PART I
Inside Fandom
1
Excerpts from âMatt Hills Interviews Henry Jenkinsâ
The following conversation was recorded one evening at the âConsoleing Passionsâ conference in 2001 at the University of Bristol. A much longer version appeared online in Intensities: The Journal of Cult Media that same year.
In many ways, this conversation reflects the explosion of fan scholarship since Textual Poachers first appeared. The fact that the interview appeared in an online journal devoted entirely to cult media and its audiences would have seemed inconceivable at the time I first began studying fans. Matt Hills, my partner for this conversation, is one of the founding editors of Intensities and the author of Fan Cultures, a book that includes a painfully close reading of Textual Poachers. Matt had the uncanny ability to locate those passages that left me most hesitant or those where I compromised on my original wording in order to appease some colleague or mentor. It was as if he broke into my house and found the rough draft, zeroing in on every marked out passage. A bit frightened at how deep this guy got inside my head, I was determined, following ancient advice, to keep him close by my side. This conversation was the first weâd had since Fan Cultures had appeared in print and some of it has the feel of settling scores or clarifying the relationship between our two perspectives.
It is telling that we recorded it at âConsoleing Passions.â For most of my academic career, âConsoleing Passions,â a conference on gender and television studies, has been one of my intellectual homes. I presented a version of the chapter on slash fiction from Textual Poachers at the very first âConsoleing Passionsâ and have not missed one since. What I love about the conference is the openness participants have about their own investments in popular culture. Matt and I recorded this session in an empty room with no audience.
Matt Hills: [Letâs start with] a quote from Perverse Spectators, by Janet Staiger:
While most studies of fans emphasize the positive features of exchange and empowerment deriving from interests in often marginal objects of pleasure, I would point out that scholars may need to shift their presumptions even hereâalthough not back to the days when fans were considered pathological spectators. Without going that far, I would argue that some fans and fan communities might benefit from more critical social theoryâŠ. Fandom⊠cannot be easily bifurcated into good and bad; the historianâs responsibility is adequate description and thoughtful evaluation.1
This is a quote that really struck me. I suppose it speaks to what Iâm trying to do in Fan Cultures. I find Staigerâs statement rather contradictory, but perhaps thatâs also why I find it so compelling: she seems to argue that fandom canât be divided up into the âgood objectâ and the âbad object,â into âgoodâ fan appropriation and âbadâ fan complicity, but at the same time as challenging this moral dualism, there is an investment in the âcriticalâ which seems to be completely about reinstating the authority to divide fandom into aspects to be applauded and aspects to be criticized. Can we, or should we, be âcriticalâ? And if so, what fan practices and fan communities are we going to be critical of?
Henry Jenkins: This is a tricky space that I think weâre all struggling with right now. When I writeâhaving come out of a certain generation of academicsâI still feel an enormous pressure to someplace say, âIs this progressive or is this reactionary?â Itâs probably both progressive and reactionary in some ways, both good and bad, but the need to declare yourself definitively at some point in the text is something that you have in the back of your mind when you write within a discipline like cultural studies, which was born out of political resistance at a particular historical moment and which has been shaped by Marxist discourse, which is itself a moral discourse as much as a political and economic one. One always has a fear of not being sufficiently political when you operate within cultural studies. It defined itself as a field around a category of âthe political.ââŠ
MH: But a highly moralized sense of âthe politicalâ; so to be âpoliticalâ was inherently good, almost, whereas if something âlackedâ politics⊠well, âapoliticalâ is always going to be an insult.
HJ: I think it was Lawrence Grossberg who said, âIf writing about popular culture isnât political then what good is it?â My answer is that there are plenty of things you can say about popular culture that arenât motivated purely from a political or moralistic stanceâŠ.
MH: Even though you accept that you are not just celebrating fandom, especially in Science Fiction Audiences, but also in Textual Poachers, if you look at textbook coverage of your work, you are constantly being accused of being too celebratory.
HJ: Well, you know, itâs because I donât call fans âtwitsâ and âanoraksâ that for some peopleâ
MH: âyou must be being too celebratory!
HJ: I think we need to consider different generations of scholars within fandom, and moments within which those scholars are working. I think there are at least three moments of fan studies that get conflated together as if they are a unified body of theory. There is a body of work that began to stress active audiences and the use of ethnographic methods, derived in part from sociological methods, and I would put early John Tulloch, John Fiske, and Janice Radway in this body of workâthey come from different places and so I donât want to lump them together as representing one totally unified body of work.
But it was important for these writers to be outside what they were writing about, to be free of any direct implication in their subject matter. They begin to acknowledge that audiences have an active role, but their prose is very depersonalized; thereâs often no acknowledgement of any affection they feel for the objects of study, or if there is, itâs a token gesture. And thereâs sometimes an attempt to pull back from the fan community at the end of such writing and say, right, now we can arrive at the truth that the fans donât yet recognize about their own political activity. Iâve taken Radway to task for the closing chapter of Reading the Romance for that kind of gesture.2 Thatâs the first generation.
I see myself and others writing at the same time, Camille [Bacon-Smith] to some degree,3 as a second generation that comes to a discourse already formulated around these axes of active/passive, resistance/co-opted. Weâre trying to find a way to alter that perception based on insider knowledge of what it is to be a fan, and struggling to find a language to articulate a different perspective that comes out of lived experience and situated knowledge. And it proves very difficultâthereâs a lot of resistance because the first generation are the readers responding to our manuscripts, the editors deciding whether they get published or not, the faculty deciding whether we get hired. So you end up struggling to negotiate between what you want to say, and what itâs possible to say at a particular point in time, in order to get your work out at all. And there is a level of defensiveness there. When I was writing Poachers I was so frustrated by how badly fans had been written about. As a fan I felt implicated in that writing and I wanted to challenge it; there are passages in the book that are just out-and-out defenses of fandom, and others that are trying to pull back and describe, analyze, critique. By the time of Science Fiction Audiences (1995) the need to defend is no longer present. At that point you can write securely and you can then begin to look at fandom in a different way.
Now, I think all of that work paved the way for a whole generation of aca-fen, as I like to call them; that is, people who are both academics and fans, for whom those identities are not problematic to mix and combine, and who are able then to write in a more open way about their experience of fandom without the âobligation of defensiveness,â without the need to defend the community. Therefore they can take up things like contradictions within it, disputes within it, re-raise awkward subjects that we papered over in our earlier accounts, and now thereâs a freedom to have real debate among ourselves about some of these core issues.
And so something like Intensities to my mind represents the establishment of a generation that is now arrivingâthat I think you represent very wellâthat has taken for granted for your entire academic career that itâs legitimate to write sympathetically about fans, and now can ask a different set of questions, including going back and batting us around a bit for the things we didnât say. But youâve got to recognize that these things werenât said in a historical context, or rather there was a historical context that made it difficult to say certain things. As it was, Lingua Franca took Constance Penley and me to task for even saying that we were fans at all, and said we had to be lying, said that this was a typical example of academics slumming it and wanting to be âone of the people.â Well, it wasnât slumming it; Iâd lived my entire life as a fan. I could be accused of putting on airs by becoming an academic, but I scarcely could be accused of slumming it.
MH: Constance Penley is equally taken to task in a piece by Richard Burt that I cite in Fan Cultures.4 Burt accuses her work of displaying a particular fantasy, the fantasy of being able to âhave it all,â which is that the academic-fan can somehow occupy, without tensions or power relations, the position of being their own object of study. That kind of critique still lingers in a particular way, and perhaps it still has some force too.
HJ: Your own focus on fans-as-intellectuals in Fan Cultures points to one way out of that problem, which is to recognize that a lot of fans carry a large amount of intellectual capital around with them. They are very good critics; they are very good theorists. Thomas McLaughlinâs notion of âvernacular theory,â which says theory production doesnât just reside in the academy, it takes place in all these other sites, is a helpful way into that, although it still tends to hold onto an âacademicâ versus âvernacularâ theory separation, whereas I would say that academic theory production is simply one subcultural or institutional practice among many.5 It doesnât need to be separated out from those other kinds of theory; it has its own language, its own goals, its own systems of circulation, and fans are inevitably locked out of that. But many of them are trained academics, librarians, or teachers, many of them decided consciously not to become academics, having had some exposure to academic knowledge, and many of them are professionals in other sectors. To say that they donât have intellectual capital is a bizarre statement. And I think your stuff talks really nicely about fans as critics or fans as intellectuals, and we need to pay more attention to thatâŠ.
That was something that I tried to get at in an essay that I did with Shoshanna Green and Cynthia Jenkins, âNormal Female Interest in Men Bonkingâ (see chapter 3 below). We tried to reproduce slash fansâ theorizing of their own practice, which met with some resistance with the academic reviewers of the manuscript. They couldnât accept the idea that there was any legitimacy in seeing how fans actually theorize their own practice, even though we would take for granted the fact that an avant-garde artistâs manifesto is a way of at least partially understanding the work that they produceâŠ. âNormal Female Interest in Men Bonkingâ was a model of a dialogic text, and yes, I do have a piece in there because I was part of the fan community that I was drawing on, but I donât label it as somehow distinct from the other fan voices there.
MH: I refer to that essay in Fan Cultures, and I think itâs very strong. For me, itâs one of the pieces that really starts to open up the question of âfanâ versus âacademicâ knowledge.
HJ: Itâs not auto-ethnography; in a sense itâs simply an outing, an exposure of myself in my normal fan activity, since I never wrote that piece with the intent of it seeing academic publication. It had existed in fandom as a part of my intervention in fan debates. The other two editors of the piece agreed that each of us should include passages of our own fan discourse, and I let them choose among the things I had written. So I gave up a certain degree of control over my own discourse in order for that to work out.
Now, thatâs not without problems. One of the responses to that piece in fandom was that fans wanted me to adjudicate disputes between fans, because I introduce a lot of fan disputes in the piece but I donât comment on them, and I donât take sides. And almost all the fans wanted me to side with them over the other side, and they assumed that if I had presented a more authoritative version of the debate, and it wasnât dialogic, then I would have sided with them! By being dialogic and open, then, somehow I was seen as giving too much space to the opposed view in the disputeâŠ.
As an academic you speak with a certain degree of authority. I canât be a normal fan anymore, not because Iâve somehow distanced myself from fandom, but because Iâll walk in the room and the response is different. When passages of your book are used as signature lines on peopleâs emails, and when fan Web sites describe Henry Jenkins as âthe guy who dignified fandom,â then these sorts of statements make it very hard for me to speak without it in some sense carrying a level of authority that Iâm uncomfortable with. Itâs not what I want the relationship to be between fans and academics, but because the press calls on me as a spokesman for the fan community week in, week out, my role gets communally reinscribed in journalistic practices, and because Textual Poachers has now been passed from generation to generation of fans, itâs one of the things you read when you want to be integrated into the fan community. They say, âYou want to be a fan? Read this.â Itâs become a sort of âhow-toâ book.
MH: So now it has become part of the âinitiation processâ that you actually describe in Textual Poachers!
HJ: Thatâs really tricky to know what to do with. There are T-shirts that have the cover of Textual Poachers on them which circulate in the fan economy, and the work of that artist, Jean Kluge, went up in value within the art hierarchy of fandom because it was associated with the book. She became a more valuable fan artist as a result of that. So you canât go in and totally shed academic authority, which is so ironic to me; Iâd been involved in the fan community for a long time, and I was just leaving graduate school when I wrote Textual Poachers. In the academic world I was truly puny; I was not yet a heavyweight by any stretch of the imagination, so that this book carried the authority it did was a little disarming.
I saw myself as an agent of dialogue. But itâs not just academics who police this dialogue. The fan community has an investment in academic authority on one level, and yet, as you suggest, other fans say, âSod off, donât bring this language into our space, youâre making too much of things that donât matter,â and thereâs a resistance, an anti-intellectualism in some fan circles that equally makes it hard to create that kind of dialogue. We all bring our own baggage to that conversation, which is to say that the identities of the fan-academic or the academic-fan are always problematic ones that have to be sorted through, even though I think thereâs more freedom to shed that issue today.
MH: Thereâs no utopian solution to that problem; there are still cultural contexts that work to constrain and enable dialogue and fan-academic hybridity, with âconstrainâ being a key part of that process.
HJ: For example, weâre having this discussion at âConsoleing Passions,â and I would say that two-thirds of the papers at the conference were delivered by fans of the medium they were discussing. Many of them were actively involved with fan communities, and very few of them felt the need to overtly declare that allegiance because it was taken for granted in the tone of the language, the types of information they mobilized, and the way they dressed and embodied themselvesâŠ. What our generation did was dismantle some of that to create a comfort zone between fan and academicâŠ.
When I first starting saying at academics gatherings, âIâm a fan,â I felt a bit like Davy Crockett waltzing into the U.S. senate dressed in buckskin [laughs]ââIâm a real frontiersman.â Thereâs a sense in which Iâm embodying this community that Iâm writing about, but itâs nevertheless the case that it becomes a myth the minute you assert it in a particular space; itâs a mythic identity as well as a lived identity, and its shock value comes from the assertion of something that was unspeakable at a certain point in time.
MH: So at a certain moment authenticity and scandal interlock, and thatâs a productive, tactical exercise?
HJ: Yes, and I think that Textual Poachers was written at a moment when those tw...