Monsters and History: Traditional and Posthuman Monsters

J. Randall Groves, Ph.D.

Professor of Humanities

Ferris State University

“All beings so far have created something beyond themselves; and do you want to be the ebb of this great flood and even go back to the beasts rather than overcome man? What is the ape to man? A laughingstock or a painful embarrassment. And man shall be just that for the overman: a laughingstock or painful embarrassment.” (Thus Spake Zarathustra, First Part, 3)

The presentation of monsters in science fiction and horror as well as the contemplation of their creation in the musings of worried medical ethicists display fairly consistent visions of possible futures. These visions reveal an antipathy toward the seemingly inevitable evolution of a “posthuman” species as humans make increasing use of genetic engineering and human interfaces with mechanical objects and digital systems. To the extent that these changes become commonplace they invite a change in the form of transformation into something evolutionary. This evolutionary possibility implicates a philosophy of history that projects changes in our conception of human nature, changes that make clear that human nature is itself historical. This change in our view of human nature also affects the way we conceive of monsters.

Monsters: Traditional and Posthuman

Not all monsters imply an historical theory. Traditional monsters such the werewolf, the dragon, the vampire and the gargoyle appeal to “dark traditions.” These dark traditions are generally the result of a dialectical polarity with religious traditions. Although religion typically has a theory of history, the monsters that result from the dialectical polarity are only historical in the sense of that a being that represents “fallen nature” is a detour from the historical process. They represent, at most, a temporary degradation from the inevitable victory of the true faith of believers.

Traditional monsters are generally accidents of birth. As Marie-Helene Huet points out, women are associated with monsters in being regarded as accidents of birth. We see this view in Empedocles and Aristotle, and the view stays alive in the Western tradition in spite of the fact that biology tells us that if either sex is “accidental,” it is the male sex, with the female being the “default” sex unless certain changes are brought about to transform the female into a male. Aristotle writes, “Anyone who does not take after his parents is really in a way a monstrosity, since in these cases Nature has in a way strayed from the generic type. The first beginning of this derivation is when a female is formed instead of a male.”[1] This connection between women and monsters will turn out to be a key to understanding how monsters came to embody philosophies of history.

Huet also shows us the connection between bad birth and women’s imagination. She writes, “Since Antiquity, even the most innocuous deformities, birthmarks, had been thought to have been caused by the mother’s imagination and her capacity to imprint on her child’s body the mark of a cherished object.”[2]

Finally, Huet argues that monsters are an instantiation or residue of immoral actions.[3] The monster is the curse that results from immoral actions. There is always some “original sin” at the source of the generation of the monster.

All this adds up to show that the traditional role of the monster in literature and film is to give a negative conception of “the other.” And there will always be the other. Indeed, Jeffrey Jerome Cohen has as one of his seven theses concerning monster culture that “the monster always escapes.”[4] The monster never dies. And since traditional monsters never die, they cannot be historical. History requires finitude. History is not the eternal recurrence of the same; it is on-going change that creates real difference.

Typical examples of traditional monsters include the vampire, the mummy, the werewolf, King Kong, the Creature from the Black Lagoon and more recently, Clive Barker’s cenobites from his Hellraiser series. These monsters are abominations of nature, twisted versions of normality. Each of these examples has its own genesis story, but I will limit my treatment to two, werewolves and cenobites, that display some typical characteristics of traditional monsters. Werewolves are generally interpreted to represent the fear of adolescent transformation and subsequent loss of control. The cenobites represent the dangers of overreaching desire and curiosity and the transforming effect of immoral behavior. Cenobites begin as ordinary humans, but their quest for every greater pleasures and pains as well as the quest for ever more exotic experience gradually transforms their bodies until they become monsters in the flesh to mirror the monstrosity of their minds. Werewolves are the more tragic since they are victims, while the cenobites choose to become monsters. In neither case, however, do these monsters implicate the future so as to imply a philosophy of history. Posthuman monsters, on the other hand, do imply a philosophy of history. Before we discuss posthuman monsters, however, we need to explain a bit more what is meant by posthumanism.

As humans become ever more intertwined with technology, they find themselves becoming something more than human, something “posthuman.” Another term often used is “cyborg,” which was originally reserved for human/technology mixtures, but has come to mean any blurring of the human and “other.”[5] Posthumans are also likely to welcome non-humans to the posthuman future. Artificial intelligence, robots, created species, chimeras (species mixes), a global Internet consciousness, are all possible co-inhabitants of the future.

Posthuman monsters, such as Frankenstein’s monster, Robocop, the Alien monsters, the hybrids of Octavia Butler’s Zenogenesis series, unlike traditional monsters, imply a possible future that has both positive and negative aspects, but is almost always a posthuman future. Humans are about to become something else. They are becoming posthuman, and possibly monsters. And when the monster becomes posthuman, it adds an historical dimension because the monster presents a possible form humans could take in the future.

The notion of the posthuman is therefore a theory of history as well as an addendum to the theory of evolution. To be sure, posthuman evolution is different from biological evolution. There is not necessarily the sense that the human species will be left behind by a superior species that mutates from it because of a singular advantage. Rather, different people will deploy a range of posthuman changes to improve life or to adapt to conditions. People will choose their physical and mental forms, and they will not necessarily be consistent. People will choose differently according to their personal taste and according to their income. Some may not choose wisely, and they may become monsters.

The posthuman monsters of contemporary science fiction and horror suggest a different unfortunate result to human overreaching than that of traditional monsters like the cenobites. Overreaching has roots in Judeo-Christian religion with the stories of the Garden of Eden and the Tower of Babel. Overreaching occurs when humans attempt to move beyond traditionally defined limits. The cenobites seek an unending increase in earthly experience. They are moving beyond the moral limits imposed by religion, but they most certainly are not attempting to reach the divine, which is a key element of overreaching and a central taboo of most religion. This taboo, however, is given a positive interpretation by the Enlightenment with its belief in the perfectibility of man and universal human progress. The perfectibility of man is, of course, a theory of history. The posthuman monster tells us that just as the belief in the perfectibility of man can paradoxically lead to human terror in politics, as occurred in the French and Russian revolutions, it can also create monsters. Goya’s “Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters,” which is a political statement about the French Revolution also accurately predicts the coming of posthuman monsters.

While there has been little discussion of the historical implications of monsters and posthumanism, history has not been completely ignored in studies of the posthuman. Elaine Graham, in an excellent treatment of the posthuman,[6] relies heavily on the historical views of Michel Foucault, which are very insightful, particularly with regard to the history of posthuman-present. Monsters reveal the necessary negation, the “fracture” of the established order. Nevertheless, Graham’s use of Foucault neglects how science fiction presents the posthuman future-historically. Science fiction operates with a view of history drawn largely from the Enlightenment’s belief in progress but with a counterweight from the Romantic critique of this belief. While a Foucauldian analysis is helpful for explaining some of the elements of the Romantic critique in posthumanism, it misses other elements and fails to capture the Enlightenment views that underlie posthumanism. Thus we need to supplement our Foucauldian analysis with one that draws upon a historical theory that is a better fit with the posthuman ambivalence toward scientific progress.

By its very nature, Science Fiction has been involved in the postulation of future histories. The most notable example, of course, is the Foundation Series by Isaac Asimov. In this paper, however, I am not as interested in the explicit treatments of history in science fiction, but the implicit philosophy of history that comes with stories dealing with posthuman monsters.

Interestingly, given the deep connection between monsters and women alluded to earlier, it is precisely when “woman” becomes historical that monsters become historical. Mary Shelley’s mother writes “Vindication of the Rights of Women” and then gives birth to Mary Shelley, who, in turn, gives birth to Frankenstein’s monster. When the traditional category of the female is called into question by feminism the whole idea of woman becomes historical.

Now it is true that 19^th century thought is generally historical, and so one might argue that 19^th century monsters like Frankenstein were bound to be historical since they reflected their age. But the vampire is also a quintessentially 19^th century monster born of Romanticism, and some could argue that it was born on the same night as Frankenstein at the ghost story writing contest at the home of Lord Byron.[7] I would argue, however, that although the religious components of the Romantic critique of the Enlightenment help to maintain the interest in traditional monsters, it also creates a new kind of monster altogether.

Some Posthuman monsters

The Alien series uses the monstrous vision of H.R. Giger, whose “biomechanical” aesthetic forces us to visualize a mixture of the organic and inorganic. There have been several interpretations of the Alien series as an exploration of the “monstrous-feminine,”[8] but it has not been noted how the changeable concept of human nature, of historical nature, is developed in these films. The aliens impregnate humans and other creatures in a perverse version of reproduction involving oral rape. The results of these mutant pregnancies subsequently take on some of the features of humans and other creatures such as the ship creature from the fist film and the dog from the third. The fourth film brings out this theme more explicitly in several ways. The hybrid nature of the cloned Ripley, the failed clones of Ripley, the “child-monster” of the queen and Ripley—these are all posthuman creatures that signal a hybrid or cyborg future. And in Alien vs. Predator we see an Alien/Predator combination at the end. This future history of alien contact is very dystopic since very little of humanity survives the combination.

Very similar to the Giger/Scott aliens are Octavia Butler’s Oankali of her Zenogenesis series and the Borg of Star Trek. Both of these creatures absorb some aspects of their victims and create new species, but in both cases more of humanity is maintained in the hybrid. Both still present dystopic futures, but not quite as much is lost to the monster as with the Alien series. In fact, arguments are made in both cases that the result is a step up from humanity, a superior hybrid. Butler attempts to help us come to terms with deviant sexuality by asking that we imagine a benevolent species that travels the universe looking for “failed species” and combining with them through genetic mixing and manipulation. An interesting twist is that the Oankali and humans initially find each other deeply repulsive. The main character, Lilith, can hardly bear to even look at an Oankali, never mind engage in sex with it and give birth to a hybrid. Although the Oankali appear to the reader to be benevolent, the humans, unsurprisingly, find the prospect of mixing species horrific. Another key to the story is that humans are presented as inherently defective because of their destructive combination of intelligence and hierarchy. The combination will “cure” us of our defect and give rise to a new species without it. The Oankali, too, will be improved by the combination. But some humans never come to terms with the Oankali and prefer to die out rather than combine with them. Butler manipulates the reader into thinking these recalcitrant humans exhibit precisely the defects in human nature that caused our near self-destruction and that a more progressive human will embrace the Oankali and its promise of a star-faring hybrid future.

The Borg of Star Trek are a biomechanical hybrid species that absorbs all alien races into its collective. Above all, the Borg reject individuality. As each new species is conquered, it is fitted with mechanical interfaces that enable it to perform various tasks as well as communicate with all other Borg in a collective consciousness. Individuality, the Borg argue, is flawed, and individuals lead a flawed existence. In fact, humans find removing their kind from previous incorporation into the Borg collective very difficult since these people generally agree that the Borg existence is superior. Only after a long-term reindoctrination do these former Borg embrace humanity and individuality. The Borg idea speaks to our deep-seated fear that technology may get out of control and eventually take us over. Unlike the Terminator series, however, humans are not eliminated, they are incorporated. Like the Butler’s humans, Star Trek’s humans find Borg and Borg life repulsive. Unlike Butler’s humans, Star Trek’s humans are presented as correct in resisting incorporation. Both cases, however, ask us to consider that humanity might be improved in ways, which, while they fall short of full-scale incorporation, still present an improvement. So while we may not wish to give up our individuality altogether, we might want to consider being a little less individualistic. We even might gain by having the ability to be in constant communication with other people or by incorporating various kinds of mechanical or cybernetic interfaces into our bodies.

Cronenberg has done more than any other filmmaker to explore the limits of the posthuman. The posthumans of David Cronenberg are notable for blurring the boundaries between the human and animal and the human and computer. Existenz, Videodrome, the Brood and the Fly all explore human-animal-computer mixes. Existenz and Videodrome also blur the boundaries and nature of perception and reality. The Brood and The Fly deal with the notions of hybridity and mutation, but they do not add anything important to the above discussions. On the other hand, Existenz and Videodrome explore how reality itself may change in the posthuman era. The games of Existenz do not create a mere virtual reality; they create another reality, and possibly a superior reality. Cyberspace in Cronenberg’s films is a highly sensual reality rather than our current, rather sterile, on-line reality. The characters in these films swear to the “higher” existence achieved and look down upon ordinary perceptual existence. Future history is therefore not only a new time; it is a new place and a new feeling. The rules of experience are changed.

Another sort of posthuman monster is the artificially intelligent beings we anticipate as robots or androids. In popular culture, such posthumans include the robots of I, Robot, A.I., Data from Star Trek and the Terminator. These posthumans are created by humans, but they are not human hybrids. Rather, they add a new partner in the community of intelligent beings. These posthumans have aspirations that fit their predicament: “I want to be a real boy.” They may be friends or partners, like the Bicentennial Man or Data, or they might be irrevocably hostile like the Terminator. They may fight for their rights like the Bicentennial Man, or they may fight to eliminate ours. We will not know until they exist. And when they do, it may be beyond our abilities to turn back the clock. Things may go horribly wrong with artificially intelligent beings, but things have sometimes gone horribly wrong among humans. The genocidal killers of Rwanda or Nazi Germany probably hold their own against most descriptions of possible future horror by artificially intelligent beings. Despite the misgivings of some philosophers, the future will probably bring us artificial companions, and these companions will probably be both good and evil. On this point, Nietzsche is undoubtedly wrong. What comes after humanity will not be beyond good and evil.

There is yet another type of posthuman, the inferior or fallen posthuman. The key example of this type of posthuman is the Zombie. While the Zombie is very much like traditional monsters, it has some key characteristics of the posthuman. The first zombies to hit the screen came out shortly after the Red Scare of the 1950’s. Americans were afraid that they or their neighbors might be the victims of communist brainwashing, that they would lose their individuality and their powers of reason to communist ideology. They were also afraid of the geometric progression of the zombie’s bite. Zombies create many zombies, which, in turn, create many zombies, together yielding a geometric progression that quickly overruns humanity. Although communism is never mentioned, it is fairly clear that this fear made the original zombie film, Night of the Living Dead, resonate with audiences. Later, the zombie changed its signification and became associated with consumerism, as we see in the film, Dawn of the Dead. This is not to neglect the traditional fears the zombie spoke to, namely the taboos concerning cannibalism and dead bodies. But an important element in the idea of the zombie is surely the fear that humans will devolve into something less than human rather than evolve into something greater than human and that this devolution will be a rapid geometric process. If we can get better, we can certainly get worse. And we sometimes do get terribly worse, worse even than the monsters that are supposed to scare us. An accurate film rendering of the Rwandan genocide would look rather more like Dawn of the Dead than it would Hotel Rwanda, and it would be just as horrific.

One might argue that the vampire idea contains posthuman elements. I have already identified the vampire as a traditional and therefore non-historical monster, but there are elements that coincide with some of the posthuman monsters. The geometrically progressing nature of vampire mirrors that of the Zombie, but rarely is geometric logic used in vampire films, with the notable exception of the film, Lifeforce. The notion of the separation of species is generally piecemeal. The number of vampires is typically kept small to maintain the secret of their existence. The vampires do not represent the future. In fact, Anne Rice works with the notion of vampires as preservers rather than as creators of culture.[9]

Posthuman horror is more ambivalent than traditional horror. While one might want to be immortal like a vampire, most would reject the high cost of becoming one. Posthumanity, on the other hand, offers much that we might very well accept if we could be certain of avoiding the dangers that the posthuman poses. Although I might worry about viruses, if I could be sure of avoiding them, or at least their more pernicious effects, I would probably agree to be fitted with internal hard drives and wireless connectivity with others. If I could grow wings that looked like angel wings rather than something horrific, I might choose to do so. The appeal of the posthuman is partly what makes it a philosophy of history. It also relocates the fear associated with monsters from “the other” to ourselves. The Enlightenment’s turn to critical self-awareness was bound to eventually become a Romantic cognizance of the dangers of our embrace of constant self-recreation. We are afraid that the changes we willingly or unwillingly undergo will turn out badly and turn us into something we abhor. The monsters we fear then will be the monsters that we become.

The sobering thought is that we probably will become posthuman to an ever-greater degree. We might not even recognize the humans of the year 3000. And they might look back in embarrassment that we even considered saying no to posthuman evolution.