Earlier this year, I read a short play called “Rocks, Algae, Water, Stars” by emerging playwright Jonathan O’Neill. O’Neill had submitted the play for consideration in the 4th Annual Lift-Off Festival of Science Fiction Plays at the Navigators Theatre Company, and the piece immediately caught the eye of literary manager, Melina Neves. As the Artistic director of this small Theatre company, I read quite a few short plays every year for our annual festival, and O’Neill’s play was one of them. Our mission as a company is to produce feminist science fiction stories, primarily written by women or female identifying people. “Rocks, Algae, Water, Stars” struck Melina and I as unique for several reasons—primarily because its main character was a female presenting anthropomorphized version of the Mars rover, Opportunity.

Opportunity has been roaming Mars since 2003. She (as I have seen her referred to in NASA Tweets) is the rover responsible for finding evidence of past water on Mars, and although she was only scheduled to function for 90 days, she explored, analyzed and sent information back to Earth for over 15 years. O’Neill’s funny and heartbreaking play follows Opportunity and Curiosity, her older, less mobile brother, while she tries desperately to find water on Mars. Within the 18-minute piece, Opportunity refuses to give up, as Curiosity does. The play ends abruptly, with the “death” of Curiosity, leaving poor Opportunity to continue her quest for water alone. We produced “Rocks, Algae, Water, Stars” as part of our 2019 festival, which ran from January 25th-27th 2019 at the Plaxall Gallery in Long Island City along with several other short science fiction pieces. The actors portraying the rovers, Hunter Menkin and Molly Carroll used nothing but their bodies, and measured, controlled, sometimes jerky physicality to convey their ontologies to the audience. I always saw big smiles or heard low chuckles from audience member at about the 5- or 6-minute mark, when they finally came to understand that the characters on stage were actually anthropomorphized versions of the Mars rovers. This took a little while because there was nothing but the text to clue the audience into what exactly they were watching—costumes included street clothes that just happened to incorporate NASA caps and sweatshirts. The lighting consisted of a red wash, and there was no set.  

Yet, the play made me tear up each time I saw it. It also made me laugh aloud. When O’Neill, who lives in New York City, came to see the production, he mentioned in passing that Opportunity herself was about to stop working because of an impending dust storm on Mars, but somehow at the time, I did not digest what an emotional event this would be. Then, less than a month later, on February 13th, 2019, social media lit up with farewells and Godspeeds to the little rover. There were even several short comics and memes that went viral concerning the rover’s death. It was almost as if a beloved celebrity had left us. But many people I talked to after Opportunity’s death hadn’t even know that she was up there before the news of her demise. A friend of mine who made several Opportunity-related posts told me later that she had no idea there was any other rover up there but Curiosity, and that she wasn’t quite sure what the rovers actually did. So, what is it about this little Mars rover, or any Mars rover, that somehow elicits such a strong emotional response from us earthlings, while also capturing the spirit of Americana, exploration, and childlike wonder? Here are a few thoughts.

First, this is a picture of Opportunity:

 Built for maximum agility—small enough to move around, but large enough not to be knocked over by a wayward rock or storm gust, Opportunity uses only its large solar tray to power itself with sunlight. If that tray gets covered with dust or debris, Opportunity will no longer be able to power herself (this is, they suspect, how she wound up “dying”). Her “Eyes” or camera lenses are close enough to the ground to zoom in when needed, but far enough away from the terrain to risk rocks spraying backwards and cracking the camera lens. Opportunity has six wheels, spread out on either side, of her “torso”, giving the impression of six legs. What other objects or creatures have this kind of design? With a group of human engineers as her builders, Opportunity had the best U.S. scientific minds preparing her for her journey, and her outward appearance reflects this. Oppy looks a bit like a somewhat misshapen dog, or any other cute, relatively small, four-legged creature.

Although I don’t believe this is a coincidence, the engineering team at NASA stands by their claim that the rovers were built for maximum efficiency as collectors of data. Still, their similarity to familiar fuzzy four-legged creatures is obvious, and this one of the major reasons the object tugs on our heartstrings. Our relationship with dogs, is, of course, based on emotions, caretaking, and love. We often treat our dogs as babies, recognizing their innocence, their constant desire to please us, and their propensity for unabandoned happiness. When I discussed Opportunity’s appearance with one of my college classes this semester, the students deemed her a “space puppy” as soon as I showed them a photograph. In this way, Opportunity becomes a well-beloved pet for a demographic of people who have grown up with adorable dog videos and the social media animal frenzy. Several memes treat Opportunity like a dog, specifically. For example:

Here, the grim reaper has come for Opportunity, but instead of being concerned with living longer, Oppy seems to only care about whether she was a good rover and did a good job. The reaper replies that not only was Oppy very good, but that she was the best. Our collective hearts melt. Even the act of calling the object a “rover” presents us with preconceived notions and expectations about dog-like behavior and innocence. The drawing above shows a hallow over the rover’s head with little marks on either side that to convey the interest and intensity so many dogs possess. The antenna at the back of the tray stands in for a tail.

Of course, appearances aren’t everything, and it is worth mentioning that Oppy does not have the same lifestyle as a dog. While there may be similarities in appearance, Oppy does not run around chewing shoes or digging in gardens like a dog, but instead, performs the work of a great scientist. One might say the rover has a one-track mind when it comes to collecting data for the NASA engineers, and this is, in my opinion, one of the other things that endear her to us. Opportunity had one, very specific mission, and did nothing but strive to complete this mission while she was active. In many ways, this, too, is doglike, in that dogs are always living in the present, and seem to only ever be concerned with the pursuit of fun and happiness. Similarly, the rover lives in the present, focused only on the work that lies directly ahead of her.  She seeks only to please those scientists patiently waiting back at home for the pictures she sends, and for so many years, she did not disappoint.

But only discussing Opportunity’s similarities to the physical appearance and temperament of dogs is much too simple. There is far more going on with Oppy, both literally and theoretically. What about those who have not necessarily grown up with animal videos and might not care about the similarities between Oppy and our canine friends, but still feel a connection to her? For them, I would argue that an emotional response to Opportunity can also be a reaction to the nature of the work that she performs. Once, some years ago, I saw a meme on Facebook that said “Mars is the only known planet in the universe populated entirely by Robots.” A funny statement, no doubt, but also true. Of course, we have had no chance do any exploring in deep space, and thus, as far as we know, Mars is in fact the only planet of its kind. Still, the existence of the rovers on Mars—Oppy, Curiosity, and Spirit, is a testament to the indelible impulse for human beings to explore as far and wide as technology will allow them, and this impulse for exploration is perhaps the most important through-line connecting Opportunity to all of us here on earth.

Currently, I am teaching a course at the University at Buffalo entitled, “Performing America” in which we explore different theatrical plays, cultural ideas, and pieces of literary criticism that interrogate and investigate how the notion of “America” or “The American Dream” can be performed both in theatre and everyday life. Last week, I brought up Opportunity to the class, and the student immediately commented on the rover’s cute, doglike appearance. Then, I asked them to delve deeper—How does Opportunity perform America? One student said, “learning about the Mars rovers was a part of my childhood,” while another added, “The space race between the U.S. and Russia is something I remember learning about.” Both are interesting answers, and, I think, not unrelated. These rovers have definitely been a part of any geeky American kid’s childhood in the same way science fiction movies or astronomy picture books have been. Dreams of going to NASA space camp were numerous at my house, and had my parents had the money for such a trip, I might have become a scientist instead of a writer. Similarly, learning about the space race of the 1950s and 60s also allows people to better understand a specific part of our country’s history—a different time in which U.S. cultural interests deemed space exploration, teamwork, and technological advancements as important to the country’s integrity and moral fiber. This was a time in which our ability to perform such amazing feats of science were looked at as a source of pride—not necessarily for other countries to marvel at—but mostly, for ourselves. Of course, one may feel a swell of pride at the idea that the U.S. was the first to land on the moon, but perhaps more important is the notion of that such a project was ever achieved in the first place—that people from all over the U.S. came together to make such an incredible journey happen. Despite any political entanglements, it still seems like quite an accomplishment, and for any young child with dreams of becoming a scientist or an astronaut, such a historical event is surely life-changing.

In a way, I see the Mars rovers, and Opportunity specifically, as a kind of remnant of this moment in U.S. history in which exploration, technological advancement, and the beautiful mystery of exploring the cosmos presented a utopic view of the U.S. as leaders in cultural progress in terms of science and technology. This, of course, is no longer true. Capitalist interests and a much less stable economy have changed our priorities as a nation, and rightly so. Still, space travel, I believe, is very much an American idea—an American dream. It is also, surely, a Russian dream, a Chinese dream—an Indian or Japanese dream; it is a dream for any individual who believes that exploration, innovation, teamwork and diversity can enrich our souls, make us more compassionate, and perhaps, even bring us closer to understanding our true purpose in the universe. Space travel is the dream of any child, or any person, really, who has looked up into the stars and wished to travel to them—anyone who has watched a film about traveling to another planet and thought “I could do that! And I would be good at it!” In a way, space travel is just as much an abstract notion eliciting emotions about hard work, bravery, and the spirit of adventure, as it is about literal programming or understanding advanced physics. I think perhaps, many of us have forgotten this. Perhaps we have forgotten because we know, ultimately, that none of us will ever leave this planet. All but a tiny handful of us will live and die here on earth, and those of us who are chosen to go to Mars (or another planet) may not even be born yet. And yet, despite the fact that none of us will likely ever explore the surface of other planets, or reach out to the stars, there is still Opportunity, up there on Mars, all alone, roving from crater to crater, collecting her data, and sending it home. She is, in a way, living the dream of courage and exploration for so many people, young and old alike, who love the idea of space travel and all the wondrous adventures it implies. Opportunity is not only performing America but performing as all of us—as humanity itself. The little rover performs the act of hard work and unending inquisitiveness for each and everyone one of us, putting into practice the collective human yearning for exploration and adventure that our feeble non-metal bodies could never tolerate in practice. And so, as a final goodbye, I would like to say thank you, Opportunity, for your incredible services to the advancement of human curiosity, and for helping everyone here on earth get just a little closer to the stars.

Throughout the study of modern psychology, and the study of robots and automata, other scholars and researchers have come up with many other definitions of The Uncanny. Kara Reilly, a performance scholar who writes about performative objects, defines the uncanny as, “something familiar or homelike that becomes horrifying through its sudden unfamiliarity.” I personally like this definition because it recognizes the aspect of unfamiliarity in the small discrepancies in object that appear nearly human, but fail to achieve perfect mimesis. 

More pertinent to the science fictional, The Uncanny Valley (1970), is an entirely different concept, identified by Masahiro Mori, referring to a gap in emotional responses to objects created to resemble humans that fall short of perfect mimicry. In other words: as the appearance of robot becomes more human, the emotional response to the robot become increasingly empathetic. Then, and a certain point, when the robot becomes close to perfect mimicry, but has not achieved it, this empathetic reaction disappears and becomes aversion.

As the robot’s appearance continues to become less distinguishable from humans, the emotional response becomes positive once again. But can the Uncanny Valley be pushed further than this? Is there a second side to the valley? As we move into the transhumanist era, will a whole new "mirrored" side of the uncanny valley emerge? Thierry Chaminade and Ayse Saygin of University College London have proposed a second uncanny valley that takes into account what happens when human beings, who are not attempting any kind of mimicry, then start becoming less human, due to the post-human movement. Chaminade and Saygin suggest a new chart for reference: 

What are the implications for science fiction literature within this second Uncanny Valley? As a science fiction writer myself, I can imagine a number of new and interesting transhumanist narratives having to do with the slow and steady evolution of human beings into a kind of creature we no longer recognize. I do not mean that humans are overtaken by mechanisms (Ahhh! The robots have destroyed out brains and taken over!) but instead, a steady, natural kind of evolution and blending with technology, in which human beings consent to be biologically altered in order to overcome the inevitability of death. I for one am looking forward to more literature and sci-fi media that grapples with these ideas. 

As always, I am looking forward to your comments and questions. 

Nerdfully,
Dr. Bella  

Karel Čapek’s formative play R.U.R. (or Rossum’s Universal Robots) is commonly referred to as the first piece of science fiction theatre. More importantly, R.U.R. is also the text from which the well-known term “robot” originates. Written in 1920 in the Czech Republic, the play was the first of it's kind, and introduced robots a creature made of "paste," which was intended to look and feel very much like human flesh.

Capek was deeply influenced by a number of factors--most specifically,  the horrors of WWI, and the terrors of modern technology, as well as Mary Shelley's famous novel Frankenstein. Capek took both of these things--a fear modern technology, as well as the uncanny terror of Shelley's half-human creation, and dreamed up the robot. It was  ten years after those first few productions of R.U.R. in the early 1920s, that the robot became synonymous with a creature built of metal. 

After the publication of R.U.R. in 1921, the play proved extremely popular (so popular in fact that toy robots were made to sell to children at the 1923 New York production!)  R.U.R. was quickly translated a number of languages, and produced in Berlin, London, and New York respectively. Although no photos from the 1922 Berlin production exist, we do have a set rendering from the famous designer Frederick Keisler. Keisler was interested in designing for R.U.R. because of the new opportunities the play offered for stage technologies. Keisler's design was the first known theatrical production that included the use of a projection on stage.

Photographs from the the 1923 New York production are rare, but perhaps the earliest readily available. From these photographs, we can see some of the first design concepts used for the portrayal of robots on stage. In the photograph below, we see that the male robots are wearing identical metallic chest plates featuring hard, geometric shapes. These sharper shapes highlight both the idea that the robots are mass produced and used for difficult manual labor. Despite the fact that Capek's robots were actually made of "paste" within the context of the show, this particular costume design choice wound up having reverberating affects on the portrayal of robots throughout history.

In 1923, the only portrayal of a robot on film was The Mechanical Man (1921). The Mechanical Man was both written and screened in 1921, and never actually used the word 'robot' at all. The film premiered in the same month Capek's play premiered in New York City, and although it is we do not know if the film maker knew R.U.R., the film raises questions as to whether the idea for 'robots' was a part of the larger post WWI world consciousness. 

The next time robots were seen on film was not until 1927 with Fritz Lang's masterpiece, Metropolis. Oddly enough, at this point, robots had finally take on their fully metal exterior. But how was this decision made? What reason or influence did the designers of the film draw on to decide upon a metal exterior? In Metropolis, one of the film’s main characters, Maria, is kidnapped by a mad scientist, and transformed into an evil robot version of herself. Not surprisingly, the visual imagery of Maria’s robot exoskeleton has a very similar design to the metallic chest plate from the 1923 production of R.U.R. Both designs have several long vertical lines that move down the body on a slight diagonal, creating a highly geometric, ordered, and economical appearance.

In Čapek’s play, the vertical lines are along the robot’s chest area, whereas in Metropolis, these lines have been moved to the midsection, arms and legs. The viewer can clearly see that the chest area of the robot in Metropolis has instead been given corresponding anatomy to the object’s sex. This is clearly an outward sexualization of Maria, whose robot counterpart is portrayed as being sexually deviant in the film. Despite this overt sexualization, the design influence from stage to film is clear.  

The sexualization of robots is another interesting topic for critical inquiry that I will definteily cover in another blogpost soon! As always, dont hesitate to post questions or start a discussion. 

~Dr. Bella 

Merriam-Webster defines sf as "fiction based on imagined future scientific or technological advances and major social or environmental changes, frequently portraying space or time travel and life on other planets." --but this does not quite cover all the bases, does it? What about sf that happens in the past, like Star Wars? Or sf that is not based in scientific inquiry or technology, such as the novels, A Canticle of Lebowitz, or The Road? What about sf stories that do not employ time travel, aliens, or spaceships, such as the famous short story... 

Today, I would like to explore the definition of sf--how and why these definitions have come about, and why they are all, essentially, problematic. The scholar David Seed said in his book Science Fiction: A Very Short Introduction that to even call sf a genre is not accurate "because it does not recognize the hybrid nature or many Sf works." Seed goes on to suggest that thinking of sf as a mode, or field of writing where different genres can intersect and meld together is a much more useful interpretation. Sf is smaller than fiction itself, but much bigger than any one genre, such as Westerns or Mysteries. In fact, is has become its own kind of new hybrid category.

 As a scholar, I believe that science fiction is indeed a mode-- a mode of fiction that depicts a specific alternate reality from the mind of writer, directly influenced by the current social and political anxieties of the time. In other words, sf is not really the writing of the future, but instead, it is writing of the immediate present, full of all hopes, dreams, and fears of the moment-- as if those contemporary hopes, dreams and fears were somehow happening simultaneously.

There are, in my opinion, four major sub genre's within the super-genre of sf. The first to emerge is Hard sf, and is perhaps the easiest to define. Hard sf focuses primarily on the dissemination of science and technology. The sub-genre essentially uses the story as a thought experiment of imagined technologies-- imagining and describing them as specifically as possible. Jules Verne is perhaps the most famous of the "Hard" sf writers, having heavily influenced other "golden age" writers such as Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, and Robert Heinlein. 

The second major sub-genre is Space Opera, out of which we get Buck Rogers, Star Wars and Star Trek. This particular genre appeared between the World Wards in the United States, and was not so worried about a preoccupation with the terror of mass production and weaponry, but more so with the notion of glorifying the individual, and a struggle to restore freedom and morality. These stories usually follow an idealized male hero, a clear struggle between good and evil (to the point of melodrama), and of course, some ray guns. ;)

Perhaps my personal favorite kind of sf can be described either as New Wave sf or Feminist sf (depending on your preference), but seeing as I am the Artistic Director of a feminist sci-fi theatre company, I will go ahead and say FEMINIST sci-fi is also one of the major sub-genres that solidified in the 1960s. This sub-genre focuses less on science and the process of making a narrative scientifically believably, and more on alternate realities, utopias and dystopias, and entirely new societies. In the sense that this sub-genre makes a point to deviate from the norm, or rather, the dominant sf narratives (both Hard sf and Space Opera), it becomes inherently feminist. Famous examples include The Handmaiden's Tale, The Female Man, and many works by the famous Ursula K. LeGuin. 

The final and perhaps newest sub-genre is Cyberpunk, having been single-handedly invented by the writer William Gibson, specifically in his novel Nueromancer. Gibson's work introduced the world to the concept of cyber-space and "jacking into" virtual reality-- a kind of space/non-space that is at once tangible to humans, but has no physical traces. The concept is further explored in the work of Philip K. Dick, and of course, The Matrix films. Gibson continued to dominate this genre for some time, until the appearance of Neal Stephenson-- a contemporary cyberpunk writer who draws clear inspiration from Gibson's work. 

Which of the four science fiction sub-genres is your favorite? What kind of sf narratives tend to fit into which sub-genre? And as always, if you have any questions or comments on sf or these ideas, feel free to ask in the comments!

Nerdfully yours,
Dr. Bella

I will likely discuss robots a great deal on this blog. They are the basis of my PhD research and a lot of my scholarly writing deals with their origins, representation, and ontology. Today, I would like to talk about the difference between four terms often used when discussing robots and robotics: robots, androids, cyborgs, and artificial intelligence. There is a common misconception that these objects are interchangeable, however, this is untrue.

Robots:
A robot is entirely mechanical, made only from inorganic material. In addition, robots do not necessarily have the appearance of a human being. For example, in the film Interstellar, the character TARS is a robot, however, he does not have a human-shaped body. This differentiates him from the other crew members, and makes it easier for them to treat the object like a piece of machinery with a specific purpose. 

Androids:
Androids, however, are, by definition, robots that hold the representative appearance of a human being. Robots can be seen throughout film history. Perhaps most famously in the 1927 film Metropolis, as well as Star Wars (3CPO), and even comedies like Short Circuit. Note that Star Wars has paired both an android (3CPO) and a robot (R2D2) together for maximum comic effect!

Cyborgs:
Conversely, cyborgs are a literal blending of human and machine—a combination of both organic human flesh, that has come to use, depend upon, and integrate mechanical or cybernetic elements into its body. Perhaps the most famous cyborg is the dreaded Darth Vader (again, from Star Wars.) Donna Haraway's famous work, The Cyborg Manifesto discusses the blending of the human and the machine as the next step in human evolution, and the true path towards an entirely non-binary system of gender identity. The article is available online at: http://faculty.georgetown.edu/irvinem/theory/Haraway-CyborgManifesto-1.pdf

A.I.
Of the four, A.I. may be perhaps the most discussed in the current social climate, as we all the most interesting. A.I. distinguishes itself from the other conceptual objects listed through its ability to learn. While Robots, Androids were first invented as “mass produced slave labor” in Karel Capek’s famous play R.U.R., A.I., historically, cannot be thus manipulated. A.I. are able to grow beyond their creators, and have recently been portrayed in the cinema as inherently dangerous.

Another interesting aspect of A.I. is the lack of embodiment as an ontological necessity. Well known A.I. such as Samantha in Her, Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey, Jarvis from the Marvel franchise, or even Skynet in the Terminator films prove that A.I. do not need physical bodies to learn, grow, and achieve their goals. Physical embodiment is, however necessary for robots, androids, and cyborgs.

Drop the Navigators a line under the Contact Us tab if you are interested in learning more about robots, androids, cyborgs and A.I. We are always looking for new and interesting ideas to discuss on the blog!

Nerdfully yours,
Dr. Bella