Catherine Pugh

In the television series Dollhouse (2009–10), young people known as ‘Actives’ or ‘Dolls’ are subjected to mind-altering technology, wiping away their original identities to be replaced with new ‘imprints’ and hired by wealthy clients. Amoral programmer, Topher Brink (Fran Kranz), is able to create any imprint desired, from mother to lover, thief to hostage negotiator, singer to spy. When not on ‘engagements,’ these ‘programmable people’ remain in what the show calls ‘tabula rasa’ or ‘doll state’: a child-like ‘blank slate’ devoid of personality and known only by an assigned name based on the NATO phonetic alphabet. The Dolls/Actives live in an underground facility known as the Dollhouse (or ‘House) run by the Rossum Corporation and overseen by director Adelle DeWitt (Olivia Williams). The ‘House is designed to be luxurious, comforting and safe, with a spa-like atmosphere. Underneath the façade, however, the ‘House is filled with intrusive surveillance, trauma, and nightmarish spaces.

The series follows an Active called Echo (Eliza Dushku), who is able to retain small pieces of each imprint even after being wiped, leading to her developing her own, unique identity. Outside of the ‘House, Echo is pursued by FBI agent, Paul Ballard (Tahmoh Penikett), as he attempts to unravel the mystery of the Dollhouse, as well as former Active Alpha, who violently killed everyone in his path (except for Echo) before escaping the facility before the start of the show. Actives are ostensibly volunteers, although this is repeatedly revealed to be under duress, or in exchange for psychological treatment. Unbeknownst to the Actives, however, the so-called ‘Dollhouse architecture’ neural implants that accommodate the identity imprints are in fact permanent. Once inside the Dollhouse, there is no true escape.

The ‘House itself is far more than a backdrop or passive setting that simply accommodates the innocent Dolls or morally compromised staff. David Kociemba points out the emphasis on place (rather than character, genre, or world) from the outset of the show, suggesting that, in a series where identity and autonomy are continually proven unreliable, physical space is needed to ground the audience (180). The Dollhouse is a liminal and uncanny space that, on a practical level, fulfils many contrasting spatial functions: a domestic and working space for both Dolls and staff; a corporate asset; an institution for detention; and a refuge. Throughout the series, spatial anxieties develop in tandem with the Dolls’ self-awareness; cases of abuse and neglect within the system expose failings in the design. The transitional nature of the space reflects the unstable identities of the Dolls: much like the Dolls themselves, the Dollhouse transforms into whatever is needed (Pugh, “Broken” 64).

Like the childhood dollhouse, Rossum’s LA facility is a playground of creativity and potential – as well as of the casual cruelty of the child’s id-driven imagination. D/dolls exist as ‘blank slates’ until someone chooses to play with them, investing them with lives that can be altered or erased in a moment. The ‘House itself functions not only as a domestic space for the dolls to live, but storage to ‘put them away,’ providing a neat, contained boundary for objects who do not realize they are trapped.

‘This is a bad place’: The gothic dollhouse

At first glance, the Dollhouse appears to be the epitome of wealth and serenity, encouraging spatial calm and temporal stillness. Its spa-like ambiance is

designed to stimulate an atmosphere of peace and tranquillity. Its open plan design allows the camera smooth and flowing pans across the space, with every feature or area organically leading to another. The Dolls glide through the house, and the spectator glides with them, unhurried, untroubled. The use of wood, muted colour palette, and soft recessed lighting suggests comfort, luxury, and natural beauty. A strong sensation of Zen is implied; the dolls practise yoga by a small pool, eat nutritious, healthy food, exercise, get massages, paint, and cultivate bonsai trees. (Pugh, “Broken” 48–9)

The central hub is constructed to invoke comfort and calmness, counteracting the physical and mental trauma inflicted on the Dolls during the imprinting process. Adelle describes the Dollhouse as “a place of safety, of untroubled certainty, of purity. This is the world we must maintain. It is imperative that nothing disturb the innocence of life here” (“True Believer,” season 1, ep. 5).

However, as early as the first episode, there are signs of something sinister within the very foundations of the ‘House itself. It is filled with hidden spaces and obscured boundaries, ‘creating a spatial anxiety that compels exploration” (Pugh, “Lost” 240). Despite the invasive use of surveillance technology and an ostensibly open-plan layout, both Dolls and staff are able to find secret, shadowy spaces to hide in or transgress. Gothic spaces are an early indicator that the ‘House – and therefore everything that happens within it – is not what it seems. For example, the Dolls sleep peacefully in pods – rectangular recesses in the floor decorated with plush, comfortable bedding and frosted-glass lids that slide into place, trapping them inside. Each pod also contains a “carefully-balanced mixture of sedatives, anti-psychotics and subliminal tone patterns designed to keep them in their placid and acquiescent state” (Tanti 259). A place associated with comfort, vulnerability and peace becomes “a five-star floor coffin” (“Needs,” season 1, ep. 8), and, in season two, a place for Echo to literally carve out her identities by scratching the memories of different imprints into the glass (“Belonging,” season 2, ep. 4).

The ‘House is purposefully designed to invoke openness and transparency, but closer inspection reveals a pattern of obstruction, distortion and seclusion. Although offices belonging to Topher and Dr. Clare Saunders (Amy Acker) are part of the open central hub, they are strangely obscured with translucent glass, panelling, or low light. Opaque screens cordon off various sections of the ‘House, tricking the eye into seeing light and space instead of barriers. In the episode “Man on the Street” (season 1, ep. 6), the staff cannot fathom how someone is able to sexually abuse one of the Dolls without anyone noticing, until they discover a blind-spot behind one of the supposedly unmovable screens.

The showers where the Dolls frequently bathe are gender-neutral, set into a circle with no privacy; a place of physical and emotional cleansing where nudeness is innocent (despite the occasional, surprising ‘man-reaction’ [“True Believer,” season 1, ep. 5]). Yet, an early flashback reveals that it is also the place where a naked Echo is found sitting in a pool of blood, surrounded by bodies, after a former Doll Alpha experienced a ‘composite event’ and escaped (“The Target,” season 1, ep. 2). Every supposedly safe or unrestricted space in the ‘House is gradually revealed to be transgressive, sinister and laden with secrets. Transparency and visibility are reframed as access and exposure, very quickly turning the tranquil space of the Dollhouse into a place of vulnerability.

Some spaces are more overtly dangerous or transgressive, such as the Chair in Topher’s office where the imprints are applied and is the source of many horror-coded moments within the series. And nestled amongst the Dollhouse’s many secret spaces is the Attic, where broken or disobedient Dolls are hidden away. A truly Gothic space where threats to the Dollhouse are imprisoned, it is spoken about in hushed and fearful tones, but not seen on screen until the end of season two. The Attic is a living nightmare, trapping each individual in ‘whatever hell you imagine’ (“Stop-Loss,” season 2, ep. 9) through a labyrinth of grotesque vignettes of sublime Gothic excess.

‘Your heart’s desire made flesh’: Playing with the dollhouse

Alongside the overwhelming and intrusive surveillance that fosters a sense of voyeurism and exposure, part of the unease inherent in the Dollhouse is generated through the juxtaposition of disturbing events and childhood play. Dolls are frequently accompanied on screen with music-box style music, while the “light and breathy timbre and glockenspiel [in the opening credits] suggest both a child and an innocence” (Kociemba 182). Various scholars note numerous overarching references to mythology and fairytales in the show’s narrative, characters and the mise-en-scène (see Renee St Louis and Miriam Riggs, Ian G. Kline, and K. Dale Koontz). The Dolls are dehumanized not only through environment, but through language, to the point where they are considered animals or objects, specifically, Topher’s ‘playthings’ (“Belonging”) that are tidied away into sleep pods, reminding Koontz of putting away toys for the night (209).

A significant aspect to a horror framing of any dollhouse is the expectation that, if there is no witness, no player, then there can be no life. Once shut up for the night, the story cannot continue and time remains frozen. The thought of a doll being self-aware, paralyzed and trapped before being forcibly transformed into someone else is a grotesque subversion of the shock and fear of more traditional dollhouse horror where occupants can move on their own. Speaking on haunted or ‘dark’ spaces, Barry Curtis notes that the marginality of haunted places is accompanied by a sense of immobilized time (61). Outside the dollhouse, time moves on. Inside, time and occupants are – supposedly – frozen still, mid-story. Every time the dollhouse doors are closed, a temporal, spatial pocket is formed that creates a haunted house.

When not in use, the playroom dollhouse becomes a non-place. Marc Augé describes these spaces as a holding place for people in transit: a waiting room between activities, where the anonymity of the crowd temporarily pauses identity, or limits it to names, numbers, and symbolic markers (passports, credit cards, and so on). These non-places function on a social-spatial contract, where identity is relinquished upon entry and returned at thresholds such as check-out counters. Augé explains that relinquishing identity in this way for a short time can be pleasurable, evoking “the passive joys of identity-loss, and the more active pleasure of role-playing” (83) in the same way that d/Dolls repeatedly lose and gain narratives and personalities with (seemingly) no consequences. The careful design of the LA Dollhouse intentionally formulates this same sense of non-place, where there are no temporal boundaries and identities are checked in and out at the door (or Topher’s Chair, in this case).

The non-place, however, can also provoke a crisis of identity. In the Dollhouse, the symbolic identity markers are formed by specific words and phrases. Repeated formal exchanges and trigger phrases (“Would you like a treatment?” or “I want to be my best”) are used to entrap and control, linguistically chaining Dolls to the ‘House. Furthermore, in cases where different Dolls are used to imprint the same identity (intentionally or not), these phrases allow the audience to recognise exactly who is at play. Identity in the ‘House is constantly in flux, and can be borrowed, stolen, doubled, or recreated at will, invalidating the contract of the non-place.

The LA Dollhouse, for all its spatial and moral faults, is later revealed to be one of the more ethically-designed facilities in Rossum’s stable. A visitor from the Washington Dollhouse surveys the LA facility with distaste, comparing the Dolls to “free-range chickens” while “we keep ours more like veal” (“Getting Closer,” season 2, ep. 11). The Washington facility is more like a factory or storeroom than a non-place: a toyshop to the LA facility’s dollhouse.

Susan Stewart describes the model dollhouse as an expression of longing, whether for specific historical periods or styles, domesticity, “perfection,” wealth and/or nostalgia:

A house within a house, the dollhouse not only presents the house’s articulation of the tension between inner and outer spheres, of exteriority and interiority—it also represents the tension between two modes of interiority. Occupying a space within an enclosed space, the doll-house’s aptest analogy is the locket or the secret recesses of the heart: center within center, within within within. (61)

Dollhouse embodies this tension in both its spatial and psychological anxieties, where “distinctions between ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ […] are depicted to be unsustainable, and ultimately impossible” (Starr 127).

Stewart further argues that the model dollhouse represents “an interiority which the subject experiences as its sanctuary (fantasy) and prison (the boundaries or limits of otherness, the inaccessibility of what cannot be lived experience)” (65). In the show, the Dollhouse is indeed a prison, designed to discourage Dolls and staff alike from leaving: it is a soothing non-place that advocates a relinquishing of identity, in sharp contrast to the anxieties and demands of the outside world. Gradually, however, it becomes space for transgression, rebellion and self-actualization. The show’s ‘House therefore embodies Stewart’s notion of the dollhouse as a “materialized secret” (61) in more ways than one.

Conclusion

Joel Hawkes observes that the very word, dollhouse, “evokes a history of meanings, dualities, a Blakean game of innocence and experience, in which we are reminded of other dollhouses: a toy, a place of innocence, a smaller version of the adult (‘real’) world that also conceals darker parts” (148). Dollhouse itself comments on the dark associations that are inevitably conjured by the term: in the show a television interviewer states, “When you hear the words ‘doll house’ you probably think of little girls playing tea party,” before going on to talk about the dark rumours of Rossum’s hidden asset (“Man on the Street,” season 1, ep. 6). Later in the same episode, another character, when asked about the Dollhouse, tells a frustrated Ballard “it’s pink, and it opens up, and there’s teeny furniture, and you put the boy doll on top of the girl doll, and we learn about urges.” Conversely, when writing about the model dollhouse, Stewart observes, “[e]ven the most basic use of the toy object—to be ‘played with’—is not often found in the world of the dollhouse. The dollhouse is consumed by the eye” (62). Unlike Stewart’s dollhouse, however, the ‘toys’ in Dollhouse promise the accessibility of fantasy, at least to the client; constantly taken out and ‘played with’ until they become worn out or broken. In the LA Dollhouse, “Childish play becomes a site of sexual imagery and imagination, reflecting the innocence and experience of the Dolls/Actives in their various states and roles. They work to satisfy client urges but also develop their own” (Hawkes 148). A disturbing juxtaposition is created between the twin fantasies of the dollhouse: the model dollhouses’ ability to create a moment of frozen perfection, and the nursery dollhouse that encourages play and exploration with no consequences.

The Dollhouse is a place where both dreams and nightmares are realized, only to be revealed as illusion. In the end, everything in the Dollhouse is simply play. The Doll identities and imprints are artificial and temporary, the ‘House itself superficial and secretive. But it is through this play that real identity is discovered, established, and fought for. The danger of the Dollhouse is the same as its playroom counterpart: when the d/Dollhouse is shut up for the night, it may look quiet and the d/Dolls may look still, but behind closed doors, the story keeps going.

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Works Cited

Augé, Marc. Non-Places: An Introduction to Supermodernity. Verso, 2008.

Curtis, Barry. Dark Places: The Haunted House in Film. Reaktion Books, 2008.

Hawkes, Joel. “The Theatre of the Self: Repetitious and Reflective Practices of Person and Place.” Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse: Confounding Purpose, Confusing Identity, edited by Sherry Ginn, Alyson R. Buckman, Heather M. Porter, Rowman and Littlefield, 2014, pp. 141–63.

Klein, Ian G. “Ritual, Rebirth, and the Rising Tide: Water and the Transcendent Self.” Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse: Confounding Purpose, Confusing Identity, edited by Sherry Ginn, Alyson R. Buckman, Heather M. Porter, Rowman and Littlefield, 2014, pp. 195–111.

Kociemba, David. “Welcome to the Dollhouse: Reading Its Opening Title Sequences.” Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse: Confounding Purpose, Confusing Identity, edited by Sherry Ginn, Alyson R. Buckman, Heather M. Porter, Rowman and Littlefield, 2014, pp. 1177–95.

Koontz, K. Dale. “Reflections in the Pool: Echo, Narcissus, and the Male Gaze in Dollhouse.” Reading Joss Whedon, edited by Rhonda V. Wilcox, Tanya R. Cochran, Cynthia Masson and David Lavery, Syracuse University Press, 2014, pp. 205–21.

Pugh, Catherine. “Broken But Home: Institutions, Control and the Non-Place in Dollhouse.” At Home in the Whedonverse: Essays on Domestic Place, Space and Life, edited by Juliette C. Kitchens, McFarland, 2017, pp. 48–67.

Pugh, Catherine. “Lost, Not Gone: The Haunted (Doll)House.” Re-Entering the Dollhouse: Essays on the Joss Whedon Series, edited by Heather M. Porter and Michael Starr, McFarland, 2022, pp. 240–55.

Starr, Michael. “‘How Does it Feel to End the World?’: The Dark Ecology of the Dollhouse.’ Re-Entering the Dollhouse: Essays on the Joss Whedon Series, edited by Heather M. Porter and Michael Starr, McFarland, 2022, pp. 122–40.

Stewart, Susan. On Longing: Narratives of the Miniature, the Gigantic, the Souvenir, the Collection, Duke University Press, 1992.

St. Louis, Renee, and Miriam Riggs. “‘A Painful, Bleeding Sleep’: Sleeping Beauty in the Dollhouse.” Fantasy Is Not Their Purpose: Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse, edited by Cynthea Masson and Rhonda V. Wilcox, special issue of Slayage: The Association for the Study of Buffy+ 8.2/3 (2010).

Tanti, Charmaine. “Pod People, Zombies, Dolls.” Re-Entering the Dollhouse: Essays on the Joss Whedon Series, edited by Heather M. Porter and Michael Starr, McFarland, 2022, 256–70.