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Hyperreality and Global Culture
This book explores a world where the boundaries between reality
and representation have become blurred, a world where fictional
dramas on TV are used as teaching aids, or where a company
promotes itself by advertising an imaginary product.
Drawing on examples from around the globe, Nick Perry presents
a fascinating and at times highly entertaining analysis of both
familiar objects and situations as well as the more unusual and
absurd. Meals served in British pubs, motorcycle gangs in downtown
Tokyo, Australian movies, American corporate whistle blowing and
the drama series ‘LA Law’ are just some of the examples used by the
author in his engaging survey of the many contemporary
manifestations of a modern sense of the ‘unreal’.
Hyperreality and Global Culture also engages with well known
theorists of contemporary culture, from Baudrillard and Umberto Eco
to Jameson and Said. It is essential reading for students, both those
involved in media and cultural studies as well as sociology and social
theory.
Nick Perry is Associate Professor of Sociology at the University of
Auckland. Recent publications include The Dominion of Signs (1994).
SOCIAL FUTURES SERIES
Barry Smart
Hyperreality and Global Culture
Nick Perry
First published 1998
by Routledge
11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE
This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2002.
Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada
by Routledge
29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001
© 1998 Nick Perry
The right of Nick Perry to be identified as the Author of this Work
has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized
in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or
hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book has been requested
ISBN 0-415-10514-5 (hbk)
ISBN 0-415-10515-3 (pbk)
ISBN 0-203-01937-7 Master e-book ISBN
ISBN 0-203-21020-4 (Glassbook Format)
DOI: 10.4324/9780203019375
FOR JAN
Contents
List of Illustrations
Acknowledgements
Introduction From original/copy to original copy
1 Antipodean Camp
2 Am I Rite? Or Am I Write? Or Am I Right? Reading The
Singing Detective
3 Post-Pictures And Ec(H)O Effects
4 On First Buying Into Munich's Bmw 325iA
5 The Emporium Of Signs
6 Indecent Exposures Theorizing whistleblowing
7 Dead Men and New Shoes
8 Travelling Theory/Nomadic Theorizing
Notes
Bibliography
Index
Illustrations
Figures
1.1 (Former) New Zealand Prime Minister David Lange and
friend
1.2 A rock and a hard pla(i)ce—pottery by Peter Lange
4.1 The Vierzylinder, BMW’s administrative building, Munich
4.2 Alexander Calder art car
4.3 Frank Stella art car
4.4 Roy Lichtenstein art car
4.5 Andy Warhol art car
4.6 Michael Jagamara Nelson art car
5.1 Pachinko parlour in Kobe
5.2 Advertisement in Tokyo subway
5.3 Sign outside fashion boutique, Tokyo
5.4 Manhole cover, Tokyo
5.5 Shop front, Tokyo
5.6 ‘Locked in Love’: news item, Mainichi Daily News, June 1991
5.7 Ema at entrance to shrine, Kyoto
5.8 Suntory’s ‘Beer Nouveau 1991 Natsu’ with design by Ken
Done
Table
8.1 The Economist’s 1993 ‘Big Mac’ currency index
Acknowledgements
Chapter 2 is an updated and expanded version of material which
featured in a collection of my essays entitled The Dominion of Signs
(1994). Parts of Chapter 6 are incorporated in a forthcoming paper
(with the same title as here) in Organization Studies and Chapter 8
is a much revised version of an essay which appeared in
Organization 2 (1) in 1995.
The photograph of David Lange and friend is reproduced by
permission of The Evening Post, Wellington Newspapers Ltd; the
photograph of Peter Lange's pottery is by courtesy of the New
Zealand Herald. BMW AG in Munich kindly provided photographic
materials on the BMW art car collection and their headquarters and
granted consent to their use. The studio shot of ‘Beer Nouveau 1991
Natsu’ was taken by the photography section of The University of
Auckland's Audio Visual Department, who were also responsible for
transforming my snapshots of Japan into black and white prints. The
Mainichi Daily News were approached for permission to reproduce a
photograph of the ‘Locked in Love’ item from their pages but had not
responded at the time of going to press.
My thanks to friends and colleagues Terry Austrin, Ian Carter, John
Decks, Geoff Fougere, John and Liz Jackson, Mike Hanne, Roger
Horrocks, Roy Larke, Robert Leonard, Bob Lingard, Barney
McDonald, Greg McLennan, Kazuo Mizuta, Ravi Palat, George
Pavlich, Mike and Ceris Reed, Laurence Simmons, Yoshiaki Ueda, Roy
and Jill Wilkie for their hospitality, comments and criticism. Thanks
also to series editor Barry Smart, both for asking me to write the
book and for the forbearance which both he and Routledge senior
editor Mari Shullaw showed as the deadline for delivery of the
manuscript came and went. To Routledge's reviewers for their
sympathetic and constructive readings of the draft manuscript. To
Kate and Lisa, for tolerating my variable demeanour as the book was
being written. Above all my thanks to Jan —for being Jan, really—
and thus routinely combining affection and intelligence in first
presenting me with a copy of Umberto Eco's Travels in Hyperreality,
in bringing to my attention the LA Law/Sutherland's Law observation
in Chapter 2; the Lexus advert in Wired in Chapter 4; Bickerton's
pidgin/creole distinction inChapter 5; and Lennane's British Medical
Journal (BMJ) paper on the health hazards of ‘blowing the whistle’ in
Chapter 6. This book is your fellow traveller's indirect way of saying
—in what Eco's post-Barbara Cartland subjects have pre-emptively
recognized is an age of lost innocence—that I love you madly.
Introduction From
original/copy to original copy
Umberto Eco (1987) employs the term hyperreality to invoke what
he understands as those culturally specific situations in which the
copy comes first, whereas for Jean Baudrillard (1983b) it
corresponds to that altogether more general contemporary condition
in which both representation and reality have been displaced by
simulacra (defined as copies without originals). Inasmuch as the
concept was developed against the background of either a settled
sense of history (Eco) or a dystopian conception of the future
(Baudrillard) an effect has been to invest it with an aura of either
condescension or anxiety. The former sentiment has, however,
tended to be subverted by Eco's sub-textual fascination with the
exotic and the latter by Baudrillard's positive enthusiasm for excess.
The potential for a less axiomatic, more secular approach to the
subject is nevertheless discernible in Eco's more generous moments
and is hinted at in the mellower melancholy of Baudrillard's America
(1988) and Cool Memories (1990). This is what this book aims to
build upon. It does not presume that the meaning of hyperreality is
either invariant or unavailable, but rather treats such meanings and
the responses to them as subjects for investigation. It is about
hyperrealities, with these approached through a series of probes,
rather than about hyperreality, as this might be understood in
relation to such blunt (if powerful) instruments as ‘late capitalism’ or
‘consumerism’.
The book is therefore less about the elaboration of a theory of
hyperreality than about the development of an appropriate mode for
theorizing the plurality of its determinations and the diversity of its
manifestations. The essay form is consistent with interpretations that
are provisional and with interrogations that are seriously playful.
There is an emphasis on doing theoretical work that is responsive to
details and which prioritizes bricolage as a working principle. One
effect is to cut across distinctions between indigenous and imported
cultures; to probe for what is referred to in the final chapter as the
parochialism of the cosmopolitan and the globalism of the local; to
offer neither yet another vindication of the international, nor yet
another celebration of the marginal, but rather a problematizing of
such a contrast.
A location at the edge of the (Western) world is especially
conducive to these kinds of Delphic observations. If you routinely
have your head in onelocation and your feet in another, then the
oracular effectively becomes the secular. For under such conditions
hyperrealities seem in no way exotic. For example, the snow scenes
on New Zealand Christmas cards signal the arrival of summer—just
as the fertility symbols of Easter (eggs and rabbits) signal its
departure. Or again, the nation has a higher proportion of overseas
content on its national television than anywhere else in the Western
world. There is a cavalier mixture of Australian, American, and
British material plus a smattering from other locations. What results
is not the experience of a radical otherness, but rather glimpses of
difference. This makes for distinctive forms of peripheral vision,
elliptical rather than optical, flashes of understanding that can serve
as an early warning system for others.
They can do so because under the impact of globalization this kind
of cultural circumstance has ceased to seem idiosyncratic. It has
instead become paradigmatic in that—to rework and qualify
McKenzie Wark's (1994) felicitous maxims— we have aerials as well
as roots and terminals as well as origins. The confused mixture of
signals that results from being poised between discrepant discourses
is, however, not just where I happen to live. It is also where I find
myself at home. It is (to paraphrase the New Zealand poet Allen
Curnow (1962)) a small house with big windows, which is, however,
neither built upon a densely-layered and generally stable notion of
the past nor does it face towards an apocalyptic conception of the
future. The incoming images are necessarily refracted through the
glass of a culture and a history that is both stained and flawed—
attributes that are both the source of pleasures and the cause of
difficulties. For what can be seen from such a location is a disorderly
combination of fragments; glimpses of Britain, America, Japan,
Germany, France, Italy, Australia, science, literature, television,
shopping and theme parks. What follows is therefore part
methodological quest, part methodological guide to such a
landscape—explorations that are at once exemplars for the lived
experience of hyperrealism and ways of interrogating it.
Each of the eight chapters may be read as a self-contained essay
but each forms part of a cumulative argument. The bulk of the book
thus consists of a series of substantive cases which range across the
planet, but which have been constructed with an eye both to their
global familiarity and their foregrounding of forms of local
distinctiveness. The opening chapter is an interpretation of the
cultural conditions from which the book's methodology emerges—
that pattern of stylized subversion and sardonic distancing that is
shared by Australian and New Zealand cultural producers and which
I have called ‘antipodean camp’. Chapter 2 employs the modes of
reading associated with such a location in order to investigate the
representation of ‘Britishness’ (and its relation to the idea of
‘America’) in the BBC television series The Singing Detective. The
third chapter explores what Roland Barthes (1977a:32–51) has
called ‘Italianicity’ as it is manifested in Benetton's advertising and in
Umberto Eco's travels in America. The notion of ‘Germanness’ is
considered in Chapter 4 by way of one of its best known icons—a
BMW. Chapter 5 focuses upon Japan, or rather upon how the
exoticizing uses made of Western images within modern Japan
introduces instabilities into conventional Japan/West distinctions.
Chapter 6 has a specifically American setting but a universally
relevant subject—the fate of the truth claims of scientific
‘whistleblowers’ under hyperreal conditions. The two remaining
chapters can either be read as attempts to weave Ariadne threads
through this global eclecticism or, alternatively, as a pedagogical and
theoretical soft policing of its disorderliness. Hence Chapter 7 is
about the pedagogic problems posed by, and the procedural lessons
that can be gleaned from, the hyperreal's expanding jurisdiction. The
subject matter of Chapter 8 is the notion of a theoretical community;
the objective is to probe the implications, for the practice of
theorizing, of the globalization of theories.
1 Antipodean Camp
DOI: 10.4324/9780203019375-1
An essay by Walter Benjamin contains the most famous allegory on the
experience of modernity which the archive of critical theory has to offer.
Benjamin conceived of a Paul Klee drawing entitled Angelus Novus as
having portrayed ‘the angel of history’, in that:
“Do you see many changes in the condition of the natives since
the British occupation?”
“Yes. They are doing far better than in the past. They wear more
clothing, they have more wants, and are working to supply them.
Formerly many went naked, and as there was no security of property
and few wants, they had no incentives to save. When we came here
the taxes were levied at the will of the rulers, so the rich native was
sure to be persecuted. Now since the taxes are fairly levied, the
people are learning that their savings will be respected. They are
coming to have faith in us. Our first business was to make them
realize that we intended to treat them fairly and honestly, and I
believe we have succeeded. We had also to organize the country, so
that it might be able to pay the expenses of its government. We are
fast reaching that stage.”
“Is your native population increasing?”
“Very rapidly,” replied Sir Reginald. “I am surprised at the large
number of children that have been born since we took possession of
the Sudan. The provinces fairly swarm with little ones. During a
recent trip through Kordofan I carried a lot of small coin with me to
give to the children. The news of this travelled ahead, so as soon as
we approached a village we would be met by the babies in force.
Nearly every peasant woman came forward with a half dozen or
more little naked blacks and browns hanging about her, and the
children ran out of the tents as we passed on the way. The
Sudanese are naturally fond of children, especially so when times
are good and conditions settled as they are now. They want as many
children and grandchildren as the Lord will give them, and as most of
the men have two or three wives, it is not an uncommon thing for a
father to have several additions to his family per year.”
“Your Excellency has been travelling on camel back through
Kordofan. Is that country likely to be valuable in the future?”
“I do not see why it should not be,” replied the Governor-General.
“It is one of the stock-raising regions of this part of the world,
producing a great number of cattle and camels. Much of the meat
now used in Khartum comes from Kordofan, and camels are bred
there for use throughout the Libyan and Nubian deserts. The
southern half of the country, which is devoted to cattle, is inhabited
by stock-raising people. Every tribe has its herds, and many tribes
are nomadic, driving their stock from pasture to pasture. North of
latitude thirteen, where the camel country begins, one finds camels
by the thousands. That section seems to be especially adapted to
them.”
“What is the nature of the land west of Kordofan?”
“I suppose you mean Darfur. That country is a hilly land traversed
by a mountain range furnishing numerous streams. It is well
populated, and was for a long time a centre of the slave trade. The
natives there are comparatively quiet at present, although every now
and then a war breaks out between some of the tribes. This is true,
too, in Kordofan. The people are brave and proud, and they have
frequent vendettas.”
No matter how far up the Nile or how deep in the desert they live, “backsheesh”
is the cry of the children of Egypt and the Sudan. Young and old alike have learned
the trick of asking a fee for posing.
British experiments in cotton culture in the Sudan have been most successful
and the quality of the product compares favourably with Egyptian varieties.
Irrigation projects under construction will shortly add 100,000 acres to the cotton-
growing area.
The chief public building in Khartum is the Sirdar’s palace, built by Kitchener on
the site of Gordon’s murder. Over it float British and Egyptian flags and two
sentries guard its door, one British, one Sudanese.
I came down the Blue Nile from Khartum in a skiff. The distance is
about five miles, but we had to tack back and forth all the way, so
that the trip took over two hours. The mamour met me on landing.
He had a good donkey for me, and we spent the whole day in going
through the city, making notes, and taking the photographs which
now lie before me.
The people are stranger than any I have ever seen so far in my
African travels. They come from all parts of the Sudan and represent
forty or fifty-odd tribes. Some of the faces are black, some are dark
brown, and others are a rich cream colour. One of the queerest men
I met during my journey was an African with a complexion as rosy as
that of a tow-headed American baby and hair quite as white. He was
a water carrier, dressed in a red cap and long gown. He had two
great cans on the ends of a pole which rested on his shoulder, and
was trotting through the streets carrying water from one of the wells
to his Sudanese customers. His feet and hands, which were bare,
were as white as my own. Stopping him, I made him lift his red fez to
see whether his hair was white from age. It was flaxen, however,
rather than silver, and he told me that his years numbered only
twenty-five. The mamour, talking with him in Arabic, learned that he
was a pure Sudanese, coming from one of the provinces near the
watershed of the Congo. He said that his parents were jet-black but
that many men of his colour lived in the region from whence he
came. I stood him up against the mud wall in the street with two
Sudanese women, each blacker than the ink with which this paper is
printed, and made their photographs. The man did not like this at
first, but when at the close I gave him a coin worth about twenty-five
cents he salaamed to the ground and went away happy.
I am surprised to see how many of these Sudanese have scars on
their faces and bodies. Nearly every other man I meet has the marks
of great gashes on his cheeks, forehead, or breast, and some of the
women are scarred so as to give the idea that terrible brutalities
have been perpetrated upon them. As a rule, however, these scars
have been self-inflicted. They are to show the tribe and family to
which their owners belong. The mamour tells me that every tribe has
its own special cut, and that he can tell just where a man comes from
by such marks. The scars are of all shapes. Sometimes a cheek will
have three parallel gashes, at another time you will notice that the
cuts are crossed, while at others they look like a Chinese puzzle.
The dress of the people is strange. Those of the better classes
wear long gowns, being clad not unlike the Egyptians. Many of the
poor are almost naked, and the boys and girls often go about with
only a belt of strings around the waist. The strings, which are like
tassels, fall to the middle of the thigh. Very small children wear
nothing whatever.
A number of the women wear no clothing above the waist, yet they
do not seem to feel that they are immodest. I saw one near the ferry
as I landed this morning. She was a good-looking girl about
eighteen, as black as oiled ebony, as straight as an arrow, and as
plump as a partridge. She was standing outside a mud hut shaking a
sieve containing sesame seed. She held the sieve with both hands
high up over her head so that the wind might blow away the chaff as
the seed fell to the ground. She was naked to the waist, and her
pose was almost exactly that of the famed “Vestal Virgin” in the
Corcoran Art Gallery at Washington.
Omdurman is the business centre of the Sudan. Goods are sent
from here to all parts of the country, and grain, gum arabic, ostrich
feathers, ivory, and native cotton are brought in for sale. The town
has one hundred restaurants, twenty coffee houses, and three
hundred wells. It has markets of various kinds, and there are long
streets of bazaars or stores in which each trade has its own section,
many of the articles sold being made on the spot. One of the most
interesting places is the woman’s market. This consists of a vast
number of mat tents or shelters under each of which a woman sits
with her wares piled about her. She may have vegetables, grain, or
fowls, or articles of native cloth and other things made by the people.
The women have the monopoly of the sales here. Men may come
and buy, but they cannot peddle anything within the women’s
precincts nor can they open stands there. I understand that the
women are shrewd traders. Their markets cover several acres and
were thronged with black and brown natives as the mamour and I
went through.
Not far from the market I came into the great ten-acre square upon
which centre the streets of the stores. There are a number of
restaurants facing it. In one corner there is a cattle market where
donkeys, camels, and horses are sold. The sales are under the
government, to the extent that an animal must be sold there if a good
title is to go with it. If the transfer is made elsewhere the terms of the
bargain may be questioned, so the traders come to the square to do
their buying and selling.
It is strange to have shops that sell money. I do not mean stock
exchanges or banks, but real stores with money on the counters,
stacked up in bundles, or laid away in piles on the shelves. That is
what they have in Omdurman. There are caravans going out from
here to all parts of north central Africa, and before one starts away it
must have the right currency for the journey. In financial matters
these people are not far from the Dark Ages. Many of the tribes do
not know what coinage means; they use neither copper, silver, nor
gold, and one of our dollars would be worth nothing to them. Among
many of the people brass wire and beads are the only currency.
Strange to say, every locality has its own style of beads, and its
favourite wire. If blue beads are popular you can buy nothing with
red ones, while if the people want beads of metal it is useless to offer
them glass.
In some sections cloth is used as money; in others salt is the
medium of exchange. The salt is moulded or cut out of the rocks in
sticks, and so many sticks will buy a cow or a camel. The owner of
one of the largest money stores of the Sudan is a Syrian, whose
shop is not far from the great market. He told me that he would be
glad to outfit me if I went into the wilds. I priced some of his beads.
Those made of amber were especially costly. He had one string of
amber lumps, five in number. Each bead was the size of a black
walnut, and he asked for the string the equivalent of about fifteen
American dollars. The string will be worn around some woman’s
bare waist, and may form the whole wardrobe of the maiden who
gets it.
Not far from this bead money establishment the mamour and I
entered the street of the silversmiths. This contains many shops in
which black men and boys are busy making the barbaric ornaments
of the Sudan. Jewellery is the savings bank of this region, and many
of the articles are of pure silver and pure gold. Some are very heavy.
I priced rings of silver worth five dollars apiece and handled a pair of
gold earrings which the jeweller said were worth sixty dollars. The
earrings were each as big around as a coffee cup, and about as
thick as a lead pencil at the place where they are fastened into the
ear. The man who had them for sale was barefooted, and wore a
long white gown and a cap of white cotton. His whole dress could not
have cost more than ten dollars. He was a black, and he had half-a-
dozen black boys and men working away in his shop. Each smith sat
on the ground before a little anvil about eight inches high and six
inches wide, and pounded at the silver or gold object he was making.
In another shop I saw them making silver anklets as thick as my
thumb, while in another they were turning out silver filigree work as
fine as any from Genoa or Bangkok. The mamour asked two of the