The Literature Review explained how abjection is that which threatens societal order (Kristeva 1982:3-4). Spaces outside of, or challenging, cultural order are abject. Kristeva argues that through the theme of suffering, central to abjection in the horror genre (ibid:140), the apocalyptic realm manifests (ibid:138). As abjection is a mode of disorder (ibid:4) that ‘persists as a rite of defilement and pollution’ (ibid:17), monstrous spaces that embody this are frequently, and problematically, coded as feminine (Creed 1993a:10-11). Thus, abject space fits within TV horror landscapes. Abbott notes that ‘[t]he zombie apocalypse is not a sudden cataclysmic event but a gradually dispersing infection… making it ideal for seriality’
(2016a:106).
In TWD’s post-apocalyptic topography, the pollutant of death becomes the hegemon in both the zombie body and the entire geography it now roams. Keetley argues for the nihilistic stance of the text: since death is not the end (2014a:6) then no utopian space can be found in ‘a collapsed world seemingly beyond repair’ (Peaty 2014:186). She adds that because TWD ‘is an ongoing serial narrative, it is distinctive in its orientation to the human survivors and their struggle to re-constitute something that looks like a viable social order in the post-apocalyptic world’ (Keetley 2014a:6; Boehm 2014:126). Consequently, the landscape expresses ‘a general view of social [dis]order’ (Douglas 1966:4), whereby ‘matter out of place’ (ibid:41) supplants patriarchal control as the dominant cultural climate that human factions must traverse and combat in order to survive, resonating with post-9/11 horror themes.
Post-9/11 horror’s lack of traditional patriarchal figures able to protect citizens (Wetmore 2012:43,163, Muntean 2011:81), concurrent with an abject feminine post-apocalyptic space, creates an ambiguous site where multiple forms of masculinity are contested in TWD. Focusing on men’s attempts to restore order attests to the narrative drive of the series that explores the costs of surviving in this world (Jenkins 2013b:375, Farnell 2014:177, DuVoix 2012). These themes, consistent across the TV series and the transmedia franchise, are established in the pilot episode (Mittell 2015b:56), centring on central protagonist Rick Grimes who, as a father, police officer, and leader, attempts to fulfil patriarchal male roles as he negotiates the abject landscape. From the very beginning, when Grimes awakes in an abandoned hospital, he finds the locked-up undead trying to escape; multiple cadavers are strewn across the carpark in white
body-bags, and abandoned military vehicles and tents litter the vicinity. Both the medical and militaristic arms of patriarchy cannot aid Rick in this new world. Additionally, prior to this, the opening shots of the pilot episode show Grimes, in police uniform, stopping his police car to refuel at a petrol station. Abandoned and destroyed automobiles indicate this is now in the uprising era, while Grimes is informed by a makeshift sign that there is ‘NO GAS’, echoing global post-9/11 issues around oil acquisition and consumption (Feasey 2008:57, Long 2016:182-3). This scenario is reiterated when Grimes travels along an empty motorway on horseback adjacent to a clogged up sea of abandoned motor vehicles. When Grimes sees a child walking past, he stops her in a bid to offer help. She turns around revealing herself to be zombified, resulting in him shooting her in the head. He is both unable to protect the child, a common trope of the series (Bennett 2015:79-80), and fulfil his role as peacekeeper (Keetley 2014b:159), thus establishing his various roles as points of masculinity-in-crisis (Canavan 2010:444). This ‘mastermind narration’ codifies ‘shared tendencies’ (Clarke 2010:127), whereby the audience is frequently positioned with the masculine subjectivity of the protagonist facing abject threat(s) in TWD, yet are not afforded a ‘mastermind’ diegetic character who can fully master, contain and subvert such horror (ibid:130-1), thus perpetuating male characters’ crises of identity.
The crisis of white middle-class masculinity has become prominent in twenty-first century North American media, partly being linked to the tragic events of 9/11’s terrorist attacks (Baker 2015:1). Consequently, ‘[t]he nexus of increased attention to international policy in the wake of the 2001 terrorist attacks and the subsequent “Great Recession” shifted the US political focus’ (Lotz 2014:25), and saw cultural-political debates around marginalised groups such as women, LGBT groups, ethnic communities, and the poor ‘replaced by… political questions of
“weapons of mass destruction,” “enemy combatants,” and the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq’
(ibid). During this period, ‘stories told about men in a multiplicity of scripted series – nearly exclusively on cable – … delved into the psyches and inner lives of their male characters’
(ibid:5), where ‘[t]hese series depict[ed] male characters’ feelings and relationships in stories that probe[d] the trials and complexities of contemporary manhood in a manner previously uncommon… for this storytelling medium’ (ibid). Noting the dearth of academic literature about ‘men on television’ (ibid:7, Feasey 2008:3), Lotz focuses predominantly on representations of straight white males who negate pre-existing gender scripts/roles in their struggles to understand how to be a “man” in what she terms the ‘male-centered serial’
(ibid:16). While the horror genre is surprisingly unaddressed by Lotz (Bennett 2015:33-4), it is in this ‘male-centered serial’ category that I locate TWD.
Grimes, as the locus for negotiating masculine identity, sees his sense of self constantly in a state of crisis via ongoing attempts to restore patriarchal order and fulfil heteronormative roles (Hassler-Forest 2016:165). Dhaenens defines heteronormativity as ‘the discursive power granted to the compulsory heterosexual matrix of western society’ (2012:443), adding that this
‘matrix relies upon fixed notions of gender, sexuality and identity and veils its constructedness and anomalies by feigning universality and rendering the heteronormative discourse hegemonic’ (ibid). Importantly, arguing that these series87 incorporate second-wave feminist ideologies as the catalyst for men’s perplexed state about performing heteronormative masculinity (Clark 2014:445-6), Lotz notes that ‘they do not blame, contest, or indict the feminist endeavours that lead to their uncertainty’ (2014:20-1). Rather than chastising feminism as the cause of such struggles over identity, male characters commonly blame their fathers, those who embody traditional patriarchy, and/or themselves. Thus, while TWD’s apocalyptic geographies are abject and therefore feminine, females are not the cause of this (ibid:84). Rather, TWD opens up an ambiguous space for competing masculinities (ibid:41).
Grimes does not seek to reinstate ‘women’s subordination’ (ibid:57), though women in the series still often display traditionally feminine roles (Bennett 2015:68, Simpson 2014:35-7), whilst other masculinised human factions who endeavour to oppress or threaten, such as Shane (Jon Bernthal), the Governor (David Morrissey), the biker gang, and Negan (Jeffrey Dean Morgan), are seen as Other alongside the risk of zombiedom. ‘Such a framework for analysis,’
Lotz argues, allows for ‘a spectrum of reconstructed masculinities and varied possible combinations of patriarchal and feminist aspects’ (2014:36).
Lotz postulates that ‘[c]onsiderable character depth emerges as an attribute of any series of this era. Important back story about protagonists add[s] growing complexity to characters’
(ibid:53). Whilst the pilot of TWD starts in situ post-uprising, the episode includes pre-uprising back story (Clarke 2010:132), indicating the tentative relationship Grimes had with his wife Lori (Sarah Wayne Callies). Making ‘[t]he presence of an attention to domestic affairs… one of the primary distinctions of the male-centered serial’ (Lotz 2014:68), Rick discloses to Shane, his best friend and colleague, his marital problems. He explains there is a lack of communication between himself and Lori, and that he feels unable to express himself. This
87 Including Breaking Bad, Sons of Anarchy, The Shield, Nip/Tuck, Dexter, Hung, The League, Scrubs, Boston Legal, Men of a Certain Age, Rescue Me, and Entourage.
lack of ability to express oneself alludes to traditional forms of masculinity that suppress the vocalising of emotion. Familial issues continue during the uprising, where ‘marital bonds are…
fragile’ (ibid:70-1). Upon Rick’s return, the nuclear family is restored yet his duty to save Morgan and his guilt at leaving Merle mean that he wants to return to the city. This is contested by Lori who wants him to remain with her and their son Carl (Chandler Riggs). Such points of contestation over his roles as peacekeeper, father, husband, and leader fragment Rick’s identity, leading to moments of existential crisis as he struggles to fulfil these hegemonic roles (Keetley 2014b:159).
Furthermore, ‘[p]arental, if not paternal, duties – particularly the notion of providing for one’s family – consistently emerge as the men’s primary motivator, one that they pursue by any means necessary, and [which] often lead to… illegal endeavours’ (Lotz 2014:58). In providing for and protecting his family, Rick often compromises his peacekeeper/lawman stance as he attempts to fulfil fatherly roles (ibid:69). This focus on men as fathers also affords character development to their children (ibid:69-70); in TWD this is evident in the passing on of phallic agency when Grimes teaches his son to shoot. We might note that ‘[w]hen Rick offers Carl a gun, he also gives him his hat. The gun and the hat are potent mythic symbols’ (Hopkins 2011:207). Therefore, through teaching Carl ‘to shoot a gun as soon as he can’ (Vizzini 2011:129) Grimes extends patriarchal order within the abject space, represented by the symbolic masculinity embedded within his sheriff hat. It is a hat that Carl continues to wear as he too seeks masculine autonomy and agency.
Brian Baker explains that, ‘[a]ccompanying the anxieties of loss are those to do with fatherhood and the role of the father’ (2015:2). Unlike the comic book series that sees Lori and their newly-born daughter Judith die88, in the TV iteration Lori dies in childbirth with Judith surviving.
Thus, the anxiety of paternal failure remains in the show as an ongoing point of crisis rather than becoming a permanent part of Rick’s back-story and established identity. From this point on, Rick is a single father. Whereas before ‘[n]either husband nor wife appears able to make unilateral decisions for the family’ (Lotz 2014:73), Grimes must now deal with fatherhood in a family lacking any maternal figure (a dynamic not present in Lotz’s model). This again subverts Grimes’ identity as a heteronormative male figure, resulting in him functioning in a highly liminal state: in fact, Grimes has a psychotic break where hallucinations make him see Lori and allow him to talk to deceased members of the faction (Lauro 2011:232), aligning him
88 Both are shot by Lily during the Governor’s attack (Canavan 2010:444).
more with the dead than the living. It is at this point that we see him at his most aggressive:
going into zombie-ridden parts of the prison slaying hordes, becoming covered in so many dismembered body parts, and so much blood and bile – all visual markers of abjection – that Glenn cannot tell if Grimes has become zombified. Moreover, at this moment Grimes rejects any outsiders seeking refuge within their group, subverting his role as a peacekeeper, and shifting his leadership stance to one of dictatorship (Abbott 2016a:115-6). Citing Freud, Kremel argues that whilst ‘mourning involves letting go and finding a replacement love object’
(2014:88), melancholia ‘is the inability to break that bond, thereby maintaining both the dead and the living in psychological stasis’ (ibid). This also manifests itself with Morgan unable to shoot his undead wife and the Governor keeping his undead daughter chained/locked up (Christie 2011a:77). It is only when Grimes moves into mourning that he can work through other aspects of masculinity, with further heteronormative functions being fulfilled/restored as a romantic relationship develops between himself and Michonne.
These texts explore ‘men’s lives… [in] both the[ir] personal and professional spheres’ (Lotz 2014:55). Whilst his previous occupation as a police officer becomes obsolete in the lawless culture he awakes to, the symbolic status and patriarchal values linked to the position are something Rick negotiates over TWD’s narrative arc (Nurse 2014:71, Feasey 2008:2-3). Thus, Grimes’ engagement in ‘work’ (Lotz 2014:65-6) is twofold: his pre-uprising position as a maintainer of patriarchal order bleeds into the post-apocalyptic world. It remains a core principle through which he tackles the threats of Others and landscape alike (Vizzini 2011:133-4, Nurse 2014:71). But as Grimes’ previous role becomes gradually subverted within the abject space so too does his own ‘professional’ identity. This role positions him as the faction’s leader (Boshears 2014:115). Yet in doing so, his identity – attached to leadership – is challenged by zombies, human (male) antagonists, and intra-faction feuding with other men (Vizzini 2011:135). Hassler-Forest argues TWD ‘creates a space in which the contradictions of… power are made visible, and the problematic ways in which the myth of the White [Male] Hero relates to issues such as race, social class and gender’ (2011:353; Young 2014:56-7).
Concurrently, post-9/11 culture has seen a marked rise in return-to-rural horror (Miller 2011:225, Blake 2011:187, Wetmore 2012:26). TWD partly adheres to this through the text’s
‘connection between the western and zombie genre’ (Hassler-Forest 2011:342). Contra Lotz’s male-centred series, which are mostly urban-centred (2014:78), ‘cities have become so dangerous that they must be avoided at all costs. The narrative… focuses instead on the countryside, where it follows the model of the archetypal American western’ (Hassler-Forest
2011:345); spaces where, traditionally, suburban middle class white men have been able to reinstall classic forms of masculinity89 (Hartigan Jr 2005:140). Within TWD’s abject ‘western’
space, ‘power is exercised though violence, with the male heroes’ guns and horses presenting an obvious superfluity of phallic imagery’ (Hassler-Forest 2011:345; Miller and van Riper 2013, Bennett 2015:22, Keetley 2014a:9-10). Furthermore, this landscape sees modern forms of masculine/patriarchal control disempowered, as science and ‘information-based society’ are eclipsed by ‘practical survival skills’ (Collins and Bond 2011:188). New technology, in this instance, carries ‘a reference to something that no longer exists’ (Ralph 2013), reinforcing the abject disorder that Grimes’ faction finds themselves in.
For example, in season one Grimes and the group visit the Center for Disease Control which is solely ran by Edwin Jenner90. Like medical and militaristic discourse before it, scientific order presents another element of patriarchy that is unable to explain, control, or eradicate the abject threat of zombiedom (Abbott 2016a:126). Jenner destroys the CDC knowing he cannot stop zombiedom as it is an inherent aspect to all human life and not just the result of being bitten by a walker. Consequently, the zombie remains the archetypal abject object in the show (Bishop 2011:4, Vint 2013:134, Canavan 2010:441): something that must be thrust aside in order for humans to live (Kristeva 1982:3). Furthermore, such failed attempts at seeking refuge reiterate TWD as post-9/11 horror, evidencing preoccupations with safety and security. Grimes is frequently tasked with providing shelter/order for the group. This provides thematic shifts across the series (Nurse 2014:74-6, Abbott 2016a:113). As Pokornowski illustrates:
the shift from the farm to the prison represents a shift in the narrative’s politics from a biopolitical attempt to secure life and maintain a certain way of life… to its dark reflection: a… destruction of life and political order in an always-already-failing attempt to save life through the slaughter of life (2014:48).
Yet, fatalistically this cannot work since the feminine abject space occupied by zombies continues to attack such sites, alongside other masculine figures vying for leadership. As Young comments, Herschel’s ‘idyllic farm, the American homestead that “resurrects an entire
89 Since the primitive Other also occupies such a space, one sees civilised Man having to adopt the tactics of the monster, thus potentially becoming monstrous himself (Hartigan Jr 2005:141).
90 Having ‘no direct counterpart in the comic book series’ (Jenkins 2013b:380), such narrative trajectory reiterates the text as post-9/11 horror.
mythic apparatus of American genesis, character, and values,” cannot stand when illusions are void… and walkers descend upon the land en masse’ (2014:65). The constant need to remain mobile in order to survive nullifies stability offered by fortressed homes, as ‘death literally comes to them if they stay in one place for too long’ (Heckman 2014:101).
Since this is a land with no order, characters’ moral compasses are called into question in order to survive. As Lotz remarks, ‘[t]o a significant extent, the[se] series raise questions about which immoral actions can be justified and under what conditions’ (2014:63). Similarly, ‘complex television’– broadly synonymous with Quality TV rhetoric (Mittell 2015a:74-5) – offers morally ambiguous men in the form of anti-heroes. Morality becomes relative, ‘where an ethically questionable character is juxtaposed with more explicitly villainous and unsympathetic characters to highlight the anti-hero’s more redeeming qualities’ (ibid:75). To deal with such ambiguity ‘alignment and elaboration are key components of our allegiance to an anti-hero – the more we know about a character through revelations of backstory, relationships and interior thoughts, the more likely we will come to regard them as an ally in our journey through the storyworld’ (ibid:76, see also Clarke 2010:132).
Questions of morality in TWD are exaggerated by Grimes’ previous occupation as a peacekeeper alongside his familial role. At the same time, Daryl (Norman Reedus), arguably TWD’s other central white male protagonist, has an outlaw background (ibid:85). As an anti-hero, Daryl is first presented as morally ambiguous through his bond to his brother, Merle, with the latter’s Othered traits holding a strong influence over his younger sibling. Lotz notes that
‘[t]he outlaw stories explored subsequently tell more particular stories about younger men attempting to reconcile legacies left by deceased fathers with their own sense of how to be a man in contemporary society’ (2014:93). Daryl’s attempt at being a ‘good’ man and a positive character within the group has already failed when he tries to find the daughter of Carol (one of the other members of the human faction), Sophia; his own lack of familial bonds drives his attempts to save her (Bishop 2016:180-5).
Like Rick, Daryl is also skilled in riding horseback, reiterating the image of the western lone (anti-)hero discussed by Hassler-Forest (2011:345). However, on one occasion Daryl falls off his horse and down a rock-face, severely injuring himself as one of his arrows penetrates his body. In a state of semi-consciousness he begins to hallucinate, allowing TWD to present further back-story to his anti-heroic stance. Visions of his older brother talking to him allude
to harsh treatment from Merle but also seek to separate Daryl from the group. He awakes to see an attacking walker and continues to see Merle who taunts him in highly gendered terms:
Merle: You his bitch now?
Daryl: I ain't nobody's bitch.
Merle: You're a joke is what you are, playing errand boy to a bunch of pansy-asses, niggers and democrats… They ain't your kin, your blood. Hell, you had any damn nuts in that sack of yours, you'd go back there and shoot your pal Rick in the face for me.
In season three when Daryl leaves the faction to be with his brother, we learn of the harsh beatings given to them by their father, reiterating the problematic relationships these males have with traditional forms of masculinity (Bennett 2015:120).
Male-centred serial dynamics are reiterated in the spin-off video game The Walking Dead:
Survival Instincts (2013) featuring the Dixon brothers. Playing as Daryl, the game reiterates the travelling aspect of the TV series (Heckman 2014:101), whilst offering visual fidelity to its televisual counterpart (Clarke 2013:108). Stopping at various points, you scavenge for supplies, and can save or leave other humans who aid you in such tasks. Significantly, you begin the game’s tutorial as the Dixon brothers’ father who is bitten when out hunting. Daryl, unable to shoot his dad, is forced to watch his uncle shoot him in the head. Upon rescuing Merle from the police station where he has been incarcerated, the brothers divulge further information about the relationship they had with their father, providing exposition/elaboration that reinforces anti-hero characterisation (Mittell 2015a:76, Clarke 2013:53-5).
Furthermore, whilst TWD constructs a ‘western’ space that frames Grimes as a cowboy hero, walkers fail ‘to be the perfect villains. Instead, they… mirror… the western heroes (Rick Grimes and Shane Walsh) in the act of killing’ (Keetley 2014a:19). Whereas in ITF the undead
Furthermore, whilst TWD constructs a ‘western’ space that frames Grimes as a cowboy hero, walkers fail ‘to be the perfect villains. Instead, they… mirror… the western heroes (Rick Grimes and Shane Walsh) in the act of killing’ (Keetley 2014a:19). Whereas in ITF the undead