In 2009, a small budget but critically successful film called Big Fan hit theaters. The film’s action centers on Paul Aufiero — a man obsessed with the New York Giants to the exclusion of all other pursuits — and the rapid collapse of his life after a chance encounter with his favorite player.
Paul is a geek. A stereotypical (as defined by big media) geek. He lives with his mother, is a portly white man in his mid-30s, has no sexual relationships to speak of, and finds personal validation in his interactions with the subject of his fixation. The role works in no small part because Paul is played by Patton Oswalt, a comedian with impeccable geek culture credentials. The only difference between Paul and a stock geek culture character is what Paul geeks out about: sports. And sports, as we all know, are not geeky.
It was little remarked upon at the time, but the convergence of Oswalt’s casting, Paul’s obsessiveness over the Giants, and sports culture signified a new, more relevant understanding of the geek. In the world of Big Fan, the type of media Paul interacts with isn’t what designates him as a geek; it’s how he interacts with it.
We live in a world where comic book movies pull in record breaking box office numbers again and again, where Game of Thrones not only outsells mainstream fiction in book form but draws huge commercial and critical acclaim in television form, and where gatherings such as ComicCon — for years on the furthest periphery of mainstream consciousness — have become places for large scale entertainment news dumps. What was traditionally understood as geek culture is now the mainstream. Geeks are no longer marginalized outsiders; they’re the new normal.
This is hardly a new or novel observation, but it demands a fresh examination of what geekdom actually centers on. Just as Big Fan hints at, it’s instructive to examine interactions between consumers and media rather than the type of media being consumed, especially when it comes to corporate media.
Even by the narrow strictures of what’s traditionally accepted as geek culture, the whole thing isn’t remotely monolithic. The author, a proud participant in traditional geek pursuits, has a particular fondness for pen and paper roleplaying games — placing him below video gamers but on par with Star Trek fans — and enjoys Michael Moorcock, but can’t stand Star Wars, Doctor Who, or superhero comic books. This lack of uniform interests is more common than not; what is portrayed as geek media is diverse, as geeks have varying tastes. If we’ve already fractured geek culture into a thousand cliques and interests, the term “geek culture” loses all meaning beyond one of vague convenience.
If, instead, we begin to look at the geek as someone who allots space for media interest alongside or in place of class, race, or gender identity, then a more meaningful pattern emerges. The geek gives primacy to media consumption, using it as both identifier and lens with which to view the world; what that media happens to look like is irrelevant. The tie that binds geeks of a given strain together is what they choose to buy.
Paul is a geek. A stereotypical (as defined by big media) geek. He lives with his mother, is a portly white man in his mid-30s, has no sexual relationships to speak of, and finds personal validation in his interactions with the subject of his fixation. The role works in no small part because Paul is played by Patton Oswalt, a comedian with impeccable geek culture credentials. The only difference between Paul and a stock geek culture character is what Paul geeks out about: sports. And sports, as we all know, are not geeky.
It was little remarked upon at the time, but the convergence of Oswalt’s casting, Paul’s obsessiveness over the Giants, and sports culture signified a new, more relevant understanding of the geek. In the world of Big Fan, the type of media Paul interacts with isn’t what designates him as a geek; it’s how he interacts with it.
We live in a world where comic book movies pull in record breaking box office numbers again and again, where Game of Thrones not only outsells mainstream fiction in book form but draws huge commercial and critical acclaim in television form, and where gatherings such as ComicCon — for years on the furthest periphery of mainstream consciousness — have become places for large scale entertainment news dumps. What was traditionally understood as geek culture is now the mainstream. Geeks are no longer marginalized outsiders; they’re the new normal.
This is hardly a new or novel observation, but it demands a fresh examination of what geekdom actually centers on. Just as Big Fan hints at, it’s instructive to examine interactions between consumers and media rather than the type of media being consumed, especially when it comes to corporate media.
Even by the narrow strictures of what’s traditionally accepted as geek culture, the whole thing isn’t remotely monolithic. The author, a proud participant in traditional geek pursuits, has a particular fondness for pen and paper roleplaying games — placing him below video gamers but on par with Star Trek fans — and enjoys Michael Moorcock, but can’t stand Star Wars, Doctor Who, or superhero comic books. This lack of uniform interests is more common than not; what is portrayed as geek media is diverse, as geeks have varying tastes. If we’ve already fractured geek culture into a thousand cliques and interests, the term “geek culture” loses all meaning beyond one of vague convenience.
If, instead, we begin to look at the geek as someone who allots space for media interest alongside or in place of class, race, or gender identity, then a more meaningful pattern emerges. The geek gives primacy to media consumption, using it as both identifier and lens with which to view the world; what that media happens to look like is irrelevant. The tie that binds geeks of a given strain together is what they choose to buy.
by Ian Williams, Jacobin | Read more:
Image: Denis Poroy/AP
