Division of Arts and Humanities

The ‘Forgotten War’ asks to be remembered

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 24 Jun 2025 19:25:31 +0000

The ‘Forgotten War’ asks to be remembered Rachel Sauer Tue, 06/24/2025 - 13:25

Cody DeBos

On the 75th anniversary of the United States entering the Korean War, CU Boulder war and morality scholar David Youkey discusses the cost of the ‘forgotten war’

Seventy-five years ago this month, on June 27, 1950, President Harry S. Truman ordered U.S. troops to the Korean Peninsula. North Korea had invaded the South just two days earlier, and with that decision, the United States entered a conflict that would claim millions of lives on its way to fading from the collective memory of the American public.

The Korean War, often called “The Forgotten War,” rarely features in Hollywood productions or history classrooms. But David Youkey, a CU Boulder associate teaching professor of philosophy who teaches the course War and Morality, believes it deserves a closer look.

“Being eclipsed by Vietnam is a major factor (in why the Korean war is often overlooked), but I’m not sure it’s the whole story,” he says.

David Youkey, a CU Boulder associate teaching professor of philosophy, studies applied ethics, including war and morality.

What makes a ‘just’ war?

In Youkey’s class, students examine centuries of moral and philosophical reasoning about when it is permissible to go to war and how wars should be conducted. One key concept, the just war theory, traces back to ancient philosophy, but its definitions were sharpened in the 20th century by the horrors of the world wars and the Geneva Conventions.

“Concerning justice of war, the idea is that only wars of defense are justified,” Youkey says, “and just war theory tends to define ‘defense’ very narrowly.”

This idea looks beyond the events preceding a conflict.

Youkey explains, “Within just war theory there is a basic distinction between justice of war, and justice in war. That is to say, the war itself might be just, but behaviors within the war might be unjust.”

Even a war that begins for morally sound reasons can turn morally questionable when boots—or bombs—hit the ground. Take the decision to drop atomic bombs on Japan at the end of World War II or the firebombing campaigns that killed hundreds of thousands of civilians in the preceding days. These actions may have helped end the war, specifically one the U.S. was “justly” involved in after Japanese attacks on Pearl Harbor, but they raise enduring moral questions.

“The most important idea is that civilians are off limits,” Youkey says. “There will be accidental civilian casualties in any war—that’s acknowledged. But civilians cannot be directly targeted, and the warring parties should do what they can to minimize civilian casualties.”

A morally gray conflict

So, how does the Korean War measure up under the framework of just war theory?

“I’d say, if we narrowly focus on South Korea defending itself from the North, that’s justified by just war theory. But the larger context is this Cold War element,” Youkey says.

North Korea’s invasion was a clear act of aggression, he notes. Therefore, South Korea’s response can be seen as just. But when it comes to U.S. intervention, the lines begin to blur. At the end of WWII, the Korean Peninsula was divided at the 38th parallel not by the Korean people, but by external powers—namely the United States and the Soviet Union.

“Were we in Korea to defend the universal human rights of the Korean people, or were we there because we didn’t like the ideologies of the Soviets and the Chinese?” Youkey asks. “Some of both, probably, but just war theory would only support the first.”

Then there’s the matter of how the Korean war was fought.

Soldiers of the 3rd Battalion, 34th Infantry Regiment, 35th Infantry Division take cover behind rocks to shield themselves from exploding mortar shells, near the Hantan River in central Korea. (Photo: Library of Congress)

“Apparently, McArthur gave the order to burn North Korea to the ground, and the same firebombing tactic used against Japan in World War II was imported to Korea. Again, from the point of view of just war theory, civilians are off limits,” Youkey says.

He adds, “It’s hard to understand how to interpret the scorched earth strategy used against North Korea except as an atrocity.”

What forgetting costs us

Youkey is less interested in labeling wars as “good” or “bad” than he is in encouraging critical moral reflection. Such introspection becomes even more imperative when a war fades from public memory.

“The U.S. military is currently, and has for a long time been, involved in conflicts all over the planet, and few civilians pay attention,” he says.

“How many military conflicts have we been involved with recently in Africa where the average American citizen has no idea? That’s not history. It’s stuff going on right now.”

That same forgetfulness—or perhaps willful ignorance, Youkey says—helps explain why the Korean War receives so little attention in our national memory despite its massive human and political costs. Remembering Korea only as a footnote to Vietnam or the Cold War limits our ability to engage with its moral complexity—and to question the long-term consequences of outside intervention.

“There are plenty of movies out there about the heroic deeds of U.S. troops in World War II. And there certainly were a lot of heroic deeds. But we also intentionally murdered hundreds of thousands of Japanese civilians during the firebombings, a strategy we later exported to Korea and then to Vietnam,” Youkey says.

He argues that when wars are remembered selectively, often highlighting heroism while omitting brutality, our understanding of history becomes distorted.

Memory and maturity

If there is a lesson to draw from the Korean War 75 years later, reflecting on just war theory alone won’t teach it. Rather, Youkey says he hopes to see a collective cultivation of the moral maturity needed to seek peaceful solutions before conflict happens.

“I do believe there is such a thing as just war. And the world would be better off if more of its nations paid attention to just war theory,” he says. “But we really ought to be moving toward a world where diplomatic solutions are the focus.”

Realizing that vision requires a seismic moral shift in how Americans think about global conflict, he adds. Remembering wars like Korea—those living in shadows of more iconic battles—pushes us to look beyond easy right-versus-wrong debates. It reminds us that even wars waged with justification leave behind legacies of destruction.

As Youkey suggests, the burden of memory is not to glorify the past but to help us imagine a better future where we don’t repeat—or forget—our mistakes.

Did you enjoy this article? Subscribe to our newsletter. Passionate about philosophy? Show your support.

On the 75th anniversary of the United States entering the Korean War, CU Boulder war and morality scholar David Youkey discusses the cost of the ‘forgotten war.’

Traditional

White

Top image: Father Emil Kapaun (right) and Capt. Jerome A. Dolan (left), a medical officer, help an exhausted GI off a battlefield in Korea. (Photo: Catholic Diocese of Wichita)

Artist features the beauty of nature on a 140-foot canvas

Rachel Sauer — Fri, 20 Jun 2025 15:21:21 +0000

Artist features the beauty of nature on a 140-foot canvas Rachel Sauer Fri, 06/20/2025 - 09:21

Rachel Sauer

‘The Tender Hand of the Unseen,’ an immersive video installation by CU Boulder artist Molly Valentine Dierks, is featured through June on D&F Tower in downtown Denver

It happens most often in autumn and winter, when large flocks of starlings roost in protected spots like woodlands, marshes and even buildings. Before settling for the night, often in the gloaming twilight, they sometimes paint the sky in formations called murmurations.

Hundreds—sometimes thousands—of starlings dance in undulating, ever-shifting shapes, a spontaneous choreography that fills the sky like the liquid fall of silk.

One day after class while she was earning her MFA at the University of Michigan, Molly Valentine Dierks saw a murmuration of starlings. She pulled out her phone to capture it—footage that wasn’t as good as she’d like it to be but that nevertheless captured a transcendent moment of ephemeral sculpture in the sky.

Molly Valentine Dierks is an assistant teaching professor in the CU Boulder Department of Art and Art History.

Memories of that murmuration guided her in creating “The Tender Hand of the Unseen,” an immersive video installation that is a featured work through June on D&F Tower in downtown Denver, part of the Night Lights Denver program.

For Dierks, an assistant teaching professor in the �� Department of Art and Art History, her work represents a confluence of many influences, musing on the nature of time and referencing periods of growth and rebirth.

As a sculptor and interdisciplinary artist, “and also a nature geek—I’m really interested in the idea of this physical sculptural performance in the sky,” Dierks explains. “They’re stunning, the patterns are beautiful, the way that they change is really gorgeous, plus there’s something about the idea of moving intuitively as a group that I think as human beings we don’t have or we’re not comfortable with. This society of beings is so in sync with one another that they can move as a fluid unit, and it’s also performance and also art.

If you go

What: "The Tender Hand of the Unseen" immersive video installation

Where: D&F Tower, 1601 Arapahoe Street, downtown Denver

When: Evenings through June

Learn more

“As an artist and educator, particularly in the classroom I really encourage my students to get in touch with their intuition and develop spiritual understanding of who they are. For me, as an artist, there’s something about looking at big flocks of birds that gets me in that state. We’re all so comfortable looking at screens, for example, but as a society we’re not really encouraged to just look at sky. (This piece) is an excuse to encourage people to look at sky, even though it's a screen that is sneakily subverting that tension.”

A 140-foot canvas

Public, site-specific art and installations are defining aspects of Dierks’ practice for their ability to foster healing, stillness and growth, she explains. So, when a friend told her about the Night Lights Denver program, she contacted the curator, David Moke, with her idea for a large-scale installation focused on starling murmurations.

When her proposal was accepted, the work of art began. The murmuration she recorded in Michigan didn’t work—there were a lot of trees in the way—so she worked with footage shot in the Netherlands that would be crisp and clear when projected onto the side of D&F Tower, a 140-foot canvas.

Molly Valentine Dierks' immersive video installation "The Tender Hand of the Unseen" will show on D&F Tower in downtown Denver through June. (Photos: Molly Valentine Dierks)

She manipulated and sculpted the footage on her computer, then did test projections from the parking garage near the tower that houses the Night Lights Denver projection center.

“I would bring a thumb drive with an hour-and-a-half of tests, and I just sat there and took a bunch of notes to figure out the best settings,” Dierks says. “(The footage) was taken at different times of day and in different weather conditions, so I could start to see that if the background was too dark or too blue or too purple, I couldn’t see the starlings as well as I wanted.

“I played with timing as well, slowing the footage down in spots and thinking about grains of sand or sand in a timer. I was looking for crescendos—not just contrast and brightness, but does it feel like a piece of music?”

The tender hand

The name of the work is a line from the poem “On Pain” by Kahlil Gibran, which also says:

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.

“We all go through difficult times: we go through grief, we go through breakups, and I found poetry kind of a resting spot for me,” Dierks explains. “I could read a poem and get outside the nuts and bolts and bureaucracy of everyday life and get to the heart of what I feel, after a while I started naming my pieces after lines in poems that spoke to me about certain stages in my life.”

In describing the work, Dierks wrote, “The work is my way of confronting a socially fractured landscape, where screens more frequently mediate our understanding of self … overshadowing more embodied connections to each other and the natural world.”

The piece is Dierks’ first large-scale projection, and although there’s really nowhere to hide with a 140-foot public canvas, Dierks says she wouldn’t want to. “There’s something really nice when you install in public, outside of the art world, (where) people don’t have to go to a gallery … I prefer it in a lot of ways.

“(D&F Tower) is in this beautiful area on 16th Street and there’s a park so people can walk around and look at it. When I did the first test last August, I could see people stopping and looking at it, looking at these beautiful formations, these birds in flight—just taking that moment to stop and look.”

Did you enjoy this article? Subscribe to our newsletter. Passionate about art and art history? Show your support.

‘The Tender Hand of the Unseen,’ an immersive video installation by CU Boulder artist Molly Valentine Dierks, is featured through June on D&F Tower in downtown Denver.

Traditional

White

What’s more hardcore than history?

Rachel Sauer — Wed, 18 Jun 2025 22:24:13 +0000

What’s more hardcore than history? Rachel Sauer Wed, 06/18/2025 - 16:24

CU Boulder alumnus Dan Carlin brings a love of history and a punk sensibility to a new season of “The Ampersand” as he discusses his hit podcast, Hardcore History

Listen to The Ampersand

There are a lot of places to experience punk: in the dim, smoky basement of Club 88 in Los Angeles in 1983, listening to a then-little-known band called NOFX, but also on the ancient battlefields of Britannia, where Briton warriors drew their swords against the invading Romans.

In the first scenario, Dan Carlin was actually there wearing his signature black T-shirt and Orioles cap. The battlefield? He visits it in his vivid imagination (still in a black T-shirt and ball cap)—drinking in the details and drawing a sensory-rich narrative from historical texts and records.

CU Boulder history graduate Dan Carlin brings a punk sensibility to his wildly popular podcast, Hardcore History.

Carlin, a �� history graduate, is something of a journalist of the past—a punk rock kid who became a punk rock adult who brings that counterculture ethos to Hardcore History, among the most popular podcasts in the United States with millions of downloads per episode.

He recently joined host Erika Randall, CU Boulder interim dean of undergraduate education and professor of dance, to kick off a new season of "The Ampersand,” the College of Arts and Sciences podcast. Randall joins guests in exploring stories about “ANDing” as a “full sensory verb” that describes experience and possibility.

Their conversation covered everything from creativity to punk rock to a dog named Mrs. Brown.

DAN CARLIN: So, what makes the past interesting is not so much that it's just, oh, here's a wild story from the past. It's that even though—what did Shakespeare say? Right, "All the world's a stage, and all the people merely players"—the people in the story are people just like we are.

And so, the ability to touch base with something that is otherwise impossible for us to relate to, right, the past is a foreign country, as the saying goes. They do things differently there. Trying to imagine living in a society where they perform human sacrifice, for example, is not possible for us. But you can start to realize that the people in the story are the same as we were.

And if you took a human infant out of the incubator at your local hospital, put them in a time machine, sent them back in the past to a time where people enjoyed visiting public executions, and that child was raised in that culture, they, too, would enjoy going to public executions. So, genetically speaking, we're the same people. And I think that's the end toward understanding the past. I mean, if people ever end up on Mars someday, we might not be able to imagine what it's like to be on Mars. But we can imagine what it's like to be people, even on Mars.

ERIKA RANDALL: I teach dance history, and it really, to me, is about the people and then the context, right, and the people who are next to the people, and how going to see a World's Fair was akin to having access to the world wide web because you suddenly got to be in a moment in time. In the 1900s, all these people came together, and then the forum changed.

So, to say that with just dates and facts but not to go, “Imagine that in this moment Loie Fuller is there with Marie Curie at the same event, running into each other. And look at what that did to dance. Look how technology and art, creativity and science came together because of that confluence of human people at an event.”

And that helps to get students excited versus, “This is the kind of piece that was made at this time on this date,” but to really get into the storytelling. And then the letters, the archives, the archival material that actually brings those humans to life, I find, oh, I want students to get as excited about that as I do. What do you think we do in this generation of people who are learning with so much information that they maybe don't read the bylines perhaps the way you and I did or dive into the works cited to get into the detail of, like, what can make me feel here?

CARLIN: There's a lot to unpack in that question because I think it touches upon a lot of things that I think about but don't have any answers for. I think this is self-evident and obvious, but we're involved in a mass giant human experiment right now. And anybody who's raising kids, even my kids are late teens, early 20s, so, I mean, but they're not really kids anymore.

Dan Carlin's "The End Is Always Near" explores some of the apocalyptic moments from the past as a way to frame the challenges of the future.

But this is all part of this generation, as I tell my oldest, that cropped up literally right after she was born. I mean, once the iPhone comes around, and we're walking around with—what did Elon Musk say? We're all cyborgs now, right? Once we enter that world, we firmly leave the analog world behind.

And what I mean by that is I try to explain to people that the entire history of humanity up until about the 21st century, maybe the very, very end of the 20th, that's an analog world, right? So, if you grew up, as I did, in a pre-computer world, you lived in the same world that the people in ancient Assyria lived in, right? I mean, they came home when the metaphorical streetlights went on, just like we did, right? No way to call mom, no tracking.

But the point is so, all of a sudden, now we enter into a world where we don't know how this plays out because there hasn't been enough time. What's more, unlike ancient times, where the pace of change was slow, so that even if there was some revolutionary new discovery, right, a brand new plow is invented that's going to change the entire world, you would probably have several hundred years to incorporate that new technology and see what that was going to do to society. Even movable print, which shook up the whole world, is nothing compared to what we have now because what we have now, if you said nothing's really going to change for another 50 years, then we could sit there and try to incorporate what's happened, right?

So, there's the ability to absorb and sort of make it a part of. In other words, society redirects around the inventions so that it then becomes the society plus those inventions. But what I think we're all aware of now is that the pace of change is so quick that by the time we would incorporate, oh, my gosh, what is the world plus Facebook like…

RANDALL: It's already moved on.

CARLIN: We're off of Facebook. Yes! And so, the ability to ever get to the absorption phase is gone. What that does for society is a big unknown.

So, the question is often brought up about things like the ability to think deeply or to contemplate. Or, I mean, do people get bored without their cell phone for two minutes? Does that rob us of the ability that ancient thinkers used to have to just sit out in the open air amongst the trees and think? Or as one person pointed out—and I think there's real benefit to this, too—the counterreaction to boredom, right, what boredom makes us do.

RANDALL: Yes.

CARLIN: To not be bored ends up being…

RANDALL: It sparks creativity. It actually lights us up.

CARLIN: Yes. The games you have to invent as a kid because there is no easy access to something else, right?

RANDALL: Yeah.

CARLIN: I don't know what that means for society. I tell my kids all the time that if you happen to be somebody who bucks that trend, it reminds you of the line, "In the world of the blind, the one-eyed man is king," right? I mean, if you can do math and nobody can do math anymore, that's an advantage, right? So, I always try to turn it into, well, if you're one of the few who reads, that's going to help you.

I think doing the show when you're doing five hours of history podcasting sometimes, and that there's an audience for that, helps you go, oh, well, good. There's still that out there. But when you have more than a billion people as your potential audience, getting a few million here or there that are interested in your little niche thing is not necessarily reflective of broad societal trends.

So, I don't know that our audience is representative, and I'm not sure I can draw many conclusions from that.

RANDALL: But it doesn't make you want to go get those other billion. It makes you—like, you don't want to have to necessarily adapt your path towards those folks who want the quick flip and quick hit.

Dan Carlin has hosted Hardcore History since 2006.

CARLIN: I wouldn't do that. No, I wouldn't do that for several reasons. One, there's people who have that lane—lots of people who have that. It’s an easier lane, to be honest. But also, because it's the same thing with why I'm following the Baltimore Orioles when I live in Los Angeles, and I've never been to Baltimore. I mean, this is—I was a punk rock person. I'm a Generation X person.

There's a whole bunch of things in my biography where you just go, oh, this guy is going to do it differently. My wife would say, you just have to be different, don't you? And, yeah, I think that's what it is. So, I don't want those other people. I kind of take pride that the audience invented a name for themselves. They call themselves the "hardcorps," C-O-R-P-S.

RANDALL: Oh, I love that.

CARLIN: This is how I always was as a kid, too. It's not that I'm different and bad. I'm different, and I'm going to take pride in that. And I want my several million, instead of the billions, because it's us, right? It's our own private "hardcorps" club.

RANDALL: In the basement.

CARLIN: We're doing our own thing. You can go enjoy your 30-second TikTok pieces of entertainment.

RANDALL: I can't imagine you in that ball cap and black T-shirt as a punk rock guy. Like, who were you listening to? Were you pierced? What are we talking about? Did the visual change, or were you a contrarian there, too, when you rolled up with your Orioles cap into the basement with people with mohawks?

CARLIN: Well—and I'm speaking to people who were there now in your audience who remember—punk is a caricature of what it was then. It's hard to describe what it was like in '79 or '80 or '81.

RANDALL: In L.A., right?

CARLIN: Yeah. I mean, listen, I remember John Doe, who was the lead singer of X. He had a great line. He said punk was wearing black jeans and having a normal haircut—what we would call a normal haircut today.

If you had short hair in 1978, people would yell out the car. You know, he said people would yell out the car and yell Devo at you because that was contrary. He said, “All I had was a normal American haircut, but that was a statement in 1978.”

So, we looked more normal. A lot of times, we had a lot of hair colors. But with me, if you saw me at CU, I didn't look… I had long hair at CU.

RANDALL: Were you punk? Were you punk at CU?

CARLIN: I was always punk.

Click the button below to hear the rest of the conversation.

Listen to The Ampersand

Did you enjoy this article? Subscribe to our newsletter. Passionate about history? Show your support.

CU Boulder alumnus Dan Carlin brings a love of history and a punk sensibility to a new season of “The Ampersand” as he discusses his hit podcast, Hardcore History.

Traditional

White

We still need a bigger boat

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 17 Jun 2025 17:02:38 +0000

We still need a bigger boat Rachel Sauer Tue, 06/17/2025 - 11:02

Rachel Sauer

Fifty years after ‘Jaws’ made swimmers flee the ocean, CU Boulder cinema scholar Ernesto Acevedo-Muñoz explains how the 1975 summer hit endures as a classic

On June 19, 1975, it wasn’t such a terrible thing to feel something brush your leg while frolicking in the ocean. It was startling, sure—humans’ relationship with the ocean has long harbored a certain element of fear, says �� Professor Andrew Martin—but the rational mind could more quickly acknowledge that it was probably seaweed.

That changed the following day, when a film by a young director named Steven Spielberg opened on screens across the United States. On June 20, 1975, to feel something brush your leg in the ocean was to immediately think, “SHARK!”

Ernesto Acevedo-Muñoz, a CU Boulder professor of cinema studies and moving image arts, regularly teaches "Jaws" in Introduction to Cinema Studies.

Are sharks really as scary as their reputation?

In the 50 years since “Jaws” made people flee the water for fear of sharks, the film has become widely recognized as a cinematic landmark.

“’Jaws’ is a movie I teach regularly in Introduction to Cinema Studies—yes, it’s that important,” says Ernesto Acevedo-Muñoz, a CU Boulder professor of cinema studies and moving image arts, adding that “Jaws” also is an important case study for misconceptions, including the evolution and de-evolution, of the term “blockbuster.”

A disaster-horror movie

The cinematic landscape in which “Jaws” arrived was one of greater daring and a transition away from the focus on producers in the classical Hollywood era to a focus on a new cohort of directors—“mostly men, mostly white,” Acevedo-Muñoz acknowledges—who studied cinema in college and were greatly influenced by the French New Wave.

“With the collapse of the Hollywood studio system, suddenly there’s more opportunity for creativity, for edgy content,” he says. “In the late ‘60s, early ‘70s, you have some movies that really were trailblazers in what’s unofficially called the American New Wave. ‘Bonnie and Clyde,’ 1967, comes to mind—nobody had seen that kind of romanticization of violence and graphic violence before.”

Young directors like Spielberg, Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese were more in touch with the counterculture of the time, and old-guard producers, recognizing these young mavericks might be lucrative, green-lit projects like “The Godfather,” “Mean Streets” and “Jaws,” Acevedo-Muñoz says.

“There’s incentive to be risky in that juncture of the ‘60s to the ‘70s,” he notes. “Then to that context you add the economic crisis of the early 1970s, the recession and unemployment, plus the end of the Vietnam War, heads are getting hot and people are angry.

Creating doom in two simple notes

It’s possible for a universe of dread to exist between two notes: duu-DU … duu-DU

Just two notes, played with increasing urgency and speed, let moviegoers know that a shark is coming, and fast.

An element of the genius of John Williams’ Oscar-winning score for the film “Jaws,” released 50 years ago Friday, is how much it conveys in just those iconic two notes.

“Williams layers melodic tension in these notes with an increasing rhythmic motion—he accelerates the speed in which we hear the notes, and he accelerates their frequency,” says Michael Sy Uy, a CU Boulder associate professor of musicology and director of the American Music Research Center. “When you combine that with the emotions attached to the fear, anxiety and dread of being attacked by a shark, then we start to feel how this music is living with and entering our ears, and it makes us feel actual anxiety or dread.”

The two notes of duu-DU are separated by the closest interval in Western musical notation that our ears are trained and socialized to hear, he adds—a half step—that, when played in succession, can help listeners feel a sense of melodic tension.

In the case of the “Jaws” soundtrack, it can help listeners feel a deep dread. In fact, some scholars argue that “Jaws” would not be the cinematic landmark it is without John Williams’ score.

“It’s hard to imagine movies today and over the past five decades without their soundtracks,” Uy says. “We make music a part of the storytelling because music can add an extra layer of meaning. It can contradict what is happening in a scene between actors, or it can validate what they’re saying. Music can tell the story even when words don’t.”

Learn more about CU Boulder's film and television soundtrack connections in the American Music Research Center's Dave Grusin collection. Grusin is a Grammy-winning composer, contemporary of John Williams and CU Boulder alumnus.

“The crises of the 1970s are one of the reasons why we have the flourishing of the disaster film at that time. I would point first to ‘The Poseidon Adventure,’ which is the best of them all, and ‘The Towering Inferno,’ ‘Earthquake.’ And to a certain extent, ‘Jaws’ is a hybrid of the classic horror monster movie and the 1970s disaster movie.”

The dire economic background of the early 1970s was important to “Jaws” and other disaster films, Acevedo-Muñoz says, because “a disaster movie, like a horror movie, tells us we are going through a really rough time, but if we all work together and we make a few sacrifices, we’re going to get out of this OK. If we follow the lead of Paul Newman or Steve McQueen or Gene Hackman, we’ll eventually get out of this all right.”

Driving the buzz

“Jaws” is often called the original summer blockbuster, but relentless repetition of this idea does not make it true, Acevedo-Muñoz says: “There’s no one movie we can point to as the original summer blockbuster.”

In fact, he adds, the term “blockbuster” really refers to the end of a classic Hollywood distribution and exhibition practice called block booking: If theaters wanted to show big-draw feature films, they also had to book smaller, cheaper, shorter films that came to be known as “B movies," which "were made quickly by 'B units' that often reused sets or even costumes from the big movies to cut costs. But scholarship on B movies has argued that because the studios weren’t paying too much attention to those units, some of the B movies were rather edgy and interesting."

Block booking meant that the producers and distributors controlled a lot of what was in exhibition venues, "but there were occasionally movies that may have broken that pattern, and those were in some ways the original blockbusters—as in busting the block of block booking practice," he says.

While “Jaws” did break box-office records of the time, it’s also noteworthy in cinema history as one of the first miracles of marketing, he says. It was based on a mega-bestselling book by Peter Benchley, one that was optioned for film while still in galleys, and the film marketing piggy-backed on the name recognition of the book.

Further, “Jaws” was one of the first films to intentionally create buzz as part of the overall publicity and marketing plan, including strategically leaked tidbits from the film’s set on Martha’s Vineyard.

On its June 20, 1975, opening day, “Jaws” was one of the most prominent films to benefit from a practice called “front loading,” which meant making more prints of the film and showing it in as many theaters as possible, rather than the previous practice of rolling openings from largest to smallest markets.

“The marketing and distribution team of Universal Pictures also decided to take a front-loading approach with ‘Jaws,’ so that it was playing everywhere,” Acevedo-Muñoz says. “Or almost everywhere. It still took months to get to my hometown, but we knew it was coming, and that anticipation was building.

“So, ‘Jaws’ is important because it was this consolidation of these different practices of marketing, creating buzz, creating anticipation, creating tie-ins—it put all these things in one place that were practices that had been around before the summer of ’75 but afterwards became the model.”

As for the film’s effect on moviegoers and their summer vacation plans? “I know a lot of people,” Acevedo-Muñoz says, “who refused to go swimming after they saw ‘Jaws.’”

Did you enjoy this article? Subscribe to our newsletter. Passionate about cinema studies and moving image arts? Show your support.

Fifty years after ‘Jaws’ made swimmers flee the ocean, CU Boulder cinema scholar Ernesto Acevedo-Muñoz explains how the 1975 summer hit endures as a classic.

Traditional

White

Alum thinks about crime the write way

Rachel Sauer — Wed, 21 May 2025 00:01:33 +0000

Alum thinks about crime the write way Rachel Sauer Tue, 05/20/2025 - 18:01

Doug McPherson

What happens when a freshly minted film studies graduate heads out into the world with no particular plan? How A&S alum Patrick Hoffman went from taxi driver to private investigator to successful author

Back in 1998, Patrick Hoffman had just finished his degree in film studies at the �� when he decided to head back to his hometown of San Francisco with no real plan in mind for a career.

“I was very green when I came out of college,” says Hoffman. “I didn’t have much street smarts. I’d lived a pretty sheltered life.”

Author Patrick Hoffman, a 1998 CU Boulder film studies graduate, located his newest novel, Friends Helping Friends, in Colorado.

He ended up landing a job as a taxi driver at night and working as a private investigator during the day. “Driving cabs at night in San Francisco and investigating murder cases are very quick ways to learn about the seamier side of life.”

Those lessons in the seamy side of life informed his recently released novel Friends Helping Friends, a thriller set in Grand Junction and Denver, Colorado, that sees its main character infiltrating a white-supremacist compound on the Western Slope.

Before writing his newest novel—or any of his previous and acclaimed ones—Hoffman realized that what he was seeing in his jobs as a private investigator and cab driver might make good grist for fiction.

Easier said than done, though. Hoffman would get started, but after a day or two, his motivation would melt away.

The best writing advice Hoffman ever got came from a friend who asked him what he wanted to do with his life. “I told him I wanted to write thrillers. He asked what was stopping me. I told him that whenever I started something I felt great at first … but then on the second or third day, the inspiration would go away, and I’d feel like a complete fraud.”

Hoffman’s friend then told him that the bad feelings were actually a good sign, and that the secret was to just embrace those feelings and keep going. “I literally started my first book the very next day and everything that has followed can be traced directly back to that conversation.”

It all started in film classes

Hoffman adds that his film classes were “where it all started.” Those days, he was thinking about very basic things like story and plot. “But those were important questions, and you really get to wrestle with them when you’re studying something like film. I had great teachers, too: Jerry Aronson, Marian Keane and, of course, the legend Stan Brakhage. I also had wonderful philosophy teachers. Gary Stahl, may he rest in peace, comes to mind. The English and Humanities Departments were wonderful, too.”

Following his friend’s advice, and armed with the basics from his CU Boulder classes, Hoffman turned out his first novel, The White Van, set in San Francisco and about a troubled young woman wanted for bank robbery and hunted by a corrupt cop who wants the money more than justice.

CU Boulder alumnus Patrick Hoffman drew on his experience as a private investigator to write his new novel, Friends Helping Friends.

Hoffman is adapting that book into a movie. “Hopefully that happens,” he says.

His second novel, Every Man A Menace, was also set in San Francisco. Clean Hands, his third novel, was set in New York City, where he lives now.

And his latest novel, Friends Helping Friends, takes place in Denver and Grand Junction, Colorado. “For this one, it was time to come back home to Colorado,” he says. “There is a certain comfort in it. Also, Denver makes a great setting for a neo-western noir.”

He admits that before his last novel, he was kind of blocked for about eight months, having a hard time coming up with ideas. “One day I literally just started typing. I thought, ‘OK, there’s a woman in Denver, she’s a lawyer and she’s using steroids, and that was the start of the book. I went blindly from there. That’s how I do it, though. The tricky part is getting started.

“For me, writing fiction is 100% about overcoming self-doubt, being able to see something through to the end. The hard part is always starting the book. But then the middle and ends, of course, are hard, too.”

Part of Friends Helping Friends takes place in a white-supremacist compound. To understand that arena, Hoffman says his 20 years working as a private investigator (he still does it) and handling many murder cases helped.

“So, all of that, of course, informs the fiction. But also, I’ll just Google around and look for federal cases.” And he searches public records for indictments. “I love talking to journalists, too. My wife is a journalist, so she gives me introductions to her friends and colleagues, and I force them to answer all my questions.”

Up next for Hoffman is another book—this one set in Boulder, a place he’s now reminded of regularly when riding the subway in New York.

“It’s been amazing to see Coach Prime make CU trendy. I see people wearing CU Buffalo jerseys and jackets. I’m just like wow! It’s amazing. Go Buffs!”

Did you enjoy this article? Subscribe to our newsletter. Passionate about cinema studies and moving image arts? Show your support.

Traditional

White

India and Pakistan once again step back from the brink

Rachel Sauer — Fri, 16 May 2025 16:44:25 +0000

India and Pakistan once again step back from the brink Rachel Sauer Fri, 05/16/2025 - 10:44

Rachel Sauer

CU Boulder historian Lucy Chester notes that the recent tensions between the two nations, incited by the April 22 terrorist attack in Kashmir, are the latest in an ongoing cycle

When a gunman opened fire April 22 on domestic tourists in Pahalgam, a scenic Himalayan hill station in Indian-administered Kashmir, killing 26 people, the attack ignited days of deadly drone attacks, airstrikes and shelling between India and Pakistan that escalated to a perilous brink last weekend.

A U.S.-brokered ceasefire Saturday evening diffused the mounting violence between the two nuclear-armed nations that increasingly seemed on a trajectory toward war. It was the latest in a string of escalations spanning many decades between India and Pakistan, which invariably led to the question: Why does this keep happening?

CU Boulder historian Lucy Chester notes that the recent conflict between India and Pakistan is part of a broader history that includes not only religion, but water, maps and territorial integrity.

Lucy Chester, an associate professor in the �� Department of History and the International Affairs Program, has studied the region and relations between the two nations for many years; her first book, Borders and Conflict in South Asia, explores the drawing of the boundary between India and Pakistan in 1947.

Despite President Donald Trump’s assertion that the origins of the conflict date back a thousand years, “that’s not the case,” Chester says. “I would say it’s mainly about Kashmir, with some additional issues at play this time around that changed the dynamics a bit.”

When more than a century of British colonial rule of India ended in August 1947, the Indian subcontinent was divided into Hindu-majority India and Muslim-majority Pakistan—a bloody, devastating event known as Partition. An estimated 15 million people were displaced and an estimated 1 to 2 million died as a result of violence, hunger, suicide or disease.

The first Indo-Pakistani war ignited two months after Partition, in October 1947, over the newly formed Pakistan’s fear that the Hindu maharaja of the princely state of Kashmir and Jammu would align with India. The Indo-Pakistani wars of 1965 and 1971 and the the Kargil War of 1999 followed, as well as other conflicts, standoffs and skirmishes.

Chester addressed these and other issues in a recent conversation with Colorado Arts and Sciences Magazine.

Question: These decades of conflict are often framed as Hindu-Muslim conflict; is that not the case?

Chester: There’s an older dynamic of Hindu-Muslim tension that definitely plays a role in this, but a significant aspect of the conflict over Kashmir is a conflict over water, which is really important. It has to do specifically with Kashmir’s geopolitical position and how a lot of the water that is important to India, that flows through India into Pakistan, originates in Kashmir.

It was a lot about popular pressure this time—Hindu nationalist pressure—on (Indian Prime Minister Narendra) Modi, which is a dynamic that he has very much contributed to. So, in that sense, it could be framed as Hindu-Muslim tension.

But it’s also about territorial integrity—that’s a phrase that kept coming up—and it’s a very loaded phrase that does go back to 1947 and the kinds of nations that India and Pakistan were conceived of in the 1940s and the kinds of national concerns they’ve developed in the years since.

Question: What role did Hindu nationalism, which has been very much in the news since Modi’s re-election last year, play in this recent conflict?

Chester: Hindu nationalism has been important in South Asia since the late 19th century, certainly, and it’s become more important since the 1930s. It’s one strand of the larger Indian nationalist movement—Indian nationalism was behind the assassination of Mahatma Gandhi in 1948. So, it’s always been there, but Modi, of course, has really ramped it up. For a while he distanced himself from the BJP (the Bharatiya Janata Party political party associated with Hindu nationalism), but he’s since made it very clear that he is very much in line with Hindu nationalist ideals and played on those symbols and those dynamics centered to what Hindu nationalist voters wanted.

Colonel Sofiya Qureshi addresses the media about Operation Sindoor at the National Media Centre in New Delhi May 7, 2025. (Photo: Government of India Ministry of Defence)

This whole idea of Hinduness gets back to the various ways both India and Pakistan are conceived of as nations. Hindutva (a political ideology justifying a Hindu hegemony in India) conceives India as a fundamentally Hindu nation, and that idea has gotten so much more reinforcement from Modi and the national government over last 10 years. So, part of what happened with this awful terrorist massacre two weeks ago is that it created a lot of pressure on Modi to respond in a way that previous Indian administrations haven’t felt they had to respond.

Question: In the recent conflict, India accused Pakistan of perpetrating the attack, which Pakistan denied, and framed the response as a defense of ‘Mother India.’ What does that mean?

Chester: Sumathi Ramaswamy explained it best in her book (The Goddess and the Nation: Mapping Mother India), where she talks about Mother India as this cartographed divine female figure who’s very much identified with the cartographic body of the nation. So, any attack on the territorial integrity (of India) is an attack on this woman, this mother figure.

The (recent) Indian Operation was called Operation Sindoor—sindoor is the red coloring that married Hindu woman put in the part of their hair—a call-out to this idea of Mother India and a call to the nation’s sons to be willing to die for her or to kill for her in this case.

In 1947, with the Partition of British India into India and Pakistan, the conception for many in India was a really tragic carving up of the body of the nation, and for a number of Hindu nationalists, that was a specifically female body. For a lot of people in India to this day, the 1947 Partition is this massive failure and an amputation of key elements of the national body. On the other side in Pakistan, for many it’s this great narrative of victory, but on the Indian side there’s this recurring existential fear that further parts of the country could be carved off this way. I think a big part of why conflict keeps happening is that both sides feel very strongly about defending the national territory because it was torn apart in such a violent way, and I think that fear is just most vividly present in Kashmir.

Question: How does the history of Kashmir in terms of British rule and Partition come into play?

Chester: In terms of British India, there were areas that were directly ruled and areas that were indirectly ruled. The indirectly ruled areas were princely ruled, and this is important because Kashmir was a princely state with a Hindu maharaja and a majority-Muslim population. With princely states, in theory they could decide for themselves whether to accede to India or Pakistan, and the maharaja of Kashmir, most would say he was angling for some kind of autonomy or independence and delayed the decision on whether to accede to India or Pakistan.

In October of 1947, militia groups—almost certainly supported by Pakistan—invaded Kashmir and the maharaja appealed to India for help. India airlifted troops in, because there was no all-weather road efficient for deploying troops, which gives you a sense for both how remote Kashmir was and parts of it still are, and also that there weren’t a lot of infrastructure connections.

So, the first Indo-Pakistan war was in 1947 to 1948, then a second war in 1965 and a third in 1971. This reinforces that fear of the country fragmenting and losing parts of the national body, because it was after the 1971 war that Bangladesh became independent (from Pakistan).

In 1949, India and Pakistan established a Ceasefire Line that became the Line of Control in 1972 with the Simla Agreement. The Line of Control is significant because it’s treated as an international boundary—not de jure (existing by law or officially recognized), but de facto. In 1972, officials came up with a textual description for the Line of Control and they define it up to NJ9842, which is the northernmost point on the map where it ends. The text of treaty says something like, “Proceed thence north to the glaciers.” This territory is so remote, so geopolitically useless, that no one at the time thought spending time to define where boundary line ran was important.

In the mid-1980s, both India and Pakistan sent troops to the Siachen Glacier, creating one of the highest more-or-less permanent military bases at about 22,000 feet. (Photo: Wikimedia Commons)

So, north of NJ9842 is this really undefined area—you’ve got Pakistan-controlled territory, India-controlled territory, China is right there, the Karakoram Pass is right there. What happened in the late 1970s, and possibly earlier even into the late 1960s, was Pakistan began issuing permits to international climbing expeditions, and in the early 1980s Indian troops discovered evidence of these international climbing expeditions. India realized that Pakistan had been exercising a certain form of administrative control over this undefined territory, and that’s what triggered the mid-1980s sending of troops from India and Pakistan to the Siachen Glacier. It includes what I think is the highest more-or-less permanent military base at something like 22,000 feet.

As a map geek, I find it really interesting that maps have contributed in pretty direct ways to these conflicts. One of the really tragic elements is that we know that on the Indian side, 97% of conflict casualties in that area are due to terrain and weather, and we can assume similar numbers on the Pakistani side. You’ve got these two countries fighting this battle, but they’re also fighting Mother Nature. In fact, the 1999 Kargil War happened because Pakistan tried to move some of its troops to a higher altitude where they could overlook an Indian road that supplied these high-altitude posts.

Question: What role did water play in the recent conflict?

Chester: All of the water that feeds the rivers that run downstream into western India and Pakistan originates in that region, which gives it real geopolitical value. One of the things that had me particularly concerned this time was India suspended the Indus Waters Treaty from 1960, which was a really landmark agreement governing the sharing of these waters. Some of these rivers flow through India before they get to Pakistan, and at this point India doesn’t have the infrastructure to turn off the water. But Pakistan has said if India starts building that infrastructure, they will consider it an act of war.

Question: Is there anything that makes you feel even slightly hopeful amid these ongoing tensions?

Chester: Over the last two weeks, both sides have been very carefully walking this fine line between being very visibly seen to acknowledge popular pressure on them to stand up strongly to their adversary, but also making very carefully planned choices that as far as possible avoided uncontrollable escalation. Everyone is keenly aware these are both nuclear-armed powers. I was very concerned that it escalated as much as it did on both sides, particularly in the use of airstrikes, but I think both sides were doing their best to leave themselves and their adversaries an off-ramp.

Part of the significance of (the Kargil War in) 1999 was both sides had just come out of the nuclear closet, so everyone was watching that conflict very closely, but both sides were able to walk back from edge. That gives us a lot of reason to hope and to believe that there are very professional people on both sides—in addition to people who are whipping up popular frenzy—who have a good sense for what the limits are, what signals they can send, and who are saying to the population, “We listen to you, we respect your grievances,” but they also know where the edge is and aren’t crossing it.

Did you enjoy this article? Subscribe to our newsletter. Passionate about history? Show your support.

CU Boulder historian Lucy Chester notes that the recent tensions between the two nations, incited by the April 22 terrorist attack in Kashmir, are the latest in an ongoing cycle.

Traditional

White

Where are today’s Newton and Einstein?

Rachel Sauer — Wed, 14 May 2025 20:25:08 +0000

Where are today’s Newton and Einstein? Rachel Sauer Wed, 05/14/2025 - 14:25

Iskra Fileva

CU Boulder philosopher Iskra Fileva argues that the present time is one of great achievements without outstanding achievers

We produce nothing if not academic papers. There are millions of academics in the world, and every year, they publish millions of articles. Some of the new work is good—and some, very good. Yet it is difficult to point to anyone after Einstein who has done something outstanding, something likely to be remembered for centuries. I am not the first to observe that our time can boast no Darwins, Newtons or Galileos. It is as though humanity, somehow and for some reason, can no longer birth great minds. But why? Did our talent well run dry?

It may be supposed that in lamenting the current state of affairs, we compare, unfairly, the output of the last several decades to that of the rest of history. If you pick at random a past 70-year period and look at who the important thinkers were, chances are you won’t find anyone you have already heard of. Why should the last 70 years be any different?

Iskra Fileva is a CU Boulder associate professor of philosophy who specializes in moral psychology and issues at the intersection of philosophy, psychology and psychiatry.

My answer is that the relevant comparison is not between achievements produced over periods of equal duration but between achievements produced by equal numbers of scientists and other thinkers. While human history goes back centuries, according to current estimates, 90% of all scientists who ever lived are alive today. The fact that all the great ones may come from the ranks of the deceased 10% calls for an explanation.

Perhaps the answer is that greatness is staring us in the face, and we don’t see it. Or we refuse to see it. Marcel Proust suggested once that we are loath to call living people “great.” The reason he gave was cynical, but one that rings at least partially true: We don’t envy the dead, and it is easier to put on a pedestal those you don’t envy. I would add that the dead are not competition for awards and recognition.

There may also be a legend-like aspect to the idea of greatness, and legends require exaggeration and idealization unlikely to survive a reality check. Death helps mythmaking, here and elsewhere.

But some people in the past became living legends (think of Einstein), and at any rate, many scientists have passed away in the last several decades, yet it is difficult to think of someone who joined humanity’s Great Hall of Fame during that period.

Short attention spans

Let’s consider an alternative explanation of what seems like an intellectual-giants drought, an explanation that has to do not with envy but with desire for amusement. It is possible that our attention span has become too short for anyone’s rise to prominence to endure. We may not want to spend much time on a serious author, either. That’s a problem, because greatness status cannot be attained in a single day. Thinkers from the distant past benefit from having had generations of less-distractable people study their works. How well would the great of old fare if they came back to life?

That’s a fair question. Interestingly, Robert Musil, in his remarkable 1930s novel The Man Without Qualities, suggested that distractibility and desire for novelty would have made it impossible for people in his day and age to pay attention to Plato for more than a short period of time. If Plato walked into an editor’s office today, Musil writes, he would become an overnight sensation and receive multiple lucrative offers from news outlets. Perhaps one of his older works would be turned into a film. But the shiny new thing would lose its luster before long, even if that thing happens to be Plato. Musil writes:

“The moment his return had ceased to be news, however, and Mr. Plato tried to put into practice one of his well-known ideas, which had never quite come into their own, the editor in chief would ask him to submit only a nice little column on the subject now and then for the Life and Leisure section (but in the easiest and most lively style possible, not heavy: remember the readers), and the features editor would add that he was sorry, but he could use such a contribution only once a month or so, because there were so many other good writers to be considered.”

This prescient passage may capture the spirit of our time better than it captured Musil’s own. Yet I can’t help but think that Plato would continue to be seen as great if he came back now. His return would just, inevitably, cease to be news.

The puzzles are too difficult

Another possibility is sometimes suggested: Progress has become too difficult. The low-hanging fruit has been picked, and the remaining puzzles outmatch human cognitive capacities.

"Would any one person living today have come up with Newton’s Laws of Motion? With Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection? It is not clear," notes Iskra Fileva, CU Boulder associate professor of philosophy. (Charles Darwin seen here in an 1881 portrait. Photo: Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

But I don’t find this hypothesis compelling either, though there is something to it. Whatever is known tends to seem easier to discover than that which is not yet known. Would any one person living today have come up with Newton’s Laws of Motion? With Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection? It is not clear.

What, then?

I wish to suggest that we simply work differently from people in the past, and our modus operandi militates against individual greatness. We live in an age of collective incrementalism. We absorb—often thoroughly—the preceding tradition. As a consequence, the work we produce lacks the independence of thought and the unity that continue to impress us in Newton’s and Darwin’s work centuries later.

In addition, we collaborate. There are hundreds of people working together on particle accelerators, brain tissues and large language models or who jointly carry out experiments (and who team up with other groups running closely related experiments). Together, we could have come up with the Laws of Motion or the theory of evolution. It is just that no one is likely to have done it singlehandedly. If there are no lone geniuses, this is likely because no one is working alone.

But work is getting done. I suspect that while future generations may not know the names and legacies of anyone living today, the achievements of our time will attain intellectual immortality, just in a different way. Since new developments are likely to continue to absorb the preceding tradition, the future will contain the present. Our ideas will survive in the work of our descendants, but they will lose their contours. Future people will turn them into fertilizer for their own thoughts.

Life isn’t a movie script

Why would we want individual great minds anyhow? Perhaps we need to change the human psychological propensity to romanticize the idea of the lone genius (to which the Nobel Prize committee caters, insisting on giving the prize to individual scientists, not teams). Or maybe we can keep the idea but put it in its proper place. It is, after all, a trope that works well in certain kinds of fiction. We like legends and heroes. We just shouldn’t expect life to resemble a movie script.

I suspect, however, that when lamenting the perceived lack of great minds, we wish not simply for more intellectual giants but for more breakthroughs. We may relinquish the idea of the lone genius—or put it, as I suggest, in its place—but we cannot give up our desire for progress. And nor should we. What of that?

I note in response that the incrementalism of today is actually taking us farther faster than individual greatness would. There was hardly ever a time in human history when so much headway took place in a few decades as in the last few. The world we live in is vastly more advanced than the pre-internet world of my early childhood. (Ray Kurzweil went so far as to suggest that knowledge production doubles every 12 hours.)

One may thus invert the initial question and ask: How are we making progress so quickly if no one does anything outstanding? And the answer appears to be that a myriad of small steps counts for more than a few big leaps. It is a bit as though, instead of intellectual giants, we have something reminiscent of the sight gag involving three kids in a trench coat stacked on top of each other. What’s remarkable is that the trio advances more rapidly than the one tall adult. (Stephen J. Gould in Full House: The Spread of Excellence from Plato to Darwin argues, relatedly, that while no baseball player today has Babe Ruth’s batting average, the league’s average is no worse, because the median player today is better than the median player in Babe Ruth’s time. What goes for baseball players may go for scientists.)

Slowing progress?

Still, some worry that progress has recently begun to slow down. This is the final point I wish to address. If the observation is true, don’t we, after all, need some more geniuses?

I will make two points in response. First, collective incrementalism creates a situation in which breakthroughs may be getting undercounted, because they don’t look like breakthroughs: They don’t happen all at once. Each begins as a 1.0 version and takes multiple attempts, so no new achievement goes very much further than the preceding ones.

Second, even if the rate of breakthroughs is slowing down, it is at best unclear that what we need to accelerate progress is more individual great minds. Perhaps what we need, instead, is better incrementalism and a better incentive structure for scientists, one that creates conditions that favor bigger leaps forward. Working on those conditions may be our best bet. It may also be our only bet since it is at best unclear how we may possibly go about creating the next Newton.

But that bet is good enough. This is my final thought. There are great achievements without outstanding achievers, achievements behind which stand multiple people that are simply pretty darn good.

This essay was reproduced with permission from the Fake Nous Substack. Iskra Fileva is a �� associate professor of philosophy and hosts the Philosopher's Diaries blog at Psychology Today.

Did you enjoy this article? Subscribe to our newsletter. Passionate about philosophy? Show your support.

CU Boulder philosopher Iskra Fileva argues that the present time is one of great achievements without outstanding achievers.

Traditional

White

‘Just being visible is an act of resistance’

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 13 May 2025 23:23:22 +0000

‘Just being visible is an act of resistance’ Rachel Sauer Tue, 05/13/2025 - 17:23

Collette Mace

In acclaimed new novel, CU Boulder Professor Stephen Graham Jones explores ideas of ‘what an Indian is or isn’t’

When horror author Stephen Graham Jones was teaching his graduate seminar on monsters, he made sure to have his class spend some time on The Lesser Dead, a vampire novel written by Christopher Buehlman in 2014. He remembers thinking, “What’s the point of anyone else writing vampires ever again, when Buehlman has already done it so perfectly?”

Nevertheless, he decided to try doing just that. The idea he started out with was a single image of a small church with a dwindling congregation. At the end of the sermon, everyone leaves except for “one Indian guy sitting in the back, staring at the pastor through darkened glasses and (with) a jaded expression,” Jones says. With that and his self-defined challenge to write a vampire novel that had never been done before, his recently published novel The Buffalo Hunter Hunter—widely hailed as a horror masterpiece—was dreamed into existence.

Novels like this, which are centered around Indigenous stories and values, are important for many reasons, says Jones, a �� professor of distinction in the Department of English. Specifically, he sees writing by Indigenous authors as a reminder that “we, Indians who shouldn’t be around anymore, are still here. Just being visible is an act of resistance.”

In his new novel The Buffalo Hunter Hunter, Stephen Graham Jones, a CU Boulder professor of distinction in the Department of English, centers around Indigenous stories and values.

Jones likes to play into the narrative that Indigenous people don’t always match up with the stereotypes forced onto them in post-colonial America. In fact, he employs stereotypes as a narrative tool often in his novels, including in The Buffalo Hunter Hunter. He uses his pastor character, Arthur, as an embodiment of what he perceives to be American ideas of “what an Indian is or isn’t,” and distorts these preconceived notions to further the novel’s horror.

He also plays with the ideas of stereotypes and performativity later in the novel, when a non-Indigenous character abuses his power and knowledge by pretending to be Indigenous himself. Jones says this event was inspired by the short story “Welcome to Your Authentic Indian Experience” by Rebecca Roanhorse, which also examines stereotypes of what it means to be Indigenous and how society tends to accept caricatures of Indigeneity—mostly because of the stereotypes we’ve been fed in the media all our lives, Jones says.

The irony in both Jones’ and Roanhorse’s work is that the actual Indigenous characters are cast aside and told that they are, in fact, the inauthentic ones.

Stories within stories

Another distinctive characteristic of The Buffalo Hunter Hunter is that it’s a nest narrative. Readers get three perspectives throughout the novel, beginning with the Native character’s stories, which are recorded in a journal by the pastor, Arthur, and then read by Arthur’s many-time-great niece, Etsy. “Etsy wasn’t originally part of the story,” Jones says, “but I found that I needed her perspective in 2013 in order to really probe where I wanted to in the story.”

That’s one of his favorite things about writing horror, Jones says: The stakes in horror novels are high, and readers often know immediately where the central conflict lies. This leaves room in the text to take a deeper look and probe who and what makes good horror, and why it makes us feel that sense of fear, disturbance or unease.

Jones likes to explore inner turmoil and complications within his characters. For example, he wants it to be clear from the beginning that Arthur’s definitely not the protagonist in the story, and yet he wants the reader to be endeared to the pastor from the first journal entry. This again plays with the idea of Arthur’s position and preconceived notions of being an American “everyman,” illustrating how Jones can flip stereotypes on their heads to create additional nuances.

Research was a big part of the conceptualization of the novel. Jones knew he wanted to have a location central to the buffalo hunts of the early 20th century, and through both travel knowledge and online research, he landed on the real-life Miles City, Montana. Miles City served as a multicultural hub at the time, where many trappers and hunters sold their trophies, most often beaver and buffalo hides taken from the nearby Blackfoot reservation.

Good Stab, the Indigenous man at the back of the church, hails from that reservation. Jones also discovered that there was a strong Baptist presence in Miles City in the early 20th century and positioned Arthur as a Baptist preacher for that reason.

Did you enjoy this article? Subscribe to our newsletter. Passionate about English? Show your support.

In acclaimed new novel, CU Boulder Professor Stephen Graham Jones explores ideas of ‘what an Indian is or isn’t.’

Traditional

White

Historian reflects on lessons learned 50 years after Vietnam

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 06 May 2025 13:30:00 +0000

Historian reflects on lessons learned 50 years after Vietnam Rachel Sauer Tue, 05/06/2025 - 07:30

Doug McPherson

The April 30, 1975, fall of Saigon marked the end of the Vietnam War; CU Boulder scholar Vilja Hulden discusses the war, its beginnings and what we’ve learned

Of all that’s been said about the Vietnam War, perhaps it was this in 1964 from U.S. Sen. Wayne Morse that still stings, even today:

“I believe this resolution to be a historic mistake. I believe that within the next century, future generations will look with dismay and great disappointment upon a Congress which is now about to make such a historic mistake.”

Vilja Hulden, a CU Boulder teaching associate professor of history, notes that a crucial misconception about the Vietnam War is that the conflict was pro-Western South Vietnam against Communist North Vietnam.

Morse was speaking about the Senate’s vote to adopt a resolution that authorized President Lyndon B. Johnson to take "all necessary measures" to repel any armed attack against U.S. forces in Southeast Asia.

A few months later, on March 8, 1965, U.S. combat troops landed in Vietnam. By the end of the war, more than 58,200 U.S. soldiers would be dead. Some 25 years into the “next century,” dismay and great disappointment abound.

How could this happen—why did the United States enter the conflict?

“This is probably the most hotly debated question regarding the war—and there’s no simple answer,” says Vilja Hulden, a teaching associate professor in the Department of History at the ��, who teaches a class called The Vietnam War in U.S. Culture and Politics.

“The broad background is, of course, the competition with the Soviet Union over the allegiance of developing countries, but why the U.S. decided to go all out to back South Vietnam and eventually to send large numbers of U.S. troops is far from clear.”

Hulden’s theory: “That each decision was made in a sort of a fog of arrogance and wishful thinking; that is, ‘If we do this, then the problem will be off everyone's radar, and we won't have to do more.’ But every step took the U.S. further in, and once you have significant numbers of dead Americans, it’s hard to back out and say, ‘Oops, those soldiers didn’t really need to die. We made a mistake.’”

‘It’s Tuesday’

Still, in the 50 years since the fall of Saigon, which marked the end of the war, the United States has learned many lessons. One, of course, is that having more troops or superior technology doesn’t guarantee victory. Another: Congressional oversight is important. In 1973, Congress passed the War Powers Act to limit the president’s ability to commit U.S. forces without congressional approval. Hulden adds another key lesson: Avoid committing large numbers of American troops. Doing so, she says, will cause the American public to care about what happens.

A Vietnamese woman carries her sleeping son onboard the U.S.S. Hancock during Operation Frequent Wind, during which the U.S. military evacuated people from Saigon before it fell on April 30, 1975. (Photo: National Archives)

“The prime example of that lesson—besides moving to an all-volunteer military in 1973—is the first Gulf War in the early 1990s. Very deliberately, that war was fought using airpower almost exclusively and not … boots on the ground.”

One crucial misconception about Vietnam, Hulden says, is that the conflict was “pro-Western South Vietnam against Communist North Vietnam.” Instead, she says, it was a “complicated civil war” with many South Vietnamese backing the communist side and conducting guerrilla warfare in the south.

“Lots of South Vietnamese, and probably also lots of North Vietnamese, just wanted it to be over. Hence, the bombing of South Vietnam and the dropping of defoliants like Agent Orange to get rid of jungle cover the guerrillas found useful.”

Repercussions of the war for American veterans—even those without post-traumatic stress disorder (a term that Hulden notes many veterans hate because they figure a reaction to what they saw and did in Vietnam is not a disorder but a normal human response)—manifest in how they were affected by their experiences in many ways. “As one veteran put it, ‘The person who returns is not the same person who left.’”

Hulden adds that the repercussions in Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia have been massive—most concretely in terms of birth defects and other problems related to Agent Orange exposure and continuing injuries from unexploded ordnance.

“A not-so-fun-fact: More bomb tonnage was dropped on Indochina during the Vietnam War than the U.S. Air Force dropped during the entirety of World War II.”

And finally, there was the repercussion of the American public losing trust in its government.

Hulden says that at the start of the war, people had “a large amount of trust in the government, but … when … the government was not being straight with the American people, the shock effect was much larger. As one of my students noted, ‘These days, if we’re told the government lied to us, our reaction tends to be a shrug. ‘It’s Tuesday,’ was how she put it. But that was not how people thought back then; they expected the government to be honest and reasonably competent.”

Did you enjoy this article? Subscribe to our newsletter. Passionate about history? Show your support.

The April 30, 1975, fall of Saigon marked the end of the Vietnam War; CU Boulder scholar Vilja Hulden discusses the war, its beginnings and what we’ve learned.

Traditional

White

Top image: A CIA employee helps Vietnamese evacuees into a helicopter on the U.S. embassy in Saigon on April 29, 1975, a day before the fall of Saigon. (Photo: Hubert van Es/UPI)

Degree finally in hand, dancer leaps back onto Boulder stage

Rachel Sauer — Thu, 01 May 2025 22:11:47 +0000

Degree finally in hand, dancer leaps back onto Boulder stage Rachel Sauer Thu, 05/01/2025 - 16:11

Tim Grassley

CU Boulder alumna Jessica Fudim was two courses away from graduating in 1997; 26 years later, she’s earned her degree

When Jessica Fudim left the �� in 1997, she was two courses away from graduating. Despite being so close, she felt stuck in an unhealthy cycle of signing up for and withdrawing from her final degree requirements. Something needed to change, and she decided it needed to be her studies.

“I’ve learned as a parent, you can only do so much and sometimes you have to cut something out or make something smaller on your plate,” she says. “So, I went to the safe space of being near my parents (in California). But I felt a hurt in my heart about it.”

Fudim went on to have a vibrant career as a dance performance artist, creating and performing original work across the United States. An entrepreneur and, with her husband, a parent of two kids, she owns and operates two businesses: Jessica Fudim Dance and Jessica Fudim Pilates. Despite her successes, her unfinished degree felt like a shadow—an unresolved experience that she privately grieved.

Jessica Fudim portrays Medusa in her dance-theater solo "Venomous." (Photo: Peter Ruocco)

Fudim is not alone. CU Boulder’s Office of Data Analytics notes that each year, an average of 23 students who needed to enroll for only one or two semesters return after five years or more to earn bachelor's degrees. Despite the relative frequency of people returning to the university to finish their graduation requirements, it still felt to Fudim like an impassable hurdle. Then, in spring 2024, after exchanging emails with CU Boulder friends, faculty and staff, Fudim decided it was time for her curtain call.

“My kids are 12 and 14, and I do feel like I want them to see me finish. I want them to know that I did that.”

A college experience across state lines

Fudim (DnceBFA’24) grew up in Sonoma County, California, where she developed a love for dance. In high school, her dance instructor, Lara Branen, invited Fudim and classmates to attend the summer-long Boulder Jazz Dance Workshop, which Branen co-founded. Many of Fudim’s classes were taught in CU Boulder’s Theatre and Dance Building, including performances in the Charlotte York Irey Theatre.

Fudim fell in love with Colorado and Boulder specifically. “It was totally transformative for me,” she recalls. “It helped crystallize this knowing that I wanted to dance—that I am a dancer.”

After graduating from high school, Fudim enrolled at the University of California, Irvine, which she attended from 1991 to 1993. She didn’t feel at home in Irvine, though, and transferred into CU Boulder’s Bachelor of Fine Arts (BFA) in dance program in 1994. There, she thrived and was often identified as an example student, full of talent and drive.

Unbeknownst to many of her classmates and faculty, though, Fudim’s balance of school, work and personal life began to fray from the outset of her education. While her father paid her tuition, Fudim at one point held three part-time jobs to cover her living expenses, including the now-closed Espresso Roma café.

“I wasn't living lavishly,” she admits. “I lived on beans, rice, pizza and free croissants from the café. I’m a worker bee by nature, but back then especially, I didn't do a good job applying my work nature in the right direction. I spent more time working at my jobs than doing my academic work.”

Because Fudim transferred from California, some of her classes from Irvine did not count at CU Boulder for credit. She found herself on a different graduation timeline than her peers in the BFA program, a social challenge that grew as more friends graduated and left town.

“I think I had another semester or two of work to do,” she says, “but I started to check out. I completed my BFA (capstone) performance, but I withdrew from some classes. I’m so embarrassed that I got Fs in a couple of classes. But I didn’t have the skills to know how to ask for help—to say, ‘I’m struggling and I’m not sure what to do next.’”

Fudim went back to California in 1997, hoping to complete her degree by finishing a few classes at a local community college. Those attempts did not work out. She also tried distance learning but withdrew. Eventually, Fudim moved on.

Medusa (portrayed by Jessica Fudim) with her children Pegasus and Chrysaor in "Venomous." (Photo: Kyle Adler)

“It felt like a bad break up. It felt sad—unresolved. I haven’t been back to Boulder since then.”

A phone call leading to an academic plan

After returning to California, Fudim decided to invest fully in her dance career and, over the next 20 years, experienced tremendous success as a solo artist and with her ensemble company, The Dance Animals. She held several dance residencies, co-directed The Experimental Performance Institute (EPI) at New College of California and, with the late Dwayne Calizo, co-produced, choreographed for and performed in the multimedia performance series “Crash Cabaret: Where Queers Collide” at San Francisco’s Roxie Theatre.

Her most recent solo show, Venemous, which reimagines the myth of Medusa, debuted to critical acclaim, and she considered bringing the show to Colorado and CU Boulder. She initially contacted Erika Randall, professor of dance and a friend, about the possibility of creating an alumnus event.

After sending her initial email, though, she felt compelled to follow up. “I sent a second email that said, ‘I want to be transparent—I never fully graduated from CU. It's something that I've wanted to do, and I do feel really motivated at this point in my life to complete that degree. But I just want you to know that I can’t come to Boulder as an alumna. I'm not. I haven't graduated.’”

At that time, Randall was the College of Arts and Sciences associate dean for student success, and part of her duties as dean included overseeing one of the academic advising units that helps students return to CU Boulder and complete their degrees. Randall remembers reading Fudim’s email and decided to call.

“When we talked, she said, ‘I had no idea how much not finishing my degree had held a shadow over me and how much it would mean to finish it,’” recalls Randall. “I got really excited and said, ‘You should come back. You should come to our graduation. You should do the performance you had written to me about performing.’”

“That was definitely a turning point for me,” says Fudim. “She is so warm and genuine and so non-judgmental. It was this healing gift to just have her open her arms like that. I didn't even feel at that point that I needed to be courageous. It just felt like I was so excited to do it.”

Randall connected Fudim with Dawn Fettig, an experienced academic advisor with a deep understanding of CU Boulder’s historic curricula and degree requirements. As part of her work with special populations, Fettig helps students figure out what courses they need to complete degrees.

To determine how close Fudim was to graduation, Fettig reviewed her transcripts, the university’s old “Permanent Record Card” and handwritten notes included in Fudim’s file. After combing through university documentation, Fettig recreated Fudim’s academic record.

“If I use the transcript as a chronological record, I can see what made sense for a student's progression in their degree,” notes Fettig. “For example, what might make sense for this student to take to complete the requirement? And is there a substitution?”

Fettig emphasizes that the college never waives graduation requirements, and she works hard to maintain the integrity of degrees the university confers. “The CU Boulder degree means something to our departments, to our faculty, to our staff and to our students,” says Fettig. “We figure out a way to look at their completed work and ask if it meets the spirit of the requirements as they were set at the time.”

For Fudim, this meant completing a geography requirement as part of CU Boulder’s Minimum Academic Preparation Standards (MAPS) and a final departmental stage performance. Fettig found a course in California near Fudim’s home that would count for the MAPS credit. They also explored marking her degree’s stage performance requirement as fulfilled by her career experience and then substituting the required credit with another dance course she had completed at CU Boulder.

“In Jessica's case, because her dance degree is a performance art, I did have to go back to the department and say, ‘This is a professional working in the field. I think she’s probably met this stage performance requirement,’” says Fettig.

What would Medusa say if she had a chance to speak for herself?

Jessica Fudim’s dance-theater solo, Venomous, looks at the classic Greek myth from Medusa's perspective and moves her story beyond that of a snake-headed monster.

What: Venomous

When: 6:30 p.m. June 5 and 6

Where: The Pearl Ballroom, 2199 California Street in Denver

Learn more

“She didn't have the class, but she has the experience. She also has other classes that we can use as a substitution” for the major’s requirements.

Together, Fettig and Fudim created a plan that fueled Fudim’s motivation to complete her degree. “Having someone who is in a position of knowledge like Erika and Dawn, who say, ‘Yes, of course you can do this. We have a way for you to do this. And this is awesome.’ I just trusted them—I believed them,” says Fudim. “It shifted my outlook.”

Graduation and healing

While Fudim did have the motivation to tackle her coursework, she still had to juggle a full schedule. “I have two kids and I run two businesses,” notes Fudim. “I do all of my own admin work, and my bookkeeping. My husband works the opposite schedule so that we can tag-team childcare. When I needed to study, I had to plan it.”

Fudim’s mother regularly covered childcare to make room for Fudim to complete her coursework. Many days, her family created a homework club in which they could complete their assignments around the dinner table. This reframed the time needed to finish coursework as an opportunity to connect through shared experiences. While Fudim is happy she received an A in her geography class, the grade plays only a small part in how this experience affects her.

Fudim officially completed her degree and graduated in fall 2024. The experience has widened what she believes possible, and she’s thrilled for fresh opportunities to continue making art, performing and teaching dance. Notably, she will return to Colorado this summer to perform Venemous at the 2025 Denver Fringe Festival June 4-8. While staying in Colorado for the show, she plans to visit Boulder for the first time since leaving in 1997.

“My dear friend and former CU Dance BFA classmate, Kate Weglarz (Thorngren) will be flying out for the show and to go walking down memory lane with me in Boulder,” says Fudim. “I'm excited to return to my roots in Colorado, and to share where I am now as an artist.”

Finishing her degree brings a sense of resolution and a lesson in persistence. “I feel like the primary reason I completed my degree was to create healing,” says Fudim. “It wasn’t closure. It’s opened me back up.”

Did you enjoy this article? Subscribe to our newsletter. Passionate about theatre and dance? Show your support.

CU Boulder alumna Jessica Fudim was two courses away from graduating in 1997; 26 years later, she’s earned her degree.

Traditional

White

Top image: Medusa (played by Jessica Fudim) welcomes the audience in "Venomous." (Photo: Kyle Adler)

Division of Arts and Humanities

The ‘Forgotten War’ asks to be remembered

Related Articles

Artist features the beauty of nature on a 140-foot canvas

Related Articles

What’s more hardcore than history?

Related Articles

We still need a bigger boat

Are sharks really as scary as their reputation?

Related Articles

Alum thinks about crime the write way

Related Articles

India and Pakistan once again step back from the brink

Related Articles

Where are today’s Newton and Einstein?

Related Articles

‘Just being visible is an act of resistance’

Related Articles

Historian reflects on lessons learned 50 years after Vietnam

Related Articles

Degree finally in hand, dancer leaps back onto Boulder stage

Related Articles