The Crisis of Cultural Studies

John Clarke’s article focuses on the current crisis of global capitalism, broadly defined materially and through contemporary rhetoric, and attempts to trace its web of sub-crises: of market magic, of post-Fordism, of globalization, of post-welfare, of governmentality. One of his goals, as he states it, is to explore the problem of “how to think about crises in the current conjuncture.”  His article’s approach of “thinking about thinking,” one stereotypical of academia, calls to mind another crisis, and one related to this week’s film: the crisis of the cultural studies scholar.  That is, when presented with the vast inequalities and injustices that have resulted from decades of neoliberal economics, how exactly are we, as scholars, contributing?  Last week in Tara McPherson’s “TV Theory” class, she spoke – mostly tongue-in-cheek – about the “conspiracy theory” in which academia only exists to keep scholars arguing amongst themselves when they could otherwise be doing something with greater impact, like storming the banks and making change.  While this week’s reading is focused primarily on neoliberalism and its crises (no doubt a good place to start given the persistent pessimism with which nearly all our articles this semester have been marked), the crisis of cultural studies is also applicable to issues of gender, sexuality, race, and ethnicity.  In an academic context, is it enough to think and better understand, to identify and map out evidence of problems, or must we go further? 

The crisis of cultural studies is engaged indirectly by this week’s film, Kiss of the Spider Woman.  While the film does not indict neoliberalism or globalization directly, it dwells upon their repercussions on other sectors as discussed by both Clarke and Harvey: a weakening of institutional frameworks, class inequality, declining welfare provisions, power shifts in favor of the wealthy, etc.  The setting of the film is never clearly named: the novel was written by an Argentine, the film was directed by a Argentine-born Brazilian, it was shot in Brazil, and everyone speaks English.  The setting seems to be a stand-in for a Latin-American country post capitalist intervention, mirroring the aftermath of Pinochet’s coup in Chile as discussed by Harvey.  In the face of these injustices, the film presents two distinctly opposite character responses, a narrative strategy that undoubtedly calls for some soul-searching in the film’s audience.  Where do we stand on the spectrum?  On one hand is Molina: fully aware of the injustices that have proliferated due to the class struggle, yet with no will to fight.  Within the literal prison and the prisons of his body and his society, he chooses to fantasize, to enjoy pleasure when it is allowed, willfully ignoring the problems endemic in his society: “Why should I get more depressed than I already am?”  His attitude infuriates Valentin, the socialist revolutionary, man of action, refusing to be tread upon by the elites, struggling to make a difference within his own various prisons.  He is a journalist in the public sector, a writer for the people, actively working for social change.  He refuses the illusions of pleasure: “The most important thing is serving a cause that is noble.”  These two embody the notions of escape and revolution.  Accusations of futility from both sides abound.   As scholars, our work seems to draw upon both poles, as is usually the case in reality - not quite escapist fantasy, but prone to limited impact.  The crisis of the cultural studies scholar lies in the fear that we await the fate of Doctor Americo: “He had accomplished almost nothing.” 

As media scholars, we are keen to observe and reflect on problematic representations in the media and disturbing trends in culture.  Yet, through obscure journal articles, niche books, and exclusive conferences, we are constantly in danger of preaching to the choir.  The solution is not to stop doing those things, and not to stop “thinking about thinking,” but to be aware of and face the crisis, individually and loudly within our discipline.  In the interest of optimism, I would turn to Henry Jenkins, one of the great bastions of positivity: 

“We need to shed some of our own intellectual and ideological blinders, to avoid kneejerk or monolithic formulations and to imagine new possible relations with corporate and government interests.  This route may not lead to radical transformations of the economic and political system … but we may score some important local and tactical victories in the struggle for political freedom and cultural diversity.” 

Jenkins calls for a mix of visibility, credibility, accessibility, and pragmatism on the part of media scholars.  After all, the economists are clearly doing it.  In addition to making strides outside of the academy, I would stress the importance of the often – and perplexingly – detested pillar of academia, undergraduate teaching.  If it is naïve to suggest that the collegiate classroom is a potential site for social change, then perhaps I should return to teaching high school.