On Annihilation

On Annihilation, the movie

1.     Ghost Bird is Missing

This will not be a review of how Annihilation the movie differs from Annihilation the book. But having read the book multiple times, I cannot help but notice some of the differences. Maybe I should say this will not be a review of the qualitative differences between the two. Yes, they are different, one might say radically different. But they do different things; they formulate different concepts.

That said, Ghost bird, aka the biologist, aka the narrator/journal-keeper of the book, does not appear in the movie. I think of this as a cinematic decision. Filming a character writing in a journal is boring. Having a character speak in voiceover is cliché. The movie, then, subtracts the biologist’s words, and thus, a specific sense of her interiority, her closely kept privacy. The biologist of the book is socially-inward and somewhat unprofessional. The novel’s psychologist reminds her “you were let go from a number of your field jobs” (122). The disappearance of Ghost bird makes perfect sense for the movie and weirdly fulfill a promise of the novel. In the novel Ghost bird seems on the verge of disappearing on every page. The movie makes that disappearance manifest.

2.     Names are Present

Instead of Ghost bird, the movie gives us Lena, a molecular biologist with a PhD who teaches and researches at Johns Hopkins University (if I remember her credentials correctly; I’ve only seen the movie once.) Yes, she has a name. All of the characters have names. For those who have read the book, and are familiar with the absence of the characters’ names (they are called “the biologist,” “the psychologist,” etc.) these names sound shocking when first heard, as if we are learning something we should not know. And we are. Annihilation the movie amplifies what the book can only suggest—the power of sound and light. The characters’ names enable the movie’s dialogue and allows them to form relationships. For part of the movie, the five women who enter the shimmer seem to really care about each other, in stark contrast to their mostly adversarial relationship in the novel. And then there is the shimmer itself. In the novel, the border is ephemeral, invisible, almost indescribable. Expedition members must be hypnotized to cross the border. They walk right into the shimmer.

3.     Light and Sound

The shimmer shapes the whole movie. It is kaleidoscopic light; when the expedition walks through it, everything around them takes on the shimmer—colors refract through the trees and reeds and in the sky. This shimmer makes Annihilation beautiful. We see white deer with bright flowers growing in their antlers, like they have fled from a Miyazake movie. Flowers are everywhere. Vibrant, multicolor blooms flow from the same branch, giving the expedition one of their first clues that the shimmer not only refracts light and radio waves, but also DNA.

We see crystalline trees explode into orange light. We see phosphorous grenades explode in incandescent light. Even the lighthouse itself, rendered as a beautiful white structure encased in something like shell or bone, gets in on the act. It goes up in flames and burns the screen bright white. Even the automatic weapons that the characters carry, and fire often, send out bursts of light.

They send out sound, too, of course. Annihilation is loud. The conflict in the lighthouse throbs with sound; the theater I was in shook during this scene. Lena struggles with a creature that mirrors her and shimmers with light. It does not speak but it fills the space of the lighthouse with sound. Ben Salisbury’s and Geoff Barrow’s score might be emanating from the creature’s body. Not only light, but sound too, shimmers. Strings and static give way to a noise that might be a refracted voice. The “voice” divides and get louder. It phases in and out. It shimmers.

4.     Annihilation might be a horror movie

Amidst all this beauty, Annihilation might actually be a horror movie. The bear-like creature that stalks the expedition and screams and shrieks in the voice of one of them as it kills her presents a more horrifying vison of becoming-something-else than most of the creatures of the novel, such as the dolphin with human eyes. Likewise, the scenes of Lena’s interrogation by a member of the Southern Reach dressed in a white anti-contamination suit, while a crowd of blue-suited individuals watch from behind glass, points to the fear of infection than runs through the movie.

Having one’s DNA altered by the shimmer seems cancerous in the movie. The opening scene shows Lena lecturing students about a dividing cancer cell as she shows them a microscopic view of this division in action. Dr. Ventress (the psychologist) does not want to leave the shimmer, in part, because she is dying of cancer. Lena examines some human cells while inside the shimmer, and they divide and divide, each new division infected by the light of the shimmer. The shimmer infects everything. It cannot be escaped. Unlike Ghost bird, who stays within the borders of Area X, Lena wants to escape the shimmer.

[SPOILER ALERT]

In the lighthouse, Lena’s encounter with the creature made of light and sound is a struggle. Lena tells her interrogator that she fought the creature. She ignites a phosphorous grenade, which allows her to escape the shimmer through the doors of the lighthouse. Lena does not share Ghost bird’s ambivalence, even embracement of Area X. Lena flees the shimmer, and during her interrogation suggests that the shimmer is of extraterrestrial origin (we see something like a comet strike near the lighthouse at the beginning of the movie).

As she reunites with her husband in the movie’s final scene, they embrace, and he asks her a simple question: “Are you Lena?” She does not answer. The camera closely focuses on her eyes. Her eyes shimmer with light. The shimmer, whatever it is, is not finished spreading. It is beautiful.

Jeff VanderMeer's Radical Unknowing

Here is my Conference Paper from SLSA 2017
(it will be getting a lot of revision)

art copyright Theo Ellsworth

Jeff VanderMeer’s recent fiction, from the Southern Reach trilogy to Borne and The Strange Bird, breaks our current understanding of how to respond to ecological crises and rebuilds a speculative, immanent ecological politics, that is similar to those described by object-oriented and compositionist philosophers Timothy Morton and Bruno Latour, but unique in that it grows out of fiction.

Things become other things in Jeff VanderMeer’s fiction. Or it might be better to say that things are other things in Jeff VanderMeer’s books. I’ll start with four examples. A ghostbird. A strange bird. A bird watcher. A squid-like shape-shifting creature.

In Annihilation, the biologist thinks about the nickname bestowed on her by her husband: “Ghost Bird.” Inside Area X, “a ghost bird might be a hawk in one place, a crow in another, depending on the context. The sparrow that shot up into the blue sky one morning might transform mid-flight into an osprey the next. That was the way of things here” (Annihilation 110-111). Things are not themselves. A hawk is also a crow. Things do not stay the same. A sparrow becomes an osprey. Everything in Area X cannot be measured or pinned down.

In The Strange Bird, the titular animal flees a laboratory. Meeting a “flock of tiny birds,” (58) she quickly realizes that she is not just a bird. The flock “did not recognize her as kin. There was too much else inside her” (68). Three “living satellites” (78) that look like turkey vultures define the Strange Birds composition: “avian, overlaid with Homo Sapiens, other terrestrial life-forms. Unstable mélange” (109). She looks like a peregrine falcon. She dive bombs foxes. “Her feet ended in talons meant to rend, to slice, to tear. . . Her beak was sharp and curved” (109). Later, she becomes an invisibility cloak. Still later, she becomes four sparrow-sized birds, and then three die, leaving one small bird. 

In Borne, Mord is a giant flying bear who can drink toxic water. He is so large that humans scavenge through his fur while he sleeps. He has multiple names: “Seether. Theeber. Mord” (5). He has become “the de facto ruler” of the city (4). But he was not always a giant bear. Once, according to Wick, who knew Mord when they were much younger, “he liked bird-watching and we ate lunches together and he read so many books. He was curious about so many things” (Borne 249). Had he been human? Perhaps.

Rachel, the human narrator of Borne, finds Borne on one of her scavenging missions over Mord’s body. Borne might be the thing that is other things more than any other thing in VanderMeer’s fiction. He is a shape-shifting creature who looks like a sea anemone or a vase. He pulses, changing color and shape. He eats and grows. He resembles a plant (18). He mimics humans. He might be animal, vegetable, or biotechnology.

When Borne learns (or maybe he already knew how) to write, he writes about himself. “My name is Borne . . . My name is not Borne . . . I came here on Mord’s body . . . I did not come here on Mord’s body . . . I am human . . . I am not human . . . I was made by someone . . . I am not actually alive . . . I am a robot . . . I am a person . . . I am a weapon . . . I am not/intelligent . . . What if I cannot die? . . . What if no one made me?” (190). In VanderMeer’s fiction, all of these things are true about Borne. Or they could all be true. We can never really know. There is always a new context, a new transformation, a new perspective, a new thing. Things can change. Things are futural. Things are indeterminate, except when they are determinate.

When asked how he “describe[s] the indescribable,” (2) VanderMeer talks about the Southern Reach trilogy as “compositional” (2). Certain elements, such as backgrounds and mundane details must be “clear, crisp, well-defined” (2) “Precise detail” (2) must be used in developing character and perception, so that, eventually “the uncanny can lurch out across the landscape and contaminate the brain in the right way” (2). This “compositional” element applies to Borne and The Strange Bird. VanderMeer’s narrators “smell the pressed-flower twist of the salt” (Borne 3) of a tidal pool. His readers see “the rats in the walls, who were in the process of rewiring everything” (279). These details underlie the appearance of many-eyed sea creatures and giant flying bears.

These notions of composition and contamination are clearly central to VanderMeer’s fiction. They are also central to Bruno Latour’s re-definition of political ecology. For Latour, modernist notions of environmentalism must be abandoned because they rely on a human separation from nature. “The dominant, peculiar story of modernity is of humankind’s emancipation from Nature” (50). This emancipation is often characterized as progress, as a frontier spirit that seeks dominion over the environment. According to this logic, science will eventually explain the natural world. “A modernist, in this great narrative, is the one who expects from Science the revelation that Nature will finally be visible through the veils of subjectivity — and subjection — that hid it from our ancestors” (51). Thus, humankind will finally be able to emancipate itself from both nature and our own subjective perspective. Science will one day take the measure of all things.

Latour argues that such a viewpoint has always had a fatal flaw, namely “that we can never separate ourselves from the nonhuman world” (39) in any meaningful way. Such entanglements are both conceptual—“science, morality, religion, law, technology, finance, and politics”—and real—“the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, in the space shuttle, and in the Fukushima nuclear power plant” (41). A strong political ecology would embrace attachment; it would not seek to “return to our narrow human confines, leaving the nonhumans alone in as pristine a Nature as possible, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa” (43). For Latour, pristine nature has always been a myth; human has always been entangled with non-human in a way that requires not separation, but close attention. The future of political ecology lies in paying more and more attention to these connections “at a greater and greater scale and at an ever-tinier level of intimacy requiring even more detailed care” (41).  Latour calls this attention a “compositionist” ethics, a means of “becoming ever-more attached to, and intimate with, a panoply of nonhuman natures” (48). Latour says that we should “love our monsters” unlike Dr. Frankenstein, whose “real sin” was precisely the abandonment of his “monster,” and not the “combination of hubris and high technology” he used to create him (45). Dr. Frankenstein failed when he thought he could run from his creation, when he could call it unnatural and separate from himself.

VanderMeer’s characters do not run from monsters. They embrace the natural and the unnatural, or maybe they do not make that distinction. Rachel, in Borne, notes that things had been different once. “Cities existed within countries and those countries had leaders” (37). But, in her present, she notes “how a slip could become a freefall and a freefall could become a hell where we lived on as ghosts in a haunted world” (37). There is nowhere to run. The biologist, known as Ghostbird, in Annihilation decides to stay in Area X.

These ghosts become an entry point for defining the subtle political ecology of VanderMeer’s work, especially as VanderMeer has talked about his own understanding of hyperobjects. In a published conversation with Timothy Morton, VanderMeer says, “after I wrote Annihilation, I started seeing reviews that mentioned your work in connection with it; that’s why I picked up Hyperobjects. . . the very term “hyperobject” kind of encapsulated what was going on organically in Annihilation” (interview). VanderMeer goes on to note that hyperobjects are “both concrete and abstract at the same time” and “Even as you define hyperobject, it oddly begins to slip away” (interview). In response, Morton says “it’s really to do with a sort of futural orientation. Something’s coming, but I can’t quite point to it, and I don’t know what it is. That’s why the word “hyperobject” is so interesting, because it’s like finally we’ve all got this word. It happened to me first, right? The word popped in my head before I actually knew fully what it was” (interview). At the risk of being glib, this conversation between VanderMeer and Morton suggests to me that the word “hyperobject” is itself a hyperobject. It resists definition but it changes the way one thinks. It is a human created concept but it only makes sense if one takes the nonhuman seriously. Hyperobjects are slippery in meaning, as VanderMeer says, but also in time and space, as Morton notes that something unknown is approaching. The word itself is infectious, it “popped” in Morton’s head and now “we’ve all got this word.” So what should we do with it?

We should run with it. Compositional hyperobjects are everywhere in VanderMeer’s fiction—the ever-expanding Area X, the city of Borne and The Strange Bird. Put simply, the setting of VanderMeer’s recent fiction is all compositional hyperobjects. Most of his characters, too, are compositional hyperobjects. Hyperobjects populated by hyperobjects. Futural. Present. Concrete. Abstract. Slipping away. Precise. Setting. Character.

Borne, the character, comes to exemplify what Isabelle Stengers calls “the art of paying attention.” As he learns to write, as he roams his poisoned world, as he mirrors Mord the giant bear, Borne pays careful attention to his world as he finds what Stengers calls “connections between what we are in the habit of keeping separate.” Borne becomes everything in Borne and then he nearly becomes nothing. Reading Borne calls for a reading after the end of the world that embraces what Borne writes in his journal as non-contradiction. “I am human. . . . I am not human.”

Reality is broken in VanderMeer’s fiction. The mysterious “Company” created the “dysfunction” that has ruined the world. The Company itself exists only as an abandoned compound of buildings at the end of Borne. The Southern Reach of the trilogy cannot contain the expansion of Area X. The world as a whole no longer makes sense. And here is VanderMeer’s ecological ethics. The world of his fiction does not make sense in precisely the way that the world we live in does not make sense. While writing The Southern Reach Trilogy, VanderMeer remarked “the entire time I’m writing this the hyperobject of global warming looms over me and shines through me and is all places and in all ways is shining out and looming over. How can it not be in the subtext

of much of what we write?” Likewise, he writes of how the Gulf of Mexico oil spill infected his dreams and then his fiction.

In a world of hyperobjects, VanderMeer’s fiction is realistic. Or, in worlds of hyperobjects, reality and VanderMeer’s fiction touch each other. There is a world of oil-spills and global warming. There is a world of Area X, and the destroyed city of Borne. They infect each other, contaminate each other, damage each other. They haunt each other with the indeterminant futural specificity of hyperobjects.  Morton, in trying to articulate the finitude of capitalism in order to think a different future, writes “it’s like figuring out that one is also a specter in a haunted house of illusions and specters.” If Ghostbird is a ghost, so am I when I read Annihilation. If Borne is alive and human and not human and a robot, so am I when I read Borne.

The last chapter of Borne is called, “How I Live Now.” In it, after contemplating the destruction wrought by Mord and Borne, Wick asks, “What now, Rachel?  . . . What do we do now?” She replies, “Whatever we want to do.” Borne is damaged: “weak, tiny,” unable to move or speak, now “a kind of plant, taking sustenance from the sun.” At the end of The Strange Bird, the narrative asks “For what are bodies? Where do they end and where do they begin? And why must they be constant? Why must they be strong?” The Strange Bird sings with joy to another bird, even as she had been winnowed, had “suffered” and “been reduced” (1152). Both books end not with devastation, but with cooperation. And cooperation is not an arbitrary endpoint. Morton writes,

“cooperation is the zero-degree, cheapest coexistence mode, something you rely on when all else fails. Mutual aid is not teleological.” (2869). Cooperation comes after capitalism, especially in its neoliberalist form. Morton argues that “the violence of neoliberalism is necessary to break through mutual aid to the extent that mutual aid is intrinsic to humankind” (2869).  Mutualism outlives survival of the fittest. Borne, unmoving and nonspeaking, and the Strange Bird, weak and broken, both exist to break their worlds.