False Prophets of Our Time: The Anti-Hero in Contemporary American Television

FALSE PROPHETS OF OUR TIME:

THE ANTI-HERO IN CONTEMPORARY AMERICAN TELEVISION

Master’s Thesis Television and Cross-Media Culture by Bram Wilterdink

Student ID: 10852557 ADVISOR: Dr. L.K. Schmidt Graduate School of Humanities

University of Amsterdam 26 June 2015 Words: 22.150

Table of Content

 Introduction

2

 Defining the Contemporary Anti-Hero

6

 History of the Anti-Hero

16

 The Postmodern Anti-Hero

29

 Case Studies

43

 Conclusion

67

Introduction

“Certainty will be found in those who care about you, not those who condemned you as a psychopath.” These words, muttered by Hannibal Lecter in one of NBC’s Hannibal’s (2013) (unfortunately) deleted scenes, identifies one of the characteristics of a concept that the show heavily relies on—the anti-hero. Hannibal is not your average protagonist; if anything, he is the very anti-thesis of what one would consider a classical television hero. Although Hannibal has very few qualities that we can relate with—others on the show being far more redeemable —he is by far the series’ most celebrated character—admired by critics and audiences alike. This concept; the anti-hero, is far from exclusively tied to Hannibal, nor is it exclusively tied to television. However, it is a trope that is used widely in contemporary television, and it seems that certainty can definitely be found in this archetype as far as profit and ratings go.

Huffington Post recently published an article that proclaimed contemporary television the

“Golden Age of Anti-Heroes,” and this is a fair assessment to make. In fact, it is safe to say that every contemporary American television production now retains at least one likable, but morally questionable character, if not for comedic purposes only. Whether it is the comedic yet sociopathic behavior of the members of the Bluth Family in Arrested Development (2003), the cunning, but murderous Walter White in Breaking Bad (2008), or the psychopathic and charming Frank Underwood in House of Cards (2013); every single one of these characters is celebrated by television critics and audiences alike. The fact that viewers seem to be captivated by these individuals is interesting to say the least, especially when we consider that most people who enjoy the antics and doings of these anti-heroes are themselves not villainous nor coarse in everyday life. Indeed, television audiences today seem to be increasingly captivated by a protagonist that is not shy of practicing some unethical habits in order to achieve his or her goal.

When Katherine Heigl and David Duchovny (himself famous for portraying the anti-heroic alcoholic writer Hank Moody) presented the nominations for Best Actor in a Television Series at the 2015 Golden Globes, Heigl jokingly remarked that “if any of the characters portrayed by these five nominated actors were on a super-chill dating website, [she would] have to say the pick of the litter would be the drug addicted surgeon” (Golden Globes). This, of course, was in reference to the fact that all the actors that were nominated that year portrayed anti-heroes. Not only does this quote illustrate that anti-heroes have become the norm, it exemplifies that all the nominees’ characters are not just bad boys, they are intrinsically morally flawed, and above all else; they are immensely popular—with audiences and professionals alike. Producers and showrunners seem to cash in on this popularity; audiences are bombarded with new shows that try to push the boundaries of their normative ethical limits to greater highs. Whereas characters like Lip Gallagher from Showtime’s Shameless (2011) retain a certain degree of innocence, or youthful rebelliousness, persona’s like Frank Underwood or Hannibal Lecter are outright evil from the very start of the series. Fortunately, many critics and audiences consider the exploration of these normative ethical boundaries a positive progression that aids the transformation of television series into which many have dubbed ‘quality television.’ By now antiheroes have become thus far integrated into the format of contemporary American television that it is almost too hard to consider a show that lacks such devious characters. Margaret Lyons of Vulture recognizes (albeit to her own annoyance) that “the antihero genre has become semi-synonymous with prestige” (par. 4). Additionally, William Bradley argues that “anti-heroes are very interesting, with the potential for many intriguing twists. That makes them easier to write than a good guy” (par 11). There is definitely some truth to this as the concept allows a series to maintain a certain level of ambivalence, which may be easier to write, but also creates leeway for far

more complex storylines and moreover alienates us from the standard good versus evil format that has haunted American television productions for decades.

As such, the anti-hero is an interesting concept to discuss in relation to television. Whereas commercial television has always been a medium that tended towards the needs of the audience, contemporary television promulgates longer serialized formats with bigger margins for experimentation and ambiguity concerning storyline, visuals and character development go. Be that as it may, what is perhaps most intriguing about the anti-hero in contemporary American television is it place in history. Never before has a single television trope been so immensely used by showrunners and producers. Sure, television has had it fair share of bad-boy heroes with a heart of gold, but only recently do we see the rise of truly evil personalities as protagonists.

In my thesis I will examine the anti-hero trope trough a historical discourse, conducting character studies of three different anti-heroes; Hannibal’s Hannibal Lecter,

Game of Thrones’ (2011) Melisandre, and The Walking Dead’s (2010) Merle Dixon. I will

thereby examine a variety of social, political and aesthetic phenomena that construct the trope’s rhetoric. What defines the anti-hero as seen on television? How can we trace its origins throughout history? How has America’s contemporary cultural momentum influenced this trope? While many scholars have examined the anti-hero trope; either aesthetically or socio-politically (most in the context of 9/11), many of them have failed to scrutinize the trope within a historical context—solely focusing on contemporary cultural momentum both in and out of television. The contemporary anti-hero is more of an amalgamation, however, and the importance of Greek hero, romantic hero, modern hero, the Vietnam veteran and the American maverick cannot be overlooked, as the contemporary anti-hero has cleverly embedded many of these former (anti-)heroes’ traits into its narrative. I will try to correlate this trend—the ambiguous nature of the contemporary anti-hero—to postmodernism, as this

school of thought promotes the idea that contemporary western culture has the ability to adopt and appropriate a variety of styles, ideas and characteristics, while bolstering a high degree of ambivalence. Something which, the anti-hero Finally, I will use three inherently different to prove that the contemporary anti-hero is inherently postmodern inasmuch as that he appropriates the traits of other historical anti-heroes; that he exudes highly ambivalent and postmodern characteristics; and that he plays with and redefines normative notions of sexuality.

Defining the Contemporary Anti-Hero

Certainly part of antiheroes’ appeal stems from the imitative logic of commercial television— when The Sopranos (1999)became a surprise hit, it invited the industry to ride on its success by mimicking its focus on a criminal protagonist, a trend that proved lucrative through commercial and critical successes like The Shield (2002) and Dexter (2006), but also certainly yielded many failed clones like Kingpin (2003) and Brotherhood (2002)(Mittell ‘Character’ 53). However, before I move to an aesthetic, social and political examination of the anti-hero through history, and why it is important to analyze this television trope, I want to establish the nature and character traits of this trope through mapping its scholarly field—what are the concepts and features that make the contemporary televisual anti-hero? How has the anti-hero been studied thus far? The question is then how we situate this particular archetype within contemporary society, what social, political and historical concepts were influential in constructing it, and finally, what knowledge gap there is to fill as far as this trope goes?

As I explained in my introduction, the contemporary anti-hero has become immensely popular over the last two decades—so much so that many have taken it upon themselves to define it. One of the most influential and recognized definitions of the contemporary anti-hero is that of television scholar Jason Mittell, who in his analysis of Breaking Bad’s Walter White, outlines several important character traits and developments that have contributed to the cultivation of said anti-hero. It is vital to acknowledge however, that because Mittell’s analysis of the anti-hero is limited by his book’s context—that of contemporary ‘Complex TV’—he only examines features of the anti-hero within a current televisual mold.

First and foremost, Mittell describes the contemporary anti-hero as “a character who is our primary point of ongoing narrative alignment, but whose behavior and beliefs provoke

the key features of the contemporary anti-hero is thus its ability to be part of a long-form narrative whilst questioning not only his own, but also its’ audience morality. Of course, when discussing an ensemble cast, like Game of Thrones, hailing a variety of different anti-heroes, there is not necessarily a primary point of alignment, but rather, numerous points. Additionally, anti-heroes do not necessarily only operate within a morally grey area; there are anti-heroes such as Hannibal Lecter (whom I will examine in my case study) that are intrinsically evil, instead of morally neutral. Older television heroes (as I will outline in my upcoming chapters) also adopted anti-heroic traits, but the narrative that created these characters still operated within a morally polarized schema—protagonists were ultimately good, and antagonists were ultimately bad. Contemporary television shows, according to Mittell, are significantly more ambiguous when it comes to questions of morality and some shows not only test the moral limits of their protagonist, they also test the moral limits of their audience—a phenomenon which I examined in my Bachelor thesis.

For the remainder of his chapter, Mittell outlines several character traits that we need to take into consideration when discussing the anti-hero. Mittell uses the theories of Murray Smith on alignment and allegiance to construct how we connect to anti-heroes. Smith, in his book Engaging Characters, argues that alignment is first constructed when we are attached to a character through space and time; that is, the narrative connects us to a certain character, and second, through what he calls subjective access, where we get firsthand insight into the thoughts of a character (83). A good example of this would be Dexter Morgan, whose constant stream of thoughts creates an alignment with his viewers. Allegiance, according to Murray “pertains to the moral evaluation of characters by the spectator,” which means that we can either morally identify with an anti-hero, or we can choose not to (84). It is therefore important for us as a viewer to both align and ally ourselves with a character in order to engage with it in order to find it appealing. However, most contemporary anti-heroes are

“characters whom, conventional wisdom had once insisted, Americans [will] never allow into their living rooms: unhappy, morally compromised, complicated, deeply human” (Martin 2). When the first televisual anti-heroes became popular, producers, writes and showrunners had to thus carefully craft a feeling of allegiance with their audience, and because the anti-hero concept is consistently being pushed deeper into morally questionable areas, it is vital for showrunners to redefine allegiance and alignment techniques. We might initially sympathize with an anti-hero like Walter White, for example, because he is a dorkish, yet lovable guy who finds himself cooking meth solemnly as insurance for his family. According to Mittell, most allegiant feelings in television today, are based on exterior motives— however, “when examining stability and change, we need to look for indications of shifting allegiances, as motivated by transformations within both exterior actions and interior thoughts and feelings. (Mittell ‘Character par. 29). However, Mittell also contends that “because we can only access interiority through exterior markers, shifts in character allegiance must be manifested externally” (Mittell ‘Character’ par. 29). Although this argument certainly has merit, Mittell understate’s the importance of interior markers. Characters like Frank Underwood and Dexter Morgan, for example, rely heavily on internal dialogue to inform the audience of their opinion or their plans, and this dialogue might alter both our alignment and allegiance towards them, something which, as I will examine in my case study, is particularly important to anti-heroes that are inherently evil.

Mittell acknowledges three primary techniques commonly used to ally us with an anti-hero archetype include but are not limited to: relative morality, charisma and fascination. According to Mittell, a sense of relative morality is invoked when an ambiguous anti-heroic protagonist is juxtaposed with a less morally ambiguous character, or evil character (‘Character’ par. 46). While a lot of the characters on HBO’s Game of Thrones may be considered morally questionable, they all seem surprisingly redeeming when faced with the

outright evils of King Joffrey, which may aid our allegiance to certain characters we initially thought to be unlikable. Additionally, a showrunner might aid this difference in moral allegiance by making us sympathize with only one out of two morally questionable characters, making that one character more likable than the other while they are not necessarily different on the moral spectrum (Mittell ‘Character’ par. 46). Throughout Games of Thrones’ third and fourth season, for example, Jaime Lannister experiences a shift in morality because of the feelings he develops for his travelling companion and captor Brienne of Tarth. Their shared moments together allow for Jaime’s moral development, who, after Brienne and Jaime arrive at King’s Landing, seems surprisingly considerate and thoughtful, especially when juxtaposed to his twin-sister, Cersei Lannister—King Joffrey’s mother, who during the time that Jaime was away, has grown increasingly bitter. While Jaime and his sister Cersei are presented as two heads of the same dragon,  at the beginning of the series, Jaime’s character development has now caused a polarization between the two, which allow for a greater alignment with Jaime.  

Another way in which showrunners allow for greater character allegiance with morally questionable individuals is through charisma. Many anti-heroic characters exude some form of charisma, and Mittell contends that “charisma is a key value for many antiheroes that helps us overlook their hideousness, creating a sense of charm and verve that makes the time spent with them enjoyable, despite their moral shortcomings and unpleasant behaviors” (“Character” par. 47). Mittell acknowledges that a protagonists’ charisma is often a product of the admiration and respect other characters have for said protagonist and the admiration and sentiments audiences feel towards a character (‘Character’ par. 47). As abhorrent as Frank Underwood might be, for example, his charming personality and his cunningness, among a multitude of other things, make him an admirable individual. 

Finally, an anti-hero must evoke a sense of admiration or fascination. Murray Smith, who wrote extensively on the televisual anti-hero, acknowledges this by saying that these character promulgate  “the innate fascination of imagining experiences that we lack the opportunity or courage to experience in reality” (236). In other words, because our behavior is mediated by our own moral compass, we can often find satisfaction in looking at characters’ who can make morally spiteful decisions. Furthermore, Ashley M. Donnelly argues that exposure to such anti-heroes might calibrate our own moral spectrum by stating that “our recognized acceptance of the Other must further perpetuate our ideologies of right and wrong and maintain our security within our parameters of normalcy” (23). Mittell draws on the theories of Blakely Vermeule, by arguing that we are fascinated by “Machiavellian characters who display social intelligence, cunning, and a keen ability to manipulate others—we learn from their adventures, helping to develop our own social intelligence through the tales of fascinating characters” (‘Character’ par. 48). Todd VanDerWerff also stresses the importance of fascination and argues that “there’s something dark and mysterious and sexy to [anti-heroic behavior], particularly on television, where even someone as unlikely as James Gandolfini can become a sex symbol because of the role he plays” (par. 2). Again, Frank Underwood would be a prime example of such an anti-hero. A better example, however, is perhaps Game of Thrones’ Bronn; Tyrion Lannisters sellsword who is loyal to but only one thing: money. At first glance, this rugged, straight-to-the-point, tongue-in-cheek, egocentric mercenary portrayed by Jerome Flynn, is nothing more than a sell-out, who does whatever he likes (whether it be whoring, drinking or killing) and whose primary goal in life is to get rich. Yet with very little redeeming qualities, Bronn was ranked the 8th _{favorite Game of Thrones character in a Rolling Stone poll; surpassing lead characters} such as Jon Snow, Jaime Lannister or Robb Stark. Although Bronn lacks the strength of Jaime, the honor of Ned Stark, the innocence of Daenerys Targaryen or the ruthlessness of

Tywin Lannister, his intelligence, witty remarks, and especially his light-hearted and charming take on the events happening in Westeros make his character profoundly likeable. Bronn is therefore a perfect example of how charm can work as a means to ally us with a character.

Besides these fairly obvious character traits Mittell recognizes another definitive feature of the contemporary anti-hero: almost all of them are male. Mittell traces the root of this problem back to broad “cultural norms [...] where men are more likely to be respected and admired for ruthlessness, self-promotion, and the pursuit of success at any cost, while women are still constructed more as nurturing, selfless, and objects of action rather than empowered agents themselves” (‘Character’ par. 54). There are a few female anti-heroes, such as Weeds’ (2005) Nancy Botwin or Game of Thrones Cersei Lannister, yet these women are often subjected to problems associated with presupposed notions of sexuality. Mellisa Maerz argues, for example, that “many of them fail the Bechdel Test, which evaluates gender equality in pop culture by checking if a story features (1) at least two women who (2) talk to each other about (3) something besides a man” (Jensen and Maerz 2). Although the Bechdel Test’s legitimacy and methodological approach is somewhat disputed (a show can pass the test and still be sexist, for example) it nevertheless shows that anti-heroic female characters are often burdened by preconceived notions of sexuality. Additionally, I would argue that characters such as Nancy and Cersei  are written in such a way that they are limited in their actions by their motherhood, and society’s expectation that women automatically assume a nurturing position when they become a mother. Cersei, for example, can be heartless and cruel, if the need arises, but still places her children above all else. Even women like Daenerys Targaryen or Claire Underwood, who seem destined to reign childless, are burdened by the (im)possibility of motherhood. Daenerys even calls herself ‘The Mother of Dragons,’ and her

relationship with her Dragons is a primary storyline within the larger Game of

Thrones narrative. 

Although Mittell’s analysis of the contemporary anti-hero is profound and complex, he does not explicitly analyze its ambivalent nature. This is something which Smith, in his article Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know: TV's Anti-Heroes recognizes as one of the

contemporary anti-hero’s most distinct features. According to Smith, it is the absence of moral banalities that makes the anti-hero so appealing (par. 7). Murray also states that in contemporary drama and comedy, self-deceptiveness is a key feature of the anti-hero (par. 8). That is to say, many anti-heroic characters justify or blame their actions on a number of exterior factors that they cannot control. A character like Walter White might, for example, justify his illegal activities through his family’s dire financial situation—yet, as we progress through the series, we discover that he cooks meth primarily because he enjoys it. After the series’ finale, VanDerWerff contended that “Walter wasn’t some icon to look up to; he was a man who made excuses to indulge his own worst impulses, then selfishly insisted everybody else get on board with what he was doing” (par. 3). This self-deceptive nature is recognizable in almost every anti-hero, both fictional and non-fictional—it seems, Smith would argue, that the dramas that incorporate the anti-hero trope rely on this self-deceptiveness. Smith, however, embellishes the importance of this particular feature. As I will point in my analysis of NBC’s Hannibal, self-deceptiveness is not always intrinsically connected to the anti-hero —nor is it a requirement for this particular trope.

Needless to say, numerous scholars have sought to define the anti-hero (some more successfully than others), but there is still a huge knowledge gap to fill regarding this trope. Despite being written about extensively, especially on cross-media websites such as Variety,

The Verge and Vulture, the pieces that attempt to analyze the contemporary anti-hero

contemporary anti-hero to one single event (such as 9/11). While it is undoubtedly true that many scholars managed to adequately embed a specific anti-hero within a socio-political mold or certain events, these discussions either confine themselves to one particular archetype, one particular events or ignore the impact of aesthetical value on politics and vice versa.

Mittell, for example, focuses primarily on the aesthetic value of the anti-hero, describing its character traits, features and appearance, but expands vertically—as he draws primarily on psychoanalysis and how viewers, for example, create parasocial bonds with certain characters (‘Character’ par. 12). Murray—as with his examination of alignment and allegiance—also sticks a vertical model, leaving out sociopolitical context, failing to address the origins of the anti-hero. Ashley M. Donnelly on the other hand, does recognize the importance of politics and centers her discussion on Showtime’s Dexter around 9/11. She argues that “Dexter’s system of vigilante justice mirrors America’s [post-9/11] fascination with its own ideals of vigilantism, and, while the serial killer anti-heroes of the mid 1980s-1990s obscured the line between ‘normal’ selves and deviant Others, Dexter’s character has helped to reestablish a clear line between normalcy and Otherness” (16). While the theory is sound, her discussion on vigilantism is merely applicable to Dexter and other pay-evil-unto-evil characters like Batman, Frank Castle or Daredpay-evil-unto-evil—while other perhaps more complex anti-heroes are not definable as product of increased vigilantism. Also, she identifies 9/11 as a primary instigator for changes in the anti-hero narrative; while other sociopolitical aspects might have also played a part in the construction of anti-heroes such as Dexter. Donnelly is not alone: countless other writers have made the same mistakes, overplaying the impact of post-9/11 America on the construction of the anti-hero. Jonathan Michael, for example, draws on numerous events that have stirred America’s cultural mold, like the Boston bombings, and connects to an increase in untrustworthiness which in turn might have

contributed to the need for a more ambiguous hero. What these scholars fail to recognize, however, is that anti-heroes were already present before 9/11. While it is certainly true that we now have a higher number of anti-heroic characters, one could see this as the natural progression of a trend that started way before the attacks on the World Trade Center. Characters like Buffy from Buffy the Vampire Slayer (2007) and more Tony Soprano, for example, have been around since the late nineties. Other vigilante’s like Batman, Daredevil or The Punisher, have been around even longer. Many scholars agree that Tony Soprano was one of the first truly ambivalent television characters; even Michael recognizes him. Yet, this particular character completely undermines the 9/11 argument, as The Sopranos started in 1999, showing that the importance of 9/11 might not be as pivotal to the construction of the anti-hero trope as these authors assume. Martin Hipsky, in his essay Post-Cold War Paranoia

in The Corrections and The Sopranos, examines the series’ anti-heroic political unconscious

and how it plays with geopolitical post-cold war sentiments (par. 35-36). Yet, the article does not explicitly mention anti-heroes or how their aesthetic quality links to the Western World’s sociopolitical arena. Al Molony, in his BBC article Why Are There So Many TV anti-heroes, explicates a solid argument regarding the importance of shows like The Sopranos in the cultivation of the contemporary anti-hero, but fails to give a definitive answer to title’s complicated question—nor is it able to establish a common denominator for this television trope. Another scholar that addresses the growing popularity of anti-heroic shows is Brett Martin. His book, however, only examines the impact of shows like Sopranos, The Shield or

The Wire (2002) on the television landscape, and although the book is titled Difficult Men, he

does not mention the role of the anti-hero specifically, nor does he put this archetype at the center of his rhetoric.

Again, most absent from most of these discussions on the anti-hero is broader historical entrenchment. Because the trope is still in its definitive stage, discussion on its

existence therefore predominantly focus on its definition and contemporary events, and while undoubtedly important to the construction of the anti-hero, it is important to realize that the anti-hero has been around for centuries, and has only recently become popular on television. Although there are several recurring themes within these articles (such as 9/11), none of them explicitly trace the origins of the anti-hero back to its roots: Greek heroes, romantic heroes, and modern heroes among others. In the upcoming chapters, I will therefore try to examine the anti-hero trope through historical discourse. To complete my historical analysis, I will then theoretically examine our current cultural historical mold in order to not only establish the anti-hero throughout the last three centuries, but also to embed it within our current cultural mold; postmodernism—two things that are intrinsically linked with one another. Using three different character studies, I will then try and examine whether or not it is possible to link the contemporary anti-hero to the postmodern thought.

History of the Anti-Hero

What most scholars, critics and others seem to disregard is that the anti-hero has been a familiar trope in literature for at least a few centuries. Countless writers, such as Byron, Cervantes or Dumas, have told stories throughout the ages about comical, lazy, vile and abhorrent characters with a heart of gold. To therefore understand where exactly the anti-hero comes from, I will examine the most important anti-heroic tropes, archetypes and characters that have helped establish the concept of the anti-hero throughout history. First, it is important to do so because it can tell us how the anti-hero has evolved over time, and second, it is important because it allows us to isolate certain characteristics that are being used in the anti-hero television trope today. Generally, the anti-anti-hero lineage can be traced back as far as the early Greek heroes who laid the foundation for modern heroism, but also exalted a few anti-heroic characteristics. The next major shift in the anti-hero narrative takes place in the eighteenth century with the rise of the Romantic Hero, who some consider the very first anti-hero. The wake of World War I saw the rise of the very first clearly defined anti-hero: the Modern Hero. The turmoil of the American 60s, 70s and even early 80s consequently led to the creation of two distinct American anti-heroes; the Vietnam Veteran and the American Maverick.

The earliest (fictional) heroes that bore some resemblances to the anti-hero, or at least, the heroes we are familiar with, are heroes who are found in Greek mythology. Adams states that “in the heroic tradition […] may be found the seeds of the anti-hero” (34). Not surprisingly then, the word ‘hero’ itself finds its roots in the Greek language; it stems from the Greek word hérós, roughly translates to defender or protector. In Greek culture, a Hero was often an individual that was posthumously worshipped as a god-like figure (“Hero, in Greek religion”). What is particularly interesting was that these heroes were often not without vice,

excel in adult life. Homeric heroes such as Achilles, for example, were often mortals who as a child were exposed to divine entities (such as the river Styx), acquired superhuman strength, knowledge or ability and through legend and myth eventually translated their legacy to divine worship (“Hero, in Greek religion”). Consequently, some have argued that because of this, many of the Greek heroes were flawed, or to the very least not as morally righteous as often assumed. This is contended by David Corbett who also traces the origins of the anti-hero back to Greek mythology—and more specifically Odysseus (par. 9-10). In any case, they were the foundations of the hero and thus the anti-hero, and it is here that we can find some of the basic character traits of the anti-hero, such as bravery, endurance and strength.

What is perhaps most interesting is how, according to Kevin Boon, “the mythic [Greek] hero links the world of ordinary men and the realm of the gods, serving in its earliest form as a protector and defender of ordinary lives” (302). In other words, a cult was formed around these individuals. The cults that surround these mythological Greek heroes are important precisely because they set one of the ground rules of heroism; the need for a hero to be adored, recognized and/or worshipped. Greek heroes exemplify that it is not necessarily the actions of a particular individual that makes them a hero, or anti-hero; rather, it is the

recognition of these actions, the affiliation worshippers create with their hero, and

consequently the forming of a cult around them that shape a hero into being (Boon 304). This can traced back to Mittell and Murray’s discussion on anti-hero recognition; like the heroes of old, the doings of an anti-hero also need to be recognizable to the public. Consequently, the wider that recognition is, the more important that hero, or anti-hero will become to the cultural heritage of the society that worships him or her.

This is why it is important to briefly discuss Greek mythology, as these heroes introduced this particular concept; a concept of worship that is pivotal when studying both heroes and anti-heroes. Whether a hero is a celebrity, fictional character, mythological figure

or anti-hero, they all have one thing in common; they are worshipped by a considerable amount of people. This is important to my discussion, insofar as that with contemporary anti-heroes on television, we are examining characters that have a significant cultural impact on society, primarily because they are experienced, celebrated, and criticized by a large group of people. Hence, not only did Greek heroes already show some hints of anti-heroic behavior, they also established one of the ground rules of heroism, the need for a variety of character traits that make a hero alluring, admirable or somewhat fascinating.

The most important change in the anti-hero narrative comes half way through the eighteenth century. Whereas medieval heroes, such as King Arthur, still adhered to the mythos of the Greek heroes, one particular type of hero emerged in the eighteenth century that would set the stage for the anti-hero; the romantic hero. In the early eighteenth century, readers and audiences still enjoyed a classical, more humanistic hero, the hero that one could look up too. Many scholars and philosophers during the Romantic era refuted the possibility of there ever being a hero that was as morally ambiguous as the anti-hero. World renowned philosopher and historian David Hume, said, in his 1757 essay Of The Standard of Taste that

the want of humanity and of decency, so conspicuous in the characters drawn by several of the ancient poets, even sometimes by Homer and the Greek tragedians, diminishes considerably the merit of their noble performances, and gives modern authors an advantage over them. We are not interested in the fortunes and sentiments of such rough heroes; We are displeased to find the limits of vice and virtue so much confounded; and whatever indulgence we may give to the writer on account of his prejudices, we cannot prevail on ourselves to enter into his sentiments, or bear an affection to characters, which we plainly discover to be blameable (par. 32).

This particular passage is interesting as it both reaffirms the fact that even Homeric Greek heroes were flawed and the fact that in that particular time and age, Greek heroes were not revered as they used to be. Additionally, Hume’s critique leaves no space for heroes with flaws; so much so that even stretching the limits of vice and virtue is not enough. To Hume, there could only be one hero: the one that was void of all indecencies. What is important to understand is that often, “the psychology of the characters to the cultural myths that engender and sustain them, the ‘heroes’ and ‘heroines’ we imagine can inevitably be read as the projection of each age’s endeavor to confront humanity’s collective dreads and dreams. (Ziolkowski 146)” That is to say, the portrayal of a(n) (anti-)hero influenced by a certain zeitgeist; a certain cultural mold perpetuated by people’s fears and desires within a certain time period. Tony R. Sanchez observers such a sentiment in his essay It’s Time Again for

Heroes—Or Were They Ever Gone? in which he discusses the disappearance of the classic

hero. According to Sanchez, heroes in the early eighteenth century “were […] providing a yardstick against which we [were] to evaluate ourselves” (58). They were heroes whom people based their morals and values on these, often fictional men, and try to live their life accordingly. Another such person who recognizes this particular eighteenth century trend is renowned literary scholar Lilian R. Furst, who, albeit in the first part of her essay, also acknowledges the popularity of this particular archetype during the eighteenth century. Examples of the romantic hero from that day and age are Edmond Dantes from The Count of

Monte Cristo, Hawkeye from The Last of the Mohicans, and Victor Frankenstein from Frankenstein, but that is not to say that the romantic hero does not exist in modern narratives.

Characters such as Harry Potter or James Bond are perfect examples of romantic heroes. In the eighteenth century, however, the romantic hero “wordshipped human greatness in all its manifestations: that of the creative genius, the thinker, the statesman, the religious leader, as well as the warrior’s traditional heroism” (Furst 53). The archetype is charming, cunning,

intelligent, yet isolated, romantic, yet ultimately distructive (Furst 57). Many of these Romantic Heroes were embedded in or conceived through a certain historical narrative. Furst, for example argues that “with the French Revolution’s fight for universal liberté, fraternité and égalité and the advent of Napoleon, it almost seemed as if the Ossianic world of heroism were to be realized in early nineteenth-century Europe” (53). According to Sanchez, the American revolution of the 1770s conceived similar heroes like George Washington and John Adams. This archetype, coined by Sanchez as ‘the young republican,’ were freedom fighters characterized by “honor, duty, and patriotic virtue, all traits necessary for the young nation’s survival” (58).

However, further examination of the Romantic hero shows that he is perhaps more ambiguous than previously assumed, and moreover discredits Hume’s claim that readers and audiences in the eighteenth century did not accept a flawed charlatan. According to Furst, this particular hero set the stage for the modern anti-hero, and is arguably, the very first anti-hero. Indeed, the Romantic hero still fulfills the role of the traditional hero, one that is attractive in appearance, is free from banal hardships, is the main protagonist in a work, and whose characterization is central to the story-arc, leaving other characters less developed (55-56). However, the Romantic hero displays character traits that Furst deems inherently anti-heroic, and she contends that “in a great many respects, [the Romantic hero] clearly foreshadows the anti-hero: in his extreme self-consciousness, in his disillusioned questioning, in his confrontation of nothingness, in his destructiveness and self-destructiveness, in the whole trend towards the dissolution of values and forms” (67). This, of course, is a particularly interesting and thought provoking argument considering the Romantic Hero’s role as the moral yardstick of the Romantic Era. Percy G. Adams, observes similar character traits in his analysis of the anti-hero in eighteenth century fiction, but does not recognize this as part of the romantic hero trope. Rather, Adams introduces a hero shaped as a consequence of desire

for new realism, brought forth by a “steady and universal move toward a new science, a new reclaims, a new middle-class stage audience and reading public;” a new realistic hero, so to say (36). Although Adams traces this particular anti-heroic archetype as far back as the seventeenth century, both Adam’s new realistic hero, as well as Furst’s Romantic anti-hero bear some stark similarities (36-37). These similarities are the most explicit in Adam’s description of the ‘villain hero.’ While Adams sees this paradigm as a product of the new realistic hero, it is almost identical to the romantic hero insofar as he is smart, young, handsome, intellectual, capable of love, and not afraid to implement a variety of schemes to achieve his goal. Peter L. Thorslev affirms this by contending that “the other most commonly mentioned antiheroic factor in modern culture was also inherent in Romanticism: the rise of bourgeois democracy and of the cult of the common man” (193). That is to say, Adam’s new realistic hero is arguably part of the romantic hero’s legacy.

All three authors recognize, however, that an interesting part of the Romantic hero’s metanarrative was the Byronic Hero. According to Peter Thorslev, who wrote a book on the Byronic hero, made famous by Lord Byron and most vividly perpetuated by Don Juan, is a hero much like the Romantic hero: he is open to affection, extravagant, has an undeniable wanderlust and is even a little strange (4). Yet, the Byronic Hero is a melancholic hero; one that is incredibly melodramatic, but arrogant at the same time; he is in all regard an exacerbation of the Romantic Hero to such an extent that the Byronic hero becomes a parody of himself (Thorslev 8-9). In the poem Don Juan, for example, the titular character is skeptical, defiant, and very naïve, and it is widely recognized that it is a comical criticism of the romantic era (Hassler 55).

More so than Don Juan, or any other Byronic Hero, however, both Furst as well as Adams argument is most exemplary in one of the Romantic Era’s most famous heroes: Edmond Dantes. A quick analysis of Dantes—the main protagonist in Alexandre Dumas’1844

novel The Count of Monte Cristo—shows that in the Romantic Hero, we can see the very beginnings of the contemporary anti-hero. First, Dantes seems to have lost a connection with his own identity after his imprisonment, as he consistently fabricates new ones to hide himself from the people he holds dear. Dantes has a dashing wanderlust, as he finds himself going mad in prison, and once he frees himself is almost constantly on the move. More importantly, however, Dantes is a self-centered individual dealing with his hardships by victimizing only himself, while not taking into account the struggles, adversities and misfortunes of his loved ones, especially his ex-fiancée Mercedes—who arguably suffers even more than Dantes himself. While still fitting the mold of a traditional hero; undoubtedly good at heart, Dantes is so unequivocally set on getting his revenge that he seems to care very little for the people he hurts in the process; in other words, he has little problem skewing his moral boundaries.

Although Dantes is still a hero insofar as his actions are legitimized by suffering through betrayal, his character traits are to some extend very similar to those of the contemporary anti-hero. It is therefore important to note that the romantic hero not only set the basis for a hero that was charming, cunning, smart and educated, he arguably paved the way for the anti-hero we know today. For similar reasons as studying ancient Greek heroes, the study of this complicated romantic hero is therefore important in understanding where the concept of the anti-hero comes from. As I will outline in my analysis too, aspects that make the contemporary anti-hero interesting; fascination and charm, are, as we have seen from my analysis of Edmond Dantes, also intrinsically linked to the romantic hero. The comical, yet melodramatic, arrogant and impulsive nature of the Byronic Hero, for example, might by compared to anti-heroes like Tony Soprano, who also bears some of these character traits. However, at the peak of the romantic era, during the mid-nineteenth century, the hero still had a long way to go before becoming the anti-hero we celebrate today.

A second shift in the hero-narrative happened in the early twentieth century, which saw the rise of Modernity—an era characterized by uncertainty. During this period the very first fully developed anti-hero was born: the Modern Anti-Hero. The Modern Hero—like The Romantic Hero—is unquestionably burdened by its zeitgeist, since it is intrinsically connected to Modernity. More importantly, however, the Modern Hero owes much of its creation and cultivation to one key event in history; the First World War. In his essay “The Anti-Hero in Modernist Fiction: From Irony to Cultural Renewal,” Shadi Neimneh argues in favor of such anti-hero. Although he recognizes the importance of the eighteenth century anti-hero he states that

modern anti-heroism in the early twentieth century is a response to the uncertainties of people about traditional values; it is a response to the insignificance of human beings in modernity and their drab existence; it is a feature of modernism and its zeitgeist. With rapidly changing times and cultural upheavals, the human race questioned moral values (75-76).

Neimneh and other scholars agree that one of the biggest influences on the construction of the modern anti-hero is World War I. According to Malcolm Bradbury, World War I created a ‘landscape of violence and uncertainty,’ that disintegrated cultural molds and created an environment of ambivalence (142). Neimneh contends that this disintegration caused the rise of the modern anti-hero in fiction, inasmuch as it, for the first time showed that war heroes were vulnerable too. “The Great War […] contributed to the strong emergence of anti-heroes in modern fiction since mass slaughter reduced men to puppets before a mechanized warfare” (Neimneh 77). This can not only be interpreted as men being the casualties of a modern war, but can also be seen as an analogy of men being suffering on the increased mechanization of

our world. The soldier was no longer a morally righteous warrior that fought for ideals, convictions, or what he believed was a noble cause. Rather “the soldier was now seen as stoically doing his duty, ‘his job,’ an expression which would gain currency during each of the world wars” (Linenthal 84). The working man, was at the same time, part of a heavy industrialization process that had started in the late eighteenth century, which caused a wide gap between poor and rich. However, it is vital to remember that even the Modern hero had evolved from the romantic hero. A prime example of an anti-hero that bridges the gap between the romantic and the modern would be Scott F. Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, perhaps one of the most well-known novels of the Modern era. The book is filled with anti-heroic characters who live extravagant lifestyles, engage in extramarital affairs and go to vulgar parties; Gatsby himself, of course, being the prime example. Additionally, both Nick Carraway—the book’s protagonist—and Jay Gatsby are World War I veterans, burdened by the hardships of war, and Gatsby himself is not shy of pursuing some illegal activities, as he made his fortune on bootleg liquor. He also seems to hide in plain side amidst his extravagant and chaotic parties, trying to reconnect with a long lost love. Finally, Gatsby seems untouchable for the entire book, using his mansion as his castle; protecting him from the outside. It is only at the end of the book that we find out that he is not, when in a very Modernist fashion, Gatsby finally meets his maker at the hands of a common man.

In the wake of the Modern anti-hero and in aftermath of World War II, the development of the anti-hero, both in literature, but also in film and television, took a leap forward during the 1960s and 1970s—mainly due to the atrocities committed by the American army during the Vietnam. According to Edward Tabor Linenthal, who wrote “From Hero to Anti-Hero: The Transformation of the Warrior in Modern America,” the Vietnam War turned

traditional martial imagery […] upside down. The image of the war as righteous and full of potential for a new world, and the image of the classic American warrior righteously and honorably fighting in a sacred cause, a cause which has seen the noble sacrifice of Americans in many generations, did not fit the reality of war (80).

Events such as the My Lai massacre, which were heavily documented by photographers, journalists and film crews, horrified Americans at home. In his essay, Linenthal quotes an Ohio mother stating that she could not believe a massacre was committed by the Americans, as this was clearly something that was against everything America stands for (87). This, of course, was exactly how many people at that time felt; disconnected to the ideals that they previously held in such high regard.

Kevin Boon agrees with Linenthal inasmuch as that the Vietnam War was of major importance in the reconstruction of the hero metanarrative. Although he never explicitly mentions the anti-hero, Boon clearly recognizes a change in (American) hero lore. Not only does he attribute the Vietnam War as a major influence in this change, he also notes “the Watergate scandal; an increased awareness of racial, political, economic, and gender diversity; a lingering post-nuclear distrust of science and militaristic machinery in the aftermath of Hiroshima and Nagasaki; and distrust bred by cold war paranoia” as several events that shaped this change. (302). Again, for America, these new revelations put into question the ideas of the American Dream, and the principles brought forth by the American constitution and declaration of independence such as equality, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Arguably then, the politically questionable events that shaped the 1960s and 70s put into question Sanchez’ young republican hero; the eighteenth century hero who fought for honor, rather than rage, duty rather than boredom, and righteousness, rather than being told what to do.

Furthermore, this disbelief in the ideals their country had so vividly perpetuated provoked a huge backlash against the war, which then influenced a variety of fictional works such as “The Deer Hunter” (1978), by Michael Cimino, and “Apocalypse Now” (1979), by Francis Ford Coppola, in which, for perhaps the first time in history, the non-comical but morally ambiguous anti-hero played a big part (Linenthal 91). The heroes in these movies— especially Nick (from the former) and Kurtz (from the latter)—were casualties of war, insofar as that their amoral behavior and psychological demise was intrinsically connected with the hardships and cruelties in Vietnam. One might argue, however, that because these anti-heroes still met their maker at the end of each movie; America was still not ready for the anti-hero to prevail. Yet, these characters did prove to be successful at what made them an anti-hero in the first place; it is only the inability to return to the civilized world that leads them to their demise.

Whereas film had embraced this war-troubled character, television had not, and since we are ultimately discussing the anti-hero in contemporary American television, we need to focus on another anti-hero the socio-political environment of the 60s, 70s and 80s gave rise to: the American Maverick. The American Maverick is coined by Neil Anderson as and American Hero with his or her own morality. This hero does bear some resemblance with Kurtz from Apocalypse Now, and Nick from The Deer Hunter, inasmuch as he is not an anti-hero by default—he too is a product of his past, and although traditional notions of morality do not apply to the American Maverick, the adoption of his own moral schema was never his own choice; it was simply forced upon him (Anderson 30-31). However, other than Kurtz and Nick, the American Maverick is inherently good; at the end of the day they still make a morally righteous decision.

The most famous examples of shows that put the American Maverick at center-stage is without a doubt NBC’s The A-Team (1982), a show which features a group of ex-US Special

Forces soldiers, who escaped from a prison after serving time they got “for a crime they didn’t commit.” Because all of the A-Team’s members are Vietnam Veterans, the show constantly refers back to their time serving in the Special Forces, but more importantly, it connects their role as American Mavericks back to the veteran anti-heroes discussed in the previous paragraph. Similar ‘Maverick’ television shows are CBS’ The Dukes of Hazzard (1979), which featured Tom Wopat and John Schneider as Bo and Luke Duke, two moonshiners who used their car, The General Lee, to outsmart corrupt lawman Boss Hogg. In these shows, Gina Marchetti argues “the dominant ideology manages to affirm itself as the "truth," as embodied by the "good guy" in the popular narrative, but the fact that this fantasy is designed to be sold to those outside the ruling classes, far removed from positions of social and economic power, can never be forgotten or ignored by the mechanism of the text” (19). Not only does Marchetti link the need for rebellion against the established government, she also exposes that series like The A-Team are still designed to convey a sense of righteousness, and civilized behavior—an argument she expands on in her essay by cleverly remarking that “if the audience wants to write politicians, march in the streets, yell at the boss, blow up a factory, or run away from home, the producers have not done their job” (27). In other words, the American Maverick is and anti-hero, yes; but it is—like the eighteenth century Romantic hero—also a moral yardstick, primarily designed to keep a nation in turmoil from revolting.

Although it is impossible to completely connect the American Maverick to the anti-heroes we see on television today, this particular hero did play a part in the construction of the contemporary anti-hero insofar as that it arguably accustomed audiences to heroes with a charming bad boy image; which is a character trait of the contemporary anti-hero that I will discuss later. Anti-heroes such as Daryl Dixon, for example, indivertibly have a bad-boy attitude, while still retaining a sense of moral justness.

In any case, I have hoped to show that the anti-hero is an ever evolving concept, with its roots in Greek mythology, redefined itself throughout the Romantic Era and Modern era only to come to full fruition at the end of the 1980s. What is important to understand is that throughout the last three centuries, all sorts of anti-heroic archetypes have contributed to the trope that is now the contemporary anti-hero. However, to fully grasp the historical discourse of the trope, I have to examine our current moment in history, and in lieu of the historical time periods discussed I will examine postmodernism in my next chapter.

The Postmodern Anti-hero

The era of the American Maverick ended in the late eighties, with shows like Miami Vice still perpetuating the bad-boy image, albeit in a heavily stylized format. Most popular action shows moved away from this decade old format in search of something different. However, as the American Maverick was the first clearly defined anti-hero on American television, producers and showrunners were eager to explore this notion further. Fortunately, the virtual disappearance of the American Maverick allowed for a new type of anti-hero; the one I discussed in my second chapter “Defining the anti-hero.” This anti-hero was one that was conceived by complex television shows such as HBO’s The Sopranos,  cultivated by shows such as Deadwood (2004), and brought to full fruition by shows like Boardwalk Empire (2014) (Barney par. 4). “  In an attempt to find a common denominator for this television trope, I will, in the next two chapters, examine the contemporary anti-hero through our dominant cultural mold: postmodernism and investigate to what extend the anti-hero is a product of postmodernism.

In his book Cultural Theory and Popular Culture, John Storey coins postmodernism as “a term current inside and outside the academic study of popular culture” (181). His remark bolsters the ambivalent nature of postmodernism; it is such a vast concept that many have written entire works about the subject, theorizing its nature, features and consequences. Postmodernism is no longer a term specifically linked to one subject. Although the term was already coined in the nineteenth century, scholars, theorists and academics agree that the postmodern era roughly began during the 1950s and 1960s (Jameson 1). As the term already implies, postmodernism was a reaction to late nineteenth and early twentieth century modernism, which according to postmodern theorist Frederick Jameson had become canonized, burdened by bourgeois sentiments, its status as high culture and its avant-garde

revolution (4). As postmodernism took shape in the consequent decades, a variety of academics developed theories about this intriguing era. Postmodernism, according to Angela McRobbie,

has entered into a more diverse number of vocabularies more quickly than most other intellectual categories. It has spread outwards from the realms of art history into political theory and onto the pages of youth culture magazines, record sleeves, and the fashion pages of Vogue. This seems to me to indicate something more than the mere vagaries of taste (13).

Because of postmodernisms vastness, one could argue that everything we do is postmodern. Jameson even playfully contended that “postmodernism, postmodern consciousness, may then amount to not much more than theorizing its own condition of possibility, which consists primarily in the sheer enumeration of changes and modifications” (ix). If anything, it is nearly impossible to outline such a definitive term in a relatively short piece, especially in regard to television. In order to further situate the anti-hero within an historical discourse, I will briefly try to examine the most important notions relevant to discussions on postmodernism and television.

First, quality or contemporary television’s characteristics can arguably be seen as a direct result of postmodern culture. So much so that

if we take a negative view of postmodernism as the domain of simulations, then television seems an obvious example of the process—with its supposed reduction of the complexities of the world to an ever-changing flow of depthless and banal visual imagery. If, on the other hand, we take a positive view of postmodernism, then the

visual and verbal practices of television can be put forward, say, as the knowing play of intertextuality and ‘radical eclecticism, encouraging, and helping to produce, the sophisticated bricoleur’ of postmodern culture (Storey 198).

Personally, I would argue that the latter is true; especially if we look at contemporary quality television and the increase in artistic merit that it allows for—something which I will discuss in the upcoming paragraphs. Jim Collins argues, that with the airing of CBS’s Twin Peaks (1990), a new type of television was born—one that was inherently postmodern. Not surprisingly, Mittell—despite omitting the term postmodernism in its entirety—also acknowledges the importance of Twin Peaks, and often cites it as one of the most important shows that started the Complex Television format. Twin Peaks, according to Collins, can be seen as a paragon of postmodern television because its development

reflects a fundamental change in the way the entertainment industries now envision their publics. The audience is no longer regarded as a homogeneous mass but rather as an amalgamation of microcultural groups stratified by age, gender, race, and geographic location. Therefore, appealing to a ‘mass’audience now involves putting together a series of interlocking appeals to a number of discrete but potentitally interconnected audiences (257).

In other words, Twin Peaks promulgated a format that appealed to the masses by reshaping conventional television arrangements into intertwined segments designed for a specific audience. Arguably, the contemporary anti-hero appeals to audiences in a similar fashion, explaining the ambiguous nature of this television trope. Whereas television characters from 1970s, 1980s, and early 1990s shows were often marketed towards a specific audience—

Members of the A-Team for the working classes, for example—the anti-hero now arguably allows for a greater sense of ambiguity. Not only is there an anti-hero for practically every type of personality, occupation or social category—whether it is a housewife, working man, politician, or redneck—these archetypes also intertwine with one another. Game of Thrones, is one of the most popular shows currently on air simply because its narrative revolves around a great number of different caricatures. The show has patriarchal characters such as Ned Stark, but also popularized independent and strong female leads such as Melisandre. Although most—if not all—of the characters on the show operate within a broad moral spectrum—that is to say, they are neither necessarily good nor evil—a lot of them are still based on certain preconceived stereotypes. Archetypes such as the noble warrior, the arrogant knight or the feminized gay man are still tropes commonly used in the television narrative. An example of an anti-hero that could be seen as more ambiguous in that respect is Frank Underwood. Underwood is a southern man from a working class family—yet, also intellectual, cunning and most surprising of all: bisexual. One could perhaps contend that this ambivalence is constantly pushed to new limits, and this whether this is due to postmodern influences. Raymond Williams advances a similar argument by contending that prevailing texts are often those that bolster various readings and that provide us with the greatest continuation: that is to say,

within a given society, selection will be governed by many kinds of special interests, including class interests. Just as the actual social situation will largely govern contemporary selection, so the development of the society, the process of historical change, will largely determine the selective tradition. The traditional culture of a society will always tend to correspond to its contemporary system of interests and

values, for it is not an absolute body of work but a continual selection and interpretation (55).

It is therefore arguable that the anti-hero is perhaps a product of such cultural selection, given that it is a hero whose nature is inherently adaptive to a variety of different social groups. In any case, my case studies will hopefully shed some light on this presupposition.

This cultural selection does not necessarily limit itself to class interest—rather, postmodernism is celebrated for its ability to appropriate all sorts of texts, whether they are historical, social, political or cultural. Collins sheds some light on this matter by arguing that

the ever-expanding number of texts and technologies is both a reflection of and a significant contribution to the ‘array’—the perpetual circulation and recirculation of signs that forms the fabric of postmodern cultural life [as] a seemingly endless number of texts are subject to virtually immediate random access inevitably alters the relationship between classic and contemporary when both circulate alongside one another simultaneously” (164).

Most of Collin’s argument is based on French philosopher Jean-Francoise Lyotard’s work on postmodernism. His theories are considered mandatory for those who wish to study postmodernism, its ambivalent nature, and the different schools of thought that it promulgates. Lyotard argues that postmodernism is to a large extend characterized by the loss of metanarratives (xxiv). That is to say, the overarching frameworks of theory aimed at conveying prevailing knowledge were disregarded in postmodernism—metanarratives such as conservatism, liberalism, Christianity, Marxism, other homogenizing entities and large ideologies were deemed idiosyncratic and old-fashioned. In its place, Lyotard argues, came a

society that bolsters plurality, and different “clouds of sociality,” allowing us to refine “our sensitivity to differences [reinforcing] our ability to tolerate the incommensurable” (xxiv-xxv). Like Collins, Lyotard thus argues that postmodernism is characterized by uncategorized cultural diversity. Finally, Rachel K. Fischer acknowledges the very same principle by observing that postmodernism “explores how our society has viewed stereotypes throughout history and how the cultures of our world are intermingling in a globalized society to become hybrids of each other” (29). As a result, postmodernism does not concern itself with portraying our world as realistic; rather—as Bran Nicol derives from Lyotard’s work—it “is convinced that the act of representation cannot be performed as unselfconsciously and wholeheartedly as it was in the nineteenth century (19). Instead, Lyotard argues,

a postmodern artist or writer is in the position of a philosopher: the text he writes, the work he produces are not in principle governed by pre-established rules, and they cannot be judged according to a determining judgment, by applying familiar categories to the text or to the work. Those rules and categories are what the work of art itself is looking for. The artist and the writer, then, are working without rules in order to formulate the rules of what will have been done (81).

For the anti-hero, this might mean that the trope abstains itself from being the product of contemporary sentiments such as increased fear after 9/11—but rather, like postmodernism, promulgates itself as an ambivalent concept, absorbing different concepts, styles and narratives from different time periods. Maybe, the fact that the contemporary does not belong to any certain cultural era, is exactly what makes this trope postmodern, since, as Jameson argues, postmodernism is inherently void of history.

Jameson, in his essay Postmodernism and Consumer Society, introduces, albeit in a historical sense, a similar concept: cultural schizophrenia. In the first part of his essay Jameson argues that schizophrenia is not merely a clinical condition, instead, he argues that it is also applicable to product of contemporary capitalist society—for, as he contends, that our culture, like the schizophrenic is also subject to “isolated, disconnected, discontinuous material signifiers which fail to link up into a coherent sequence” (119). Jameson thus believes there to be a lack of temporal signifiers. He compares this historical amnesia to the construction of a sentence. Just as the schizophrenic does not understand the linear temporality of a sentence, our culture does not understand the linearity of history. That is to say, he believes that postmodern culture has disconnected itself from history and lives in the perpetual future. The Sopranos is a good example of how cultural schizophrenia is annunciated in a contemporary drama format by being heavily inspired by crime-classics such as “The Godfather” (1972), and by bolstering conventions of this genre, all the while being situated in a contemporary setting. Crimes like murder, for example, are far more complicated to get away with today, portrayal of such acts in the crime genre is still grotesque and relatively easy to get away with—which may be explained as an interpretation of older sentiments related to early 70s and 80s crime dramas. In my analysis I will also examine whether or not this is also applicable to the anti-hero.

Lyotard stresses the importance of use value argues that postmodernism shifts rhetoric from asking ‘is it true?’ to ‘what use is it’ (51)? Meaning created not through questioning the object, and considering its intellectual value, but rather through the degree in which an object is consumable. If this is so, Lyotard argues,

having competence in a performance-oriented skill does indeed seem saleable in the conditions described above, and it is efficient by definition. What no longer makes the

grade is competence as defined by other criteria true/false, just/unjust, etc.—and, of course, low performativity in general” (51).

Lyotard thus argues that we live in a society where it is beneficial for us to perform, to act in order to ‘sell,’ ourselves—postmodern society then, advocates certain depthlessness— depthlessness comparable to Jameson’s theories about pastiche and cultural schizophrenia. Furthermore, salability, I would argue, is something which is a recurring theme within the anti-hero narrative. If Lyotard argues that in order for us to become saleable, we need to have certain performance-oriented skills, then arguably, charm and fascination as part of the anti-hero narrative can undoubtedly be seen as a product of this need. In other words, charm and fascination are two skills that make the anti-hero saleable in postmodern society. Although Walter White is, for example, initially just a good chemist—and thus is good at cooking meth, making him saleable in a modern sense—it is his ability to outsmart, manipulate and deceive others is what ultimately makes him Heisenberg, the anti-hero. In other words, in postmodern society, his production value is alone is not enough—it is his sign value (the importance of his appearance towards others) is that which makes him what he is.

The second postmodern theory by Jameson I would like to discuss is pastiche. Pastiche is one of the most important characteristics of postmodern society according to Jameson—it is

like parody, the imitation of a peculiar mask, speech in a dead language: but it is a neutral practice of such mimicry, without any of parody’s ulterior motives, amputated of the satiric impulse, devoid of laughter and of any conviction that alongside the abnormal tongue you have momentarily borrowed, some healthy linguistic normality still exists. Pastiche is thus blank parody (65).