Emanations

Posted by Ellen Kirkpatrick

http://henryjenkins.org/blog/2025/9/21/captain-nemo-a-swap-story-or-why-we-cant-barter-our-way-to-a-better-world

Finding Nemo

I first met Captain Nemo as a child in Jules Verne’s novels and, like many, was instantly hooked by this enigmatic science-pirate – Prince Dakkar, insurgent commander of a leviathanic submarine. And when he died from exhaustion in The Mysterious Island (1874), entombed aboard his beloved Nautilus, it felt like a fitting end: an outlaw, a legend, a story, laid to rest, living on in my dreams. Or so I thought.

Picking up an issue of Alan Moore’s and Kevin O’Neill’s The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen in 1999, I discovered that Nemo’s story extended far beyond his lonely death in the confines of his famed submarine. Resurrected alongside other literary figures like Mina Murray, Allan Quartermain, and the infamous Mr. Hyde, Nemo became part of a Gothicised superhero team: a rattle-bag of oddballs, with a thick vein of monstrosity. In league to save humanity, but also, perhaps, with the devil? And so, in some ways, was I. Reading Moore’s work often leaves me caught between pleasure and unease, but that’s another story.

In this new saga, Nemo picks up right where he left off, at the helm of the Nautilus, revered captain of his brigand crew. Despite its problematic characterisations and storylines, I was hooked again – drawn in by the enduring allure of Nemo. And so it went until the third volume of the series, where, to my dismay, I saw Nemo die once more: a frail, ageing man fading away in his cabin. A death so unlike the traditional valiant deaths afforded heroes, if they die at all. My chagrin wasn’t, however, merely tied to the manner of his death, but to its necessity, because, in this story at least, Nemo didn’t have to die.

The League saga spans epochs, populated by more than a few immortal or long-lived characters, including the aforementioned Ms. Murray, Orlando, or Dorian Grey among them. So why not Nemo? Could he have taken a dip in the Pool of Fire, granting him long life and allowing him to fight through time like the story’s other undying characters?

Certainly.

But he didn’t.

And he didn’t take that fateful plunge, because Moore and O’Neill had other plans for him, encoded into his very name: Nemo, which means no one or nobody – a clever nod to Odysseus’ life-saving deception when he tricked the drunken Cyclops Polyphemus. Yet in being nobody, in being no one, Nemo unlocks another power: the ability, as we’ll discover, to be anybody and everyone.

The name “Nemo” then begins to serve, as is often the case within superhero and adventure genres, as a codename: an identity and a legacy passed from one person to the next, as with Ra’s al-Ghul from the Batman mythos or the masked avenger, Zorro. The “legacy character” trope is popular within pirate mythology too, notably with the Dread Pirate Roberts of The Princess Bride (1987). “Nemo” is thus an orientation towards the world – anonymous and bodiless – a catch-all term for a constellation of ideas and values, or a particular way of being.

Yet names, like words, carry layers of meaning. In Latin, Nemo translates as “not a man”; in Oromo, “the man.” Interpretations that open up a field of possibility in the not-so-small matter of Captain Nemo’s rebirth as a woman, of which more later. Suffice to say, that “Nemo” has plenty of wiggle room for exploring and subverting notions of identity. And it’s the quality and handling of this identity play that interests me, and its effect.

Stories Matter. So Does How We Tell Them.

Story is the beating heart of social action, helping us to envision a just and equitable world. Yet it’s not enough to simply observe how mainstream stories shape or constrain our imagination of what is possible; we need to dig deeper into how they work. Method doesn’t always marry up with message. As Kristen Warner’s idea of “plastic representation” points out, mainstream media often privileges surface over meaningful substance.

Speculative stories, for example, may appear promising, brimming with possibilities. But before calling “Progress!”, we must be sure they aren’t sheep in wolf suits. That’s to say: we need to test the charm of diverse media representation. We need to ask: How are storytellers – still mostly straight white men – depicting women and underrepresented groups, and with what consequences?

Genderswap storytelling is one such way. And, unlike a lot of modern descriptors, its meaning is fairly clear: swapping a character’s sex – usually from male-bodied to female-bodied – and their gender identity. Yet, as Ann McClellan notes, it’s more nuanced than that. Of course, swapping goes beyond sex and gender identity, frequently involving race and sexuality, and it can be multidimensional.

Used by fans, artists, activists, and media producers alike, swap storytelling has become a popular tool for diversifying narratives and challenging norms. In fan spaces, genderswap queers canon, makes space for trans and nonbinary identities, and imagines storyworlds through more inclusive lenses. In mainstream media, it’s often – controversially – used to revamp franchises or signal progressive values. Think of gender-flipped reboots like Ghostbusters or Doctor Who. Activists and educators also harness genderswap storytelling in workshops and performances to confront stereotypes and provoke dialogue around systemic bias. For example, the UK-based collective G(end)er Swap uses fashion-based storytelling to help trans and gender-nonconforming individuals explore identity through genderbending aesthetics, challenging binary norms in public and educational spaces.

But it’s not a uniformly liberatory practice. Some iterations feel more authentic and effective than others, depending on who’s telling the story, how it’s framed, and what power dynamics are at play. As we’ll see, for every thoughtful reimagining, there’s one that reinscribes the very norms it claims to subvert. Swap storytelling is an ambivalent practice, capable of expanding representation but also of flattening complexity or sparking controversy. Beyond representation, genderswap storytelling invites deeper inquiry into  power, identity, and visibility, challenging who is centred in our narratives and why.  

What do genderswap stories reveal about women’s empowerment – about how we envision women stepping into central roles in stories and in society? About how it even happens: How do women come to occupy powerful positions, get inside power? What kind of “new” world do swap stories gesture toward? What’s different, the same? In other words, how are they radical? Invoking Angela Davis, how do they grasp things at the root?

Beyond the worn-out debates on “forced diversity,” it’s worth asking: What does swap storytelling actually contribute? What myths does it reinforce or create? What are these “bold reimaginings” truly achieving, or neglecting? While economic factors like branding, franchise continuity, and familiarity clearly play a role, the question remains: why do creative industries gravitate toward genderswapping existing characters, rather than, say, crafting original female-led narratives, written by women and diverse creative teams?

Yet, this critique shouldn’t dismiss the potential of swap storytelling altogether. When done well, it unlocks rich narrative possibilities, offering profound insights into representation and the fluidity of identity. And we’ve seen this potential realised, sometimes evocatively, in recent retellings and reinterpretations that use genderswapping not as a gimmick, but as a tool for rupture and reawakening.

Switched at Myth: Retellings that Rupture

Recent retellings like Gender Swapped Fairy Tales and Gender Swapped Greek Myths offer bold reversals of traditional narratives, revealing just how deeply gendered our cultural storytelling has always been. Television has taken up the mantle too: in Van Helsing (2016–2021), the iconic vampire hunter becomes Vanessa Van Helsing, a female descendant who battles the undead in a post-apocalyptic world, where horror intertwines with maternal strength and survival. Meanwhile, Dracula (2020) introduces Sister Agatha Van Helsing, a witty, atheist nun whose philosophical duels with the Count recast the mythos through irreverence, intellect, and feminist edge. Both versions rework the Van Helsing archetype to explore gender, power, and heroism in radically different ways.

Elsewhere, reimagined stagings of Julius Caesar, Hamlet, and The Tempest – with Sigourney Weaver as Prospero – disrupt familiar scripts of power and ambition, while fan versions of Hamilton centre women and nonbinary performers to recast the revolutionary myth. In comics, Jane Foster’s transformation into Thor redefines heroism through vulnerability and resilience, while Renee Montoya’s tenure as The Question brings queer identity and moral complexity to the heart of Gotham’s vigilante mythos.

Alongside these more visible reimaginings, grassroots practices like genderbending and genderfuck offer a rawer, often more subversive mode of storytelling – one that resists tidy binaries and embraces ambiguity. Genderbending typically reimagines a character as another gender, often flipping male to female or vice versa, and is frequently used in fanfiction and cosplay to explore alternative dynamics or expand representation. Think of fanart that redraws Harry Potter as a girl, or cosplay that recasts traditional male characters like Link from The Legend of Zelda, Geralt from The Witcher, or even Batman, softening hard-edged masculinity and crafting new visions of strength, identity, and agency.

Genderfuck, by contrast, scrambles gender altogether: mixing signals, parodying norms, and exposing the constructedness of identity itself. It surfaces in drag, transfic that plays with mutable bodies and pronouns, and zines like Mail Order Bride that deliberately blur gender presentation. As Fanlore notes, genderfuck stories resist the tidy “man = male = masculine / woman = female = feminine” equation, embracing contradiction and fluidity instead. Whether through transformative fanart, bodyswap fic, or queer-coded reinterpretations, these practices don’t just rewrite canon, they rupture it, making room for identities and desires that mainstream narratives often overlook.

Taken together, these examples show how swap storytelling can be both playful and political, reshaping who gets to lead, love, and survive. When thoughtfully executed, identity swaps move beyond surface-level diversity and resonate with meaningful, context-driven storytelling. The challenge lies in striking a balance: embracing reimaginings while also championing fresh, authentic stories that reflect a wider array of voices and experiences.

So, the concern isn’t that identity swapping is an option; rather, it’s that it is becoming the go-to way to quickly and conveniently diversify stories, overshadowing opportunities to create original, diverse narratives, and often sidestepping deeper considerations. And, as I get into later, maybe the clue is in the name.

Un/Becoming Nemo

[Content warning: This section contains material about rape and sexual violence.]

We meet Princess Janni Dakkar, Captain Nemo’s wilful adolescent daughter, in the opening chapter of the third volume. After a moonlit dip off Lincoln Island, she is summoned to her father’s sickbed, where a bitter argument unfolds – one that has played out many times before. It is a dispute over legacy, over a father’s dying wish to continue, to persist, in this world. Simply put: Nemo needs an heir. Not just any heir – several of his crew could succeed him – he wants a consanguine heir; specifically, a male blood relation successor. But he has only one child, and she wants no part of his world.

Seeking to escape both her father’s control and the weight of his dynastic demand, Janni flees to London and adopts the alias Jenny Diver. Taking refuge in a shabby dockside hotel, she tries to go unnoticed, not just to the brutish men in the bar but to her father as well. Her anonymity, however, is shattered when one of Nemo’s crew arrives bearing news of his death. Soon after, a gang of men attack her in the hotel yard, leaving her brutalised and broken. Fuelled by pain, loss, and a thirst for vengeance, Janni summons the Nautilus – its hull now painted black, her father’s skull nailed grimly to the forecastle – and calls its crew to her. She will become Captain Nemo.

Descending upon the waterfront, the riotous pirates unleash destruction, annihilating everything and everyone in their path. Amid the chaos, veteran pirate Broad Arrow Jack seizes a rare moment of calm to present Janni with her father’s greatcoat and sword. As the swashbuckling rescue reaches its orgiastic climax, Jack presents her with one more thing: her hangdog rapists, asking whether they should die slow or quick. Without hesitation, Janni replies, “Kill them slow.”

Her first command as Captain Nemo seals their fate – and her own. Seeking refuge in London, she had hoped to lose herself, to start over as a nobody. Yet this small death, this petite mort, twistedly grants her wish, erasing Janni and leaving only Nemo in her place. She disappears forever into the folds of her father’s great green mantle coat and into his name, bound by their reluctant blood covenant. Like Oedipus, Janni is condemned to a destiny she did not choose, her actions and identity shaped by forces beyond her control. She will live cursing a fate that compels her to embody the very role she had sought to escape: the fearsome pirate queen, Captain Nemo.

Before departing for Lincoln Island, Janni crosses paths with Mina Murray who is unaware of the piratical power shift. When Mina inquires her name, Janni delivers a sardonic, hollow reply, “Me? I’m no one.” And with that, the Nautilus dives to depth, carrying its ribald crew back to self-imposed seclusion. In retreating, it exits both the scene and the story, effectively segregating this chapter – and the new Captain Nemo – from the broader League narrative.

The Jeopardy of Genderswap Storytelling

The late Captain’s conflicted, reactionary stance reflects real-world resistance to women and gender diverse people assuming positions of public power. As Janni rightly notes, her father needs – but does not want – to see a woman inherit his place in the world. Yet, this is the cost of immortality and relevance, ensuring his story continues. It’s difficult not to draw a parallel between this tension and the creative industries’ own conflicted approach to diversity and inclusivity in an increasingly polarised world, a world caught in the struggle between progress and tradition. As the supremacy of straight white men is contested, swap storytelling becomes not merely a means of reshaping stories but a lens through which existing power structures can be challenged, or perhaps left largely intact.  

Captain Nemo is undeniably now a woman, yet what truly changes?

Autocracy – or more specifically, piratocracy – remains the name of the game. Hierarchies persist: captain, mate, crew. Under Janni’s rule, Lincoln Island remains a patriarchal society – men “play,” while women are playthings. Old-guard values of vengeance violence, and competitiveness persist. Men continue as sole agents of change, still shaping the trajectories of women’s lives, still saving them from other men. The Nautilus’ crew too accepts Janni as their leader without hesitation. This ready acceptance, while affirming on the surface, ultimately underscores the persistence of the status quo rather than signalling any meaningful shift or challenge to established norms. After all, if any group were to rebel against unwelcome changes, wouldn’t it be pirates, the very embodiment of defiance and unruly independence?

And that’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it?

Things have changed, but the deeper implications – the true transformation – remain elusive. For, if the essence of Nemo remains unchanged, then what does this identity swap actually do? Does it challenge entrenched power structures, reframe the character’s motivations, or explore how gender itself shapes the experience of leadership and rebellion? Or does it merely dress the story in a different form, leaving the core untouched?

Alas, no. Janni does not redefine what it means to be Nemo. Instead, walking in his footsteps and dwelling in his shadow, she inherits her father’s legacy – occupying the space he once held in the world and in the imagological realm. Yet she seems to fall short of embodying his maxim, Mobilis in Mobili: “moving within motion” or “changing through change.”

Inscribed on a mirror in the captain’s quarters, this motto encapsulates the interplay of change and continuity, offering fertile ground for reimagining characters like Captain Nemo in different forms, such as a different gender. It invites a moment of reflection: when Janni gazes into the mirror, does she see herself, her father, or an intermingling of both? And how, in turn, do we perceive her? Is she a commanding pirate queen, steering her own course, or simply a reassuring echo of stability amid change?

The tension between the potential for radical reinvention and the preservation of legacy lies at the core of this character’s resurrection. When change is only superficial, the promise of transformation dissolves into continuity. And that perhaps is the contradiction at the heart of “Mobilis in Mobili” – movement that appears fluid, yet remains bound within its own constraints. Though Janni possesses qualities both inherited and uniquely her own, her story does not fully realise the potential of swap storytelling, which could explore identity through transformation while still preserving the essence of the original character. But here, as in most mainstream cases, it does not.

Illusions of Change and Failed Imaginaries

Moore and O’Neill may have had radical intentions when they set about genderswapping Captain Nemo, but their plan had a fatal flaw: it relied on reimagining, on building upon what came before: an approach that seldom sparks the radical imagination, whether for characters or the world. This flaw that becomes further compounded when we consider the essence of a swap: an exchange of like for like, where what is given or received carries similar or equal value, meaning, or significance. Again, the sense of continuity rather than disruption, succession rather than innovation – of radical change interrupted.

Considering the nature of swapping, it’s hardly surprising how little truly changes. And – without veering too far into cynicism – it’s easy to see why the creative industries so readily embrace these methods. After all, the “swap system” not only affirms binary frameworks but also accommodates the surface-level change that institutional power finds acceptable.

The architects of Nemo’s reimagining offer an illusion, a ripple on the surface, a promise of something different. Yet Moore’s and O’Neill’s decision to genderswap Captain Nemo surely speaks to a desire to imagine the world anew. Unpicking this tension reveals the trajectory of a conflicted creative impulse, moving from the imaginary realm to the page: a radical urge – the wish to craft a powerful female character – is stifled through its enactment – genderswap – only to flicker briefly in characterisation – Janni’s reluctance to become another Nemo – but, in the end, is derailed by the constraints of the storytelling mode and a vaulted imaginary – Janni takes her father’s place, and the status quo persists.A creative struggle that mirrors real-world tensions in the pursuit of radical alternatives, whether in storytelling or social action. At its core lies the ever-present dilemma: evolution or revolution?

Janni’s story, much like the portrayal of her ascent to power, is deeply conflicted, a journey ignited by violence and shaped not by her own will but by men’s desires and actions. What intrigues me most about her rise, however, is the reluctance that defines it, a hesitation that does not stem from rejecting power or fearing self-determination. After all, she actively forges a new life in London. Rather, her reluctance to become another Nemo reveals a deeper struggle: a resistance against the burdens of legacy, succession, and replication, which threaten to erase her individuality. Put otherwise, Janni yearns for a revolution of the self and fears the prospect of a simple swap, an evolution that threatens to snuff her out. Her fear, deeply rooted, proves justified; the inheritance of her father’s “burdensome legacy” and the seizure of power demand a terrible price – her very self.

Moore and O’Neill give us a truly bleak representation of a gendered power shift that utterly erodes the symbolic force of Janni’s transformation from disempowered girl to formidable pirate queen. A portrayal that does little to challenge existing stories of power and women’s emancipation, in which familiar, binary perceptions emerge: nothing truly changes when women hold powerful positions; empowering women is only doable within the constraints of the status quo. Women’s liberation remains tolerable precisely because it sidesteps, or postpones, profound societal transformation. For women, the cost of emancipation is the loss of self. As Mary Beard observes, “we have no template for what a powerful woman looks like, except that she looks rather like a man.”

Janni’s admission that her father’s coat weighs heavily upon her shoulders – that his legacy is suffocating – parallels, for example, the experiences of many women in prominent public roles: corseted into established norms of behaviour, burdened with the responsibility of upholding institutional legacies, compelled to defer to men’s authority, knowledge, and experience, and conditioned to self-police for fear of having their leadership be dismissed or condemned. Remembering the layered meanings of “Nemo” – as no one, as anyone, and as “the man” – it’s clear that anyone can, indeed, be Nemo, as long as they continue to enact male power.

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Feminist social action is also marked by gradualism, succession, and continuation – what Virginia Woolf called “procession.” It’s the pursuit of change through patience, negotiation, legislation, and civility politics: methods that aim to assimilate rather than disrupt. Yet these step-by-step strategies rarely yield radical transformation. Progress remains fragile, vulnerable to backlash and reversal, as seen in the persistent fight for equal pay, the erosion of reproductive rights, and the Taliban’s brutal dismantling of women’s freedoms in Afghanistan.

Such incrementalism demands time – too much time. It breeds frustration, echoing Fannie Lou Hamer’s cry of being “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” In storytelling, as in activism, I find it hard to champion approaches that gesture toward change without fully committing to it. Like real-world politics, they often seek to swap the status quo rather than snap it, offering symbolic shifts instead of structural ruptures.

Scratching the surface reveals the unmistakable scent of something rotten, an enduring moulder that mere rebranding cannot remedy: social hierarchy. To extend the metaphor further, we can also sniff out the ruinous idea, expressed by Murray Bookchin, that the “assumption that what currently exists must necessarily exist is the acid that corrodes all visionary thinking.” In both fiction and reality, swapping practices reveal the corrosive impact of failed imaginaries, undermining the potential for meaningful systemic transformation and leaving existing structures intact.

While appearing to wildly speculate on alternate realities – populated by immortals, monsters, time travellers, and a pirate queen – Moore and O’Neill ultimately failed to imagine meaningful alternatives. This failure of imagination reaches beyond official creators, touching media fans and activists alike. Encouraged by mainstream media propaganda and so forth, it’s easy to mistake surface-level change for genuine progress, drawn in by what Forough Farrokhzad called “pleasing promises.” Think “bait-and-switch” tactics, where corporate creators and producers offer the illusion of something desired, such as greater diversity, but fail to follow through. (Audiences, however, are increasingly aware of the need to examine not just the content of stories but also modes of storytelling. Who is doing the telling, the making, and the sharing?)

The diversification of mainstream media is undeniably exciting. But sometimes – okay, a lot of the time – I feel deeply conflicted about how my dream of an equal world appears on page, stage, and screen, particularly in swap stories.It’s not how I imagine it. This emotional dissonance isn’t mine alone; many feel unsettled by these stories, which blend progressive aspirations and reactionary undertones, leaving few satisfied. Confronting these feelings is essential, not merely to grasp why “plastic” stories disturb us but to recognise and resist the limiting effects of failed imaginaries on our potential to create radical, alternate worlds.

And I wonder how these veiled failed imaginaries – betraying, as James Baldwin argued, a “thinness of imagination” – reflect broader failures to radically imagine emancipation, justice, and equality. What do we lose when seemingly well-intentioned creators produce this becalmed kind of work, all roar and no bite, like a paper tiger? What purpose does it serve to create illusions of change, and what is the cost? If “radical” imagining does not open other ways of seeing and being in the world, then, I wonder: what is the point?

Though it may seem cynical to suggest a deliberate effort to limit public imagination regarding the nature of social change, history offers ample precedent. Propaganda has been with us for as long as people have been telling stories, lurking in every book and artwork, as George Orwell observed. What, then, are mainstream swap stories trying to tell us, to persuade us, about social change? What perceptions and sensibilities might they seek to cultivate within their audiences?

Confusion. Distraction. Indifference. Helplessness. A few effects that come quickly to mind. Acclimatisation is another: fostering the belief that gender equality will never alter anything substantively nor systemically, leaving the status quo intact. Inevitability too: the disheartening sense that the social world we inhabit cannot be escaped, and that imagining alternatives is futile because the outcome was always predetermined. It narrows the scope of debate around gender equality and encourages the harmful fallacy that creating original women characters is difficult, unrewarding, unprofitable, and ultimately not worth the effort.

Curbing meaningful progress is another consequence, which goes hand in hand with the tempering of public expectations. Closely tied to this is the notion that progress is best ensured through social evolution rather than revolution, invoking ideas of gradualism, gesture politics, symbolic transformation, and the persistent call for patience, to wait just a little longer for the “right” conditions. While the creative industries are a vital part of our storytelling apparatus, capable of bringing both sunshine and rain, they must be approached with care; we must, that is, remain vigilant about the processions we wish to join.

Yet people aren’t sitting around helplessly hoping for authentic, radical stories. They’re out there making them, for themselves and for each other. Stories to enlighten, empower, provoke, unite, and mobilise. Media fans, as we saw earlier, routinely create genderswap fanworks – though they more often call it “genderbending” or “genderfuck.” A linguistic choice both critiquing and resisting the limitations of its mainstream counterpart and a story for another time. Unlike, or perhaps in defiance of, the creative industries, media fans, DIY creators, and grassroots activists understand one crucial truth: that we cannot simply swap our way into a just and equal world.

Ultimately, building such a world demands bold, transformative action and authentic storytelling: narratives that confront entrenched systems rather than merely reconfigure them. Only then can we begin to newly imagine the future.

Biography

Ellen Kirkpatrick is a writer with a PhD in Cultural Studies and a passion for (counter)stories. Based in the north of Ireland, she writes mostly about pop culture, fan cultures, radical imaginaries, and the transformative power of story. Her book Recovering the Radical Promise of Superheroes: Un/Making Worlds was published by punctum books (2023). ellenkirkpatrick.co.uk

http://henryjenkins.org/blog/2025/9/21/captain-nemo-a-swap-story-or-why-we-cant-barter-our-way-to-a-better-world