Nerds: Stop hating women, please

One comic creator's rant is just the latest example of misogyny in geek culture.

Tony Harris is in no way a household name. But as the artist behind some of the most critically acclaimed comics in the last 20 years, noteably Starman with James Robinson for DC and Ex Machina with Brian K. Vaughan for Wildstorm, he was a hugely respected figure in the industry.

"Was".

Today, Harris posted a rant on his Facebook wall, which was re-posted to Tumblr by Jill Pantozzi, the associate editor of The Mary Sue, a site dedicated to "girl geek culture". Harris writes (and I've not edited this in any way):

I cant remember if Ive said this before, but Im gonna say it anyway. I dont give a crap.I appreciate a pretty Gal as much as the next Hetero Male. Sometimes I even go in for some racy type stuff ( keeping the comments PG for my Ladies sake) but dammit, dammit, dammit I am so sick and tired of the whole COSPLAY-Chiks. I know a few who are actually pretty cool-and BIG Shocker, love and read Comics.So as in all things, they are the exception to the rule. Heres the statement I wanna make, based on THE RULE: "Hey! Quasi-Pretty-NOT-Hot-Girl, you are more pathetic than the REAL Nerds, who YOU secretly think are REALLY PATHETIC. But we are onto you. Some of us are aware that you are ever so average on an everyday basis. But you have a couple of things going your way. You are willing to become almost completely Naked in public, and yer either skinny( Well, some or most of you, THINK you are ) or you have Big Boobies. Notice I didnt say GREAT Boobies? You are what I refer to as "CON-HOT". Well not by my estimation, but according to a LOT of average Comic Book Fans who either RARELY speak to, or NEVER speak to girls. Some Virgins, ALL unconfident when it comes to girls, and the ONE thing they all have in common? The are being preyed on by YOU. You have this really awful need for attention, for people to tell you your pretty, or Hot, and the thought of guys pleasuring themselves to the memory of you hanging on them with your glossy open lips, promising them the Moon and the Stars of pleasure, just makes your head vibrate. After many years of watching this shit go down every 3 seconds around or in front of my booth or table at ANY given Con in the country, I put this together. Well not just me. We are LEGION. And here it is, THE REASON WHY ALL THAT, sickens us: BECAUSE YOU DONT KNOW SHIT ABOUT COMICS, BEYOND WHATEVER GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCH YOU DID TO GET REF ON THE MOST MAINSTREAM CHARACTER WITH THE MOST REVEALING COSTUME EVER. And also, if ANY of these guys that you hang on tried to talk to you out of that Con? You wouldnt give them the fucking time of day. Shut up you damned liar, no you would not. Lying, Liar Face. Yer not Comics. Your just the thing that all the Comic Book, AND mainstream press flock to at Cons. And the real reason for the Con, and the damned costumes yer parading around in? That would be Comic Book Artists, and Comic Book Writers who make all that shit up.

The simple misogyny on display would be enough to ruin most people's view of Harris, to be honest, and to them I apologise for going further into the issue. Clearly, even writing about how great cosplay (dressing up as characters from… well, anything, really. Some great examples here) was, and how welcome female cosplayers were at comic conventions, wouldn't render the tone of this rant any more acceptable.

But the views Harris expresses aren't just held by virulent misogynists – instead, they are depressingly common in "geek culture". Too many nerds have basically internalised the stereotype of themselves as ugly, friendless losers and decided that anyone who doesn't fit that stereotype – particularly women – is a "fake geek", taking advantage of the fact that being a geek is now "cool".

The stereotype has been bubbling around various geek cultures – gamers, comics and sci-fi fans, and even niche ones like board- and tabletop-gaming enthusiasts – for some time, and a number of pieces have been written about the damage it does to women in the community. The Mary Sue's Susana Polo, for instance, says it better than I could:

I understand the desire to weed the “posers” out of your personal life and interactions. But I have never, actually, in the flesh, met a “fake” geek girl. Or guy. I don’t think those people actually exist outside of painful daytime news segments, the occasional job interview (where, in this economy, I’ll excuse anybody for trying to be a little bit of something they’re not), and internet memes. But I understand.

But who are you to say that a stranger, someone you’re never likely to meet, is not genuinely interested in the thing they appear to be interested in? Who are you? I just… what? I’m rendered incoherent. Here at the Mary Sue, when an actress goes on a talk show and describes her personal affection and involvement and enjoyment and FANDOM for geek properties, we take it at face value. Why? Because we don’t actually have a reason not to. Because the alternative breeds a closed community of paranoid, elitist jerks who lash out at anyone new.

The proper response to someone who says they like comics and has only read Scott Pilgrim is to recommend some more comics for them. The proper response to someone who appears to be faking enthusiasm is to ignore them and not project their actions on an entire gender or community. The proper response to someone who appears to want to be a part of your community is to welcome them in. End of story.

And the same applies to this specific example. Jamie McKelvie, designer of the much-cosplayed Captain Marvel, reiterates:

I've never met a cosplayer who isn't a massive fan of the thing they are cosplaying. Also: some of the sweetest people you could meet.

But here's the thing: even if the cosplayer has never read any comics other than the one they're dressed up as – even if they've never read any comics at all, and just enjoy the dressing up – it doesn't matter. Nobody is going to take your hobby away. At worst, at absolute worst, it is someone finding enjoyment in a different aspect of something you like. At best, as Polo says, it is a future friend, someone who could be a part of your community, and someone to spread your love to.

Or maybe some nerds just don't want women in the clubhouse.

Tracy Ho and Demir Oral cosplay at Comic-Con 2011. Photograph: Getty Images

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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Folk horror, a history: from The Wicker Man to The League of Gentlemen

Author Adam Scovell’s tone is perfectly pitched between articulate academic and box-set binger.

In 1801, the proportion of the population of England and Wales living in towns and cities was just 17 per cent, but by the close of that century, as landowners were displaced and industry boomed, it had jumped to 72 per cent. The most recent UK census showed that 81.5 per cent of the population of England and Wales now live in urban areas, with less than 10 per cent residing in what would qualify as villages or hamlets.

This mass movement from agricultural to post-industrial life has detached us from the land that fed and clothed us for thousands of years, with the countryside becoming increasingly alien territory, avoided or misunderstood by those who have little contact with mud, dead animals, or the stench of excrement. Such urbanites have scant knowledge of farming or food production and patronise ancient local traditions. They are unnerved by the space, the silence. They fear their countryside, their own past.

Folk horror plays on such fears and explores the narratives lost during this migratory shift. Though its origins surely stretch back to the fireside telling of cautionary tales, the genre as we recognise it now was first named as recently as 2003, during an interview with Piers Haggard, the director of The Blood on Satan’s Claw (1971), and subsequently crystallised by Mark Gatiss in his 2010 BBC4 series A History of Horror.

In his comprehensive study, the writer and film-maker Adam Scovell, like Gatiss, identifies Haggard’s film and the two with which it forms an unholy trinity – Witchfinder General (1968) and The Wicker Man (1973) – as the first links in a “folk-horror chain” that continues to run through film and alternative pop culture. But it’s a chain that is intuitive rather than formally identifiable. Folk horror is a feeling. Those who know know. Scovell cites the writer and illustrator Andy Paciorek’s definition: “One may as well attempt to build a box the exact shape of mist; for like the mist, folk horror is atmospheric and sinuous. It can creep from and into different territories yet leave no universal defining mark of its exact form.”

The continued resonance of these films lies in the social climate of their creation, with 21st-century folk horror’s foundations laid during a late-Sixties counterculture in which attempts were made to reverse the creeping urbanisation and reject war-torn modernity for simpler rural lives of wholefood, weed, barefooted children and The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter by the Incredible String Band on repeat.

It is best exemplified by the clash of pagan and Christian belief systems in the post-Manson communal climate of The Wicker Man, in which Edward Woodward’s virginal policeman is lured to a promiscuous Scottish island whose fruit crop is ailing, in order to investigate the suspected sacrifice of a child, only to become the sacrifice himself. Scovell notes that the film asks not only what could have been, but tells us: “It can be, right now, if you want it.” Its combination of “esoteric belief systems with free-love eroticism” is entirely credible.

Folk horror has gained greater traction in a new century defined by financial crises, terrorist attacks and digital threats. It offers a double dose of nostalgia – not only for those wonderful novels of Alan Garner or Susan Cooper, which invited children to exist in worlds neither adolescent nor adult but simply other, or Play for Today episodes such as A Photograph and Penda’s Fen, or the uncompromising public information films of the 1970s – but also for a Hardy-esque idea of an England of foaming ale and romps in the hayricks during harvest, perhaps this time with the benefits of modern medicine and multiculturalism. The folk-horror chain offers continuity and a reconnection with a romanticised rural past.

Scovell, who writes essays for the British Film Institute and has collaborated on films with the landscape writer Robert Macfarlane, is a keen-eyed and enthusiastic curator, his tone perfectly pitched between that of the articulate academic and the box-set binger. He knows that folk horror provides succour as well as visceral thrills and draws clear links between topography, rurality and emerging “hauntology” theory. He spawns new terms, too, such as “eso-erotic” for sexual subtexts, or  “occultivation” for those dark works concerned with the violence that arises when old agricultural ways are challenged by “progress”.

Consideration is rightly afforded to such films as David Gladwell’s moving Requiem for a Village (1975), in which a Suffolk village is consumed by suburbia, and whose dead literally rise in defiance, as well as the many BBC adaptations of M R James’s ghost stories and the man-as-meddler dramas of Nigel Kneale. Foreign directors see Britain with fresh eyes: Jerzy Skolimowski’s The Shout (1978) and Roman Polanski’s Northumberland-set Cul-de-Sac (1966) are two psycho-landscape masterworks.

What emerges is the notion of a body of work concerned with conflict – between past and present, religious and atheist, physical and spiritual. Folk horror represents a fear of being governed by outside forces while exploring identity confusion.

Scovell also examines contemporary additions to the canon. Although today’s interconnectivity would destroy many a plot line of old, he notes that social media have created new fears, primarily that of the isolation one experiences when deprived of one’s technological dummy. The spirit of folk horror is alive and well in Richard Littler’s wry fictional town of Scarfolk, the Ghost Box record label, the films of Ben Wheatley and Ben Rivers, and the music of English Heretic, Laura Cannell and Richard Dawson. It will, one assumes, also be apparent in the rumoured reunion of The League of Gentlemen, the original success of which could be argued to have instigated the current fascination for folk horror.

Indeed, the comedy’s idea of parochialism as a malevolent force, shared by so many works cited here, is telling. If folk horror playfully revels in all things rural/local, it is by definition the enemy of globalisation and capitalism. For some of us, the idea of our island becoming little more than a series of interlinked retail parks with its countryside reduced to a brisk, cordoned-off procession around some Neolithic standing stones is a far more horrific prospect than the fantastical powers of an unearthed relic, ancient rituals or rustling in the hedgerow. And, let’s face it, it’s more likely, too.

Ben Myers’s latest novel “The Gallows Pole” is published by Bluemoose Books

Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and Things Strange
Adam Scovell
Auteur, 216pp, £18.99​

Ben Myers’ novels include Pig Iron and Richard, a Sunday Times book of the year. His writing has appeared in The Guardian, NME, Mojo, Time Out, 3:AM Magazine, Caught By The River and many others. www.benmyersmanofletters.blogspot.com

This article first appeared in the 13 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Maybot malfunctions