
grasp the somewhat loose spiritualism that is constructed and conveyed
by, among other things, pop cultural artefacts. In Partridge’s definition:
Occulture itself is not a particular ‘occult’ worldview, or movement, or spiritual-

ity, but is rather a resource with which people engage [...] Occulture is the spiri-
tual bricoleur’s Internet through which to surf and from which to download
whatever appeals and inspires [...] it is the varied landscape the spiritual nomad
explores; it is the cluttered warehouse frequently plundered by producers of
popular culture searching for ideas, images and symbols.
(Partridge 2007: 7)
Partridge lists a number of features and uses of occultural artefacts that

attract the western spiritual seeker, three of which are particularly relevant in
this context. First, occulture conveys the attraction of the premodern and
marks a turn away from technological modernity often by conveying ‘a
strong sense of continuity with the past’ (Partridge 2007: 9). Second, occul-
tural artefacts are enchanting, and this apparently applies to Miyazaki’s
films in the view of the above-mentioned homepage for soul seekers.
Finally, occulture is anti-establishment – you do not need to abide by the
requirements of religious institutions, churches or sects to take part in occul-
ture – it is a de-institutionalized, de-traditionalized and, to some extent, indi-
vidualized pursuit. While this may offer an inkling as to what attracts the
spiritualist share of anime fan cultures on the Internet, and therefore to some
degree also accounts for part of the Japanese reception, I would argue that
two aspects of Shinto feed into the Japanese reception and positions both the
secular and the occultural uses of Shinto-influenced anime in relation to
environmentalism and nationalism. If western fan cultures’ occultural fasci-
nation with anime can be summed up with the words ‘premodern’,
‘enchanting’ and ‘anti-establishment’, then the close ties between Shinto

and Japanese nationalism, at least theoretically speaking, puts part of the 4. This assessment is
based on a survey of
Japanese reception at risk of being best captured by the concepts ‘anti- features and reviews
modern’, ‘irrational’ and ‘reactionary’. Shinto’s focus on closeness to, or published in seven
oneness with, nature, on the other hand, may tint the Japanese reception major Danish dailies:
in environmentalist colours. Be it environmentalist, nationalist or both, BT, Politiken,
Berlingske Tidende,
Miyazaki’s films are still concerned with national cultural heritage, and, Jyllands-Posten,
obviously, Japanese nationalism is neither static nor monolithic. In order to Kristeligt Dagblad,
grasp this issue, we need to theorize the concept of nationalism in more detail. Information and Ekstra
Bladet when the film
opened at Danish
My neighbour, the kami, Totoro theatres in March 2007.
While Miyazaki’s uses of Shinto characters, themes and stories are fairly
obvious in both Spirited Away and Princess Mononoke, the Danish critical
reception of Tonari no Totoro/My Neighbour Totoro (1988) provides an
illuminating example of how Shintoism passes for non-religious magic. In
spring 2007, Totoro opened at Danish cinemas and was hailed enthusiasti-
cally by Danish newspaper critics who – almost unanimously – proclaimed
that this was indeed a masterpiece. Most critics praised the film for its sub-
dued magic, and for what it did not do: set up black-and-white oppositions
between good and bad, and race along at hysterical speed and almost
unbearable noisiness characteristic of most American animation films for
children – in short, it was praised for not being a typical Disney or Pixar
production. Here, we return to one of the features of Partridge’s ‘occultur-
alism’, namely the attraction of being ‘anti-establishment’. One of the most
often repeated qualities of anime – on fan sites, in film criticism, in the
comparisons drawn by film scholars – is that it is not Disney. And this
recurrent notion has apparently convinced even the establishment, since
Buena Vista has bought the rights to distribute the films of Hayao Miyazaki
and his Studio Ghibli. But what is more important in relation to the Danish
critical reception of Totoro is that no one – to my knowledge4 – caught a
whiff of the pervasiveness of Shinto, despite the extensive use of religious
iconography in the film – both Shinto and Buddhist.
The plot centres on two sisters, who are struggling to cope with their
fears over their mother’s illness. They move into an old rural house with
their father, and soon find that the house is inhabited by ‘soot sprites’ (lit-
tle black dust bugs) who roam in the attic. In one shot, the soot sprites are
shown huddled together in a corner of the attic behind a gohei – the
wooden stick with zigzags of folded paper attached, which is not only
used by Shinto priests at purification rituals as previously mentioned, but
also signifies the presence of kami. So the funny little creatures, who soon
abscond from the house due to a ‘purification ritual’ – the sisters and their
father scare them off by laughing out loud while taking a communal bath –
are in fact kami. Next to the family’s house, there is a shrine. It is appro-
priately marked by a torii (a Shinto shrine gate). Inside, a huge camphor
tree hosts kami as is evident from the shimenawa (a rope made of rice
straw used to designate a sacred place, which is tied around the tree). And
inside the tree reside the totoros (the benevolent creatures of nature) – the
kami – who help the two girls cope. Apart from these obvious signifiers of
sacred places, the girls also seek shelter at roadside shrines, near Buddhist
statues, engage in a nocturnal fertility ritual together with the big totoro,
and pay their respects to the kami by praying together with their father at
NL 6 181–196 © Intellect Ltd 2008 191

the camphor tree. So, there is an abundance of cues signifying Shinto, yet
not one Danish newspaper critic mentioned the word ‘Shinto’. Moreover,
it seems that no one caught another prominent feature of this film, namely
the nostalgic mourning of a bygone age of innocence and a spirit of com-
munity perishing because of the advance of modernity. Maybe this is
because it is not evident to non-Japanese viewers that the film is in fact set
in Miyazaki’s childhood. As pointed out by McDonald, ‘My Neighbour
Totoro [...] takes a longing look back at the 1950s, when some rural and
suburban communities still offered refuge from the throes of transformation
run amok in the name of post-war recovery’ (McDonald 2006: 177). The
nostalgia for the closeness and purity of a rural past is a staple of most
nationalisms – and certainly a prominent feature of both My Neighbour
Totoro and of contemporary Japanese nationalism. The Japanese keyword
in this context is the notion of the furusato (the old village). The notion of
the furusato is often used by politicians to evoke a perceived yearning
among urban Japanese for the rural roots of the family, and to conjure up
the image of Japan as one homogeneous family nation in which the indi-
vidual members can trace their family lineage back to a pure and idyllic
rural village – a place uncontaminated by the onslaught of modernity and
the influx of foreigners to Japan brought about by globalization. Obviously,
the blessings of the furusato are not within reach for those who do not
have Japanese ancestors. And these two traits in concert, Shinto and the
nostalgia of furusatoism, make up a cocktail that is exploited by neo-
nationalists in Japan.
British sociologist Michael Billig (1995) has coined the term ‘banal
nationalism’ to designate the inconspicuous everyday reconstruction of
national culture and identity outside the habitual production centres of
nationalism – political fora, for instance. In an extension of Billig, Hjarvard
(2008) has proposed the concept ‘banal religion’ to designate religious
ideas and notions that exist outside institutionalized religions, and which
are often both formed by and disseminated through media. According to
Billig, banal nationalism is generated and sustained by everyday routines,
images and habits of language; for instance, the use of the little words ‘we’,
‘us’, ‘them’, and ‘the others’ to imply and demarcate national identity and
belonging. Inherent in Hjarvard’s definition of ‘banal religiosity’ is that it
predates and constitutes the foundation upon which institutionalized reli-
gions are constructed, a definition that brings the ancient chronicles and
Miyazaki’s uses of Shinto mythology to mind. If we merge the concepts of
Billig and Hjarvard into ‘banal national religiosity’, the outline of the issue
at hand comes within reach. Evoking the furusato in a film studded with
images of religious significance can be justly said to contribute to the con-
struction of banal national religiosity, a basis upon which the forgers of
Shinto nationalism can operate. According to Billig (1995: 39), manifesta-
tions of nationalism can be divided into ‘waved and unwaved flags’.
Former Prime Minister Koizumi’s repeated visits to the Yasukuni shrine
were waved flags; they were deliberate, explicit and official expressions
of nationalism. The exposition of the quiet magic of a Shinto-torii in a
film like My Neighbour Totoro constitutes an apparently unwaved flag.
Nevertheless, it flags the nation; it reminds the Japanese audience of their
national mytho-religious heritage, and it keeps images and notions of

national and religious identity alive – it helps sustain banal national reli-
giosity. But while the image of the torii may constitute an unwaved flag to
some – after all, there are thousands of these gates dotted all over Japan –
in the eyes of others it might be construed as a waved flag. The dividing
line between waved and unwaved flags is not static, and it belongs within
the conception of individual recipients: to some Muslim women, the head-
scarf is merely a garment, something they wear because they have always
done so; to others – both the wearers and those who encounter them – this
same headscarf is clearly a waved flag signalling religious belonging and
intended to do just that. It is, in other words, an empirical matter to decide
which is which and what the bottom line is when the work of the maker
meets the eye of the user. But while unwaved flags make up the dry
haystack, the lit match that sets it ablaze often comes in the form of a
waved flag. This is evident from the ongoing debate on Muslim women’s
scarves in many European countries over the last couple of years; a sus-
tained controversy over a phenomenon tends to pull the phenomenon from
the unwaved side of the spectrum towards the waved. And the same obser-
vation goes for the repeated controversies over the nationalist uses of
Shinto in Japan. A sidelong glance at the political rationale behind the
repeated Yasukuni visits would seem to indicate that a considerable part of
the Japanese electorate sympathizes with those Shinto-nationalistic mani-
festations. If these visits were not marketable to voters, Japanese top politi-
cians would have to be either stupid, which they are not, or very religious,
which they hardly are, in order to keep inflicting costly damages to
Japanese international political and economic relations by honouring the
war dead at Yasukuni. But this, of course, does not allow for the conclusion
that Miyazaki’s use of Shinto is construed along blatantly nationalist lines
by a majority of cinema-going voters. We may safely conclude, however,
that whether or not the use of Shinto in the three films analysed above is
conducive to the history revisionist nationalism purported by those in
power in contemporary Japan, it is inextricably linked to issues of the
Japanese nation state, its problematic historical track record and the unfor-
tunate role played by Shinto in this respect. Or, in other words, substituting
national religiosity with banal national religiosity hardly eradicates impli-
cations of contemporary nationalism.
Stirred – not shaken

It would be misleading to explain the global success of anime solely in
terms of the culture-specific peculiarities delineated above, which are
bound to either go unnoticed by western audiences or be ‘misconstrued’ if
you consider the intended meaning and/or the meaning made by home
audiences. If anime is so laden with culture-specific meaning, it seems an
apparent paradox that it has become a globalized commodity. Why then
does anime generally, and Miyazaki’s anime specifically, travel so well?
First, it needs to be stated that while certain layers of meaning of the
films are, as previously outlined, not readily accessible to viewers who are
uninformed on the Japanese background, there are other layers that lend
themselves to universal fascination and meaning construal without hin-
drance. Also, I have briefly touched upon part of the reason for the present
success, namely the magnitude of the anime business in Japan – large-scale
NL 6 181–196 © Intellect Ltd 2008 193

operation advantages are clearly part of the explanation. The domestic

market in Japan is huge, and products can thus be exported at favourable
prices – in most cases, the profit from the home market has already covered
production costs. Additionally, the export of the Japanese animation industry
is being boosted by the Japanese establishment. This can be seen not just
by the occasional promotion and sponsorship of anime-related events
undertaken by diplomatic representations outside Japan, but also by the
inner circles of Japanese political power. When, in September 2007, Prime
Minister Abe decided to step down, the Nikkei Index dropped half a per
cent on the Tokyo Stock Exchange. However, once it became known that
hawkish conservative Foreign Minister Taro Aso was in line as a possible
successor, the shares of manga and anime businesses gained. In fact, the
manga publishing company, Broccoli, gained no less than 71 per cent in
one day, according to BBC Online (BBC 2007). Taro Aso is known in
Japan to be a vehement manga and anime fan. Perhaps in an attempt to
outdo his more liberal counterpart in the race for the prime ministry, Yasuo
Fukuda – who had promised voters not to stir up international controversy
by visiting the Yasukuni shrine if he were elected (Ito 2007) – Aso vowed
to boost the anime and manga business in order to make ‘warm feelings for
Japanese pop culture [...] translate into warm feelings for its foreign policy’
(Tabuchi 2007). So in this manner, two of the key hot topics of this article,
pop culture and war responsibility, were also key issues of the political
struggle to succeed Abe as prime minister. And the close ties between the
creative industries and Japanese officialdom became abundantly clear.
The occultural uses of anime have also been noted, but hardly account
for a significant share of the total consumption. Here, the mystic qualities
of, for instance, Chihiro – perhaps including some of the distinctly
Japanese traits – may even be considered assets because they are not
‘properly understood’ and therefore appear enigmatic and mystifying to
western audiences. Additionally, there is one attraction to particularly the
fan communities of anime that has been mentioned: anime it is not
Disney; so being an anime fan promises the counter-cultural capital upon
which most sub- or counter-cultures thrive: escaping the mainstream.
After having lurked at different web fora for anime fans, my preliminary
impression is that the interaction that takes place at these fora has sur-
prisingly little to do with the peculiarities of anime and an awful lot to do
with identity construction and youthful global bonding through the
Internet and at various ‘cons’ (conventions), where fans meet in the real
world. It is hip to be otaku (an anime and/or manga fan). It is cool to
either possess, or be knowledgeable about, as many anime series as pos-
sible, and it is extra cool to do ‘scanlations’ (unauthorized scanning and
translation of manga) and ‘fansubbing’ of anime (dubbed anime are for
nitwits) if one does not make a profit selling the pirated films or comics.
The object of interest, however, might as well be punk rock, skater cul-
ture or any other nerdish and juvenile objects of interest. And, as delin-
eated by Leonard (2005), the anime and manga industry apparently sees
little economic motivation to clamp down on copyright violators. The
rationale appears to be that Internet piracy boosts global interest in and an
appetite for anime. The sustained lobbying of TV stations and cinemas to
show more anime by the global otaku culture clearly constitutes an asset

to the producers. Fan activism, to some degree, influences the agenda of

distributors and programmers, especially in the United States, and this
invites reflections on what has been termed ‘the new media economy’,
where the agenda of production, distribution and consumption is increas-
ingly influenced from the bottom-up/many-to-one, instead of the tradi-
tional top-down/one-to-many pattern of mass communication and mass
production. Describing this development as the name of the contempo-
rary anime game, however, would constitute an exaggeration. Huge con-
glomerates like Disney and Cartoon Network may lend an ear to the
grassroots, but it is still the executives who call the decisive shots. After
all, Hayao Miyazaki’s films did not become international mainstream
cinema until Buena Vista started distributing Studio Ghibli productions.
Finally, it should be noted that while the Internet is, of course, global, the
powerhouse of global anime fandom is geographically located in and
around the colleges of the United States and Canada. Here, there is a crit-
ical mass, screenings to go to, readers and writers for weekly fan-magazines
and a sufficient number of Japanese speakers and readers who can trans-
late and disseminate the much-coveted ‘scanlations’ and ‘fansubs’. So,
the ‘Japanization of European Youth’ referred to in the introduction of
this article is a truth with qualifications. A considerable share of the
Japanese product takes a detour around US colleges en route from Japan
to European fan communities. It is partly filtered by the preferences, the
activism and the influence exerted on distributors by American college
students. And this, to some extent, keeps the exchange of youth cultural
trends to the beaten track between Europe and the United States, where it
has been since the days of Elvis Presley and James Dean. So while the
American animation industry may be in for a beating, and the global
dominance of US youth pop culture may have been stirred by the success
of Japanese creative industries, it is hardly shaken.
References
Aston, W.G. (trans.) (1956), Nihongi, London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd.
Barrett, J. (2004), Why Would Anyone Believe in God?, Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira
Press.
BBC (2007), ‘Manga shares gain on leader hopes’, BBC Online, http://news.bbc.co.uk/
2/hi/business/6991720.stm. Accessed 12 September 2007.
Billig, M. (1995), Banal Nationalism, London: Sage Publications.
Boyd, J.W. and Nishimura, T. (2004), Shinto Perspectives in Miyazaki’s Anime Film
‘Spirited Away’, Journal of Religion and Film, 8: 2, pp. 1–25.
Brussat, M.A. and F. (2002), Film Review: Spirited Away, available at http://www.
spiritualityandpractice.com/films/films.php?id=5116. Accessed 4 October 2007.
Hjarvard, S. (2008), ‘The mediatization of religion: A theory of the media as agents of
religious change’, In Northern Lights 2008. Bristol: Intellect Press.
Ito, M. (2007), ‘Fukuda enters race, vows to avoid Yasukuni’, Japan Times Online,
16 September. http://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/nn20070916a1. html. Accessed
21 April 2008.
Jeans, R.B. (2005), ‘Victims or Victimizers? Museums, Textbooks, and the War
Debate in Contemporary Japan’, Journal of Military History, 69, pp. 149–95.
JETRO (2004), Japan Regains its Position as a Global Cultural and Trend Leader,
New York: JETRO.
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Kinsella, S. (1997), Japanization of European Youth, Available at http://basic1.easily.

co.uk/04F022/036051/Japanization.html. Accessed 16 October 2007.
Leonard, S. (2005), Celebrating Two Decades of Unlawful Progress: Fan Distribution,
Proselytization Commons, and the Explosive Growth of Japanese Animation’,
UCLA Entertainment Law Review, Spring Issue.
Levi, A. (1996), Samurai from Outer Space: Understanding Japanese Animation,
Chicago: Open Court.
———— (2001), ‘New Myths for the Millennium: Japanese Animation’, in J.A. Lent (ed.),
Animation in Asia and the Pacific, Eastleigh, UK: John Libbey Publishing, pp. 33–51.
Lidin, O. (1985), Japans religioner, København: Politikens forlag.
Matsumoto, S. (1970), Moto-ori Norinaga: 1730–1801, Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press.
McDonald, K. (2006), Reading a Japanese Film, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.
Miyazaki, H. (2001), ‘The Purpose of the Film’, available at http://www.nausicaa.net/
miyazaki/sen/proposal.html. Accessed 17 October 2007.
Napier, S.J. (2001), ‘Confronting Master Narratives: History as Vision in Miyazaki
Hayao’s Cinema of De-assurance’, Positions: East Asia Cultures Critique, 9: 2,
pp. 467–93.
———— (2005), Anime from Akira to Howl’s Moving Castle, updated edn., New York:
Palgrave.
Partridge, C. (2007), ‘Occulture, Popular Culture, and the Appeal of The Da Vinci
Code’, paper presented at the ‘Enchantment, Popular Culture, and Mediated
Experience’ seminar, University of Copenhagen, 17–19 April.
Phillippi, D. (trans.) (1969), Kojiki, Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Reader, I. (ed.) (1993), Japanese Religions: Past and Present, Folkestone: Japan Library.
Sorensen, L. (2006), The Little Victories of the Bad Losers: Resistance against U.S.
Occupation Reforms and Film Censorship in the Films of Yasujiro Ozu and Akira
Kurosawa 1945–52, Ph.D. dissertation, Faculty of the Humanities, University of
Copenhagen, forthcoming on Edwin Mellen Press.
Sorensen, L. and Bruslund, T. (1993), Wieder den Deutschen Geist, Herning: Systime.
Tabuchi, H. (2007), ‘Aso hip with comic book crowd’, Japan Times Online, 20
September 20. http://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/nn20070920f2.html. Accessed
21 April 2008.
Wright, L. (2005), ‘Forest Spirits, Giant Insects and World Trees: The Nature Vision of
Hayao Miyazaki’, Journal of Religion and Popular Culture, 10, pp. 1–40.

NL_6_13_Biographies.qxd 6/11/08 4:17 PM Page 197

Miscellaneous. English language. doi: 10.1386/nl.6.1.197/7
Contributors
Justin L. Barrett is Senior Researcher at the University of Oxford’s Centre
for Anthropology and Mind and is Lecturer in the Institute of Cognitive
and Evolutionary Anthropology. He earned degrees in experimental psy-
chology from Calvin College (B.A.) and Cornell University (Ph.D). Dr
Barrett is a founding editor of the Journal of Cognition & Culture and is a
consulting editor for Psychology of Religion & Spirituality. He is author
of numerous articles and chapters concerning cognitive science of reli-
gion. His book Why Would Anyone Believe in God? (AltaMira, 2004)
presents a scientific account for the prevalence of religious beliefs.
E-mail: justin.barrett@anthro.ox.ac.uk
Lynn Schofield Clark is Associate Professor and Director of the Estlow

International Center for Journalism & New Media at the University of
Denver’s School of Communication. She is author of From Angels to Aliens:
Teenagers, the Media, and the Supernatural (Oxford University Press,
2003/2005), co-author of Media, Home, and Family (Routledge, 2007), editor
of Religion, Media, and the Marketplace (Rutgers University Press, 2007),
and co-editor of Practicing Religion in the Age of the Media (Columbia
University Press, 2002). She is currently writing a book on how U.S.
families negotiate the introduction of digital media into their home lives.
E-mail: Lynn.Clark@du.edu
Ehab Galal, MA in Arabic and Minority Studies, is presently holding a

Ph.D.-scholarship at Department of Cross-Cultural and Regional Studies,
Copenhagen University. He is examining the role of transnational televi-
sion in negotiations and constructions of Islamic identities. Galal has pub-
lished several articles in Danish on Arab satellite-television and media,
e.g. “Giving Women Voice – Constructions of Muslim Women on Arab
religious TV” in Babylon (2007) and in English the article “Reimagining
Religious Identities in Children’s Programs on Arab Satellite-TV.
Intentions and Values” (2006). Galal has previously been teaching Arabic
and Media in the Middle East at the University of Copenhagen and
Interpretation at Copenhagen Business School. Email: ehab@hum.ku.dk
Torben Grodal is Professor at the University of Copenhagen, Dept. of

Media, Cognition and Communication. He has – besides books and articles
in Danish on literature - published Moving Pictures, A new theory of genre,
feelings and cognition, edited a book, Visual Authorship, a series of articles
on film emotions, narrative theory, art films, video games, evolutionary film
theory, intertextuality, and an advanced introduction to film theory Filmo-
plevelser. He has just finished a new book: Embodied Visions: Evolution,
Emotion, Culture and Film that is forthcoming on Oxford University Press.
E-mail: grodal@hum.ku.dk
NL 6 197–199 © Intellect Ltd 2008 197

Helle Kannik Haastrup, Assistant Professor, Ph.D. at the Department

of Media, Cognition and Communication, Section of Film and Media
Studies, University of Copenhagen, Denmark. Haastrup is primarily work-
ing on celebrity culture, cross-media analysis and cinematic narration. Her
Ph.D. thesis dealt with film and intertextuality and her postdoc-project
focused on the relationship between character and narrative in film and
video games. She has published several articles on these topics as well as
co-edited Intertextuality and Visual Media (1999). Her most recent article
in English is “Popular European Art Film: Challenging Narratives and
Engaging Characters” (2005). E-mail: kannik@hum.ku.dk
Stig Hjarvard is Professor, Ph.D., at the Department of Media,

Cognition and Communication, Section for Film and Media Studies,
University of Copenhagen. He has published books and articles on televi-
sion history, journalism, globalization, ratings analysis, and mediatiza-
tion theory. He is co-editor of Northern Lights, head of the Nordic
Research Network on the Mediatization of Religion and Culture financed
by NordForsk and head of the research programme Newspapers and
Journalism in Transition financed by the Danish Research Council for
Culture and Communication. Books in English include News in a Globalized
Society (editor, 2001) and Media in a Globalized Society (editor, 2003).
E-mail: stig@hum.ku.dk
Ryan G. Hornbeck is a D.Phil. student at the University of Oxford’s

Centre for Anthropology and Mind. He earned an undergraduate degree
in social anthropology (B.A.) from Washington University in St. Louis
and a M.Sc. in social anthropology from the University of Oxford. He has
been researching social relationships in Second Life for over two years.
Email: ryan.hornbeck@wolfson.ox.ac.uk
Graham Murdock is Reader in the Sociology of Culture at Loughborough

University. He has published widely on the dynamics of culture and com-
munications. His writings have been translated into nineteen languages and
he has held visiting professorships at the universities of California, Bergen,
Stockholm, Brussels, and Mexico City. His current research focuses on the
social impact of digital technologies, the politics of risk, the marketisation
of culture, and contemporary China. His most recent books are as co-
author The GM Debate:Risk, Politics and Public Engagement (Routledge
2007) and as co-editor Media in the Age of Marketisation (Hampton Press
2007). E-mail: G.Murdock@lboro.ac.uk
Christopher Partridge is Professor of Religious Studies at Lancaster

University and co-Director of the Centre for the Study of Religion and
Popular Culture at the University of Chester, UK. His research and writing
focuses both on new religions and also on popular culture. He has a par-
ticular interest in the relationship between popular music and religion. He
is the author of The Re-Enchantment of the West, 2 volumes (2004, 2006)
and the co-editor of the series ‘Studies in Popular Music’ (Equinox). He is
the editor of several volumes on religious belief in the contemporary
world, including The World’s Religions (2005), Encyclopedia of New
198 Contributors
Religions (2004), and UFO Religions (2003). E-mail: c.partridge@

lancaster.ac.uk
Line Nybro Petersen, MA in Film Studies from University of Copenhagen.

She is a Ph.D.-scholar at the section of Film and Media Studies,
University of Copenhagen. Her doctoral research project focuses on reli-
gious discourse in contemporary American television fiction and considers
the series as examples of cultural export to Danish society and the recep-
tion among young Danish viewers. E-mail: linenp@hum.ku.dk
Lars-Martin Sørensen has a BA in Japan Studies and a Ph.D. in Film

Studies. He is currently a postdoctoral research fellow at the Section for
Film & Media Studies, University of Copenhagen. His present research
project focuses on the political and pop cultural uses of Japanese religion
in anime. He has published a number of articles on Japanese film, is co-
editor of the film journal Kosmorama, and a member of the steering com-
mittee of the Nordic Association of Japan Studies (NAJS). His doctoral
dissertation, The Little Victories of the Bad Losers: Resistance against
U.S. Occupation Reforms and Film Censorship in the Films of Yasujiro
Ozu and Akira Kurosawa 1945–52, is under publication with Edwin
Mellen Press. E-mail: lms@hum.ku.dk
Casper Tybjerg is Associate Professor, Ph.D., at the Department of Media,

Cognition and Communication, Section for Film and Media Studies,
University of Copenhagen. He has written extensively about Danish film
history (particularly Carl Th. Dreyer and the silent period). His work has
appeared in Film History, Aura, Kosmorama, and in numerous anthologies.
He has recorded audio commentaries for DVD editions of Dreyer’s La
Passion de Jeanne d’Arc (1999), Michael (2004), and Day of Wrath (2006),
as well as Benjamin Christensen’s Häxan (2001). His visual essay “Rise of
the Vampire” will accompany the DVD edition of Dreyer’s Vampyr (2008).
E-mail: casper@hum.ku.dk
NL 6 197–199 © Intellect Ltd 2008 199


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qxd 6/11/08 11:26 AM Page 1

Northern Lights: Film and Media Studies Yearbook

Digital Aesthetics and Communication Journal Editor

Northern Lights is published once a year by Intellect, The Mill, Parnall

Notes for Contributors

Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd

The 2008 issue of Northern Lights focuses on the interconnectedness of

NL 6 3–8 © Intellect Ltd 2008 3

an emphasis on the non-institutionalized versions of beliefs in supernat-

NL 6 3–8 © Intellect Ltd 2008 5

horrifying, and the awe- and submission-inspiring films. The fascination

In ‘The occultural significance of The Da Vinci Code’, Christopher

NL 6 3–8 © Intellect Ltd 2008 7

Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd

The mediatization of religion

By the help of the most sophisticated media technology, supernatural

NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008 9

was among the first in a wave of television programmes dealing with

NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008 11

Three metaphors of media

and commercialized media systems in most European countries as well as

NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008 13

purposes, and acquire a whole new set of meanings. A good example of

NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008 15

The intellectualization of modern Protestantism and the tight behavioural

NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008 17

Community and rituals

(14 May 2004), the transmission of a religious ceremony plays a minor,

NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008 19

Fan cultures share many of the characteristics of religious groups,

Surveying the media’s spiritual function

Ways of engaging in spiritual issues Per cent

Table 1: Ways of engaging in spiritual issues

NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008 21

The media Harry Potter Dan Brown’s Lord of the World of

Yes 32.3 29.3 35.2 22.5

No 64.6 68.3 62.6 75.5

Don’t know 3.1 2.4 2.1 2.0

The media Harry Potter Dan Lord of the World of

Don’t know 4.1 3.5 2.9 1.4

The media Harry Potter Dan Lord of the World of

NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008 23

in supernatural and spiritual issues, and even – although to a limited extent –

Dansk Folkeparti (2001), Valgkampsvideo (Danish People’s Party: Election Campaign

NL 6 9–26 © Intellect Ltd 2008 25

Northern Lights Volume 6 © 2008 Intellect Ltd

Re-enchantment and the popular

Unseating religion from its central place in institutional and imaginative

NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008 27

the last 49 years. Where Barbie offers a concerted training in material-

The transition from notions of fate to models of risk is generally seen as

NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008 29

This call to repentance was not confined to Catholic clerics. In Protestant

NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008 31

The vernacular archive

The return of fate

NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008 33

Religious imagery played a prominent role in attempts to imagine these

NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008 35

When Hurricane Katrina struck the coast of Louisiana, breaking the

Nor did technological innovation succeed in banishing either magic or

NL 6 27–44 © Intellect Ltd 2008 37

Romancing the product: the magic of possession