Previously on “Downloading Serial”…

I raised the concern that information was being withheld from us listeners to make for a more engaging narrative, and suggested that such withholding makes for great storytelling, but problematic journalism. After two more episodes, I’ve found that the question of withholding information has receded in my thoughts about Serial, replaced by another more complex (and I think interesting) question: when are we?

Before diving into the “when” of this question and tackling the topic of temporality, let me first ruminate on the “we”—who is being situated in Serial’s complex timeframes? Recent episodes have cemented my sense that Sarah Koenig is our protagonist and first-person narrator, and she is hailing us to join her in this story. Early in episode 4, Koenig makes this address clear: “If you want to figure out this case with me, now is the time to start paying close attention because we have arrived, along with the detectives, at the heart of the thing.” This moment stood out for me, evoking the kind of direct address common to 19^th century literature, the first golden age of seriality—it is Koenig saying “Dear Reader” to us, a phrase that Garrett Stewart frames as “the conscripted audience,” taking us into her confidence and accessing her subjectivity.

So Koenig is a surrogate for “we,” and like with most first-person narrators, we have access to her perspectives and experience, and lack access to anything beyond her knowledge. But she is also the text’s author, possessing a broader knowledge of the case than she is sharing with us—Koenig asks for our trust, assuring us that the details she leaves out (like the late night cell phone timeline) are irrelevant, and that loose threads (like the call to Nisha) will be addressed in due time. And still I cannot stop from wondering what she knows and isn’t sharing with us (yet). This tension is productive in fiction, as we wonder about the knowledge and perspective between narrator and author; in documentary, we are to assume there is none, or at least it is irrelevant.

But Serial relies on the tropes and styles of serialized fiction enough that I did start to think actively about that gap at one moment in episode 5: Koenig is driving and monologuing, deep in the weeds about reconstructing the post-murder timeline, and her fellow producer Dana Chivvis says, “There’s a shrimp sale at the Crab Crib”; Koenig deadpans in reply, “Sometimes I think that Dana isn’t listening to me.” If this were fiction, I would seize this moment to explore the possibility of an unreliable narrator, where the investigator’s obsessions start overtaking her rationality and sense of perspective on the case, coloring our own attitudes and perceptions, with Chivvis signaling that we maybe shouldn’t listen to her so intently. Maybe that is what is happening, and the narration is clueing us in to Koenig’s growing immersion and personal involvement, but as of yet, her presentation seems to clearly earn our trust and confidence more than our doubts and reservations.

So if “we” are Koenig’s conscripted audience, riding alongside her as she works the case, when are we as the podcast unfurls? Temporality is central to any medium with a fixed presentational timeframe, as filmmakers, radio and television producers, and game designers all work to manage the temporal experience of audiences more than writers can do with the more variable process of reading. But serial structure is wholly defined by its timeframe, constituted by the gaps between installments that generate anticipation and insist on patience, where that time is used to think about, discuss, and participate in the web of textuality that seriality encourages—see for instance the robust Reddit thread about Serial, complete with fan-generated transcripts and timelines evocative of the “forensic fandom” I have studied concerning television serial fiction. So the consumption of a serial always foregrounds its “when” to some degree.

A listener-created timeline shows forensic fandom at work, but in the realm of actual forensics

Serial explicitly foregrounded its “when” this last episode, as Koenig works to walk us through the presumed timeline of Hae’s death and the alleged actions of Jay and Adnan. As she does this, the podcast constantly toggles between multiple timeframes: the possible events of January 13, 1999, the testimonies and interviews recorded throughout 1999 and 2000 as part of the investigation and trial, Koenig’s interviews with Adnan and others over the course of the last year, and the current weekly production of the podcast. This question of temporality is clearly on the mind of many listeners—Chivvis responds to listeners wanting to binge listen to the whole season by noting that they are still producing each week’s episode, thus “when you listen each week, the truth is that you’re actually not all that far behind us.” So we are situated at a similar “when” to the producers in terms of final product, but they are clearly far ahead of us in terms of the process of reporting, researching, and knowledge. (Chivvis’s post also highlights a dangling thread that I may pick up in a future installment, as I believe the rise of binge-watching in television via Netflix-style full-season releases actually removes the seriality from serial television, whereas Serial aggressively foregrounds its seriality. But that’s for another when…)

While I raised the question in my last post about the lack of clear structure, I feel like that structure is now becoming clearer. Each episode, aside from the first which has a more sprawling focus, takes a step forward in the basic timetable of the case: the relationship between Hae and Adnan before the murder, the discovery of Hae’s body, the police arresting Adnan, and now the reconstruction of the alleged events per the police’s case—next week is called “The Case Against Adnan Syed,” suggesting that the prosecution will soon rest. But the storytelling is not limited to this 1999 progression, as Koenig interweaves her own contemporary reporting, interviews, and reconstructions into the recordings and documents from the past. So we are always in multiple timelines, even as the core case unwinds with some structuring chronology. But given that we are left to live in the contemporary serial gaps each week, our anticipation becomes restless, knowing that the producers have more of the past spooled up to reveal, even if we are “actually not all that far behind” them in the present. I, for one, grow impatient to know what is already known about the past, even if we are not too far behind the process of audio reconstruction.**

So as I wait out another week to try in vain to catch up to the producers, one thing I will be ruminating on is the role of characters beyond Koenig. We are invested in learning the events of the murder and trial, but perhaps even more so, in trying to get a sense of who these people are and why they did what they did. Obviously we’ve learned a lot about Adnan, even without a definitive sense of what we know is true or not, but what about Jay? We still don’t know much about who he was before the events (not even his last name), and unlike nearly everyone else we’ve encountered, we know absolutely nothing about what has happened to him after the trial. Why haven’t they revealed that part of the story? Are they trying to protect potential twists in the story still to come, or to protect an innocent person who might be wrongly attacked by an angry listenership? Has Koenig talked to him, or has he not consented to this story? And what do we have the right to know as listeners riding alongside Koenig’s journey?

Next time, on “Downloading Serial”…

** And in a clear case of dueling authorial “whens,” after I finished the first draft of this post, I read Hanna Rosin’s excellent post about the latest episode, which raises many points similar to mine concerning Koenig’s role as narrator and journalist, as well as her timeframe in relation to the reporting process. But I assure you, Dear Reader, I wrote the above before reading Rosin, even as I write this addendum after.

Part Two: Here

Why map the relationship between media industries, audiences, and texts? Why has media and cultural studies not adopted a mass communication model for reception studies, although survey research is accurate at predicting and assessing responses to content?

According to Julie D’Acci, Evjue Bascom Professor of Gender & Women’s Studies and longtime faculty at UW’s Media and Cultural Studies program, the answer is less due to differences in disciplinary approach than a methodological aporia. Since the 1970s, the field of media studies has attempted to understand the process by which distinct case “spheres”—social relation, industrial production, textual distribution, and content reception— might become a unified disciplinary focus. John Fiske, the subject of the first posts in this series, showed that “discourses” rely upon continued circulation of perspective to remain as coherent cultural forms. Julie D’Acci’s work has set out to correct one of the primary problems in media studies: reconciling why an examination of “process” inadvertently reverts to a de-politicized analysis of “object”.

When researchers only focus “case studies” on one of the four spheres, such work has tended to exaggerate a phenomenon at hand. This problem, which might simply be called “overemphasis”, has the unintended effect of concealing broader social effects of a phenomenon. Further, the methodological shift to a descriptive case study approach has increased concurrently to a decline in the political investments that characterized media studies between the 1970s and 1990s. Julie D’Acci argues that attention to the temporality of inter-mediation might provide compelling incentive to not only account for the dynamic between “industry” and “consumer”, but “social institution” and “cultural agent”. An analysis of the relation between culture, industry, reception, and text, usually referred to as “mapping”, is imbued by ethical imperatives because phenomena are already deeply immersed in discursive struggles over recognition, popular opinion, and cultural emergence. Such a study requires the difficult innovation of a holistic solution-based methodology.

Time or Effect?

The Birmingham School persuasively expanded the concept of “the public” to include “the popular”, the everyday ways that emergent discourses position as tangible forms, through the circulation of their perspective. As was noted by Raymond Williams, the philosophical problem of “emergence” requires a concept of “time”, for which Williams identified “residual”, “emergent”, and “dominant” relations. Yet his tripart analysis of temporality sometimes distracts focus from the fact that most temporality accounted for in cultural studies research is emergent. “Emergence”, like the concept “discourse”, acts as shorthand for a larger argument central to the cultural study of media: that internal change is implicit to any bloc formation, and that codification, representation, and circulation are central to bloc identity. Strategic action in the cultural sphere can influence discourses as they adjust and readjust to social phenomena.

An important contrast well-understood but not often cited is that media effects research began much in the same way, but has harnessed different methods for evaluation. Indeed, mass communications research is extremely accurate at assessing phenomena, and is further distinguished from cultural studies by its ability to divide and subdivide demographic results. Knowledge of demographic reception trends can be applied to social/political platforms with advanced prediction of receptive outcome. Political parties use this approach, and commercial networks have been conducting varied forms of survey research since the 1930s. Since “media industries” largely thrive thanks to quantitative analysis, why has “media industry studies” resisted a similar approach? Why focus on transitions, translations, and transferences instead of just detailing objects and effects?

According to discursive evaluation, the answer can be found in the question of when. Both cultural studies and media effects are capable of some degree of prediction. The difference comes from cultural studies’ belief that the contours of the object studied shifts proportionate to the relation that has been identified. Accordingly, the researcher must approach any question of object identity with some degree of reflexivity, not just in adjustment of methodological application, but also in the limits identified regarding the social effects of their project. An “effect” is an ossified time, with utility as a comparative precedent. “Emergence” is a negotiated time, with broader capacity to account for non-quantifiable aspirations, investments, and identities.

D’Acci’s major contribution to the working concept of “emergence” comes in her expansion of how dialectical temporality is negotiated as proximities of exchange, between specific spheres of study. A working concept of temporality sheds light on the duration of an exchange and possibilities for intervention during discursive adjustment.

Theorizing Performative Circulation: the Polity of Cagney and Lacey

Changes that take place empirically, in relation and in perception, constitute the conditions of the study of mediation, as mediation transitions into a tangible form. This is usually referred to as “circulation” in media studies. Assumptions, inequities, and precedents are written into these processes, and researchers spend careful time assessing where inequities take place. Cultural circulations of inequities are notoriously difficult to locate. Social contradictions often take place implicitly within exchanges, and are revealed only subtly and in passing. Any ossifying survey or case study will delimit the complexity of an event with the purview of the question asked; and as time passes, survey results reflect traces of context.

By accounting for exchanges between spheres, a theory of cultural time emerges in which the line of sight focuses not only on effects or political outcomes, but the performantive dimensions that take place during discursive adjustment. In other words, the tenor of temporal performances between circulating media spheres is not only constituted by exchange between production cultures and receptive communities. Gender performances, according to Julie D’Acci’s text on Cagney and Lacey, are central to and indicative of temporal processes. What is circulated by industries are ostensibly coherent representations of emergent processes. At no point in a holistic analysis of mediation does any specific sphere act as an essentialized cause, though degrees of relative stability are achieved during the mediating process, dependent upon the context of exchange. Thus it remains imperative that broader social investments act as a central impulse for media research, instead of fidelity to legitimize one category or another. Once media analyses struggle to emphasize “originary” cause within the social process, it only can lead to a push and pull over the primacy of a preferred sphere.

The current danger facing media studies comes from the assumption that a legitimation project must emulate a mass communication paradigm in emphasis, by re-appropriating the question of temporality as descriptive reporting of events after the fact, without the same rigor for empirical triangulation one finds in mass communication departments. The survey technique is quite effective for analytic communications, and cultural studies should not underestimate the progress made by that discipline. But for a cultural model to remain sustainable and viable, research must not seek to favor one causative explanation. If part of cultural research includes an investment in contributing to the reconciliation of social contradictions, a capacity to “map” purposively helps to avoid the unintentional reproduction of dominant paradigms.

The next post in this series will focus on D’Acci’s re-framing of Richard Johnson’s “circuit model” as method for mapping the sublimation process of industry studies.

*Thank you to Julie D’Acci for her help in development of this piece.

Previous installments of “On (The) Wisconsin Discourses” on John Fiske can be found here and here.

One of the primary characteristics of television is its liveness, the ways in which the medium constructs a sense of presence and immediacy. McPherson adapts this idea for web environments by calling it “liveness with a difference,” highlighting how the web “structures a sense of causality in relation to liveness, [making it one where] we navigate and move through, often structuring a feeling that our own desire drives the moment” (462). She underlines the “volitional mobility” afforded by the Internet, the ways in which user experiences destabilize the orthodoxy of linearity and narrative that attend the consumption of other moving image media. That said, my experience streaming television feels more like “liveness with a lag.” Not only do I have to wait for clips to load before I can watch anything, but I am almost always watching dated content. And I can’t watch many of the things I want to because they are simply unavailable with the Roku technology—to say nothing of the frequency with which the device “freezes” when moving between channels. I am constantly rebooting it in an effort to get it to work properly and then waiting for the content to restart again.

Using Roku, it becomes clear that the liveness afforded by streaming television is hemmed in by the political economy of the medium. The industry practices that structure the experiences of streaming television are still in a state of “becoming.” Not everything streams, and when it does, it’s often older content re-circulated for this new platform. Moreover, devices that sync existing television sets with the Internet are imperfect technologies. The protocols for streaming television are tremendously in flux and seem to change with every corporate quarterly announcement and marketplace product launch. Nevertheless, the facts remains: there’s simply less contemporary television programming available via this new mode of distribution. In addition, it can involve the tricky enterprise of syncing an analog technology—my old, beloved TV set—with a digital stream. These two entities are not always a perfect match.

The moral of this particular story: be careful what you wish for. I saved money by cord-cutting and using Roku is, in many ways, similar to watching television as I always have. But it is different enough that I want to go back. I recently moved into a new apartment in a new state. Calling the cable company to set up service was at the very top of my “to-do” list. Of course, I need to wait nearly three weeks for installation. This seems especially cruel after a year that often felt like I was watching television on delay.

Mission accomplished? Kind of. This isn’t a story that can be boiled down to dollars and cents, though. Streaming television over the Internet involves many continuities with how I’d consumed TV for decades prior. But it also precipitated important changes in my consumption habits that warrant mention here. These continuities and differences are imbricated in developing industry practices related to the release of television content online, as well as technological developments in the convergence of television and the Internet via digital devices.

I follow Tara McPherson’s lead in “Reload: Liveness, Mobility, and the Web” where she describes the experience of consuming media in digital environments. In that essay, McPherson is interested in “exploring the specificity of the experience of using the web, of the web as mediator between human and machine, of the web as a technology of experience” so that she may describe the phenomenology of using the Internet to screen moving image media (460). My focus is on one iteration of the activities she describes: watching television over the Internet via a Roku box. Like McPherson, I am interested in the ways that “new” technology both continue and confound the experience of “old” media: what feels different and what changes, but also what feels similar and what remains the same. More pointedly, I want to use McPherson’s thoughts to explicate the feelings of liveness that attend streaming television online.

Receiving a television signal over the Internet via Roku involves several residual elements of television practice. With a Roku box, the consumer browses from a menu, selecting which services to add: Hulu, Netflix, Amazon, Crackle, and so on. This feels similar to picking service packages from a cable company: premium vs. basic, etc. Once these “channels” are chosen, Roku users can browse within them for content. This too is reminiscent of more traditional modes of television viewing; it’s like “zapping” until you find something you like—Roku even provides an “old school” remote. After a program is selected, the television screen goes blank and loads the program like an Internet clip, complete with a “Loading, Please Wait…” message. When this would happen, I felt as though I was waiting for commercials to end and “the real program” to start. Thus, protocols for TV distribution and reception developed in earlier contexts continue to shape viewers’ experiences with the medium in the instance of streaming TV online. Well-established paradigms for television spectatorship—changing channels, browsing for programs, waiting for a narrative to begin—still shape the practice of viewing television with a Roku box.

Yet for all of the continuities with prior modes of consuming television, my viewing experiences changed dramatically upon installing my Roku. By nature, I am a television grazer. I typically turn on the set and “zap” until I find something I like. But with the Roku, such grazing is more difficult. The technology’s design prevents users from simply turning on the television and finding programming already in progress. With Roku, every time you turn on the TV, you need to select content, wait for it to load, and only then can you actually watch anything. McPherson calls this the “scan and search” nature of web environments, the ways in which users can call up content at will. While this is characteristic of the ways that many people consume moving image media on the Internet, it isn’t characteristic of the way that I typically watch television. If “convergence” is often the term used to describe television practice in the contemporary moment, using a Roku box pointed to the divergence in the ways that I consume television vs. the ways I use the Internet. In part two, I will directly address issues related to available content and liveness.