Re-vision and Punish

When I saw the title of David Bajo's latest novel, I immediately thought of Michel Foucault's Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (1975), as Bajo surely anticipated. In his 1975 classic of left postmodern critical theory, Foucault draws on the "panopticon" prison model as a metaphor for the "conscious and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning of power," which he sees as characterizing patterns of domination and submission in the late capitalist West. Back in the early nineteenth century, British utilitarian philosopher Jeremy Bentham had dreamed up the "panopticon" as a perfectly functioning, peaceable prison, that would also cost less to run, because of its architectural design: in a circular building, rows of cells, several stories full, would radiate out from an atrium with a single guard tower in it. The cells would stretch from the atrium wall to outer wall, with windows in the outer wall to light the interiors of the cells, making them visible to a guard in the tower. Thus, the guard would be able observe inmates in multiple cells at the same time, though the inmates would not be able to see him. In fact, they wouldn't even know if the tower were manned at all, at any particular moment. What they would know is that they could be under surveillance at any time. Bentham viewed this as a humane method of social control, since the inmates, assuming there was no way to transgress without being caught, would police themselves, and therefore be less likely to face disciplinary punishments resulting from misbehavior.

Since 1975, much has changed. Most notably, for the panopticon as a metaphor for social control, video surveillance has become increasingly widespread (the original title of Foucault's work is "surveiller et punir"). More significantly, the Internet has shattered Bentham's guard tower into millions of tiny pieces. This is the world that David Bajo explores in his novel entitled Panopticon. He uses the tried-and-true detective story approach. An investigative reporter, Aaron Klinsman, slowly discovers how wide and how deep the panopticon of our times extends. To emphasize the epochal juncture of our moment, Bajo has Klinsman working on stories for the very final print edition of a San Diego newspaper aptly called the Review (as in, view again, and again). For the special farewell issue, his mysterious editor has assigned the staff to re-visit and follow up on a few of their most provocative stories. Klinsman draws three assignments, and, as one might expect, they end up being linked in ways that are not at first obvious. It would seem that the most serious is a follow-up on the proliferation of video surveillance cameras in the city's public parks. But the rabbit hole that launches Klinsman onto his disturbing voyage of discovery is a more innocuous story, a possible missing person case at a motel (like the newspaper, also on the brink of demolition). There are strange clues in room 9, though not immediately legible. Squares of black electrician's tape have been placed on doorknobs and light switches, the television and bathroom mirror are covered with towels. Our protagonist notes what may be the impression of a woman's body on the still made bed. "Klinsman knew he had exposed himself to something and begun something, like Pandora taking the first inhale of what she set free...." And, yes, this first exploration, despite how inconsequential it appears on the surface and in the moment, ends up impacting his other story assignments, his personal life, his past, his future, and the future of America and the world.

Klinsman's three main story assignments reflect thematic foci that Bajo wishes to link as well. Besides the public surveillance story, he is to write about something he has personal familiarity with as a native of the San Diego area: legends of the borderlands. These are fantastic tales of shape shifting, of devils in the guise of well-dressed men, and other bogeyman fare. Finally, an entertainment story, on a...