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On Vegetarianism and Animals

In 1985, The Smiths released their second and most successful UK album, Meat is Murder, which, for its cover, doctored a photo of a solider during the Vietnam war to feature the album’s confrontational title on his helmet. The sentiments of the title reflect frontman Morrissey’s own leanings to the prevention of animal cruelty in this period, aggressively so, yet further echoes the cries of numerous animal welfare groups and charities that lacked the mainstream appeal of popular music. The album is an example of how cultural mediums channel the frustrations of eco politics into art to spark a debate that isn’t merely restricted to the fringes of society.

The Smiths, Meat is Murder (Rough Trade Records, 1985)

Today, vegetarian and vegan attitudes are becoming increasingly popular. Nell Frizzell is quotes NHS figures in an article for The Guardian last year, that more than 1.2million people in the UK have now adopted a vegetarian diet. A “reducetarian” movement likewise mirrors the public’s changing attitudes towards meat consumption and animal-based products. However, in spite of this positive growth for movements that attempt to oppose and expose horrific slaughterhouse conditions, lab-testing on animals, the illegal pet and fur industries, and other numerous instances of animal cruelty, the public majority still remain in stark opposition, indifference or ignorance to these affronts to animal rights.

Recent instances of particularly barbaric conditions documented in European and US meat factories indicate a dire need for change, the very least for the sake of public health concerns that arise in these environments.

Yet for many, the change from meat-centric diets and products that posit harm to animals is not so simple. As vegetarian/vegan movements have gained traction in the mainstream, these lifestyles have in turn become fashionable and consequently become entangled with an economic factor. For example, a litre of fresh soya (or other non-dairy) milk is approximately twice the average expenditure on a carton of cow milk. Branded meat substitutes in frozen aisles likewise exceed the typical price of similar products containing meat. Factor in “invisible” animal-based ingredients – gelatine, certain preservatives, binding agents, etc. – and the availability of certain food items (particularly vegan products, if one does not live in a city where the demand is higher) it can become something of a minefield to transition, especially on a limited income. Even for the well-intentioned reducetarian, buying free range (for example) comes with an inflated pricetag.

It is not surprising that businesses have latched on to animal activism as a means to make more money, given the cultural shift toward social media sites, trendy food blogs, and general increased demand for animal welfare. People don’t like to think about where their food comes from, but when they are confronted with it, it tends to be met with distaste.

Okja, dir. by Bong Joon-Ho (Netflix, 2017)

Bong Joon-Ho’s 2017 film Okja addresses this state of the meat industry rather expertly however. Okja is the whimsical giant pig creature to which the film owes its namesake, raised in Korea under the careful watch of Mija and her grandfather following the rebranding of the evil Mirando Corporation, that has since moved into the business of meat production to escape its dubious past. Eventually the company wishes to reclaim their livestock, which is strongly opposed by Mija and results in her chasing Okja – across the world, no less – in an attempt to get her back at any cost, with some help along the way from the Animal Liberation Front (A.L.F.) 

The film shines particularly for presenting the multi-faceted views surrounding animal rights. The Mirando sisters primary interest in Okja lies in wealth and success (though by fulfilling a need of producing enough food to feed the world); the A.L.F. in protecting the lives of all animals (sometimes to extreme degrees); and Mija’s personal agenda, to protect those she cares for. There is also the cartoonish Johnny Wilcox played by Jake Gyllenhaal – a waning TV personality and conservationist who finds himself ensnared by the Mirando corporation as their new “face” and conflicted by what is expected of him in this position.

Yet it is Okja herself that has the most impact, despite her non-speaking presence, for her embodiment of every living animal. The expression of the creature swaying audiences more than words could. Yet as is revealed in the latter half of the film, she is not one of the few offspring of a near-extinct species revived for purposes of food production, but rather a genetically modified creature that has been purpose-made to fulfil that need.

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Plastic China

In light of China’s recent ban on imported plastic, which came into effect on the 1st January 2018, European countries, the US, Canada, Japan and other countries are facing the consequences from a build up of plastic material. China’s ban comes into effect partially as a result of the poor-quality imported materials that, as stated to the World Trade Organisation, “polluted [their] environment seriously”.

Since 2012 until this time "British companies have shipped more than 2.7m tonnes of plastic scrap to mainland China and Hong Kong“, according to Greenpeace.

This import business and the ways it has impacted on the environment and China’s populace was the subject of the 2016 documentary Plastic China.

The film, which follows the lives of Yi-Jei - “an unschooled 11-year-old girl whose family works and lives in a typical plastic waste household-recycling workshop” - her family and that of the recycling workshop’s owner, Kun, appeals to our sense of empathy.

Their work takes its toll on the children’s education, due to the social inequity and poor profit that can be made from the work; their health, which in turn impacts their ability to work and their finances; their environment, as we can see the fish that are dead in streams, trapped in stray plastics or lifeless on the surface of the water, and the goats that mistakenly ingest plastics as food. At the close of the film, as a plastic pile burns and we see the young children attempting to put out the flames and coughing against the blackened fumes, unaware to its danger, its impossible not to feel culpable in the situation.

The documentary once again brings to mind Itaranta’s Memory of Water too, and their plastics graves where treasures, or as the children put it “goodies” are found. We can see Yi-Jei’s earrings, one damaged, clearly reaped from the piles of waste material, and her father’s bracelets - possibly old discarded glow bands. In one particular moment, we can see the children scavenge among the pile finding Mickey Mouse figurines; another, Yi-Jei’s young brother playing in a makeshift plastic fort that will doubtless “keep them warm”. The children even create a computer of their own, from pieces of cardboard, plastic and an old discarded. Their creativity and imagination against the backdrop of poverty makes for a harrowing contrast the doubtless drives home the film’s important message.

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Taken from December 2017 issue of the Weston Mercury. Gulls and herons in the local area are consuming items of plastic mistaking it for food. Shockingly, this sort of plastic consumption is “not considered a ‘serious threat’” for certain aquatic animals and mammals - pertaining to an incident regarding a deceased pygmy whale in 2015.

The wildlife at risk on Steepholm island mirrors that in Chris Jordan’s Albatross photography series from Midway Island, where the plastic contents of their stomachs are clearly visible and certainly linked to their deaths.

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“Then who killed the world?”

Mad Max: Fury Road, dir. by George Miller (Warner Bros. Pictures,2015)

This is the question posed by Rosie Huntington-Whitely’s ‘Splendid’ at the half way point of Mad Max: Fury Road. It’s an important question that ultimately goes unanswered, either for the scale of the question or because that particular knowledge has been buried and lost in George Miller’s dystopia of “fire and blood”. Like Habila’s ‘Oil on Water’, Fury Road presents the viewer with a particularly harrowing aftermath of events that preceded it, which can only be deciphered through those fragmentary glimpses offered by the inhabitants of the wasteland: Max and his personal demons regarding an unspecified deed that drive his motivation to help Furiosa’s convoy; the tyrannical Immortan Joe and his controlling resources of “guzzoline”, water and “mother’s milk”; his delusional “half-life” worshippers and down-trodden subjects that have become “addicted” to water in its absence; and the old mothers - the last of a time from when “everyone had their fill” and seeds could still grow before the earth turned sour.

Perhaps what it key to note is that despite the presence of water, albeit in a restricted and highly controlled state, the viewer never once witnesses the aforementioned “guzzoline”, which one can only assume to be the fuel source for the numerous vehicles in this dystopian wasteland. Vehicles are never fuelled on screen, and we never see what befalls the contents of the convey before the film’s explosive climax in the valley back to the citadel. In many ways, this invisibility of energy - whether intentional or not for the film - is an issue that is being addressed in Petroculture studies, such as Graeme MacDonald’s ‘Resources of Fiction’ where he draws on similar points made by Peter Hitchcock regarding oil’s “pervasive mystification” (p. 7) in literature, film, music, and other cultural forms. This is not simply a hiding in plain site situation however. Just as we know the guzzoline is being transported in Fury Road, though we don’t see it, we too know that crude oil is being drained, extracted, exported and burned for our daily purposes and then some.

To put it concisely, as Imre Szeman does in ‘Literature and Energy Futures’, “we know where we stand with respect to energy, but we do nothing about it.” Perhaps, MacDonald’s concession to the scientific community, that solving such a problem must require a higher emphasis on “communication and awareness” over the “exactitude of [climate] science”. (p. 8) Yet questionably, are film’s like Mad Max: Fury Road doing enough to push this awareness into the mainstream. A trickle of soundbites across the opening credits of an oil-suffering world, and the occasional reference to the invisible substance responsible for it all, would almost seem lost among the usual cinematic caterwaul of special effects.

One could consider another film when discussing oil visibility; Paul-Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood. Set during in the early years of the twentieth century, Anderson’s magnum opus is an examination of power, corruption, and greed, at the dawn of the age of oil. His Daniel Plainview (Day-Lewis) is an opportunistic miner who turns to oil in a bid to seek extravagant fortune, and is uncompromising in his pursuits. Purchasing land in a California town from its residents, with but one hold-out, Plainview ravages the landscape of its oil resources under false promises of rejuvenating the economy and religious interests of the community.

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Oil on Water: perspectives on environmental crisis in the Niger Delta.

Helon Habila’s Oil on Water is a text that reflects greatly upon the Niger’s Delta’s oil politics, yet remains impartial to one strict viewpoint, allowing the reader to formulate their own view through use of a surface narrative - Zaq and Rufus’ quest to find the perfect story to report on, attempting to trace the location of a recent kidnap/ransom victim - that presents a wider perspective of the situation. Zaq and Rufus are effectually plot devices used to bridge the gap between individuals involved in or effected by the Nigerian oil crisis, its political agendas, and environmental consequences.

In the short length of the novel, Habila manages to trace back the origins of this conflict some fifty years through use of character testimony and back story to show how complicated this matter has become over time. For example, Chief Ibrahim’s telling of events (pp. 36-41) paints a picture of life on the delta prior to oil rigging and pipeline operations, and how big business bought up the land gradually, with little to no concern of its residents and environmental impact. The most harrowing notion of this particular story is that the price for “cheap television and DVD players” and the frivolous spends were at the cost of livelihood and environment. When these things broke or ran out, so too were polluted rivers, unsuitable for fishing, sour soil, unsuitable for farming, and gas flares that polluted the skies.

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The humanity in natural disaster narratives

The Wave [Bølgen], dir. by Roar Uthaug (Fantefilm Fiksjon As. Distributed By StudioCanal Limited, 2016)

Arguably, in order to give environmental concerns a mainstream filmic appeal, one must consider the human element as a way to ground the narrative. This has been the tried and tested case for many films in the genre, with 2015’s The Wave being no true exception to the rule.

The Wave generally accentuates a sense of peril not solely from the fearful nature of an avalanche, but through the characters’ plight in the face of a dire situation, through their losses and struggles to stay alive or rebuild; the consequences of the ensuing tidal wave that brings out a sense of empathy from the audience.

Yet the film paints a dire picture of a very real ecological dilemma. As the environment shifts under the weight of human pressures and – quite literally – severs ties, we lose our sense of control and entitlement over it. It suggests more needs to be done to remedy these situations by presenting us with the outcome. That on a human level, we need to take more responsibility for the greater changes that are effecting the environment.

These changes, invisible to most through a lack of conscious knowledge, aren’t explicitly mentioned in the film, but are subconsciously rendered to the viewer. Screen pans lingering over a petrol filling station amidst the verdant green landscape, or the close up of amber alcohol diliuted by melted ice in a glass while the film’s protagonist sleeps in his chair. These are two examples of visual cues used to provoke a sense of environmental thought in the viewer.

Force Majeure [Turist], dir. by Ruben Östlund (Artificial Eye, 2015)

Similarly, in 2014’s Force Majeure – a film that follows a Swedish family vacationing in the alps – we are brought closer to the immediacy of environmental change. Like The Wave, this film too depicts an avalanche that threatens the safety of the family and other holidaymakers attending the ski resort. It is however a subversion of the usual generic tropes, as we later discover this avalanche only goes so far as to cover the resort in a thin layer of snow powder, far removed from the absolute devastation caused in The Wave. These avalanches are in fact usually controlled, initiated by small explosions to keep the slopes in a condition prime for skiing. Yet these man-made changes to the local environment are worth considering from an eco critical point of view and force us to question what the implications of these human effects may be in the long term.

Both films underpin ecological devastation (or possible devastation) with human cause and effect. In Force Majeure, we see the family fray under the invisible implications of a near death experience. In both films, we see people refuse the possibility of these disasters – the geologists in The Wave, who refused to sound the alarm; the people in their cars, houses and the hotel, who don’t immediately recognise the danger of the situation; and those in Force Majeure at the ski resort, who fail to notice the threat posed by an avalanche, under false pretences of safety. It is through these people we find a way to project ourselves onto such a situation, to consider how we would react in the same circumstances – what we would and wouldn’t do – and to face our personal responsibilities in averting these catastrophies.

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Control of Water

Emmi Itaranta’s ‘Memory of Water’ read from an ecocritical viewpoint can be seen to present ways that humanity attempts to control water for consumption and consumerist purposes. This relationship with water seen from a number of character perspectives in the novel, such as that of Commander Taro – representing the strict governmental regime, that supplys and restricts access to water throughout the region of Qian – who suggests that Noria’s tea ceremony is “an impure, confused relic of the original past-world forms” and that “it would be mindless [for her] to claim that conserving the tradition requires wasting water” (p.33). Obviously, Taro states this to instill his own means of situational control, but it is interesting to consider that Itaranta’s protagonist is not infalliable in her daily activities either. Indeed, Noria keeps the fell spring – the sole source of her prosperous and comfortable lifestyle – hidden from the rest of the community, as tradition supposedly dictates through the generations of tea masters. She is able to maintain healthy vegetable crops and a lush garden, wash daily, barter with merchants (in exchange for water skins), and earn a living performing tea ceremonies from this water source – unlike her fellow villagers – all seemingly above suspicion until the government tightens its control, and relocates Major Bolin – a friend and ally, though undeniably corrupt benefactor to the secret Noria’s family has long kept. Even as Noria’s secret begins to slip towards the end of the novel – when she lets her close friend Sanja know about the spring – her self-awareness that “the boundless luxury of water belonged to [her and Sanja] alone, and [she] didn’t want it to be otherwise” (p.179) presents a conflict with ecocritical readings of Itaranta’s narrative, that water belongs to no one, that it cannot solely occupy or serve human means.

Yet terror is a primary means of implementing a form of human control over water in the provinces of New Qian, which after the book’s first Moonfeast, includes the positioning of “more water guards each passing month” (p.124), cutting off access to the domestic water pipes, increasingly frequent sightings of the blue circle – a mark on the properties of those who have committed “water crime” that are avoided as if “an a swirling, all-swallowing emptiness in the place of the criminal house [...] would sweep [people] off the face of the earth if they as much as glanced in its direction” (p.133) – and “posters painted on canvas [that] promised rewards to anyone reporting water criminals” (p.201) as living situations become critical. Water access is restricted to such an extent that sick families are forced to beg for water (p.131-2), and even resort to drinking contaminated, toxic water that has collected at the edge of the landfill “plastic grave”. Through these means, water is not only physically contained by people in water skins, jugs, [etc.] but through social means, contained in hierarchies of power and privilege.

Supplementary reading of Patricia Yaeger’s column article ‘Sea Trash, Dark Pools, and the Tragicality of the Commons’ further emphasises this claim people make over water, but also highlights the interconnectedness between the two in what she describes as the “techno-ocean”; a “techno-organic realm” (p.526). Like the plastic grave of Itaranta’s novel, this realm is where humanity has imprinted itself on the natural environment – of oceans, seas and rivers – in the form of waste as a side-effect from capitalising industrial, business or governmental initiatives. By throwing “sophisticated junk into the sea”, we result in “an ecosystem made out of algae and plastic debris” (p.532) that cannot properly sustain itself or us.

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Introduction to ecocriticism

The subject of Ecocriticism is, to say the least, a confusing concept that critics appear to be at odds about; for its definition, scope, and language. My current understanding is that it belongs in both the realms of science and the humanities, dealing in language familiar to both, but exclusive to neither. It is a study of many topics, some of which are even contrary to each other. For example, ecocriticism is, as much as it isn't, a study of nature and environment – or at least what we initially perceive of these terms.

In Timothy Morton's 'The Ecological Thought', he lambasts the very idea that "Nature" could fall in line with ecological thought processes, and suggests that anything but is more in tune with the reality – for "ecological thought surpasses what passes for environmentalism". Morton approaches the subject in a way that critiques our innate response to ecological terminology; that reaching back in our minds for images of green pastures and blue skies, tied to thoughts of health, cleanliness and good living are deep rooted falsities based on intrinsically Western ideologies that are counteractive to our understanding of the subject, as just the opposite is also true.

Greg Garrard in the opening chapter of 'Ecocriticism' similarly observes – through an examination of Rachel Carson's 'Silent Spring' – that the "pastoral and apocalypse" often go hand in hand.