There are countless films that peddle in the reification of dreams, and countless filmmakers for whom that is their primary mode. From David Lynch’s penchant for allusive unlogic, to Kamal Swaroop’s bustling postmodern clatter, and Vera Chytilova’s raucous antiestablishment dialectic, artists with seemingly no commonalities in form, theme, or content, could all be adequately described with the handy catch-all of dreamlike. There is even the case to be made that film is an innately dreamlike art, an attempt to externally portray interior images that originated inside the mind of the director. This is an impulse that Andre Breton, the forefather of surrealism, understood when he claimed that ‘the highest endeavour to which poetry can aspire is to compare two objects as remote as possible from one another, or by any method whatsoever, to bring them into confrontation in an abrupt and striking way’1. Is there anything more remote than the incorporeal substance of thought, and the material plasticity of the film image? And is it not dreams that provide the necessary sinew to connect them?

This problem is further compounded by the development in the late 20th century of digital cinematic images, which introduced another layer of artifice into a form which already works predominantly on the principle of representation, as opposed to actualisation. The potential of the digital image for an oneiric mode is one that manifests itself fairly regularly, through the current vogue of hauntology, through the Vaporwave movement, and through the work of artists such as David Firth and Albert Birney, all of which capture a certain unreality for which ‘dreamy’ seems an appropriate descriptor. There is, however, no film that situates itself within an oneiric register more completely than Ikko Ono’s The Flying Luna Clipper2

Like the best dreams, The Flying Luna Clipper feels miraculous. Made entirely with MSX computers (and therefore completely 8-Bit), the film straddles a line between deeply of its time, and deeply ahead of its time. From an aesthetic standpoint, it is purely of the 1980s; the glistening neon backdrops, stilted scene transitions like pieces of paper pulled over each other (as if a slow-motion flipbook), and anthropomorphized characters such as snowmen and tomatoes, are all borne of the technological necessity of the time, as opposed to aesthetic affectation. And yet we have seen such a strong return to these aesthetics in recent media, in such a mannered way, that it almost feels as though it was made now and transmitted to the past. The fact that the film only exists in viewable form now because it was found, in laserdisc format, in a secondhand shop in Japan, feels prescient; like all artefacts, it is uncovered, discovered, not made or created3

The Flying Luna Clipper

It would be erroneous to claim that the film has a plot, or a narrative; as befits the clunky 8-Bit images which constitute its form, The Flying Luna Clipper proceeds from a scenario, meditates on that scenario, and then ends at a seemingly arbitrary point, with little to refer back to the opening scenes. Sequences run up against one another like errant pixels, disjointed but continuous, a clear example of what Lev Manovich describes as ‘digital compositing’4, in which ‘new media substitutes the aesthetics of continuity’5. This is not a film in the sense of having a story and conflict, conflict which is mediated through scenario and then resolved, but something else entirely; a separate category of film. 

After opening with a montage of a car driving through America, set to a glitzy slow-dance/videogame music fugue, a car arrives at a petrol station in St Petersburg, Florida called The Pelican. Atop The Pelican is a plane- the Clipper of the title. We hear someone get out, shut the door, and then we fade into the top floor of a skyscraper, with a computer bleeping out disparate code. A call comes in for Mr Blackwhale, the CEO of PHA; he picks up, and the man in St Petersburg informs him that he’s found a 1935 M130 aeroplane. “Finally. I’ve got it,” Blackwhale says. “My dream is coming true”.

This plane, the Luna Clipper of the title, becomes the subject of a worldwide media campaign, whereby “the greatest dreamers” can be invited onboard for its ancillary voyage. These dreamers, including 8-Bit avatars of a banana, a tomato, a snowman, a garlic bulb, a duck, and more, seem assembled seemingly at random, and once they’re on the plane they are invited to play videogames, watch TV, and participate in group screenings of ‘dreams’. These dreams, which form the bulk of the actual film, shuffle between 8-Bit sequences and jarringly rendered live-action scenes; they tell stories of the discovery of Hawaii, or are mini-lectures by sentient seahorses who are experts in oceanography. In one sequence, the planets introduce themselves at the behest of the sun; a sinister mosquito flies in and out of the frame, cackling and stinging the nose of a vaguely simian-looking avatar with green hair.

The Flying Luna Clipper

This is a film that can only be described in fragments; it stops and starts but does not flow, bouncing jarringly from one interlude to the next. It would be unfair to describe it as having characters; I use the term avatars as it seems like a much better fit. They only ‘exist’ insofar as we can see them onscreen. There might be a small moment in the animation which gives away something of their character, such as pettiness (a gecko kicks the seat of the passenger in front of him, for example), or wistfulness (the snowman at the close of the film), but they are not developed beyond these moments. Like everything in this film, it is in service of an aesthetic, a delivery system for a particular but sustained mood. They come, they go, and leave an imprint as we move onto the next thing that comes and goes; the entire effect is, fittingly, rather dreamlike. 

What anchors the film, however, is that the images are all created out of idiosyncratic, personal designs. Ikko Ono’s seemingly boundless documentation and development of the characters we see was carried out over four years in the MSX magazine6; Ono himself was hired by Nishi Kazuhiko, the founder of ASCII, to create work that would showcase the capability of the MSX system, following a partnership between Microsoft and ASCII7. The Flying Luna Clipper therefore represents the complete artistic free reign of Ono, as funded by Microsoft; instead of simply creating demos which functioned in a purely utilitarian way, Ono doubled down on his creative impulses, and the result is something both deeply personal, and also communal (the film touchingly informs the viewer at the outset, that they are watching “the most fantastic videographics world, a world that is the hope of 2000 MSX computer fans”). As a further case in point, the film takes influence from an actual incident, the disappearance of the Hawaii Clipper in 1935 (in this sense, the titular aircraft and the film itself are one and the same; two disappeared objects brought back to life). Ono had worked on a book about missing planes ten years previously; one can glean that the experience had obviously stayed with him8

So, while the film is dreamlike, it is not oblique, obscured, or even whimsical; these are dreams that percolated, matured, ripened, and then were painstakingly created. There is perhaps no ‘meaning’ other than what they meant to Ono, and what they meant to all those who helped create them along the way. 

One element of the film that cannot be overlooked is its use of space. The Flying Luna Clipper presents an idealised, stylised, and largely abstracted depiction of place, one which arises for two reasons. The first reason lies within the limitations of the form itself. With 8-Bit technologies, as they existed at that time, there was no room for error. Every single part of the screen had to be programmed and placed exactly as planned; this differs from traditional modes of filmmaking, whereby there is an ‘inside’ and ‘outside’; a good, traditional filmmaker will hold in their mind at all times the viewer’s relation to the frame, and through interesting angles make suggestions or allusions, such as a threatened character being positioned below the threat, or depicting the hero of the film as in the centre of the frame. 

By dint of the technology with which it was made, The Flying Luna Clipper does not use any of these critical, inherently cinematic techniques (with the exception of the live-action interludes including the ‘gravity dance’ sequence, which I will discuss later). For the vast majority of this film, the frame was filled in, like a colouring book, and not assembled as it would be with traditional cinematography. This is, in a sense, true of all digitally animated films, although the capacity of the technology for rendering an entire 3D world and then situating an invisible camera within it, AKA the creation an entirely artificial cinematic space in which to depict action, is one that has developed significantly since 1987. Indeed, there is even a current trend in videogames for non-Euclidian dynamics, where our traditional haptic experience of being situated in a 3D world is completely upended; the landscape changes depending on your relationship to, or perspective within, it. Games such as Superliminal9 show far this technology has developed as a form in its own right, with a central gameplay mechanism whereby objects grow bigger and smaller within the space depending on how you look at, and move them. Tutorials for creating such games exist freely on Youtube, a form of sorcery-writ-open source. 

However, that The Flying Luna Clipper was composed in such a manner is a feature, not a bug; each image feels crystalline, composed, rich with neon colour and vibrant contrast. While there are attempts to render a fully cinematic form within the 8-Bit sequences, such as fade-ins and fade-outs on scenes, the predominant effect is purely montage. The images appear, disparate, and it is our job to fill in the gaps and meanings between them. Or, alternatively, we can let them wash over us. The film has a restricted space within its own form, but the capacity for space that it actually creates is an entirely subjective one in the mind of the viewer. We can make of the images what we like, or not make anything of them at all. The limitations of the form of 8-Bit for rendering cinematic images ends up forming its own, awkward, free cinema, entirely made in line with technological necessity. It is in this aspect that The Flying Luna Clipper ends up recalling Ranciere’s theory of the ‘gap’, whereby the distance between our perception of a film, and what is actually depicted in a film, are a sort of neutral zone for the viewer to input their own meanings, and extract their own worth (be it political, philosophical, or ideological)10. The Flying Luna Clipper remains ambiguous on most of these levels (as we will see), but is the ambiguity of tension, of two things seeming concurrently true. 

The second, and perhaps more knotty, use of space within the film is along more abstract and theoretical lines. With its inbuilt awe and frequent use of fanfare, the film constitutes a celebration of the Luna Clipper, and with that a celebration of the capacity for international travel. The majority of the film takes place in a plane. While planes are (usually) inherently transient non-places, defined by their liminality, existing only between two location, within The Flying Luna Clipper, the plane is a destination in itself. It is a competition (with unspecified rules) to be a passenger on the plane, and much time is given over to the futuristic technologies and entertainments that exist for the amusement of the visitors (technologies which, it is worth pointing out, are now so commonplace as to be unremarkable). However, the Clipper is only a destination in a utopian and futuristic sense, a little like Richard Branson and Jeff Bezos’ space race11; space does not yet exist as a destination in itself, but the capacity to get there represents an entirely admirable frontier for human endeavor, and the Clipper has something of this feel to it within the film. 

The Flying Luna Clipper

This idea, of a transient non-place as a destination in itself, is an example of a particular form of capitalist realism. Though The Flying Luna Clipper is not working in a particular mode of critique (like most Vaporwave, which I will discuss later, is it too utopian in its outlook to work along these lines), it nevertheless still highlights a number of tendencies of neoliberal hegemony and its resultant distanciation. Steven Shaviro’s writing on Olivier Assayas’ Boarding Gate in Post-Cinematic Affect is useful for breaking this down. In articulating what Deleuze referred to as the ‘invisible forces’ of global capitalism12, he describes the spaces that these forces engender as ‘extremely abstract, and yet suffocatingly close and intimate’, Shaviro writes that “moving through this space is therefore not smooth and continuous, but abrupt, nonlinear, discontinuous, and discrete”13. This is an apt descriptor for the narrative of The Flying Luna Clipper (such as it is), as well as the experience of watching it. 

The film is absolutely, almost singularly devoted to spectacle; as mentioned, a lot of the film arose from Ono’s own artistic free reign following the Microsoft/ASCII partnership, and if there is one concrete thing that can be said about the film, it is that it wants the audience to be impressed, and wowed. The film is a forward-thinking and technological marvel, that far precedes a number of digital artforms that are now dominant in modern media, and therefore these assertions hold no small amount of weight. But beyond the immediate, and not inconsiderable effect of the film, it remains in thrall to a number of signifiers of the capitalist tendencies that arise directly as a result of global market forces asserting dominance over the world (if too innocent to be in thrall to the tendencies, or capitalist system, in itself). Manuel Castells wrote at length about this within his theory of the ‘space of flows’, meaning broadly that “the material arrangements allow for simultaneity of social practices without territorial contiguity”14; it differs from the space of places, whereby action is contained within, and carried out via, a specific geographic locality15. Castells also writes that one of the key features of the space of flows is “nodes and hubs”. They  “structure the connections, and the key activities in a given locale or locales”, and “organize exchanges of all kinds, as they increasingly are interconnected and spatially related.” Crucially, however, “they are dependent on the network… [they] do not originate from any specific place but from endless recurrent interactions in the network.”16

The Clipper itself represents one of these ‘nodes and hubs’ within the space of flows, however while a plane would traditionally be a vehicle for the acceleration of global market forces, within this film, the plane’s potential is realised entirely within its capacity for the dissemination, proliferation, and articulation of dreams. Inasmuch as there actually is a market in the film, it is dictated entirely through the (necessarily vague) forces of the oneiric. It is important that the only criteria for being allowed on the plane is to be the biggest dreamer, as opposed to having the largest amount of wealth, or spending the most on a ticket. This is undeniably a trope; one need only look to say, Willy Wonka, and Charlie Bucket’s fortuitous discovery of the ticket, to see how films often undercut real-world inequalities (is it not likely that the factory owner would accumulate all five tickets?) with a comfortingly aspirational parable, but even within The Flying Luna Clipper, the trope falls somewhat flat17. The criteria for dreams are not articulated, and the passengers on the flight are not defined enough for us to empathise with their desires, and fears. The film treats us, the viewer, as if we are a passenger ourselves; the film situates us as the protagonist, addresses us directly, and the dreams are portrayed without artifice, simply as images on a screen that we can witness and engage with. 

Therefore, the film occupies an unusual middle-ground where it does not actively deny the scale of market forces as a normal, feelgood Hollywood narrative might, but the film has too potent a sense of communal, wide-eyed naiveté to be accurately described as critique either. Indeed, the film remains simultaneously arbitrary (the characters are sketches that Ono worked on almost singlehandedly over the course of several years, which exist seemingly because Ono liked creating them), and also pre-determined, representing the summit of a great deal of work and planning, on a computer system which (at the time) it remained uncertain would be able to even adequately convey a narrative or story. It is in thrall to personal creative whims, and yet dictated by such severe artistic restrictions; it carries the form of a critique of market forces, but not the content; half-formed, indeed, as befits the manner of a dream. 

It is in this slippery aspect, whereby the film is two different things at once, that The Flying Luna Clipper most completely predates the Vaporwave movement. Multiple commonplace cultural tropes from the 1980s fed into the Vaporwave aesthetic; a number of signifiers that are now ubiquitous and widely recognisable within that context today18. And, aesthetically speaking, The Flying Luna Clipper is unavoidably Vaporwave, with its Japanese characters, 8-Bit avatars, city-pop soundtrack, dreamlike register. But outside of the core of the Vaporwave movement (which is both consistent and recognisable) is a contradiction. Vaporwave is seemingly in thrall to the effects of capitalism, and also exists in direct opposition to it. For example, most Vaporwave music will never have a legitimate release as it largely consists of unlicensed samples from other, popular songs released by big record labels from the 80s and 90s. While irony runs through Vaporwave in an inescapable capacity, and these samples are often are used for ironic purposes (the irony being that anyone can seriously consider the work of, say, Dionne Warwick, to be contemporary and cool), the movement is still concerned enough with these plastic, ‘fake’ examples of songwriting to use them as the dominant form within Vaporwave art19. In this sense, Vaporwave gives with one hand (forefronts 80s cultural signifiers) and takes with the other (minimizes and distorts them into something else). It is important that one of the key Vaporwave tracks is a resurrected Japanese city-pop track literally called ‘Plastic Love’ (and even more important that the resurgence of the track has resulted in a vinyl re-print, due to be released in November this year20). Vaporwave peddles in a sincere engagement with the artificial, and an ironic engagement  the sincere; both, and neither. 

Like all underground art movements, it is open to exploitation by corporations looking to cash in on a particular trend. One would have possibly expected Vaporwave, with its deep artificiality, irony, and ambiguity, to be immune from this, but a cursory google search which returns an article entitled “How I Started A $1K/Month Passive Business With A Vaporwave Clothing Brand” 21, forcefully reminding one that there is nothing cannot be subsumed by the market. Is this sobering, or is this the point? Vaporwave is visually categorised by a return to various aesthetic forms which have long since passed out of contemporaneousness, a celebration of Windows 95 tutorials, malls, Bart Simpson, Greco busts, sharp walls of colour, angled shapes22. But if these were once popular corporate signifiers, can they not be resurrected? Do they carry the ghosts of their corporate usage before them? Is Vaporwave’s inextricability with hauntology, the theorisation of lost futures, not proof of these ghosts operating in a feature-not-bug symbiosis with Vaporwave?

In the end, Vaporwave’s relationship to these market forces can only be summarised as ambiguous; it is sad and a little tragic that Vaporwave, with its subversion of corporate signifiers, has become a fashionable and costly brand in itself. Or, is that the point? Likewise, is The Flying Luna Clipper celebrating global capital mechanisms, or simply using them as a vehicle for dreams? It recalls a joke from Matt Groening’s Futurama, where the protagonist Fry (Billy West) expresses concern that in the future, adverts can target your dreams. Sure, he had ads in the 20th century, ‘but not in our dreams. Only on TV, and radio. And in magazines. And at movies. And at ballgames, and on buses, and milk cartons, and t-shirts and bananas and written on the sky! But not in dreams, nosiree”23. Certain circles can’t be squared, and certain rubicons can’t be crossed, even if they extend naturally from a pre-existing set of circumstances, or properly established (dream)logic. 

As with all films which exist in a state of ambiguity, however, The Flying Luna Clipper can take on a surprisingly unified quality; as long as they make sense, or come together, on an experiential level, then one can easily overlook any potential contradictions or wrinkles in the moment. Stan Brakhage’s writings on perception come closest to articulating The Flying Luna Clipper’s most immediate, tactile, visual pleasures. 

For Brakhage, to perceive (as opposed to merely looking) took on an almost urgent, spiritual imperative. Metaphors on Vision, perhaps his key text, often reads like a manifesto. It issues edicts such as ‘become aware of the fact that you are not only influenced by the visual phenomenon which you are focused upon and attempt to sound the depths of all visual influence’24. He writes that we live in ‘fear of total annihilation’, and that ‘the object of fear must be objectified’25. What these writings amount to is a total re-writing of the sight mechanism. For Brakhage, sight must be expanded, must include abstractions of light; it suffers from being characterised or pathologised. Cinema is, in a sense, a complete waste of haptic potential until it encompasses all forms of visual perception, up to and including the ‘many colors […] in a field of grass to the crawling baby unaware of “Green”’26.

The Flying Luna Clipper does not lapse into the purely visual abstract that Brakhage so frequently worked in, but in generating an entire universe through the form of an 8-Bit technology, and through Ono’s frequent use of ambient or surreal interludes, particularly in the second section of the film, The Flying Luna Clipper approaches something close to the free perception that Brakhage wrote about. It does so, perhaps, by inverting the Brakhage-ian dynamic. Every image of The Flying Luna Clipper is necessarily pre-determined, requiring as it does programming to fill each pixel and manifest Ono’s designs. And yet as they shew so closely to Ono’s impulses, they seem to collide with one another and create a free-associative logic, even within their stringent control.

This is most readily apparent in the ‘gravity dance’ sequence which starts the second half of the film. Like a lot of The Flying Luna Clipper, it starts out as theatrical; after the simian-looking avatar is stung by the wasp, we see curtains parting and the 8-Bit avatars cavorting. A title card then announces “Act. 1 Fun Down”, and live-action footage of a naked baby falling over repeats, intercut with a tortoise falling and that same baby looking at bubbles. The avatars drift onscreen, detached but present, and the use off upside-down footage of a lake in the background, rendered in greenscreen, upends our sense of place. A breathtaking montage of divers bisecting the screen, floating ‘down’, as if the top of the pool is the bottom, and gliding off glistening fruit gives way to “Act. 2 Parabolic Locus”, which opens with a quadrant of sunflowers and fireworks, while men in prison outfits glide across the screen. Footage is reversed, replayed, and moved; an entire network of movement, completely separate from our own, is established and then broken. A waterfall spills out of a TV, before two tomatoes render in front of it, and our divers from before reappear. Geometric shapes fill the screen; the movement of the divers becomes synchronous with the pattern of the tomato stems. A diver, upside down, appears to float on top of the ‘surface’ of the water, all while being underwater.

The Flying Luna Clipper

The Flying Luna Clipper

These images, which array themselves relentlessly, and which contain a great deal more detail than I can afford them in these sentences, represent the film’s only true use of cinematic form in a way that Brakhage himself might have recognised. The footage, while stunning in its expressive logic, is cold and washed out, as a potential side-effect of being rendered through the MSX, and other than the reoccurrence of certain avatars, the 8-Bit is entirely foregone. The sequence ends with the return of the naked baby falling over; in front of a greenscreen, it is perhaps for the first time pondering what green actually means. We then return to the simian-looking avatar, who (itching their nose) proclaims “what a strange monkey the human race is”. The whole thing was a dream, or perhaps a transportation into another realm entirely. Perhaps the Clipper is a hub not ‘of’ dreams, but a transportation vessel to our strangest dreams. 

The rest of the film cycles ostensibly through a Polynesian ceremony, replete with hula-dancing bananas and hypnotic drum patterns; the landscape then grows sentient, with a rock-face playing the waterfall like an oboe and the islands serenading one another. The snowman looks at the Clipper and looks away, before it turns into the pelican we saw at the beginning of the film, only to turn back into the Clipper when he looks back. The snowman asks, ‘is this a dream?’ and the plane disappears. We are treated to a truly psychedelic interlude after this point, recalling the portal sequence of 2001: A Space Odyssey27. When the plane finally returns to its starting point, a crowd greets it, and the various avatars shuffle of, ubiquitously commenting on how the journey was ‘just like a dream’. 

Only the snowman appears to have seen through the illusion, although what exactly it is that he’s seen, or understood, can perhaps only be suggested. He boards the plane, which then flies away; one of the stewardesses asks if he knows where he’s going, before concluding ‘oh that’s okay… I think’. The film then ends on this note of optimism; the dreams must go on, even if the people change. We do not see Blackwhale, despite the whole affair being his dream in the first place; we have grown to know none of the characters, and the only point of clarity within the film is our own relation to it. We have perceived it all; whatever it means, or if it has a meaning, is moot. To bear witness to it is the point. 

I said at the outset of the piece that the film is miraculous, and I feel that that bears repeating now. There is perhaps no other film like it. Its techniques are now commonplace, and one need only look towards Albert Birney’s off-kilter experiment, Instagram-borne Tux and Fanny28, or the endlessly permutable, deeply sinister nature of the work of David Firth29, to see how artists in the 21st Century have come to use the 8-Bit mode, as well as other visibly ‘fake’ digital aesthetics. David Lynch’s Twin Peaks: The Return, arguably the summit of hauntological art, purposefully used deliberately artificial digital visual effects to convey the encroaching of our world with something outside and unheimlich30. While The Flying Luna Clipper does, ostensibly, exist as a tech demo, and never offers anything so untoward as ‘sinister’, it nevertheless showcases the ways in which artists can use these digital forms to shine something of a light on our own world; to add previously unthinkable shades to its endless colours. 

It remains an early example, and key text in the development of, this digital film genre. It did not set out to be, but it is. It is to, say, the output of Pixar, as the silent comedy two-reelers are to City Lights. In The Voice In Cinema, Michael Chion writes that the early days of sound cinema were marked by an attempt to ‘nail down’31 voices to the bodies which are speaking them. He quotes Alexandre Arnoux, who writes that audiences witnessing early sound films were ‘faced with a strange comedy in which the actors are closely miming the lines with their mouths’32. Chion then goes on to talk about how the proliferation of ‘novel techniques orienting sound in space less realistically than ever’33. The rules, ultimately, had to be established before they could be broken.

The Flying Luna Clipper, thus, represents the establishing of rules. It reaches from the past into the present, in how it came to be unearthed, in how it predated an entire art movement, in how it plays with now-dominant modes of neoliberal spaces and flows, in how it forecast, in 1987, forms of filmmaking that lurked just around the corner, waiting to announce themselves. It ultimately is a strange comedy; rigid and unfixed, with a disjointed and all-too apparent frame-rate, and an unremitting lack of actual movement. But it is also hypnotic, beguiling, and strange. The film is a digital reverie, a burst of wonder, a beautiful display of colour that washes over the viewer like a transmission from a strange land that bears no resemblance to our own. 

If we are, as the saying goes, like the dreamer who dreams and then lives inside the dream34, then The Flying Luna Clipper is the vehicle that takes us there. 


  1. Saran Alexandrian, Surrealist Art, trans. Gordon Clough (New York: Praeger, 1970), pg. 122.
  2. The Flying Luna Clipper (Ikko Ono, 1987)
  3. Victor Navarro-Remesal, “Cine Ludens: ‘The Flying Luna Clipper’”, Medium, 19th September 2019
  4. Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media, MIT Press, Cambridge, 2001, pg. 139
  5. Lev Manovich, The Language of New Media, MIT Press, Cambridge, 2001, pg. 143
  6. Matt Hawkins, “Dream Flight Interpreted: The Deconstructed Flying Luna Clipper”, Medium, 5th August, 2020
  7. Matt Hawkins, “Dream Flight Interpreted: The Deconstructed Flying Luna Clipper”, Medium, 5th August, 2020
  8. Victor Navarro-Remesal, “Cine Ludens: ‘The Flying Luna Clipper’”, Medium, 19th September 2019
  9. Superliminal (Pillow Castle, 2019)
  10. Jacques Ranciere, The Intervals of Cinema, Verso Books, London, 2014
  11. Micah Maidenberg & Dave Cole, “Richard Branson and Jeff Bezos Traveled to Space. Here’s How Their Trips Differed”, Wall Street Journal, 26th August, 2021
  12. Deleuze, 2005, in Steven Shaviro, Post Cinematic Effect, Zero Books, Winchester, 2010. pg. 37
  13. Steven Shaviro, Post Cinematic Effect, Zero Books, Winchester, 2010. pg. 37
  14. Manuel Castells, Grassrooting the Space of Flows, in Urban Geography Volume 20, 1999, pg. 294-302
  15. Manuel Castells, Grassrooting the Space of Flows, in Urban Geography Volume 20, 1999, pg. 294-302
  16. Manuel Castells, Grassrooting the Space of Flows, in Urban Geography Volume 20, 1999, pg. 294-302
  17. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (Mel Stuart, 1971)
  18. Grafton Tanner, Babbling Corpse: Vaporwave and the Commodification of Ghosts, Zero Books, Winchester, 2016.
  19. Grafton Tanner, Babbling Corpse: Vaporwave and the Commodification of Ghosts, Zero Books, Winchester, 2016.
  20. Jake Silbert, “The Catchy Japanese Pop Song That Dominates Your YouTube Recs Is Back!”, High Snobiety, 13th September 2021
  21. Paul, “How I Started A $1K/Month Passive Business With A Vaporwave Clothing Brand”, Starter Story, 9th November 2020
  22. Grafton Tanner, Babbling Corpse: Vaporwave and the Commodification of Ghosts, Zero Books, Winchester, 2016.
  23. Futurama (Matt Groening, 1999)
  24. Stan Brakhage, Essential Brakhage, Documentext, USA, 2001. pg. 13
  25. Stan Brakhage, Essential Brakhage, Documentext, USA, 2001. pg. 13
  26. Stan Brakhage, Essential Brakhage, Documentext, USA, 2001. pg. 12
  27. 2001: A Space Odyssey (Stanley Kubrick, 1968)
  28. Tux and Fanny (Albert Birney, 2020)
  29. David Firth, “Salad Fingers 1: Spoons”, YouTube, 2005
  30. Twin Peaks: The Return (David Lynch, 2017)
  31. Michael Chion, The Voice In Cinema, Columbia University Press, New York, 1999. pg. 130
  32. Arnoux, 1929, in Michael Chion, The Voice In Cinema, Columbia University Press, New York, 1999. pg. 131
  33. Michael Chion, The Voice In Cinema, Columbia University Press, New York, 1999. pg. 131
  34. Twin Peaks: The Return (David Lynch, 2017)