Gail
Ashton, ed. Medieval Afterlives in Contemporary Culture. London: Bloomsbury, 2015.
Reviewed
by Teresa Rupp (rupp@msmary.edu)
The
formulation of the Middle Ages as the medium
aevum, “the time in the middle,” presupposes that its time is past and the
era is dead. The discipline of
Medievalism Studies challenges this notion by taking modern uses of the Middle
Ages as its (seemingly paradoxical) subject.
The title of this collection, Medieval
Afterlives, takes this re-conceptualization one step further by stressing,
as editor Gail Ashton puts it, “living
medievalisms” (4; emphasis in original).
The idea is thought-provoking and
the title is apt. So apt, in fact, that
Ashton already used it for an earlier essay collection, Medieval Afterlives in Popular Culture, co-edited with Daniel T.
Kline and published by Palgrave MacMillan in its New Middle Ages series in 2012
(and reviewed by Medievally Speaking in
2013: http://medievallyspeaking.blogspot.com/2013/07/ashton-and-kline-eds-medieval.html).
The new Medieval Afterlives is a collection of
29 essays written by 33 contributors (a few were co-authored) divided into 5
sections. Ashton informs us in her
introduction that she took the section headings from the song titles on the
album Avalon, by the British band
Roxy Music (2). So Part 1 is headed “True to Life: In the Performance,” and
includes essays on present-day live performances, whether theatrical (the
musical Spamalot, modern-day revivals
of medieval religious drama, or the Royal Shakespeare Company’s adaptation of
the Canterbury Tales), operatic
(contemporary operas with medieval themes or plots), pedagogical (using
medievalism in the classroom) or athletic (jousting at Medieval Times
restaurants). Part 2, titled, “To Turn You On: The Pleasures of
Texts—Film, TV, Gaming,” would also seem to concern performances, but these are
viewed through the medium of a screen—something that has to be “turned
on.” This section includes articles on
medieval film, one specifically on film adaptations of Beowulf, on the BBC TV show Merlin
and on the BBC adaptation of Canterbury
Tales, on Tolkien’s afterlife both on film and in video games, and on
medieval video games in general. The song
“More Than This” titles part 3, with
the subtitle “Reimaginings and Reappropriations.” This section includes essays
on new artistic creations with medieval inspiration, such as translations and
retellings of Chaucer into various modern languages, contemporary poetry, Young Adult novels set
in the Middle Ages, and medievalist Australian literature. Also included here are essays on the modern
cult of Julian of Norwich and Margery Kempe and on Arthurian tourism. Iconic medieval figures and texts are the
subject of part 4, “Avalon: Icons and
Artefacts.” Here we find essays on
Arthurian Young Adult novels, on New Age and Neopagan religions, and on the
afterlives of the medieval Templar, of Malory, and of Robin Hood. Apparently Harry Potter has become an icon
like Arthur or Robin Hood also, because this section also includes an essay on
medievalism and Harry Potter. The final
section, “The Space Between: New Media and Fandom,” explores medievalist involvement
in digital media, such as the world of Harry Potter fandom, digitized
manuscripts, and the creation of medieval memes; this is also the place for
essays on Dantean and Arthurian comics.
One could
certainly quibble with some of these organizational choices. For example, why are the comics essays in
part 5? Comics are not “new media”; they’re over a century old. Why weren’t
these placed in part 3, with the other “Reimaginings and Reappropriations,” or,
since the comics discussed are based on Dante and the Arthurian tradition, why
not in part 4, with the other “Icons and Artefacts”? Couldn’t Julian of Norwich and Margery Kempe
be better considered “Icons and Artefacts” rather than “reimaginings and reappropriations”? Isn’t traveling to Tintagel in search of
Arthurian legends a form of performance?
Ashton admits that “the section headings are neither defining nor
circumscribing” (5), which may be making a virtue out of necessity (or, to use
a more contemporary image, making a bug into a feature). But organizing a diverse collection such as
this is notoriously difficult, and for the most part the categories work.
I wish to
do more than quibble, however, with the documentation in the essays. Ashton explains that she directed the
contributors to write “in a clear lively style as free of academic apparatus as
they could make it” (5). I applaud the
requirement of “clear lively style”; I cannot fathom why academic prose
traditionally prefers the reverse (unclear and deadly). I approve of writing with a distinctive
authorial voice that reveals the writer’s personality. But if by “free of academic apparatus” Ashton
meant “lacking clear, complete, consistent documentation,” then we part
ways. Ashton continues, “mindful of the
need to streamline a large and potentially unwieldy volume, we offer a Select
Bibliography rather than the traditional catch-all to be read in conjunction
with chapter endnotes and Keynote Works (see accompanying website)” (5). This says to me that any sources used in an
individual article should be cited in that article’s endnotes; the “Select
Bibliography” presumably includes only significant works, perhaps those cited
in multiple articles that might be seen as essential to the field. It’s unclear to me what the difference
between a “Select Bibliography” and “Keynote Works” might be.
Missing
from Ashton’s description of the approach to documentation taken in this volume
is any mention of parenthetical citations.
Yet several of the articles employ them along with the endnotes. When I see a parenthetical citation, I expect
it to refer to a list of Works Cited or a Reference List. In this collection, the Select Bibliography
would appear to fulfill this function—except that it doesn’t, at least not
consistently. The essays that use
parenthetical citation take a variety of approaches. Several essays use endnotes for the first
reference to a source, then parenthetical citations for subsequent references,
a practice mandated by no citation system that I am aware of. Others employ other strategies. For example,
some, but not all, of the works referred to parenthetically in Rogerson’s essay
on the afterlives of medieval religious drama in England are listed in the
Select Bibliography. It turns out that most of them are listed in a separate
list of works for “Further Reading” found after the endnotes to this essay—but
one, a reference to Davis 1970 (41), is in neither location. Barrington and Hsy’s essay on “Global
Chaucers” includes no endnotes; the reader is referred to the authors’ own
website, https://globalchaucers.wordpress.com. There are some parenthetical citations that do
refer to works in the Select Bibliography; this, however, is divided into
Primary and Secondary Sources, so the reader must first determine to which
category the cited work belongs (not always easy in a work like this). The cumulative effect of these varied
approaches is confusion. When I encounter
a parenthetical reference, where should I look for its full citation—should I
scan up the endnotes until I find the first reference? Is there a list of works at the end of the
essay? Should I look in the Bibliography
at the back of the book? Perhaps it’s a
“Keynote Work” and I can find it on the web, or maybe the author has her own
website. A reader might well give up
long before exhausting all these possibilities.
A reader
seeking to trace sources used in two of these essays would become even more
frustrated. Louise D’Arcens’ “Australian
Medievalism” reverses the order some of her colleagues use; she gives a
parenthetical reference to a book by Brian Andrew first (178); only two pages
later does she have an endnote with the full reference to Andrew’s book (180). D’Arcens discusses two Australian novels in
consecutive paragraphs (179-80). The
first one, An Australian Girl by
Catherine Martin, is found in the Select Bibliography; the second, Romance of a Station by Rosa Praed, is
not—but she gets an endnote.
Furthermore, D’Arcens’ endnotes are arranged last name first, which is
contrary both to all style guides and to common sense—the only reason to put
the last name first is when a list is alphabetical (as in a Bibliography),
which footnotes and endnotes are not.
(She’s not alone in this practice—seven others in this collection also
do it.) D’Arcens uses a few websites,
which she parenthetically references using this nonsensical phrase: “(website:
see reading)” (examples on 177, 178, 179).
The worst
offender, however, is Renee Ward’s essay “Harry Potter and Medievalism”
(263-74). I read this article with great
anticipation, since I teach a course called “Harry Potter and the Middle Ages”
and was interested not only in what she had to say but also in her sources,
which might be useful for my class. So I
was extra disappointed to discover that Ward parenthetically cites works with
no full reference anywhere—not in the endnotes, not in a reference list at the
end of the article, not in the Select Bibliography, not on a website. Her references to Rowling’s works, however,
are a hybrid—a parenthetical reference with an endnote attached to it, like
this: (Rowling 1997, p. 77).2 I would not let one of my students get away
with this kind of carelessness.
These
criticisms may seen nitpicky, but proper documentation is a sine qua non of careful scholarship—no
matter how “clear and lively” the style.
It is part of an editor’s job to be nitpicky; this editor needed to edit
with a heavier hand. From a book that
costs 100 euros, I expect better.
I also
expected better of the book’s accompanying website. Ashton claims that “the print volume and
accompanying integral website are conceived together,
as part of a consciously more associative, less authoritative, dialogue” (5;
emphasis in original). It might be
associative and less authoritative, but it’s not very well done. The URL provided in the introduction, http://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/medieval-afterlives, takes you to the
publisher’s page to purchase the book.
On that page, under the heading “Online Resources,” are six links: “Introduction
and Medievalist Poem”; “Medieval Mystery Plays”; “Favourite Medievalisms”; “Blogs,
Interviews, Reviews”; “Keynote Works, Libraries and Manuscripts”; and “Medieval
Heritage and Pilgrimage Walks.” All turn out to be PDFs—essentially, text
files (well, all except “Medieval Mystery Plays,” which yielded a “not found”
error). None of the PDFs has menus at
the top or any internal links, so the user has no idea of what’s contained in
the file without laboriously paging down.
And I do mean “laboriously”—these files range from 20 pages to 58 pages
long. Moreover, web references found in
the PDFs are not formatted as links, so what’s the point of putting this
material on the web? Although there is
some interesting and valuable material buried in these files, it is poorly
formatted and poorly organized. The
companion website is, to say the least, a missed opportunity.
Despite
the weaknesses of the documentation and the website, I found the essays
themselves to be stimulating and informative. The strength of Medieval Afterlives is its variety and breadth. The contributors find medieval afterlives in
traditional media, like literature, theatre, and film, as well as new media,
such as comic books and video games. Literary
examples include Young Adult fiction (Angela Jane Weisl, “Coming of Age in the
Middle Ages: The Quest for Identify in
Medieval Novels for Young Adults,” 167-76; Ann F. Howey, “Medievalism and
Heriodism in Arthurian Literature for Young People,” 213-222). Performance is broadly defined to encompass
not only plays and operas but also classroom teaching and jousting. European and American medievalisms are well
represented, but geographical diversity is provided by essays on medievalism in
Australia (by Louise D’Arcens, 177-86) and on translations of Chaucer into
Danish, Afrikaans, Turkish, Brazilian Portuguese and Mandarin Chinese (Candace
Barrington and Jonathan Hsy, “Global Chaucers,” 147-156). Other essays
demonstrate that medievalism can be found in unexpected spaces, such as tourism
(Fiona Tolhurst, “Julian of Norwich and Margery Kempe as Contemporary Cult
Figures,” 187-99; Laurie A. Finke and Susan Aronstein, “Conjuring the Ghosts of
Camelot: Tintagel and the Medievalism of
Heritage Tourism,” 200-210) and religion (Karolyn Kinane, “New Age and Neopagan
Medievalisms,” 223-33).
The essays
also take a variety of approaches to these various media and genres. Some are descriptive, such as Lesley Coote’s
“Survey of Twenty-First Century ‘Medieval’ Film” (103-113). Others are explanatory, such as Daniel T.
Kline’s “Contemporary Neo-Medieval Digital Gaming: An Overview of Genre” (93-102). I now know the differences between Role-Playing
games (RPG), Real-Time Strategy (RTS) and Turn-Based Strategy (TBS) games, Action-Adventure games, and
Simulation games (sims), and how
medieval games fit into the categories. Similarly,
Amanda K. Allen’s “Social Networking, Participatory Culture and the Fandom
World of Harry Potter” (277-290) serves as an introduction to the types of
texts created by fans, including fanfiction, Wizard Wrock (fan-created music),
fanvids (fan-created music), fan-created images and GIFs, and role-playing,
both LARP (live-action role-playing) and internet-based. A Star
Trek fan in my youth, I was aware of the existence of fan fiction, but my
vocabulary has now been enriched by the terms “fanon” (fans’ additions to the
authorial canon), “ship” (short for relationship), OTP (one true pairing), AU
(alternate universe), and OOC (out of character). Still other essays are interpretive. Rogerson,
for example, argues in “Medieval Religious Plays in England” (32-47) that
present-day performances of the York and Chester mystery plays can answer
questions about their original performance.
In “Medieval Times: Tournaments and Jousting in Twenty-First-Century
North America” (67-77), Elizabeth Emery argues that these practices “reveal a
particularly North American fascination with the Middle Ages, marked by
anxieties about class, gender and economics” (68).
Anyone who
loves studying and teaching the Middle Ages and medievalism will find something
of value in this collection. I expect
that even readers considerably more in tune with contemporary popular culture
than I will be exposed to new varieties of medievalism. Maybe someone knows a lot about movies but is
unfamiliar with video games; someone else might be a serious Harry Potter fan
but never picked up a graphic novel. Although only one essay is explicitly
pedagogical—Meriem Pagès’ “You Can’t Do This to Disney! Popular Medievalisms in the Classroom”
(58-66), anyone who uses medievalism in their classes will find a wealth of
potential material in this collection. Whenever I came across something useful for my
own teaching or research, or just a striking sentence, I marked the page with a
post-it flag; by the time I’d finished, the top edge of my book was bristling
with flags.
Ashton
celebrates the “open access” to knowledge of the “democratic electronic
dialogues that proliferate all over the web” (4). This attitude informs the approach taken by
the scope of this volume and by its willingness to challenge some of the
stuffier customs of academic culture. I am very sympathetic to this attitude. I think scholarship should be inclusive, not
exclusionary; welcoming, not offputting.
But that does not preclude providing careful, proper documentation or
producing a well-designed and well-executed website. Ashton notes that the hallmarks of the
virtual world are “collaboration, interdisciplinary, popular” (4). Medieval
Afterlives achieves two out of three—but then why do the educational
backgrounds of the contributors show such disciplinary homogeneity? Perusal of the contributor biographies
(333-38), supplemented with a little google searching, reveals that of the 33
authors in the collection, 30 either work in or were trained the field of
literature. Ashton hints at a volume two
(7); perhaps next time she could invite a historian or two to participate. She ends her introduction by hoping the
reader has an “open heart and creative mind” (7), which I think is a good
recipe for any student, teacher, or scholar.
Teresa
Rupp
Mount St. Mary’s
University
