I have a dynamite idea for a new horror flick. Get this: The movie opens with a panning shot of an eerily deserted outdoor shopping mall, an especially nice mall done up to look like a Disneyfied version of the archetypal American Main Street. Sliding over Apple Stores and Aveda Salons, the camera comes to rest on two bronze statues of little girls frolicking gleefully in a fountain, when slowly, horribly, one of the statues begins to move.
Leaping off its podium, its face frozen in an expression of appalling childhood delight, it stalks an unwary shopper through the shadows, inching closer, closer, closer. Right before the inevitable murderous pounce, cut to black and a bloodcurdling scream. Roll title credits on "The Children of Southpoint."
You've probably noticed those bizarre sculptures of kids at play if you've ever ventured out to Durham's premier shopping center. For whatever reason, they've always struck me as intensely creepy, even without being spiced up by horror-movie clichés. They're disturbing enough on their own, throwing balls to terriers and doing dangerous things on bicycles, with their grubby, androgynous faces and lunatic grins leering at you from every corner.
Spend enough time at the mall, however, and you might begin to feel that these statues capture its spirit perfectly. Southpoint makes every effort to cultivate an identity of innocuous nostalgia, fun and comfort. Examine it too closely, though, and like the statues the entire place ends up seeming deeply, deeply sinister.
From its completion in 2002, Southpoint has been a rising star in the world of shopping centers, garnering praise from USA Today and rapidly earning the reputation of a "super-regional" mall by drawing regular customers from as far as 100 miles away. When it first opened, the Herald-Sun reported that eager customers in Charlotte organized charter bus trips to Durham for the privilege of browsing Southpoint's 1.4 million sq. ft. of retail space.
Of course, the mall's developers (Urban Retail Properties of Chicago) have always aggressively courted this kind of family-friendly, "destination" image, and admittedly they've done a great job of it.
Southpoint doesn't look like a mall. Outdoors and indoors, it's done up in red brick and pleasing architecture. Its fake "Main Street" nails the charming details, from street lamps to wrought-iron benches to painted wall murals advertising fresh milk and "Russ's Used Cars." It presents, very self-consciously, someone's utopian take on downtown Durham, down to the faux smokestack jutting out of the side of the movie theater.
As a Southpoint press release states, the mall recreates "an atmosphere reminiscent of a bustling city street. The energy is vibrant, the spirit is familiar." Cruising the mall, the marketing tells us, is just like taking a lovely stroll through town.
Except there's no town. There are no parks in Southpoint, no city government, no arts centers. Besides the movie theater, there's no real entertainment. No one lives on Main Street. All that's there, in the simplest terms, is a bunch of nice stuff for you to buy, and people to sell it to you.
That's precisely what makes Southpoint such a scary place. It's just a retail outlet, but it sells itself, very convincingly, as so much more: as a destination, a place for family fun, a city street, a surrogate Durham. At its core, it sells the idea that commercial spaces can uproot and replace all the other spaces where social interaction normally takes place.
Southpoint tells us that we don't need real towns, real streets; we don't even need real children, with all their attendant messiness. We don't need to interact with our society as citizens, or in any way at all, really. A pleasant, neat experience has been created for us. All we have to do is buy it.
And we Duke students are buying it in droves. For many of us, Southpoint is the go-to option on those slow weekend nights, one of the only places in Durham where we shop and dine with any regularity. Maggiano's and Cheesecake Factory are perennial favorites among the student body, and I know many of my peers who plan on doing all their Christmas shopping on Main Street.
"So what?" you might ask. "Is it wrong to enjoy a nice shopping center with some good restaurants?" No, it's not. But is it wrong to support an institution that substitutes reality for a consumption-driven fantasyland, and openly parasitizes off of downtown Durham for its own economic benefit? Make up your own mind, of course, but if you ask me, the answer's a resounding "yes."
I'm not asking the student body to swear off Southpoint. But if you do, you'll have the distinct pleasure of never having to see those damn statues again.
Brian Kindle is a Trinity senior. His column runs every Tuesday.
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