Analysis of ‘Messiah of Evil’

Messiah of Evil, or Dead People, is a 1974 supernatural horror film written, produced, and directed by Willard Huyck and Gloria Katz. It stars Marianna Hill and Michael Greer, with Anitra Ford, Royal Dano, Elisha Cook Jr., and Joy Bang.

Though a lesser-known film, Messiah of Evil has been generally well-received. It’s wonderfully atmospheric, with beautiful, vividly colourful visuals. It’s been described as “unsettling” by Nick Spacek of Starburst Magazine, having given the film a score of ten out of ten. It was ranked #95 on IndieWire‘s 200 Best Horror Movies of All-Time; they said, “it’s full of  iconic and memorable scenes that recall to mind some of George A. Romero’s best work.”

Here‘s a link to quotes from the film, and here‘s a link to the full movie.

As with The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, Messiah of Evil does a subtle critique of capitalism. We see a satirical commentary on consumerism in the supermarket scene, with the ghouls eating all the meat in the meat section, then feeding off of Laura (Ford). We’re reminded of a similar satire on consumerism in Dawn of the Dead, with the zombies haunting the shopping mall.

Recall that this film came out in 1974, when the same manifestations of political upheaval happened that inspired much of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, which came out the same year and also dealt with cannibalism. Early on in Messiah of Evil, we see Arletty (Hill) drive her car to a Mobil gas station, giving us an association with oil in the early 70s, when the oil crisis happened, an issue I discussed in my analysis of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.

Note the tension of the Mobil gas station attendant (played by Charles Dierkop), who is first seen shooting at someone (or some animal, as he seems to claim to have been shooting at). Then, when the creepy albino truck driver arrives (played by Bennie Robinson), the attendant, knowing how dangerous this albino is (with the dead victims in his truck, one of whom has a slit throat and was the chased victim seen at the beginning of the film), urgently presses Arletty to drive away without need of paying for her gas with her credit card. Finally, the attendant is killed by the ghouls of Point Dume (an obvious pun on doom), where she is headed to find her father.

My point is that the 1973 oil crisis marked the end of the post-war economic expansion era, which included welfare capitalism, strong unions, Keynesian government intervention to smooth over economic crises, and a strong push for progressive social reforms. The end of this era also meant the beginning of a reactionary, neoliberal push to the right; these trends have continued unswervingly over the past forty to fifty years, leading to the extreme income inequality and endless imperialist wars we’ve been suffering these years.

The evil spreading from Point Dume to the rest of the world, as is understood to be happening by the end of the film, can be seen to allegorize how neoliberalism has engulfed the world by now. The “messiah of evil,” that is, the antichrist, or as he’s called in the film, “the dark stranger,” appeared a hundred years before the events of this movie, when he returns; so he first appeared around 1873-1874, and has returned around 1973-1974. His first appearance would have been around the beginning of the Gilded Age, a time of terrible income inequality (the “gilding” being a gold covering of a far less valuable material, symbolizing wealth masking poverty); and his second appearance coincides with the beginnings of neoliberalism and our new Gilded Age.

Note how the gas station attendant tells Arletty that Point Dume is a “piss-poor” little town. Contrast this poverty with evidently rich Thom (Greer), in his nice suits and his hedonist mini-harem of women, Laura and Toni (Bang), soon to be replaced, it might seem, with Arletty.

One critic of the film, Glenn Kay, complained that the lead characters’ motivations are never explained in a satisfactory way, especially those of Thom; Kay also said that the titular Messiah is never properly identified. What Kay seems to have missed, though, is what is amply implied, but deliberately not explicitly revealed: Thom is the Messiah of Evil. In the flashback sequences, Greer plays the “dark stranger”; if one looks carefully at him in those shadowy scenes, one can recognize Greer’s tall, thin build, with the broad shoulders, in the black coat and hat. In an interview (<<bottom page), Greer even said he was soon to play “the devil’s son” in this movie.

So the hell that is brought to this town, and from thence to the rest of the world, is the evil of the rich, taking from the poor (Thom is wealthy, coming to the “piss-poor” town of Point Dume.). Recall 1 Timothy 6:10. Also note that the Beast came out of the sea (Revelation 13:1), just as the dark stranger comes out of the sea on a night with a blood-red moon.

In her search for her father, Arletty comes to a motel room and meets Thom, Laura, and Toni. Thom is listening to a dirty, poor old drunk named Charlie (Cook Jr.) tell the history of his birth, and of Point Dume. A hint as to Thom’s unsavoury character is how, instead of answering Arletty’s questions about her father, he rudely tells her to close the door, so he can continue to listen to Charlie’s story without any interrupting noise. Thom is fascinated to learn about Point Dume’s legendary history of the “blood moon” and “dark stranger” because he is intimately connected to them.

Arletty discovers a diary her father has written about his disturbing experiences in the town. His art, often black and white images of men in suits (suggestive of businessmen, or capitalists), reflects the change in his mental state, and like the diary, seems to be an attempt, ultimately failing, at therapy through expressing his pain. There seems to be estrangement between him and his daughter; he’s warned her never to come to Point Dume.

Thom, Laura, and Toni come to stay in her father’s home, where she is, for the three have not only been kicked out of their original motel for their questionable behaviour (we learn that Charlie has been killed), but no other hotel or motel will take them in. Since Thom is the antichrist, the refusal to him and his ‘groupie’ friends of accommodations seems like a Satanic version of the Christmas story, when pregnant Mary and Joseph couldn’t find an inn to stay in for the night, and had to make do in a manger.

Since I am linking Thomas with not only the devil, but also class conflict (he’s a Portuguese-American aristocrat), it might seem odd that he would have difficulty finding accommodations. Similarly, towards the end of the movie, he is fending off the ghouls with Arletty. I think the point is that Thom is hiding his true identity from her, because he has special uses for her…so they don’t kill her in the end. Part of the power of evil is how we have difficulty identifying it.

To give explanatory context to the seeming contradictions discussed in the previous paragraph, consider a few quotes by Baudelaire and Ken Ammi about the Devil either supposedly not existing or being the good guy. Similarly, 2 Corinthians 11:14 says that “Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.” Indeed, in dialectical contrast to the black clothes of the dark stranger, Thom is always wearing light-coloured suits.

Furthermore, while wealthy Thom is largely presented as if he were one of the sympathetic protagonists of the film, many billionaires in today’s world have postured as if they’re friends of the common people: Trump, Soros, Musk, etc., and many of the common people are fooled by this charade. Just as we shouldn’t be fooled by these narcissists in real life, though, neither should we be taken in by Thom, as the mindless ghouls are. Arletty is right, towards the climax of the film, to trust her initial instincts and stab Thom in the arm.

Another example of Thom’s unsavoury character comes out when it’s obvious to Toni and especially Laura that he aims to seduce Arletty. One of the key problems plaguing all human relationships is the jealous competition over who one loves the most…me, or my rival(s)? The prototype of this problem is discovered in the Oedipal conflict over whether the desired parent loves the child, his or her other parent, or his or her siblings. Laura is so disgusted with Thom that she leaves…for this, there will be fatal consequences.

She foolishly chooses to go to town that night by foot. On the way, the albino truck driver drives by and offers her a ride, which she foolishly accepts. He’s playing the music of Wagner (specifically, the Prelude to Act III of Lohengrin), whose name he incorrectly pronounces the English way (actually, an innocent goof made by actor Robinson, but one allowed by Huyck, who found it amusing), instead of the proper German way. Allowing the error in turn allows me to indulge in an interpretation of it: I see in the albino’s mispronunciation his limited, working-class education.

Some interesting associations can be made about the driver and his odd choice to play Wagner’s music in his truck (as opposed to listening to, say, pop music, or R and B). He’s an albino African-American, playing the music of a composer who was an old Nazi favourite. The linking of a ‘white’ black man with music associated with Nazism might make one think of Dr. Josef Mengele, who did such things as alter his patients’ eye colour to make them ‘more acceptable Aryans.’ Recall also that fascism exists to protect the interests of the capitalist class against socialism in part by turning the working class (people like the albino trucker) against the left and towards the right, as Trump did with his followers.

Beyond these political implications are other creepy things about the truck driver. His albino whiteness reminds us of that of Moby-Dick, especially in the chapter, “The Whiteness of the Whale,” in which it’s discussed how frighteningly unnatural the colour white can be. Finally, the disgusting fellow likes to eat living rats!

Laura naturally doesn’t want to stay in the truck of this freak, so she gets out and continues on foot to the town. She ends up in a Ralph’s supermarket, where she sees ghouls in the meat section eating all the meat like a bunch of gluttons. A number of the men among them, in suits and ties, remind us of the black-and-white men in the paintings of Arletty’s father, which gives us a clue as to what he, in his physically and mentally deteriorating condition, has been obsessed with.

The feasting ghouls all look over at Laura, and deciding that her flesh must be much tastier than what they’re currently eating, get up and run after her. Terrified, she runs, but can’t get out in time to save herself.

A key to understanding how this film is a critique, however subtle, of capitalism is seeing how the ghouls eating the meat in the supermarket, then eating Laura, is symbolic of consumerism. Note that in this feeding, we have a pun on consumer, as both eater and as excessive buyer of goods and services.

One way the capitalist class retains its power over us is by keeping us mindlessly buying things–rather like zombies–so we fill their wallets with money, instead of thinking about how to change the system. Volume One of Das Kapital begins with a discussion of the commodity, the basic unit of our economic system, seen as either a use-value or an exchange value, traded in for money. When our buying and selling focuses on only the things involved in the transactions (money and commodities), rather than the people involved, what results is what Marx called the fetishism of the commodity, which exacerbates alienation.

We get a sense, during the supermarket scene, of this excessive preoccupation with things, with products, over people when we see the greedy eating of not only the meat in the meat section, but of Laura, too, who is thus reduced to meat, a commodification of her body, as will later happen to Toni in the movie theatre scene.

Feminists have often written and spoken of how women’s bodies are commodified and exploited through such things as prostitution, stripping, and pornography. The cannibalistic eating of Laura, whom Thom has described as a model (Ford herself was a model), and later of Toni, can thus be seen as symbolic rapes.

Violence against women, as seen in the cannibalistic eating of Laura and Toni, as well as violence against the poor, as with the killing of Charlie, is an example of what I’ve described elsewhere as “punching down.” The capitalist class wouldn’t be able to keep its power over us if we “punched up” instead. We buy the capitalists’ products (we consume them), and we hurt each other (consuming each other, metaphorically speaking), instead of rising up in revolution.

This punching down connects the black albino listening to Wagner with the zombie-like ghouls eating meat, then eating Laura. Fascism is about punching down–that is, attacking foreigners, people of colour, leftists, homosexuals, etc.–to ingratiate oneself with the ruling class, or in a symbolic sense, making oneself ‘whiter,’ more class collaborationist, more pro-capitalist.

Another example of this film pushing the marginalized into the mainstream, that is, making them conform, is the choice of Greer to play Thom. Greer was known not only as one of the first openly gay actors to appear in major Hollywood movies, but also to act in early films that dealt with gay themes, like The Gay Deceivers and Fortune and Men’s Eyes. So in Messiah of Evil, we have in Greer a publicly-known gay actor not only playing a straight man in Thom, but also playing a womanizer.

On a comparable note, Thom as the antichrist is portrayed throughout the film as a normal man–that is, his evil is normalized. We wouldn’t know he was the dark stranger, a descendant of him, or his reincarnation–whichever–if we weren’t paying close attention. The same can be said about how neoliberalism has been insinuated into our lives over the past forty years without most of us even noticing this insidious evil–it has also been normalized for us. The bogus promise of economic prosperity that the “free market” is supposed to provide is an evil that’s been presented as a messianic cure to the ills of “big government” by such demagogic economists has Milton Friedman.

As for Toni, we can sense that her days, if not her hours, are numbered when she sings the famous first verse of “Amazing Grace,” but stops singing conspicuously at “I once was lost, but now…” once Thom enters the area. Like Laura, Toni is getting sick of Point Dume and wants to leave. She can’t even get entertainment from the radio, since it isn’t receiving any stations. Thom suggests that the bored girl go see a movie (he’ll have Arletty to himself that way).

Her in the movie theatre is yet another example of the film doing a social commentary on consumerism, our tendency to pay for pleasure instead of dealing with our relationship problems, such as her jealousy over his preference of beautiful Arletty. Thus we see in both Toni’s jealousy and her retreat to the movies a reinforcement of social alienation.

She watches a Western called Gone With the West, an indulgently violent parody of the genre. The zombie-like ghouls enter later in a large group; their mindless watching of the film is a social commentary on how so many of us do the same thing–pay to be dazzled by the media, which is part of the superstructure influenced by (and influencing) the base of society, or its means and relations of production.

It doesn’t take long for her to realize she has unwelcome company in the theatre, right from the sight of a ghoul staring at her just before the lights go out and the cowboy film starts. She snaps out of the lull the movie experience has put her in, and the ghouls notice her awakening. Then they, including the albino, go after her and indulge in more cannibalism. It’s as though they were punishing her for having woken up and begun thinking for herself.

Another way the capitalist class keeps us under their control is through that superstructure described above–in this particular instance, the media (movies, TV, the radio, the news,…and in today’s world, social media). The superstructure’s media wasn’t nearly as bad back in the early 70s as it is now–with 90% of American media controlled by only six corporations, who thus have control over most of our access to information (which is now extended to a global network)–but it was bad enough back then to deserve a social critique in Messiah of Evil.

I consider this film to be quite prophetic–whether intentionally so or not–through its symbolism and allegory, it being a film that came out during the huge political upheavals of the early 1970s (the Watergate cover-up, defeat in Vietnam, racial conflict, and economic convulsions), these being upheavals some of whose repercussions are being felt in full flower today; I discussed such prophetic, if you will, filmmaking in The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (link above).

The sickness that takes over the people of Point Dume, each with a bleeding eye, can be seen in the context of my capitalist allegory to symbolize how the mindset needed to keep us all subjugated to the new neoliberal order has negatively affected our mental health. We see the world in pain, for we ourselves are in pain–we weep blood instead of tears.

Along with this growing sickness, the ghouls all act as an undifferentiated group, with no sense of individuality. They go to the beach at night, looking up at the moon (waiting for it to turn blood-red) in collective expectation of the return of the dark stranger, an act called “The Waiting.” Similarly, working class people today, far from experiencing the liberation promised after the disastrous dissolution of the Soviet Union, find themselves passively accepting worse and worse jobs, with low pay, reduced benefits, etc. They feel like mere cogs in a machine, pressured to work harder and harder, alienated from their work. The limited range of opinions allowed in the media result in conformist thinking among the masses, just like those ghouls watching the cowboy movie with blank faces.

There are moments when the film is outright surreal, such as when insects come out of Arletty’s mouth. This sense of the surreal adds to the disturbing atmosphere of the movie, and it can explain certain aspects of the plot that don’t seem to be properly developed or explained.

An example of such an unexplained moment, one that seems contradictory to my presentation of Thom as the real villain of the film, is when he, walking the streets of downtown Point Dume alone at night, is briefly chased and attacked by ghouls. The shots of the chase and attack are presented in a choppy way, as jump cuts, suggesting a dream-like quality, as if Thom has merely imagined the attack.

No bad person believes he’s evil; the villains of history have always imagined that their atrocities were meant ultimately for the greater good. These bad people also narcissistically imagine themselves to be the victim, rather than the victimizer…so why would Thom be any different, in wanting to associate himself with the real victims of the story? Recall in this connection what I said above about how the powerful and wealthy like to be associated with the common people, sympathizing with their interests. Thom’s imagining of himself being attacked can be understood in this light.

After Thom gets away from his attackers (imagined, as I see them, for surely they’d still be giving him chase if they were real), he stops to catch his breath, and a poor woman appears, begging him for help from the ghouls. He turns away, especially when he sees her eye bleeding. Of course he won’t help her: he’s the messiah of evil who is bringing on these evils, and he wants her to complete her transformation into another ghoul.

Arletty’s eye is bleeding, too, and like her father in his deteriorating condition, she’s beginning to cut herself. It’s around this time that she sees herself in the mirror, with a bug on her tongue, and she vomits out a host of insects.

Two police arrive on the streets, where Thom is wandering, to deal with the ghouls. One of the cops is bleeding from an eye, and the other shoots him in the neck and tries to run away. The ghoul cop then shoots him dead. In the context of my capitalist allegory, it’s easy to see how a cop could be spontaneously bleeding from an eye and becoming a ghoul: cops have historically existed to serve the ruling class; even if a small minority of cops, like the non-ghoul cop, are good people at heart, it’s the whole system of law enforcement that they work for that is the problem.

Something needs to be said about the origin of the “dark stranger.” He was a former minister (hence, his status as “messiah”) and a member of the Donner Party, who were a group of American pioneers migrating to California in a wagon train from the Midwest. During the winter of 1846-1847, they were snowbound in the Sierra Nevada mountains; some of the migrants resorted to cannibalism to survive, and two Native American guides were deliberately killed to eat the bodies. Our dark stranger seems to have derived his taste for human flesh from this grisly episode, and in Point Dume, he’s been spreading his “religion” with cannibalism as, if you will, a new form of the Eucharist.

It’s interesting to consider the murder and cannibalistic eating of the Native Americans in the light of not only the film but also of the migration of the pioneers out west. The migration is an example of settler-colonialism, associated with the genocide of the natives. It’s also related to imperialism, the theft of others’ land to exploit it and thus enrich oneself with it. Settler-colonialism and imperialism in the modern world are also manifestations of capitalism, which further solidifies the connection of Messiah of Evil with capitalism.

Arletty has been told that her father’s body was found on the beach, him having been building a huge sculpture there, but the tide, it seems, collapsed it on top of him. She doesn’t believe it was really his body on the beach, though, because the coarse hands of the body weren’t the same as those of her father’s. It’s later confirmed that her father is still alive, for he returns to his home to face Arletty. His transformation into ghoul is also just about complete.

He tells her the history of the dark stranger, of how he attacked and ate some of the flesh of a hunter who, as he lay dying, tried to warn others of his killer. They thought him delirious, just as many are thought crazy who try to warn people today of the evils of neoliberalism, which has come “to a world tired and disillusioned, a world looking back to old gods and old dark ways, our world.”

Remembering Charlie’s warning, she has to set her ghoul father on fire to destroy him. In his wild mania, he spreads blue paint all over his face and hands; it’s as if he’s making a desperate attempt to be at one with his art to treat his growing mental illness. Her being forced to commit such a violent, fiery patricide can be seen, in the context of my capitalist allegory, to represent how neoliberalism has exacerbated modern alienation, in this case, alienation in the family.

Thom returns to the house the next morning. His frown at seeing her father’s charred corpse can easily be seen as his sadness at the sight of one of his ghouls–his children–killed. Other ghouls are waiting on the glass roof to attack; for all we know, he’s summoned them there. She, screaming in her traumatized state, attacks him with the shears she used on her father before burning him, cutting a big gash in Thom’s arm.

After he lies in bed, resting a while and recovering from his wound, the ghouls on the glass roof break in, fall into the room, and attack him and Arletty. He helps her fight them off, though in a minimal way, and they run out to the beach. Again, all of this would seem to make him look like a sympathetic character, but I suspect his intention is really just to lure her out to the beach, and his disappearance in the water is to lead to an at least implied plot twist, in which he later reappears from the water as the dark stranger with the appearance of the blood red moon.

As he and Arletty are running together along the shore, we hear Phillan Bishop’s eerie synthesizer ostinato in 17/8 time (subdivided 4+4+4+5). The two briefly embrace like lovers: after all, this is part of Thom’s attempt at a physical and spiritual seduction of her.

The ghouls start to congregate at the beach, staring out into the ocean as they’ve done every night, waiting for the blood moon and the dark stranger. Thom and Arletty go out into the water in an attempt to escape the ghouls by boat. He seems weakened from his arm wound, making it hard for him to swim.

According to the Wikipedia article on the film, Thom drowns; but I don’t think that’s what’s really happened to him, though Arletty seems led to believe this was his fate. As I said above, he merely disappears to get ready for his return as the dark stranger, the Beast, the antichrist (Revelation 13:3-4).

The ghouls get her out of the water at night, but they don’t kill her. They dress her in a pretty gown to offer her to the returning dark stranger at night, under the blood moon and among the ghouls’ bonfires. She’s too horrified, I’d say, to say Thom’s name upon recognizing him. Instead, we get a loud, hysterical scream from her.

She’s taken to an insane asylum, and like her father, she takes up painting, presumably as a kind of art therapy to soothe her madness. Trying to warn the world about the coming evil causes one to think she’s insane. Indeed, this evil is so traumatizing, so crazy-making, that all she can do is scream…yet no one will listen.

The film ends as it began, with a return to a shot in a hall in the insane asylum, with light in the middle, where Arletty can be seen wandering, and dark shadows around the edges of the shot. Just as the dark stranger has returned, so has this shot from the beginning returned, a coming full circle…just as the Gilded Age has returned to us today.

We hear her distraught narration, her trying to warn people of the spreading sickness that makes one a ghoul. Similarly today, some of us try to warn people of the growing sickness caused by neoliberalism and imperialism–the alienation and its attendant mental illness, its pressure to conform to today’s ways, as the ghouls all conform to the grisly ways of the messiah of evil. Yet, just as no one will hear Arletty’s screams, no one will listen to our cries of help.

“No one will hear you SCREAM!!!”

Analysis of ‘Child’s Play’

Child’s Play is a 1988 horror film directed by Tom Holland, written by him, Don Mancini (whose story the film is based on), and John Lafia. It stars Catherine Hicks, Chris Sarandon, and Brad Dourif, with Alex Vincent, Dinah Manoff, and Jack Colvin.

Child’s Play gained a cult following, and its commercial success spawned a media franchise including seven sequels (with a TV series), comic books, and a 2019 reboot. It won a Saturn Award for Best Actress (Hicks), and was nominated for three–Best Horror Film, Best Performance by a Younger Actor (Vincent), and Best Writing (Holland, Lafia, and Mancini).

Here is a link to quotes from the film.

There is a subtle critique of capitalism in Child’s Play. We see a stark contrast between the haves and the have-nots, that is, people like Karen Barclay (Hicks) and her son, six-year-old Andy (Vincent), on the one hand, living in their nice apartment, and the homeless, one of whom (played by Juan Ramirez) has sold her a Good Guy doll.

The doll itself is a commodity sold to “bring…a lot of joy” to the child who plays with it. The Good Guy doll, especially when the soul of Charles Lee Ray, or “Chucky” (Dourif), is in the doll, is a literally fetishized commodity. One buys the commodity as a complete, finished product, without any sense of the workers who made it, just as one might worship an idol, believing in the god inhabiting the carved wood or sculpted statue, without any thought as to who made the idol. Chucky is thus like a pagan idol, with a spirit animating it, adored by Andy the idolater, because the lonely, alienated boy has no real, living friend to play with. In commodity fetishism, there’s a preoccupation between things (money and merchandise), not between people, hence its relationship with alienation.

As far as the opposition of those with shelter and the homeless is concerned, that opposition is in potential danger of being erased, in Karen’s case, as a consequence of her walking out on the job during her shift to buy the doll from the homeless peddler. Her manager, Walter Criswell (played by Alan Wilder), pesters her about walking off on the job, and implies a threat of firing her if she won’t agree to covering a sick worker’s shift…on Andy’s birthday. In this conflict, we see an example of worker alienation, which is adding to the Barclay family’s alienation as already discussed in lonely little Andy (whose father died).

Another thing should be mentioned about the homeless, as seen in the peddler in particular: they aren’t portrayed sympathetically. The peddler tries to suck as much money as he can out of Karen (but isn’t that what capitalists do?), on two occasions: his selling her the doll, and his exploiting her need to get information about where he found the doll, even to the point of wanting a sexual favour from the pretty woman in exchange for that information.

This associating of the homeless with criminals can be interpreted in two ways: either it’s a 1980s Reaganite lack of sympathy for the poor, or it links the peddler’s desperation with that of Charles Lee Ray. The frustrations of being poor often have a way of making people mean; they either try to get as much money out of better-off people, like Karen, as they can, or sexual frustration can make them act like creeps, as the peddler does to her; or the detrimental effect of capitalism on one’s mental health can drive one to commit violent crimes, as it drives Charles Lee Ray to become a sociopathic serial killer.

His passing of his soul into a doll represents a classic case of projective identification, a Kleinian concept that goes beyond the ordinary projection of imagining one’s own traits in others, but instead one succeeds in putting those traits into someone else (or in the case of the doll, something else). What’s more, the bad guy puts himself into a Good Guy, in the form of a voodoo incantation.

There is a lot of duality in this film. In particular, there are many pairings: Charles Lee Ray and Chucky, Andy and Chucky, Karen and her friend, Maggie Peterson (Manoff), Charles Lee Ray and his double-crossing partner-in-crime, Eddie Caputo (played by Neil Giuntoli), Detective Mick Norris (Sarandon) and his partner, Detective Jack Santos (played by Tommy Swerdlow), and Chucky with the voodoo doll of John “Dr. Death” Bishop (played by Raymond Oliver).

These pairings are generally parallels and/or opposites of each other, in some way: a bad guy in a Good Guy doll, a sweet little boy who physically resembles (sometimes even dresses like) his doll with the killer’s soul in it, his nice mother and his cranky baby-sitting substitute mom, two criminals, two cops, and a victimizer doll vs a victim’s doll. These parallels/opposites remind us of dialectical realities.

Because Karen has to cover the sick worker’s shift on her son’s birthday, her friend Maggie will babysit the boy that night. She’s rather cranky about Andy getting to bed without letting Chucky watch the news to know the latest about the police’s manhunt for Eddie Caputo, the partner of the presumed-dead Charles Lee Ray, and someone he wants to kill for having driven away and abandoned him when Norris was chasing them at the beginning of the film.

Maggie’s perceived crankiness as Karen’s substitute puts her in the role of what Melanie Klein called the bad mother, as opposed to Karen as the good mother. Maggie not letting the ‘boys’ stay up is frustrating to them, whereas Karen going all out to buy the doll for Andy makes her the good mother, who strives never to fail in pleasing her son. These women are thus like the “bad breast” that won’t give the baby milk, versus the “good breast” that will feed the baby.

This splitting of the women into two moms is a defence mechanism that Andy also does, in a symbolic way, on himself, with his understanding that Chucky is alive. Just as there is a good mom and a bad one, so is there a good boy and a bad ‘boy.’ Splitting as a defence mechanism is thus aided by another defence mechanism, projection. Andy is projecting his bad, hateful side into Chucky (in a symbolic sense), just as Charles Lee Ray has literally done.

It’s interesting that much of the doll’s violence and terrorizing happen in the apartment, with Maggie or Karen as the victims. We’re reminded of the last, and best, episode of Trilogy of Terror, “Amelia,” in which the Zuni doll terrorizes Amelia (played by Karen Black) in her apartment. In my analysis of Trilogy of Terror, I explored the projection and splitting-away of the bad character traits of the characters Black plays in all three episodes, leaving the remaining ‘good’ characters as timid and sexually repressed. Andy’s sweetness, as opposed to Chucky’s viciousness, can also be seen in this light. Maggie‘s falling out of the window and crashing through a car roof, incidentally, reminds me of the fate of Katherine Thorn (played by Lee Remick) in The Omen, another film about an evil boy.

When the police investigate Maggie’s death, Norris notices that the soles of Andy’s Good Guy shoes match the footprints leading up to the attack on her, so he deems Andy to be a suspect. Of course, Karen is too upset even to consider such suspicions.

Later that night, she’s talking to her son, who says that Chucky told him that he was sent to Andy by his dead father in heaven. I’m curious to know how Chucky learned of Andy’s father’s death in so short a time to be able to make up such a story. One wonders how much of the boy’s conversation with Chucky is real, and how much of it is just the boy’s imagination.

Andy also tells his mother that “Aunt Maggie was a real bitch and got what she deserved.” He insists that Chucky is the one who said it, which is of course perfectly plausible, given the killer’s personality…but technically, we never hear those words come out of the doll’s mouth. For all we know, Andy said and thought it himself, however unlikely that may be, given the context.

Even if all of this did come out of Chucky’s mouth, though, which is of course more than probably true, it’s true only on the literal level. On a symbolic level, we can still see the living doll as a case of projection and splitting-away of Andy’s bad side onto the doll.

His father’s death would have caused emotional trauma for the boy, who would have imagined the death as a kind of abandonment of him, thus making Andy’s father the bad father, in the Kleinian sense. The good father in heaven may have given him the doll as a gift; but the bad father gave Andy a Bad Guy in a Good Guy doll.

The police see Andy as a suspect, even though it’s hardly much more plausible that a little six-year-old boy could have had the strength to make a woman fly out of a window than a ‘living doll’ could have. Andy’s insistence that the doll is alive sounds like a manifestation of mental illness in him, even though Chucky really has the killer’s soul animating it, so it’s not surprising that he’s taken to a psychiatric hospital to be treated by Dr. Ardmore (Colvin).

As I said above, on both literal and symbolic levels, little Andy really does have issues. His father died, the death of Maggie is a shock to him even if he isn’t the perpetrator of the killing, and he’s so lonely, he needs a talking doll for a friend. His physical similarity to the doll, including their clothes, sometimes suggests a potential merging of identities, in spite of the splitting and projection.

Andy’s experience of what Klein called the paranoid-schizoid position–a schizoid splitting of his mom into absolute good (Karen) and bad (Maggie, the mom substitute), as well as a paranoid fear that the bad projection will come back to get him (i.e., Chucky coming to the mental hospital to get him–actually, not to kill him, but to put the killer’s soul into the boy’s body…still, Andy doesn’t know that)–is a projection of the splitting of the good and bad sides of Andy himself. His splitting of his dead father into good and bad versions is also such a projection, as is his projection of his bad side into Chucky.

This splitting of people into good and bad, as well as the projection of this splitting onto people in the outside world, is symptomatic of the alienation we all feel in a society ruled by the profit motive, which splits people into rich and poor, then idolizes the rich while looking down on the poor. The capitalist class exploits this splitting and projection by selling us the commodities representing idealized people (Good Guy dolls, films and TV shows glorifying our objects of hero worship), and the war on the poor that results from chasing profits in turn results in desperate people we denigrate, the lumpenproletariat (criminals and the homeless).

Note how the story takes place in winter, with the homeless huddling together around outdoor fires to keep warm. One homeless man, the peddler of the doll, turns nasty and tries to get as much out of Karen as he can, even her body, in exchange for information about where he got the doll (never mind all the greedy capitalists who try to squeeze out as much profit as they can through the extraction of surplus value, some of whom exploit the bodies of females far younger than Karen!); but when Norris rescues her from the peddler and his meat-hook hands, he also points his gun at all the other homeless in the area, as if they were just as bad as the peddler, making them run away from their one source of heat, their outdoor fire, on that cold, bitter night.

Norris may be a good guy in his helping of Karen, but as a cop pointing his gun at freezing cold homeless people who never laid a hand on her, he is working to protect the class interests of the wealthy. By speaking of an area where the homeless hang out as a rough part of town that she shouldn’t be in alone at night, Norris is lumping the homeless together with criminals. This lack of sympathy for the poor and desperate makes Chucky’s revenge attack on him in his car not exactly surprising.

Now, Chucky learns from John “Dr. Death” Bishop, his former voodoo instructor, that in order for his soul to escape the doll (which is becoming increasingly human), he must put it in Andy’s body (he being the first person to know that Chucky’s alive). This putting of Charles Lee Ray’s soul into the boy’s body, a merging of bad Chucky with good Andy, should be understood, symbolically speaking, in terms of the paranoid-schizoid position, which is a splitting into absolute good vs bad, and the depressive position, an integrating of the split-off good and bad.

Though a child perceives the split-off good vs bad as being in his good vs bad parents, we must remember that the splitting is happening in the child’s mind, and it is thus a projection of a splitting that isn’t really in his parents, but rather in himself. Chucky, back in Karen’s apartment with Andy and having knocked the boy out, begins the incantation to put his soul in Andy’s body, a merging that represents the integration of the good and bad sides. He doesn’t complete the ritual, though, because Karen and Norris arrive just in time to stop him.

Just as the merging of Andy and Chucky isn’t complete, so is the integration of the good and bad mother, or the good and bad father, a child’s reparation with them, never complete. Throughout one’s life, one tends to shift back and forth between the paranoid-schizoid position (PS) and the depressive position (D), an oscillation Wilfred Bion expressed in this shorthand form: PS <-> D (e.g., in Bion, page 67).

Accordingly, Chucky as the bad Andy fights with Karen and Norris (who could be seen as a substitute father). When Karen, having put Chucky in the fireplace, screams to Andy to get the matches so she can burn the doll, the boy sits in hesitation at first–partly out of fear, no doubt, but also partly out of an unconscious wish to remove Karen the bad mother by letting Chucky kill her. Nonetheless, the good Andy wins out in his conflict, and gets the matches.

Chucky attacking Karen with, for example, him stabbing the knife through the door with her holding it closed on the other side, can be seen to symbolize how Andy, in unconscious phantasy, is attacking his mother through a projection of his bad self. He unconsciously wants to attack her because he feels she’s frustrated him in certain ways (not buying the doll at the beginning of the movie, not being with him at night for his birthday, but having cranky “Aunt Maggie,” Karen’s substitute and therefore split-off bad mother, instead to babysit him, etc.).

Later, when he sees Karen and Norris trying to protect him from Chucky, he can see the good mother in her, and he can understand that both the good and the bad mother are the same person. Now, instead of wanting to attack her in unconscious phantasy, Andy wants to keep her. In fact, even Chucky, wanting to merge with Andy, says he’ll let Karen live if she gives him the boy (a pretty weak promise coming from a serial killer, but still symbolic of an unconscious train of thought). So the bad side in Andy, Chucky, is still vicious, but thanks to his help in getting the matches, as well as his recognition that his bad side is really bad (“This is the end, friend.”), Andy can weaken his bad side and integrate it with his good side, a switch from PS to D.

With the final destruction of Chucky, through not only gunshots breaking off his limbs and head, but also that bullet in his now fully-formed heart, Andy no longer needs to project his bad side. He can now switch from paranoid anxiety to depressive anxiety, from the fear of being persecuted by the projected bad mother to the urge to hang on to his mom with all of her faults, her mixture of good and bad.

The film ends with a frozen shot of Andy leaving the room and looking at burned, mutilated, and dead Chucky. The boy’s frown isn’t only from his trauma: it’s also from his enduring sense of connection to his other, bad, projected self. The movement between splitting and integration doesn’t end in infancy or childhood: PS <-> D is a lifelong oscillation.

Analysis of ‘The Texas Chain Saw Massacre’

I: Introduction

The Texas Chain Saw Massacre is a 1974 slasher film produced and directed by Tobe Hooper, written by him and Kim Henkel. It stars Marilyn Burns, Paul A Partain, Edwin Neal, Jim Siedow, and Gunnar Hansen, all relatively unknown actors, since it was filmed on a low budget.

The film was marketed and hyped as if based on a true story, and while it, like Psycho and Silence of the Lambs (i.e., Buffalo Bill), was inspired by Ed Gein and his crimes (serial killing, grave robbing, wearing human flesh, cross-dressing, etc.), the plot is largely fictional.

It initially received mixed reviews from critics, but it was hugely profitable and has since been regarded as one of the best and most influential horror films ever made. It helped establish, as did films like Black Christmas and Halloween, a number of tropes common to slasher films, including the final girl, and the killer as a hulking, masked figure.

Here is a link to quotes from the film, and here is a link to the full movie.

II: Politics and Lies–a Brief but Necessary Digression

There is subtle political commentary in this film. Pretending it’s based on a true story, apart from hyping the film to get a wider audience, is a way of saying that, in a sense, the horrors depicted represent some unsettling realities in our world back in the early 1970s, and perhaps, even more so today. The date for the events of the film is given as August 18, 1973, the same year that, just two months later, the oil crisis would begin. Nixon would resign, because of the growing scandal around Watergate, the year of the film’s release.

In other news around that time, the Vietnam War was in its final years, ending the year after the film’s release. Also, during the early development of Hooper’s story, there was the Chilean coup d’état of September 11th, 1973. Hooper’s point in pretending that The Texas Chain Saw Massacre is a true story is that the media lies all the time about what the US government has been doing all over the world…so why couldn’t he lie, too?

Nixon lied that he was “not a crook.” The atrocities of the Vietnam War, committed by US troops, were rationalized and minimized in the news media as being an essential part of ‘defending Western democracy’ against ‘the Godless commie menace,’ as was the putative reason given for overthrowing the democratically-elected Salvador Allende to replace his socialist government with Pinochet‘s right-wing dictatorship, which killed, imprisoned, tortured and disappeared tens of thousands of leftist political dissidents. The Pinochet government also established the “free market” policies of the Chicago Boys, benefitting only the Chilean wealthy and American investors, but throwing the rest of the Chilean population into poverty.

This “free market” model would be a kind of prototype for Reagan’s and Thatcher’s economic policies of the 1980s, all lied about in the media as promising economic prosperity for all, when in reality all these policies did was bring about the neoliberal nightmare we’ve been suffering through more and more in the decades since. Indeed, Hooper’s film could be seen as prophetic in a way, for its making and release coinciding with the oil crisis means that the early 70s were the beginning of the end of the Keynesian era of welfare capitalism and its post-WWII economic prosperity. The poverty surrounding the family of Leatherface (Hansen) can be seen as symbolic of the coming economic problems of the US and beyond.

A hint in the film that helps us understand the story’s connection with the ups and downs of capitalism is when the hitchhiker (Neal)–in the van with Sally (Burns) and Franklin Hardesty (Partain), Jerry (played by Allen Danziger), Kirk (played by William Vail), and Pam (played by Teri McMinn)–tells them that the air gun used to kill cattle in the slaughterhouse was no good because “people were put out of jobs.” Technological advances tend to replace workers, as many fear AI might do today.

Technological advances also play a role in the tendency of the rate of profit to fall, which in turn leads to periodic economic crises, putting many out of work, which is what has happened to the hitchhiker’s family, including Leatherface, the old man (Siedow), and Grandpa (played by John Dugan).

These economic crises, happening every ten to fifteen years, combined with such other capitalist problems as income inequality and poverty for the majority of the population, problems that are especially scandalous in the richest country in the world, will eventually take their toll on the mental health of much of the population. Small wonder Leatherface’s family is so screwed up, this family being an extreme example of the mental health issues of many in the United States.

III: Deathly Desires

Now we can look at the issue dominating the beginning of the film: grave robbing, of which we later learn is the hitchhiker’s responsibility. Both he and his brother, Leatherface, exhibit traits of what Erich Fromm called the necrophilous character. This is not to be confused with necrophilia as a sexual perversion. Rather, Fromm characterizes it thus: ““Necrophilia in the characterological sense can be described as the passionate attraction to all that is dead, decayed, putrid, sickly; it is the passion to transform that which is alive into something unalive; to destroy for the sake of destruction; the exclusive interest in all that is purely mechanical. It is the passion to tear apart living structures. [Fromm, page 369, his emphasis]

This necrophilous sickness in the hitchhiker and Leatherface is also something I wrote about in an article expressing my concerns about the escalations of current global conflicts leading to a very possibly nuclear WWIII. These concerns are also linked to capitalism and imperialism, since war is a business and a racket, meant to generate profits for such weapons manufacturers as Boeing and Lockheed-Martin. Beyond the wish to make money, though, is the fact that these psychopathic warmongers in the Pentagon, etc., seem to have a lot in common with the ghouls of this movie, a desire for death. Only the differences in income and social status, of the real-life people and the movie characters, separate them from each other.

Sicker than merely digging up bodies is the way the hitchhiker and Leatherface, as was the case with Gein, like to turn human corpses and skeletons into grisly works of art. In these ‘sculptures,’ we see the perverse and paradoxical merging of the creative and destructive instincts. Family abuse, something I’ll return to and expand on later, has surely been the root cause of this ghoulish perversion of the artistic impulse.

Instead of having a conventional soundtrack with, for example, an orchestral score, Tobe Hooper and Wayne Bell recorded a track of eerie background sound effects. This lack of conventional expressivity in music (the country songs heard in the film notwithstanding) is paralleled with Leatherface’s lack of verbal language and the hitchhiker’s speech impediment. These elements, taken together, represent one of the film’s major critiques of American society, as well as of capitalist society as a whole: the inability to communicate because of social alienation; the ghoulish sculptures mentioned in the previous paragraph are of course also a reflection of this problem.

Tied in with the ghoulish art and the alienating inability to communicate is how the film begins mostly with a black screen, as photos are taken of the parts of the exhumed corpses, all while those grating, screeching sound effects of Hooper and Bell are heard. In that blackness is a feeling of undifferentiated, hellish isolation, with no one to talk to, a place where terror cannot be verbalized.

IV: The Graveyard Scene

The five youths in the van go to a graveyard in the area where the grave robbing has occurred, somewhere in central Texas; they want to see if the grave of Sally’s and Franklin’s grandfather has been disturbed–it hasn’t. Still, a few things happen here that have some bearing on, or at least that hint at, what’s to come.

A cowboy (played by Jerry Green) leads Sally away to where her grandfather’s grave is, but he does it in a way that suggests he has a sexual interest in her. She is, after all, pretty and curvaceous. He takes her by the arm and tells her boyfriend that he’s going to run off with her. This ties in with the song, “Fool For a Blonde” (Sally is blonde), heard later in the van when the hitchhiker is given a ride, and he almost kills her towards the end of the film. My point is that men eyeing women lewdly, the subject of the song and what’s obviously on the mind of the cowboy taking her to the grave, is on a continuum with the psychopathic extreme of the hitchhiker trying to send her to her grave, then feast on her flesh. All of these men are regarding women as delicious meat.

The other noteworthy thing during the graveyard scene is the drunk (played by Joe Bill Hogan) alluding to the horrors we’re about to see, horrors no one believes are true because a drunken old man is talking about them. He’s like an ignored prophet, a male Cassandra. This foreshadowing continues back in the van when Pam reads the dire predictions of their horoscopes that day.

V: Franklin and the Hitchhiker

The vulnerability of Franklin is emphasized early on, not just because he’s in a wheelchair, but also from his fall off the side of the road when he needs to urinate, as well as when the hitchhiker uses his knife to slash Franklin’s arm, making him whimper in pain. So when he’s finally carved to pieces with Leatherface’s chainsaw, it’s especially horrifying.

The hitchhiker’s viciousness is, of course, tied in not only with how “weird looking” he is (i.e., the port-wine stain birthmark on the right side of his face, his quirky body language), but also the awkwardness of his conversation with the five of them (graphically describing the killing of the cattle in the slaughterhouse, showing them his knife, imposing on them to pay him for a photo he’s taken of Franklin). His deep digging of Franklin’s knife blade into his own hand, before slashing Franklin’s arm with his bigger, stronger knife, shows the relationship between sadism and masochism that Freud wrote about. It also indicates how the hitchhiker’s violent nature is rooted in his own personal trauma.

After getting rid of the hitchhiker, who has smeared his blood on the side of the van and has childishly blown raspberries at them as they drive off, the five youths stop at a Gulf gas station to fill up the van; but the owner of the gas station, the old man, says he has no gas (which I see as an allusion to the 1973 oil crisis). He presumably has seen the blood on the van, and I suspect he knows that it was his younger brother who put it there, to mark the five for death. He says he won’t get any more gas ’til late that afternoon, or not even until the next morning; but I suspect he’s lying (he’ll never get any gas), hoping to have the kids not only buy and eat his barbecue (!), but also to keep them there so he and his brothers can make barbecue out of their flesh.

VI: Vegetarianism

When Franklin asks the old man where “the old Franklin place” is, which is dangerously close to the house of the family of psychopaths, the old man warns them to stay away. Though just as psychopathic as the rest of the family, the old man is able to put on a respectable face of sanity for the public, in his hopes of hiding his family’s criminal insanity from the world.

It’s been noted that The Texas Chain Saw Massacre is a ‘vegetarian‘ horror film, in that the brutal killing and cannibalistic eating of the victims–by a family of former slaughterhouse workers–gives the audience an idea of the suffering of farm animals. Indeed, Paul McCartney once made a video saying that if we ever saw the brutality inflicted on farm animals, we’d all be vegetarians. When hearing about the killing of cattle in the slaughterhouse during the ride in the van, Pam says, “People shouldn’t kill animals for food.”

Since the psychopathic family is so poor, it’s easy to see that survival is one of their main reasons for resorting to cannibalism. It’s also exocannibalism, the killing and eating of outsiders, who are perceived as the enemy. In these two motives, we see capitalism again as the root cause, through extreme poverty and alienation, but also in the commodification of the human body (i.e., selling human flesh as “barbecue” in the old man’s gas station). Finally, eating their victims can be seen as an attempt to introject their healthy qualities; since the brothers are so obviously sick, they desperately seek some kind of a cure.

VII: Abuse, Trauma, and Projection

Their extreme psychopathy is on a continuum with the kind of pain we all feel, but it’s moderate for us, of course. We can see this in a comparison of the hitchhiker with Franklin, both of whom come across as childish with their blowing of raspberries, and both having knives. We all want to blow off pain by projecting it, which is symbolized in the film by blowing raspberries and digging knives into people. Sometimes pain is projected in a moderate way, as with Franklin; other times, in an extreme way, as with the hitchhiker.

Family abuse (i.e., the old man’s aggressions against Leatherface and the hitchhiker) has driven the younger two brothers to project their pain in an extremely violent way, while emotional neglect makes Franklin project only in a minor way, blowing raspberries during a temper tantrum at the old Franklin house.

With his slashed arm, Franklin has just had a terribly traumatic experience, and he needs to process his fear by constantly talking about it. Though his endless prating gets irritating for the other four, he needs to have his feelings validated and empathized with in order to be soothed and healed. The others’ neglectful attitude, even to the point of Jerry taunting Franklin that the hitchhiker is going to kill him, only makes his trauma worse.

VIII: A Brief Psychoanalytic Digression

The soothing process that Franklin needs is well understood through the container/contained theory of psychoanalyst Wilfred Bion (read here for more about psychoanalytic concepts). Harsh emotional experiences–especially those of babies and psychotics, who are incapable of self-soothing–need to be contained, that is, soothed, detoxified, and processed, in order for one to make sense of them and return to normal mental functioning. The container is the one who helps us process and detoxify these harsh feelings, the contained; the mother is usually the baby’s container, and the psychotherapist is the mental patient’s container. If we’re reasonably healthy, we can be our own containers, or self-soothers.

The container is given a yonic symbol, and the contained is given a phallic one. Healthy containment, starting with the use of projective identification as a primitive, pre-verbal form of communication between mother and baby, leads to normal mental functioning and the ability to communicate in society through language–what Lacan would have considered a healthy transition from the dyadic mother/son relationship in the Imaginary to a relationship with many people in the cultural world of the Symbolic.

Franklin and the hitchhiker have made at best tenuous entries into the socio-cultural world of the Symbolic; Leatherface, on the other hand, hasn’t properly entered that world at all, since the closest he’s able to use language is through whimpering and oinking. He’s generally described as being mentally handicapped, but I suspect that extreme trauma from his childhood has silenced him…has, pardon the expression, retarded his development.

You see, sometimes containment is negative, that is, the opposite of soothing. Negative containment can lead instead to a nameless dread, something the three brothers originally experienced, then started projecting on to other people; this negative containment is symbolized in the film by Leatherface’s phallic chainsaw, or the hitchhiker’s phallic knife, cutting into their victims’ bodies and making yonic wounds in them. In Lacanian terms, this nameless dread could be called the Real, that traumatizing, inexpressible, undifferentiated world expressed in the black screen seen at the beginning of the film.

Note how I never refer to the three psychopathic brothers by their names, as they’re referred to in the sequels. I prefer to refer to them as the “old man,” “hitchhiker,” and “Leatherface” as given in the end credits, because I feel that their namelessness is significant as far as the meaning of the film is concerned. Not having names reflects their social alienation, as well as their inability to communicate and be communicated to normally. These problems of theirs explain their regressive tendency towards the infantile, primitive, preverbal communication of projective identification as through the piercing of the contained (the knife, sledgehammer, or chainsaw) into the container (the victim’s wound). The hitchhiker, recall, calls his brother “Leatherface,” rather than by a normal Christian name.

IX: When Victimizers are Victims, Too

Kirk and Pam go off outside, and they find the house of the psychopath family. Hoping to get some gas from them, Kirk ventures inside to look around and see if anyone is in.

This going into a house one hasn’t been permitted to enter, only to suffer terrible horrors, if not to be outright killed, had already been seen in Psycho (Detective Arbogast and Lila Crane going into Bates’s house), and would be seen in Pulp Fiction (Butch and Marcellus Wallace barging into Maynard’s pawn shop). This ‘invasion’ of the psychopaths’ private world will result in the invasion of the intruders’ bodies by a hammer, a hatchet, a chainsaw, and a knife.

Being so impoverished, and mentally ill from that impoverishment, the family of psychopaths perceive the outside world to be unremittingly hostile. Their viciousness is thus projected onto the world. Small wonder Leatherface is so terrified when Kirk, Pam, and Jerry come into his house.

Indeed, as scary as Leatherface is, he is by far the most scared of all. The old man beats him and bullies him, his only name seems to be Leatherface (note that I’m unconcerned with the sequels and remakes), and–speaking of that name of his–can one even being to wonder what cruel tortures he went through to make him need to cover his face with dying human flesh?

I’m less concerned with any physical damage or disfigurement done to his face, or ugliness, that the masks are supposed to hide. The three masks we see him wear in the film, those of the Killer, the Old Lady, and the Pretty Lady (i.e., the last one with the makeup on it), all represent three personalities for Leatherface, for without the masks, he has no personality. The extremity of the abuse he has suffered, from financial hard times taking away his job and identity as a slaughterhouse worker, to the particularly cruel abuse from his family–presumably from early childhood–has destroyed his whole sense of self. His masks represent False Selves hiding no self, just as the old man’s pretense of comforting gentleness to Sally during the film’s climax, as well as his warning of the five youths to stay away, is his False Self of kindness and sanity hiding his psychopathic True Self.

So when we see Leatherface, we see a mad slasher, but he sees himself as protecting his home. First came the financial hard times, and the unemployment and hunger that have led to cannibalism; then there were all these strange people coming into his house uninvited. He feels as though the whole world is closing in on him.

X: The First Killings

Still, his use of that sledgehammer to crack Kirk’s skull open is a scary sight to see. His wearing of the Killer mask to murder Kirk, Pam, and Jerry is thus fitting. That slamming shut of the steel door to the back room after killing Kirk is chilling. It also begins what is for me the tensest, scariest moment of the film. We’re all begging Pam not to follow her dead boyfriend into the house.

Her stumbling into that room with all the lint-covered skulls and bones of humans and animals just confirms all of those dire astrological warnings she read in the van. I’m not sure if a tiny ribcage we see hanging is one of an animal or of a baby. She’s so overwhelmed with these ghoulish sculptures that she pukes.

Part of the terror of her seeing Leatherface is his terror of seeing her in his house; as I said above, believe it or not, he’s the most scared of all. On the other hand, an interesting contrast to be made is between how the male victims are largely killed, usually dispatched quickly, and how the female victims are terrorized before either being killed, or in Sally’s case, slashed and beaten in the attempt to kill her.

Hanging Pam on her back on that hook is more than painful to watch: like the phallic stabbing of Marion Crane in the shower in Psycho, the invasion of that phallic hook in her back is a symbolic rape. I’m reminded of a line in Tori Amos‘s “Me and a Gun,” a song about her having been raped at knifepoint (I think we know what the gun really was): “…and a man on my back.” Recall, in connection with all of this, what I said above about the objectifying of Sally early in the film, and her being sliced up by the hitchhiker towards the end.

[Incidentally, on page 11 of the script, just around when the cowboy takes her by the arm and away from Jerry to find her grandfather’s grave, Sally is described as “braless and her breasts bounce enticingly beneath the thin fabric of her t-shirt.” She’s also described on page 2 as “a beautiful blond girl,” reminding us of the lecherous song, “Fool For a Blonde.”]

XI: Punching Down

This abusive, sexually-charged treatment of women (symbolically, that is), as if they were just pieces of tasty meat, is linked with a more general issue of this impoverished, psychopathic family: they punch down, instead of even trying to punch up. I discussed this issue in my analysis of the TV film, Duel. The frustrations of the poor under capitalism are far too often taken out on other poor people, a product of alienation, rather than channeled together, in solidarity with all of the poor, to rise up in revolution against the ruling class. The slaughter of defenseless animals is certainly tied in with, and symbolic of, this problem of punching down.

It’s always easier to take one’s frustrations out on the weak, then to rise up against the strong.

Even more punching down happens when Jerry repeatedly taunts Franklin with the threat, however joking, that the hitchhiker is going to kill him–a truly mean thing to say to a traumatized, vulnerable young man in a wheelchair, though I’d say that Jerry’s worst sins are that hair and that shirt of his.

XII: The Climax

After the killings of Jerry and Franklin, Sally becomes the final girl, screaming and running from Leatherface and his chainsaw in the outside grasses and bushes at night. This terror involving running away from an armed killer in the bush at night suggests the trauma of soldiers and civilians in the jungles of Vietnam, experiencing the terror of an ambush. Such a comparison deserves to be made considering the subtle political commentary I mentioned above in a film made in the early 70s.

Sally runs into a house where she thinks she’ll be safe, though she’s totally unaware that it’s the house of the psychos. Leatherface saws up the front door to get in after she has locked it; this damaging of his own home represents how the abuse of others can be so destructive that it can bounce back and harm oneself. Certainly, when the old man comes home and sees the door, he’ll be abusive to Leatherface for it; of course, if the family hadn’t been going around ‘punching down’ in the first place, things wouldn’t have escalated to the point of ‘punching themselves.’

Sally runs up to the second floor and finds Grandpa and ‘Grandma,’ presumably, hoping she can get some help from them. Note the lack of any living females in this beyond dysfunctional family. Small wonder Leatherface crossdresses: he isn’t transgender–he just does it to compensate for the lack of sisters, mothers, and grandmothers.

Sally has to jump out the window and run outside again. She returns to the Gulf gas station where she thinks the old man will help her; but just as with the family’s ‘grandparents,’ any sense of safety from Leatherface in this shelter is only illusory. The gas station can thus be seen as the ‘sane’ double of the house. It seems normal, the cooked human flesh masquerading as ‘barbecue,’ just as the old man seems reasonable and comforting to Sally at first…until he brings out the bag and rope. Indeed, the insane are often able to wear a mask of sanity when in public.

Part of the old man’s sadism is leaving the gas station door wide open as he goes off to bring over his truck. That wide-open door, with the blackness of night outside as well as our knowledge that Leatherfae is out there somewhere, just adds to the tension.

XIII: An Abuser’s Mask of Sanity

The old man hitting her with the broomstick to subdue her should be seen as no different from his beating the hitchhiker or Leatherface: he’s simply abusive, while putting on a front of sanity and reasonability. With her tied up, gagged, and in the bag as he drives her back to the house, he talks his fake consoling words while poking her with a stick and chuckling like the sadistic psychopath that he is. This juxtaposition of ‘consoling’ and cruelty is typical of the abuser, who alternates between periods of ‘kindness’ and meanness to his victim in order to establish traumatic bonding. As a result, Sally’s ordeal draws out into a seemingly endless nightmare.

Driving towards the house, the old man finds the hitchhiker, and we learn–through the former’s angry scolding of the latter–who has been responsible for all the grave robbing. The old man is concerned with preserving the false image of his family’s innocence and status while allowing all kinds of viciousness and cruelty in secret. Recall his words when seeing the sawed-up front door to the house: “Look what your brother did to the door! Ain’t he got no pride in his home?”

An example of the family’s cannibalism, as well as their regard of pretty Sally as delicious food, is when Grandpa is allowed to suck the blood out of a cut on her finger. Franklin was right when he said in the van, upon meeting the hitchhiker, “A whole family of Draculas.”

Such a false image of a ‘virtuous’ family with a good social status is common among abusive ones, their insistent, narcissistic denial of any wrongdoing. Such a duality of seeming virtue versus secret vice is epitomized when we see the three brothers and Grandpa at the dinner table with screaming Sally. The old man (playing the role of ‘father’), Leatherface in the dark wig and Pretty Lady mask (‘mother’), and the hitchhiker (the ‘rebellious teen son’) parody the traditional American family at dinner. Their bickering looks like a trivializing of their profound dysfunction–again, typical of abusive families. (Incidentally, research has suggested that psychological aggression in American families is so prevalent as to be almost universal.)

Paralleled to this duality of the façade of the virtuous family vs. the real, dysfunctional one is the duality of the cook vs. the killers. The hitchhiker, in the role of the ‘rebellious teen son,’ defies the authority of the old man, the ‘father,’ by saying he’s “just a cook,” while the hitchhiker and Leatherface have to do all the dirty work of killing Sally et al.

The old man, pretending he’s the sane one of the family, says he takes “no pleasure in killing,” even though he’ll stand by and allow his brothers to do it, even laughing as it’s happening. He’ll cook the human flesh, but he hypocritically fancies that he’s above killing. The family’s cannibalism, recall, represents the non-vegetarian lust for animal meat. Many of us are content to buy and cook our beef, chicken, pork, etc., but let the farmers do the killing for us.

XIV: Mirroring Faces

The hitchhiker and Leatherface like to add psychological terror into the mix by going up to Sally for a closer look. (One is reminded of that song, “Fool for a Blonde,” in which the singer sings about watching women, thinking lewd thoughts.) The hitchhiker asks Leatherface if he likes her face, implying that after they kill her, he’ll cut hers off and use it as a new mask. I used to think the hitchhiker was asking Sally if she liked Leatherface’s Pretty Lady mask, which of course she never would.

Leatherface’s Pretty Lady mask, with make-up crudely painted on it, and his woman’s wig, can be improved on in terms of beauty, or so he imagines, if he replaces it with hers as a new mask. His stroking of her pretty long blonde hair indicates that he’d like to replace the wig with it, too.

As I said above, this cross-dressing of his shouldn’t be confused with the actual transgender experience; as with Norman Bates and his ‘Mother’ personality, the Pretty Lady is just one of Leatherface’s False Selves, because his trauma has deprived him of a True Self. The Pretty Lady is actually a feeble narcissistic defence against total psychological fragmentation.

Leatherface looks at Sally as if she were a metaphorical mirror showing his ideal-I, which he wishes he could live up to. He has a tenuous narcissistic link to the Imaginary while teetering on the brink of the Real, where he’d have no identity at all, no link at all with reality, since the trauma of the undifferentiated, inexpressible blackness of the Real is a total psychotic break with reality, total psychological fragmentation.

While he looks at her, admiring an ideal of feminine beauty, she of course can only look back at him with disgust. This contrast underscores the alienation felt between the ideal-I and the fragmentary, awkward reality that is Leatherface’s physical existence. It also underscores the alienation felt in the inability to communicate with others, to connect in the world of this film.

The brothers and Grandpa sit at dinner, posturing as a normal family, while Sally screams and screams, tied to a chair with the severed hands of one of her murdered friends attached to it. Leatherface and the hitchhiker mock her screams like two mean, immature kids, as if abuse were a trivial form of pain. The hitchhiker’s immature mocking of her screaming and–as he sees it–babyish sobbing is a projection of his own babyishness, with his blowing of raspberries.

When the old man chides his two younger brothers for the noise they’re making and their mocking her, saying, “No need to torture the poor girl,” he’s demonstrating his hypocrisy in pretending to have even a modicum of sympathy for her, since only seconds earlier, he too was laughing at her screaming and crying. His fake pity is another example of the false front of goodness that an abuser presents to the public, to make himself look good.

XV: Escape

Finally, the brothers decide to let Grandpa kill her with a quick blow of a hammer on her head. The old man brags that Grandpa’s “the best killer there ever was,” that he could kill her with “one lick,” and so her death would be quick and minimally painful; but at his advanced age (he’s over a hundred years old!), Grandpa can barely hold the hammer in his hand, much less give Sally a fatal blow. So a ‘quick death’ turns into all the more of a prolonged agony for her.

When the hitchhiker offers to take the hammer from Grandpa and kill her, he foolishly loosens his grip on her, so she can break free and jump out the window. It’s morning, and the sun’s up. As she’s limping towards the main road, the hitchhiker pursues her with his knife, and Leatherface comes out with his chainsaw.

With the end of the film, we see again how abuse often comes back onto the abuser when the hitchhiker, in the middle of the road and his attention consumed with cutting up Sally, doesn’t notice an oncoming truck until it’s too late, and he’s crushed under its wheels. Similarly, Leatherface chases her and the driver, who’s stopped and gotten out of his truck; and after the driver throws a large wrench at Leatherface’s head, knocking him to the ground, his chainsaw digs into his leg. Now Leatherface has to limp.

XVI: Leatherface, the Ultimate Victim

A pickup truck is driving by, and Sally gets in the back. They drive away, her laughing triumphantly. Leatherface will have to go home and tell the old man that not only did the girl get away, able to tell the public about the psycho family, but also that the hitchhiker died.

Leatherface knows he’s going to suffer terrible abuse for his failure to get her. Recall that I called him the most scared of all the characters in this film. He has no victim to take out his frustrations on (in the negative container/contained sense I described above). He will only be able to whimper unintelligibly as his older brother beats him with a stick, like a cruel husband beating his wife (and it’s sadly fitting that Leatherface is dressed like someone’s wife at this moment). All Leatherface can do is flail his chainsaw as he watches her disappear in that truck, him unable to put his despair into words. She escaped his abusive world…he can never do so.

How like the unverbalized frustration of the poor who punch down, and who are so poor, so low, they often don’t even have anybody to punch down on.

Analysis of ‘Pulp Fiction’

Pulp Fiction is a 1994 film written and directed by Quentin Tarantino, based on stories by him and Roger Avary. It stars John Travolta, Samuel L Jackson, Bruce Willis, Tim Roth, Ving Rhames, and Uma Thurman, with Harvey Keitel, Amanda Plummer, Eric Stolz, Rosanna Arquette, Maria de Medeiros, and Christopher Walken.

Pulp Fiction won the Palme d’Or at the 1994 Cannes Film Festival. It was also nominated for seven Oscars, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor (Travolta), Best Supporting Actor (Jackson) and Actress (Thurman), and Best Film Editing (Sally Henke). It won Best Original Screenplay.

The film is widely considered Tarantino’s magnum opus, and as a cultural watershed, it has influenced many other films and media in terms of style. Pulp Fiction is on many critics’ lists of the greatest films of all time.

Here is a link to quotes from the film.

The main themes of the film are sin and death (as in, “The wages of sin is death“), as well as redemption, or at least attempts at it.

There is a vague sense of these themes already as Pumpkin (Roth) is telling Honey Bunny (Plummer) that he doesn’t want to rob liquor stores anymore because it’s too dangerous: either the couple will have to shoot the owners of the stores, or the owners, like “Grandpa Irving…with a fuckin’ Magnum in his hand,” will shoot them. Sin leads to death. Pumpkin attempts redemption, in a way, by not wanting to rob liquor stores anymore, but fails in that attempt by saying he wants to rob the restaurant he and Honey Bunny are dining in.

Failure at redemption in this film is best summed up in something Manohla Dargis says at the end of the Foreword to the script for Pulp Fiction: ‘When Jules [Winnfield–Jackson], Tarantino’s killer who witnesses divine intervention, says, “I’m trying real hard to be a shepherd,” it’s a miracle that he’s trying at all.’ (Tarantino, p. 4)

The plethora of pop culture references in Pulp Fiction–from its soundtrack, starting with “Misirilou” and “Jungle Boogie,” and continuing with references to McDonald’s burgers and TV show pilots, to all of the many movie allusions–is a reflection of what could be called the sin of idolatry, the worship, as it were, of pop music and movie stars, as well as commodity fetishism. We are all mesmerized by the production of images, sounds, and commodities, oblivious to the effort of workers in making these things all a reality.

Before I continue with the conversation between Jules and Vincent Vega (Travolta) as they approach the apartment where they’ll kill Brett (played by Frank Whaley), Roger “Flock of Seagulls” (played by Burr Steers), et al, I want to discuss my interpretation of who Marsellus Wallace (Rhames) represents. I see the crime boss as God, but in more of a Demiurge, Old Testament sense, than a Christian one.

The stealing of the briefcase by Brett et al is a sin not in the mundane sense of, say, stealing diamonds, but more as a form of blasphemy. Some in the mid-1990s believed that Wallace’s soul was in the briefcase, and I tend to go with that. The briefcase thus is in a way rather like the Ark of the Covenant, its contents representative and associative of God’s presence. The Ark of the Covenant was kept in the Holy of Holies, by the way, which was the inner sanctuary of the Tabernacle, where God’s presence appeared.

With these interpretations in mind, we can now begin to understand what’s going on when Jules is telling Vincent why Marsellus had Antwan Rockamora, or “Tony Rocky Horror,” thrown out of a window for having apparently given a foot massage to Marsellus’ wife, Mia (Thurman). According to Vincent, such physical familiarity with the crime boss’s wife is in “the same ballpark” as having performed cunnilingus on her, or, to use Jules’s most apt choice of words, “stickin’ your tongue in her holiest of holies.”

Both offences, Brett’s and Antwan’s, are comparable to the desecration of a holy place, a kind of blasphemy. If Marsellus is God, Mia (a possible pun on Maria) is a kind of ‘Mother of God,’ as it were. Getting too physically familiar with her, given that she, as his wife, is bone of his bones and flesh of his flesh, is tantamount to getting too physically familiar with him. Fornicating with her is thus comparable to raping him. I’m reminded of the 75th of Martin Luther‘s Ninety-Five Theses: “To consider papal indulgences so great that they could absolve a man even if he had done the impossible and had violated the mother of God is madness.” (Lull, page 28)

The juxtaposition of Brett’s and Antwan’s sins is significant, one dealt with immediately after the other. Mia later telling Vincent in Jackrabbit Slim’s that Antwan had only shaken her hand, and that only he and Marsellus knew why the latter had the former thrown out of a window could be the mere denials of an adulteress; and a “foot massage” could be a euphemism for, if you’ll indulge me, foutre, since a direct discussion of adulterous sex with Mia the ‘Queen of Heaven‘ would be a blasphemous taboo.

Remember how Jules compares Brett’s theft of the briefcase, a stealing of Marcellus’ soul, to having “tried to fuck ‘im and Marcellus Wallace don’t like to be fucked by anybody except Missus Wallace” (remember this in light of the later incident with Zed [played by Peter Greene]). Immediately after Jules says this, we get the Ezekiel quote, linking these incidents with God and sin all the more.

Before I go into the Bible quote, though, I’d like to discuss the significance of Jules asking Brett what Marsellus Wallace looks like. Note that there is no image or form for the Jewish or Islamic God, and to give God an image or form would thus be blasphemy. Small wonder Brett is unable to answer Jules’s question until the threat of being shot dead is too urgent to leave unanswered. All Brett can say is “What?”

If you were to look up Ezekiel 25:17, you would find only this: “And I will execute great vengeance upon them with furious rebukes; and they shall know that I am the LORD, when I shall lay my vengeance upon them.” The rest of what Jules says–inspired by the words of an offscreen narrator at the beginning of an old Sonny Chiba martial arts film, Karate Kiba (The Bodyguard, 1976)–is nonetheless central to Pulp Fiction‘s themes of sin and death. Associating these words with the Bible, and therefore with God as represented by Marsellus, is thus fitting.

The wages of sin is death, Brett. Having read the Bible, you should know that. You may have gone into this thing with “the best intentions,” but the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Antwan was luckier: he only got a speech impediment. Still, all this fear surrounding the offending of Marsellus is enough to get Vincent, soon to take Mia out on a date while her husband’s away, very nervous.

Now, I’ve said that Marsellus represents God, but hardly in the Christian sense of personifying absolute good. After all, that briefcase’s combination is 666. As I said above, Marsellus is more like the Old Testament Demiurge, creator of the physical world (remember, Marsellus could give Jimmie [played by Tarantino himself] “a whole bedroom set” to replace the linen being sacrificed to help cover up Vincent’s accidental shooting of Marvin [played by Phil LaMarr), associated by many Gnostics with Satan.

In other posts–including two analyses I did of Tarantino films–I’ve written of mafia men, criminal businessmen, as being symbolic of capitalists, exploitative owners of businesses. Marsellus owns a large topless bar called Sally LeRoy’s. Religion has routinely been used by the ruling class to keep the masses in check. Many consider God to be protective of capitalism against ‘Godless’ communism. Marsellus is God, and he’s a capitalist.

An example of Marsellus’ exploitative nature is seen when he fixes a fight, paying boxer Butch Coolidge (Willis) to go down in the fifth round of an upcoming fight. A significant moment in Marsellus’ speech to Butch, meant to motivate the boxer to keep his end of the deal and really lose the fight, and thus to be known thereafter as a palooka, is when he says, “Fuck pride!” Pride is a deadly sin not only in the Christian tradition; Greek myth is full of stories of the fall of hubris.

I’m guessing that when Vincent calls Butch a palooka at the bar, the latter feels “a slight sting…pride,” which not only pushes him to win the fight, infuriating Marsellus, but also to shoot Vincent when he emerges from the bathroom.

After this, and just before his “date” with Mia, Vincent goes to buy some heroin off of Lance (Stolz). When we see Vincent shooting up, then driving high as a kite to the Wallace house to pick her up, we see what could be deemed a reversal of Marx’s old dictum: “Opium [or, in this case, heroin] is the religion of the people.” Glory to God in the…highest. When he goes into the house, we hear Dusty Springfield singing “Son of a Preacher Man,” reinforcing the film’s association with religious matters. Mia will “be out within three shakes of a lamb‘s tail.” (In the film, she says, “two,” but in the script, she says “three” [Tarantino, page 44].) When Marsellus’ Queen of Heaven is ready to go, we get to join in on Tarantino’s fetishization of her bare feet.

Their date in Jackrabbit Slim’s, a restaurant that pays homage to 1950s pop culture, demonstrates how capitalism exploits our idolatry of celebrities, movies, and rock ‘n’ roll. Note how an admittedly delicious milkshake in the restaurant costs five dollars. Commodities sold here are so fetishized, they’re named after famous directors, TV hosts, comedy duos, or radio/TV sitcom characters: for example, you could order a “Douglas Sirk steak,” a “Durwood Kirby burger,” a “Martin and Lewis shake” (vanilla), or an “Amos and Andy shake” (chocolate).

Waiters and waitresses do cosplays, if you will, of movie or rock ‘n’ roll stars: Vincent’s and Mia’s waiter is Buddy Holly (played by Steve Buscemi), and another one is dressed like James Dean; waitresses include Marilyn Monroe, Mamie Van Doren, and…Jayne Mansfield must have the night off. Performers impersonate Ed Sullivan, Ricky Nelson, etc. Of course, getting Travolta to dance is a pop culture reference in itself, even though Vincent’s iconic dance scene with Mia was written before Travolta got the role.

When Vincent and Mia return to her home, her wearing his overcoat, he’s feeling nervous about the temptation to fuck his boss’s wife. She wants drinks and music, which in a way could remind us of Mrs. Robinson’s attempt to seduce Benjamin Braddock in her home. Mia plays a cover of Neil Diamond‘s “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon,” performed by Urge Overkill. The becoming a woman soon sounds a lot like Benjamin becoming a man soon, thanks to Mrs. Robinson. This is Vincent. He’s a little worried about his future.

He goes to the bathroom, the first of three times we see him do so in the film. Whenever he leaves the bathroom, there’s the danger of death. Since the wages of sin is death, using the bathroom–to take a shower, as we’ll see Butch do later, or to clean oneself out (to remove the filth and sin inside you) with the toilet, as Vincent does, and as Jules and Honey Bunny say they’ve got to do–is symbolic of an attempt at redemption, a cleansing of oneself of sin. As clean as you may be when you come out of the bathroom, though, you know you’ll have to return to the water of that Ganges.

Vincent does a monologue in the bathroom to help himself resist the temptation of seducing the drunk and stoned Mia, reminding himself that Marsellus’ wanting him to take her out while he’s away is a test of Vincent’s loyalty to his boss, just as God tested such men as Abraham. In sticking to his commitment not to take advantage of Mia, Vincent thinks he’s leaving the bathroom cleansed of sinful thoughts, redeemed, and safe from death…

…except that Mia, thinking the bag of heroin in his coat pocket is cocaine, has snorted a line of it, is ODing on it, and is dying.

Now he has to redeem himself again by saving her life, so he rushes her to Lance’s house for an adrenalin shot. After all, isn’t her taking his drugs up her nose, making her a “fucked up bitch,” a lot like her taking his d… up her…, as Antwan may very well have done? Ironically, a phallic needle stabbed into her breastplate, jizzing adrenaline into her heart, saves her. Her shock from coming out of it, seeing that needle in her chest, seems comparable to that of the Mother of God if she were violated. Girl, you just became a woman.

The next sequence shows Butch as a child watching a cartoon on TV. It’s one of those low-budget productions, using Synchro-Vox technology, superimposing talking lips on a static cartoon drawing–Clutch Cargo.

Staring in a daze, transfixed before a TV, being lulled into its illusion and suspending disbelief: all of these are so symbolic of the idolater adoring his image, his fetish, imagining there’s the spirit of a god inhabiting the carved piece of wood or metallic statue. And yet the poor quality of Clutch Cargo‘s limited animation is so obviously fake. The impressionable boy is totally immersed in the story, all the same.

Some critics think that Pulp Fiction‘s allusions to TV are more central to the film than its references to other movies or to popular music. Apart from Clutch Cargo, consider the many TV references in the film: Speed Racer, The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, The Avengers, The Three Stooges, The Flintstones, I Spy, Green Acres, Kung Fu, Happy Days, and of course, Mia’s fictional TV pilot, Fox Force Five.

All of this TV idolatry reinforces the theme of sin in Pulp Fiction, a movie title inspired by old magazines “containing lurid subject matter.” Butch is told by his mother to turn off the TV and listen to Captain Koons (Walken) tell the story of all the trials and difficulties of getting a watch from Butch’s great-grandfather to his grandfather, then to his father, who gave it to Koons in a POW camp in Hanoi where the two had to hide it in their rectums to prevent it from being confiscated by the Vietnamese, and finally Koons is giving it to little Butch. These men are now the boy’s new heroes, new idols replacing those on the TV for his pagan adoration. Accordingly, the boy watches the captain with as rapt a look on his face, while Koons tells his story, as little Butch must have had while watching the cartoon on TV.

The childhood memory of Koons giving him the watch seems to have been a dream, for immediately after it, we see present-day Butch wake up from it in a shock, as if it were a terrible nightmare. The dream ought to have been disturbing for him, since he’s been reminded of the heroic efforts of the men who passed on the watch to him, while he’s about to let himself be made into a mere palooka.

The disappointment he feels like he’ll be to the men in his family looking down on him from heaven feels like too much for him, so he feels that “slight sting…pride.” The outcome of the boxing match he’s supposed to lose illustrates just how deadly a sin pride can be, for not only does Butch not lose the fight–he beats the other boxer so badly that he actually kills the man.

He rushes away in a taxicab in such a hurry that his boxing gloves are still on. His driver, a pretty Colombian woman named Esmerelda Villalobos (played by Angela Jones), has listened to the outcome of the fight on the radio, and she’s fascinated to have met a man who’s actually killed someone with his fists. Sin and death so permeate this film, not only do we have a plethora of murders, profanity (including outright pornographic dialogue), racial slurs (i.e., Tarantino’s by-now-typical fetishizing of the n-word), theft, idolatry of pop culture, etc., but we also even have admirers of crime.

As far as attempts at redemption are concerned, or at least attempts at repentance, when Butch learns from his driver that brutal beating of his opponent in the ring actually killed him, all he can muster is, “Sorry ’bout that, Floyd.” Then, when she asks him how he feels about having killed the man, he says he doesn’t feel at all bad about it. So much for repentance. “If saying ‘sorry’ ever meant anything, what are the police for?” as my wife would say in Chinese.

Hiding away with his girlfriend, Fabienne (Medeiros), Butch hears her talking about how she wishes she had a pot belly (translation: she wants to be pregnant). He says he’d punch her in her ‘pot belly,’ which, after walking in the shadows of his heroic father (as well as Koons), grandfather, and great-grandfather, sounds like the unconscious expression of a Laius complex. Butch doesn’t want there to be any more sons to have to pass a watch on to.

A symbolic attempt at redemption occurs during his shower (recall the bathroom as a place of purification), but he fails to attain grace when he taunts Fabienne by calling her a “retard,” getting her angry. His ‘taking it back’ sounds as insincere as his having said “Sorry” to Floyd for beating him to death in the ring.

Her forgetting to get the watch when packing all of their things forces Butch to go back to his apartment to get it, risking facing Marsellus’ men, at least one of whom (namely, Vincent) is waiting for him there. Butch’s killing of Floyd, then running away, is cowardly compared to what the previous men in his family went through, especially to keep the watch.

Now, in retrieving the watch from such a dangerous place, Butch can prove that he’s as brave as his dad, and his dad, and his dad. In effect, Butch is redeeming himself here. Indeed, in a scene cut from the completed film, when Butch has driven back to the apartment, he says in a monologue, “This is my war…This watch is a symbol…of how your father, and his father before him, and his father before him, distinguished themselves in war. And when I took Marsellus Wallace’s money, I started a war. This is my World War Two.” (Tarantino, page 114)

Butch goes into his apartment and gets the watch. Thinking he’s safe in there, he goes to the kitchen and puts some Pop Tarts in the toaster (more commodity fetishism, as with the watch), but he sees a small, compact submachine gun on the counter. He picks it up.

Vincent emerges from the bathroom, his second time to do so in the film (because of Pulp Fiction‘s scrambled order of scenes), but his third and last chronologically, of course, because this time he gets killed. Recall how I pointed out above that the use of bathrooms in this film symbolizes only attempts at purification–and therefore at redemption–and yet sin is still there (Vincent’s intention of killing Butch), so the wages of sin is still death.

Fittingly, Butch doesn’t fill Vincent with bullet holes until the Pop Tarts pop up from the toaster and are ready to be eaten. Commodity fetishism is a…product…of capitalism. Capitalism kills.

Butch wipes his fingerprints off the gun and leaves. He is driving back to Fabienne most confidently, but at a stop light, he sees crime boss Marsellus walking by, just as Marion Crane, in her car, saw her boss walk by in Psycho.

Yes, bosses can be that scary.

After Butch rams Fabienne’s car into Marsellus, he comes to and tries to shoot Butch, then Butch runs into a pawnshop, where he and Marsellus fight until the owner, Maynard (played by Duane Whitaker) pulls a gun on them, and the two end up in Maynard’s back room basement/dungeon, tied up and gagged. A corrupt cop named Zed arrives (Peter Greene, as I mentioned above), and he pulls a “squeal like a pig!” routine on Marsellus.

Given how extremely allusive Pulp Fiction is, we can see how this particular scene has references not only to Deliverance but also to The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Allusions to the latter film are not limited to Butch’s considering the use of a chainsaw as a weapon to fight off Maynard and Zed; recall how Maynard slams the door shut to the room in which the rape is to occur, similar to how Leatherface slams shut that metal door after having cracked Kirk’s skull open with that big hammer and dragging the body into the back room where other terrible exploitations of the human body will soon occur.

Consider my use of the word exploitation in the context of the rape of Marsellus, who as a crime boss is a capitalist. Maynard, as the petite bourgeois owner of the pawnshop, is also a capitalist. Zed, as a cop, works as a protector of private property, of the capitalist system. None of this, however, means that all of them have to be friends.

As Marx once said, “One capitalist always strikes down many others.” (Marx, page 929) In this case, one capitalist fucks many others, that is, Maynard has his cop friend fuck many others, since I suspect that Maynard and Zed have pulled a Deliverance on many people, capitalist or non-capitalist.

As a crime boss, Marsellus represents the lawless, anti-government, “free market” version of capitalism. Maynard, with his cop-friend in Zed, represents the more state-oriented version of capitalism. This latter version isn’t any more ethical than the first, mind you. The differences don’t matter: capitalism is capitalism–it fucks us either way.

The connection of this scene with capitalism should be clearer when we remember that Butch’s and Marsellus’ original offence was having barged into Maynard’s pawnshop, his private property, to fight to the death. Incapacitating them, having Zed arrest them, then haul them off to the police station should be enough. Instead, Maynard and Zed think they have the right to rape them.

The owners of private property have no qualms whatsoever about exploiting the very bodies of those who have no such property. Maynard’s and Zed’s mistake is in assuming that Marsellus is not also an owner of private property…in fact, much more private property than the two hicks combined.

This barging into someone else’s property, only to be subjected to unspeakable horrors, is something Pulp Fiction echoes from Deliverance (the four city men canoeing into the mountain men’s area of the forest), The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (Kirk et al going into Leatherface’s house), and Psycho (Crane and Detective Arbogast entering Norman Bates’s private world).

Maynard’s and Zed’s even worse mistake is thinking they can get away with raping God, as I see Marsellus. Note that immediately after the Butch sequence, we return to the scene of Jules telling Brett his Ezekiel quote, beginning with him reminding us that Marsellus doesn’t like getting fucked by anyone other than his wife. So when Butch returns with the samurai sword, kills Maynard, and points it at Zed, Marsellus “will strike down upon [Zed] with great vengeance and furious anger…and [Zed] will know [Marsellus is] the LORD…” Zed took away Marsellus’ manhood, so Marsellus takes away Zed’s manhood by taking a gun and blowing his dick off.

Fair trade.

Zed’s about to feel the full weight of the wrath of Marsellus (i.e., Medieval, pliers, a blowtorch), but Butch, in having rescued the crime boss from his rapists, has achieved redemption for his sins. Butch has only to leave LA, never to come back, and never to tell anyone about the degradation Marsellus has just been put through.

In ‘The Bonnie Situation,’ when the fourth man (played by Alexis Arquette) comes out and shoots at Jules and Vincent at point blank range, but doesn’t even scratch either of them with the bullets, Jules concludes that God must have intervened and saved His two gangsters’ lives. Well, of course: Marsellus wants his soul back, and he needs Jules and Vincent to bring the suitcase containing it back; they can’t do that if they’re dead, now, can they?

There’s an interesting irony in the fourth man missing his targets, which in turn brings about Jules’s need to repent of his sin and redeem himself. Sin, or hamartia, literally means ‘missing the mark.’ Sin has saved Jules’s soul.

As they’re driving back to give the suitcase to Marsellus, with Marvin in the backseat, Jules and Vincent are discussing the miracle that saved their lives. Skeptical Vincent (who later dies, recall–he of little faith) is swearing, and repentant Jules is chiding him for blaspheming (though later, Jules himself will be cursing and swearing plenty; after all, so much of what we see is only an attempt at redemption).

Marsellus helps Jules and Vincent out of their next predicament, Vincent’s accidental shooting of Marvin in the car, by sending Winston Wolf (Keitel), a cleaner, who tells the two gangsters how to remove all evidence of the killing. Marsellus is God, and Wolf is one of His angels.

As Jules and Vincent are cleaning up Marvin’s bloody mess in the car, Jules–in spite of his apparent religious conversion–refuses to forgive Vincent for his careless, gory mishap with his gun. Vincent, reaching the limit of how much abuse he can take, tries to get Jules to understand that one should forgive those who admit to wrongdoing (Luke 6:37). In other words, repentance should lead to redemption.

Jules will have none of that (recall Butch’s empty-sounding “Sorry” to Floyd, and his tepid taking-back of his “retard” insult to Fabienne). Vincent’s warning that he could blow if he hears much more abuse only makes Jules nastier. Jules is about to blow up like a nuclear bomb. In fact, not only is Jules more abusive, he also insists that Vincent pay more for his killing of Marvin by cleaning up the victim’s brains and skull in the back seat. So much for even trying to repent and redeem oneself.

The cleaning of the car, as well done as it is, may not purify Vincent of his sin of accidentally…hitting…the Marvin mark, but Winston spraying a hose of cold water to get the blood off of Jules and Vincent just might do it, if only symbolically.

Redemption still comes at a price, that is, to the two gangsters’ pride, in how they have to replace their bloody suits with Jimmie’s dorky-looking T-shirts and shorts.

At the restaurant (where Pumpkin and Honey-Bunny are), Jules explains why he doesn’t eat pig’s meat, which he insists isn’t because of being Jewish (or Muslim, for that matter), though that might as well be why, since he considers the pig to be a filthy animal, and the wrathful God assumed to reign in the universe of Pulp Fiction sure seems to be of the non-Christian Abrahamic type. Indeed, we only hear “Jesus Christ” when someone is swearing. There’s no Divine Rescuer dying on a Cross to bring redemption to the sinful world of this movie. Everyone has to try to achieve it by himself.

A funny thing is that, after Jules hands off the case to Marcellus and quits being a gangster, he says he’s “gonna walk the Earth.” I’m reminded of Job 1:7, when Satan says he’s been “walking up and down in [the Earth].” The suggested association of Jules with Satan (though in Job, he admittedly isn’t the embodiment of radical evil as he is in Christianity) reinforces the sense of how tenuous Jules’s commitment to redemption is.

Vincent’s response to this is that Jules’s wandering of the Earth, perhaps never knowing where God wants him to be (after all, as I see it, Marsellus is God in this film, and Jules imagines his redemption, in all irony, is to leave God!), means that Jules will become a bum. Remember that Marsellus, as a crime boss, is a capitalist, and trying to live outside the capitalist system–especially in the post-Soviet, neoliberal world of Pulp Fiction, is at least to risk homelessness.

The invisible hand [!] of God stopped those bullets from killing Jules and Vincent, but only to get the case with Marsellus’ soul in it back to him, not to make Jules quit working for his boss. Jules thus has a most misguided idea as to what redemption is…and this ties in with the film’s theme of how redemption is so often just attempted.

Still, Jules isn’t completely wrong. Skeptical Vincent stays working for Marsellus, and he’ll be killed leaving Butch’s bathroom. He’ll get a kind of omen of this danger upon leaving the restaurant restroom, as he did leaving Mia’s bathroom.

When, during the restaurant robbery, Pumpkin points his pistol at Jules, telling him to open the case, he has the same look of awe on his face that Vincent had when looking inside it at Brett’s apartment. No, the case doesn’t contain diamonds, or cocaine, or anything ordinary like that. That orange glow must indicate something…spiritual.

When not only Jules is pointing his gun at Pumpkin, but Vincent, out of the restroom, is pointing his gun at Honey Bunny, she’s so scared, she’s “gotta go pee.” Since the wages of sin is death, she’s got to rid herself of the filth inside her by using what Vincent just did.

Jules has Pumpkin get his “Bad Motherfucker” wallet out of the bag of all the restaurant customers’ stolen wallets; he gives Pumpkin all the money in it–“about fifteen hundred dollars.” Jules is buying Pumpkin’s life with it. He’s paying a kind of ransom so he doesn’t have to kill Pumpkin.

Next, we get the third recitation of the Ezekiel quote, but instead of it being an expression of the wrath of God, Jules says it calmly. Now he’s actually thinking about what the words mean, instead of just saying them to sound like a badass before killing someone.

Jules has always said it as a judgement of the sin of the man he’s about to shoot. Now, as he says it, he’s judging himself. He’d like to think he’s “the righteous man,” as we all do when we judge the sins of others. But as much as he doesn’t like to admit it, he has to: Jules is “the tyranny of evil men,” killing for a capitalist crime boss.

His last words are so important, for they encapsulate so many of the themes of Pulp Fiction: he’s trying really hard to be a shepherd. It’s all about the attempt to redeem oneself of one’s sins, not whether one succeeds or not. The attempt at purification could be literal, as it is here with Jules and Pumpkin, or it could be symbolic, like all those trips to the bathroom, to clean oneself out from the inside by pissing or shitting, or to clean oneself on the outside, as Butch does during his shower.

Redemption is never fully attained: Jules hasn’t shot Pumpkin or Honey Bunny, but he hasn’t foiled their robbery of the restaurant, either. The couple leave with their bag of money feeling that robbing people is, if anything, even more dangerous than it was with the liquor stores.

The God of Pulp Fiction isn’t the Christian one, and the lack of Jesus is a conspicuous absence. There is no Good Shepherd: there’s only Jules trying to be one. This trying to be good, when we’re among the most sinful, is often the best kind of good we can hope for. There are no illusions here about a Holy Spirit guiding us down the path of righteousness; we just do the best we can…if we’re even doing that.

These attempts, however bumbling, awkward, and foolish, they make at redeeming themselves are part of what makes the characters of Pulp Fiction so relatable to us–at least on an unconscious level; and this, I believe, is a big part of what makes this film so enduringly popular.

Quentin Tarantino, Pulp Fiction, a Quentin Tarantino Screenplay, New York, Miramax Books, 1994

Analysis of ‘The Lady Vanishes’

The Lady Vanishes is a 1938 film directed by Alfred Hitchcock and written by Sidney Gilliat and Frank Launder, based on the 1936 novel The Wheel Spins by Ethel Lina White. The film stars Margaret Lockwood and Michael Redgrave, with Dame May Whitty and Paul Lukas.

Though filmed in London, The Lady Vanishes caught Hollywood’s attention and Hitchcock moved there soon after its release, for David O Selznick was convinced of Hitchcock’s talent and believed he had a future in Hollywood cinema. Considered one of his most renowned British films, it’s ranked the 35th best British film of the 20th century by the British Film Institute.

Here is a link to quotes from the film, here‘s a link to the full movie, and here‘s a link to White’s novel.

In the novel, the female protagonist’s name is Iris Carr, whereas in the film, she is Iris Henderson (Lockwood). In the film, Henderson gets on a train and says goodbye to her female friends; in the novel, Carr’s friends get on the train while she, tiring of what she feels is oppressive human company, refuses to join them on it.

Instead, Carr goes wandering on the slope of a mountain in “a remote country in Europe (in the film, it’s a fictional country called “Bandrika”), for she is a young Englishwoman on vacation. She gets lost out there, and after only briefly enjoying her solitude, she soon comes to regret it, so she returns to her hotel, where she finds the other English guests similarly annoying.

In the film, Henderson’s only dislike of social convention is the marriage she is only reluctantly participating in. There is a sense, much more pronounced in the novel, of Iris not wanting to go along with social conventions. This reluctance of hers will have much more importance when…the lady vanishes, as we’ll soon see.

Many of the novel’s English guests are replaced in the film with such characters as the cricket-obsessed Charters and Caldicott (played by Basil Radford and Naunton Wayne, respectively), the comic relief of the film who would become very popular with filmgoers and reappear in such films as Night Train to Munich and Dead of Night (the Charles Crichton sequence).

As for Miss Froy (Whitty), in the novel, she’s just a governess and music teacher who accidentally learns of the misdeeds of the story’s antagonists, who then abduct her with the intention of killing her to silence her. In the film, however, she is a spy pretending to be a governess and music teacher. (In the novel, a character named Max Hare, who on-and-off helps Iris, imagines a hypothetical situation in which Froy could be secretly a spy [in Chapter XXV, “Strange Disappearance”].)

In the novel, Hare–a young British engineer who knows the local language–is replaced by Gilbert Redman (Redgrave), a musicologist. Gilbert begins by irritating the hell out of Iris by playing his clarinet to stomping dancers in the hotel room directly above hers. After she has the manager remove Gilbert from his room, the uncouth musicologist imposes himself on her by using her room for his accommodations without her consent, infuriating her all the more. But about halfway into the film, he proves himself the only real friend she has, in that he’s the only one who believes her that Miss Froy exists.

So a recurring theme in both the film and novel is that nothing is as it seems. Gilbert seems a cad, but he becomes not only a true friend to Iris but also her love interest by the end of the film. Miss Froy in the film seems to be a mere governess and music teacher, a sweet and innocent–if rather chatty–middle-aged woman, but it turns out she is a spy. A patient with bandages all over her face, we learn close to the end of the novel and an hour and thirteen minutes into the film, is the abducted Miss Froy. The Todhunters are believed to be honeymooners, but we eventually learn that they are an adulterous couple.

Just before getting on the train to leave the hotel, Iris becomes a tad disoriented after something drops on her head (in the novel, she suffers sunstroke). Her disorientation is used by the schemers who have abducted Miss Froy to make her doubt her memory and perception. I’ll come back to this issue soon enough, and I’ll expand on its significance.

Froy speaks, at a hotel dinner table with Charters and Caldicott, of how much she loves it in Bandrika. The two men, unimpressed with anything other than cricket, have no interest in the country or its culture, so as she is rambling on and on about the snow-capped mountains and the ubiquitous singing, the men rest their heads on their hands in boredom waiting for her to stop. (In the novel, it’s Iris on the train who is annoyed with Froy’s ceaseless chatter).

Froy’s interest in the locals’ music isn’t merely a sentimental one, though, as we eventually learn. As she is listening, from her hotel window that night, to a man singing a tune and playing a guitar, she’s tapping her hands to the music’s rhythm, for in this tune is a secret code she must bring back to England, something connected with certain unsavoury things the movie’s antagonists are planning to do. For this reason, the singer/guitarist is killed, and Froy is to be abducted, the antagonists pretending she doesn’t even exist. These intrigues for which she must be silenced aren’t in the novel, though.

Instead, in the novel, Froy is aware of “a small but growing Communist element” that she euphemistically calls “the leader of the opposition” in the country where she’s working as a governess. This “element” has accused her late, aristocrat employer “of corruption and all sorts of horrors” (which shouldn’t be surprising, since communists consider feudalism to be far worse than capitalism). Froy feels that these political matters are none of her business, so she doesn’t want to take sides. Still, one night she witnesses her employer using her bathroom to wash up (Chapter VIII–“Tea Interval”). She innocently thinks nothing of it, but later on we learn that he was washing blood off of himself after having committed a murder (Chapter XXVI–“Signature”). The aristocrat family employing her don’t know how much she knows, which she might share with the Reds, so the lady must…vanish. Hence, the Baroness in the coupé with Froy and Iris.

Now, when the lady vanishes from her seat on the train, and Iris asks the others in their coupé, they all deny Froy’s existence. Iris is shocked and amazed that they could deny her friend, for Froy has clearly been among them up until Iris, still reeling from her hit on the head (or sunstroke), needed to take a brief nap.

This denial of Froy’s existence extends to everyone on the train, though not necessarily for the same reasons as the Baroness and her family. Still, these people are lying in their denials, denying something so obvious to Iris. In this lying, we see an early example of something that would eventually get the name of gaslighting. Now, The Wheel Spins was published in 1936; The Lady Vanishes came out in 1938; and Patrick Hamilton‘s play, Gas Light, premiered in December of that year. The American movie version of his play, starring Ingrid Bergman and Charles Boyer, came out in 1944 (and incidentally, Dame May Whitty also had a supporting role in that film). So there is an amazing prescience in both the novel and Hitchcock’s film.

Gaslighting isn’t the only thing that The Lady Vanishes is prescient about, though. There is a political subtext in the film suggesting, in allegorical form, the lead-up to WWII. The conspiracy not only to abduct Miss Froy but also to deny her very existence is ignored by the British passengers on the train (apart from Iris and Gilbert, of course), except for when the train is detoured and stopped in a forest, where the British are now forced to confront the antagonists, who plan to shoot them all. These antagonists can be seen to represent such European fascists as those of Nazi Germany, Italy under Mussolini (recall the Italian magician in Iris’s cabin, Signor Doppo, played by Philip Leaver, who gets into a fight with Gilbert over the acquisition of Froy’s eyeglasses), Romania, Hungary, Poland, and Francoist Spain.

This late involvement of the other British passengers in Iris’s and Gilbert’s confrontation with the Bandrika conspirators can be paralleled with British appeasement of, if not outright support of, fascism in the 1930s (recall that infamous footage of members of the British royal family doing Nazi salutes). One needn’t look to Chamberlain‘s appeasement of Hitler in Munich, which happened just a week or so before the release of The Lady Vanishes.

[Note how Chamberlain-like Mr. Todhunter wants to avoid conflict with the antagonists right to his very death, when he foolishly gets out of the train to wave a handkerchief as a flag of surrender, then gets shot. I’m as anti-war as they come, but even I know when an enemy is so implacable, as the film’s antagonists are, that war with them is unavoidable.]

The fact is that fascism has always been used to further the interests of the ruling class, regardless of whether they’re capitalists or feudal aristocrats like the Baroness and her family in the film and novel. Britain and the other western capitalist countries began to oppose the fascists only when the latter began muscling in on the former’s imperialist turf, rather like when Charters picks up a pistol to shoot at the antagonists only after one of them has shot him in the hand.

So the climactic shoot-out in the train in the woods can be seen as prescient of, and therefore in this sense allegorical of, WWII, or of political conflicts in general, anyway. It is in this political context that we can begin to understand not only the true meaning of the gaslighting of Iris but also her sense of social alienation and Froy’s abduction, disappearance, and denial of existence. This understanding applies in both the film and the novel. In Chapter XXXII–“The Dream,” we learn of how “When she [Iris] was a child she suffered from an unsuspected inferiority complex, due to the difference between her lot and that of other children.” This feeling of being different, of not being able to fit in with other people, can lead to a tendency to see the world differently from the mainstream crowd, and to see injustice where others don’t see it.

How often are criminal acts, the ones that really matter, hidden from the public view, as Froy’s abduction and disappearance can be seen to symbolize? The ruling classes, the imperialists, the settler-colonialists, and the fascists commit the worst crimes in the world, and through their wealth and power, they usually get away with their crimes. Indeed, in the novel, Hare tells Iris that the Baroness will use her influence to evade being implicated in the conspiracy now that the doctor and his assistants have been arrested (Chapter XXXIII–“The Herald”).

Similarly, the powerful use their influence to marginalize all those who would challenge power structures and demand inquiries into any injustices committed, as Iris is isolated when she demands that Miss Froy be found. Evidence of crimes is eliminated or denied, as is the very existence of Miss Froy. Such an elimination of evidence is happening right as I type this, with the cutting-off of communications in Gaza while the genocide of the Palestinians is going on; elsewhere, many still deny that the Holocaust ever happened.

All of this brings us back to the central theme of the film, which I brought up earlier: nothing is as it seems. Dr. Hartz (Lukas) seems helpful to Iris and Gilbert, yet he participates in the gaslighting and intends to drug the two. In fact, the “nun” (bizarrely wearing high heels and played by Catherine Lacey), who under Hartz’s orders is to drug the drinks of Iris and Gilbert, never does so; our two protagonists fool Hartz by pretending to be unconscious until he leaves their cabin.

The nun is not only pretending to be such, but also to be deaf and dumb; furthermore, her loyalty to Hartz and the other conspirators is only apparent and ephemeral, for as soon as she realizes that Iris, Gilbert, and Froy are British, her own British patriotism is kindled, so she quickly switches from the antagonists’ to the protagonists’ side.

Hers is an example of the many British passengers waiting so long before switching to the good side, these Chamberlains of the film. The Todhunters don’t want to acknowledge Froy for fear of an inquiry leading to publicity and a scandalous exposure of their affair to their spouses. Charters and Caldicott won’t acknowledge Froy for fear of the resulting inquiry delaying the train, making them miss their so-fetishized cricket match (which ends up being cancelled due to flooding, anyway).

We see in these examples how selfishness gets in the way of justice, and it’s the obstinacy of our social misfits like Iris who ensure justice in spite of the odds. After all, she’s such a misfit, at the last minute she decides not to get together with her fiancé when back in England, preferring the uncouth Gilbert instead.

Making Froy into a spy, rather than just someone who’s innocently stumbled upon a criminal act without realizing its significance, was an improvement on the novel. Ending the film with a reunion of her–playing the coded tune on the piano–with Iris and Gilbert was also an improvement on the novel’s rather dull, anticlimactic ending, with Froy arriving at home and reuniting with “Mater,” “Pater,” and their dog, Sock, which is rather drawn-out and sentimentalized. The story works best as a political thriller, showing how going against the grain is often the best way to win out against the wicked in the world.

Analysis of ‘Halloween’

Halloween is a 1978 horror film directed by John Carpenter and written by him and producer Debra Hill (he also composed the film’s music). It stars Donald Pleasance and Jamie Lee Curtis in her film debut, with PJ Soles and Nancy Loomis.

Grossing $70 million, Halloween became one of the most profitable independent films of all time. Carpenter’s direction and score were particularly praised. The film, along with Psycho and Black Christmas, helped establish the slasher film genre; it’s considered one of the best horror movies ever made.

The franchise that resulted from the 1978 film is made up of thirteen films whose extensive backstory for antagonist Michael Myers sometimes diverges from previous installments. There are also a novelization, a video game, and comics based on Halloween.

Here is a link to quotes from the film.

Carpenter’s score is indeed an achievement in its own right. Apart from the eerie, atmospheric main theme in 5/4 time, subdivided into eighth notes of 3+3+2+2 and played mainly on the piano, we often hear tense minor seconds and parallelism in the harmonic progressions. Not bad for a filmmaker who dabbles in music and, by his own admission, can’t read music.

We hear the main theme as the credits are shown with a jack-o’-lantern. What must be remembered about the origins of Halloween is that there was a belief that during Samhain, on which Halloween was based, evil spirits walked the Earth, and such things as jack-o’-lanterns, bonfires, and the wearing of scary costumes were meant to ward off ghosts. Today, these things are done only for fun and so we can see in the film that the people in the fictional town of Haddonfield, Illinois are not protected from evil spirits.

Yes, an evil spirit is how we should conceive of The Shape (played by Nick Castle), that is, the shape that the evil spirit takes in the body of Michael Myers. Carpenter himself has described the killer as “almost a supernatural force…an evil force” that is “unkillable.” For me, that’s close enough to Myers being possessed by an evil spirit.

Halloween was strongly influenced by Bob Clark‘s Black Christmas, by the idea of a serial killer acting without any apparent motive. In fact, Carpenter’s film is almost a sequel to Clark’s film, since Carpenter asked Clark what he would do if he were to make a sequel to Black Christmas. Clark had no intention whatsoever of continuing that story, but he said that if he did, Billy would have escaped from the mental institution he’d inevitably have been locked up in, he’d have returned to the neighbourhood that he’d originally terrorized, and he’d have resumed the killing…but on Halloween instead of Christmas.

We should keep the relationship between these two films in mind when we watch the opening shot of Halloween, with the camera approaching the white Myers’s house on Halloween night in 1963. Similar shots are seen at the beginning of Black Christmas, with the POV of Billy coming to the house of the sorority where he’ll enter through the attic window and begin killing the girls living there.

The shot of Billy’s POV is somewhat shaky, suggesting his body movements; but the camera approaching the Myers’s house, being as I imagine it to represent the POV of a disembodied spirit, moves more or less smoothly for that very reason. The evil spirit enters the house, reminiscent of Billy’s bodily entrance, and once inside, a light is turned on in a dark room, presumably little Michael’s doing, and we see his hand go into a kitchen drawer and pull out a knife. At this point, I’d say the evil spirit has just entered his body.

For this reason, I’d insist that possessed Michael is otherwise an innocent six-year-old boy. Seriously, there’s no reason for him to pick up a knife and stab his naked older sister, Judith, to death. Why would a boy so young have already developed such extreme, violent, psychopathic traits? Though Michael is generally expressionless, when we see his father remove the mask on the boy’s face, he seems remorsefully sad over the murder he’s been forced to commit.

To get back to his expressionlessness, though, we learn from Dr. Samuel Loomis (Pleasance) that Myers hasn’t spoken a word since that night. His face is devoid of any human feeling. Of course: what emotions would an evil spirit have?

Now, this lack of the use of language, combined with his relentless killing and the trauma that it causes the survivors, makes Myers the very personification of Lacan‘s notion of the Real. It’s a traumatic, undifferentiated world that cannot be verbalized; recall that Myers generally kills only at night, when the differentiation between things is obscured under the cover of darkness.

Some imagine that, because Myers’s victims tend to indulge in such naughty pleasures as marijuana and premarital sex, that Halloween, like the Friday the 13th movies, is a kind of puritanical morality play (one might recall that scene in Scream when Randy Meeks [played by Jamie Kennedy] insists that one mustn’t sin if one is to survive a slasher movie). Carpenter has strenuously denied any attempt to moralize against the partying of teens, and I agree.

Myers is “purely and simply…evil,” according to Dr. Loomis. If so, why would he kill sinning kids in a ‘morality play’? Laurie Strode (Curtis) smokes pot in one scene: shouldn’t she deserve to be killed, too, by Meeks’s analysis? And what sin does the German Shepherd commit (apart from some barking that annoys Annie Brackett [Nancy Loomis]) that it deserves to be killed no less than the teenagers? Myers kills because he is evil, not his victims.

The one murder we know of Myers committing in the daytime is of a mechanic, and he takes the man’s coveralls and wears them, along with a white, expressionless mask. Thus, he has his iconic look, his ‘Halloween costume,’ as it were.

Just as Black Christmas subverts and does evil parodies of Christmas traditions (see my analysis, link above), so does Halloween parody traditions of its holiday. As I mentioned above, the wearing of costumes was originally meant to ward off evil spirits; whereas Myers’s ‘costume’ seems to make him more complete as an evil spirit incarnate, and a killer. Recall six-year-old Myers’s clown costume when he killed his sister.

His mask is of particular interest. The one used for the film has the contours of the face of William Shatner, an actor known…and loved…for his, well, emotive performances, a quite ironic fact given that the mask renders Myers with a coldly emotionless face, one without any expression.

Though it’s just a mask, like the clown mask he wears as a little kid, one that by no means gives him any anonymity, it seems to give him a special power as a killer, a special evil, if only in a symbolic sense. When the mask comes off, as just before the six-year-old is to be sent to the sanitarium, and when Laurie takes it off his face, he seems to have lost his ability to kill. When it’s back on his face, though, and Loomis shoots him and he falls out the window and onto the lawn, he soon gets up, ready to kill again in the first sequel.

As when the mask is taken off the face of six-year-old Michael, when Laurie takes it off his face at the end of the movie, we see a sad expression on him, suggesting the real, remorseful Michael who is being forced to kill by the evil spirit possessing him. The power of the mask seems to come from how it hides feeling through its expressionlessness.

This understanding leads us to a discussion of where the evil in Halloween comes from. The mask’s lack of expression is linked to a general lack of social connection in Haddonfield. Myers always kills; he never talks, and we generally never see his face. As a personification of the inexpressible Real, Myers won’t enter the social and cultural world of the Symbolic, Lacan’s world of language, customs, and traditions…including those of Halloween.

Not to defend the superstitious beliefs surrounding Samhain and Halloween, but one virtue of tradition is that it has a way of binding communities together. The idea of warding off evil spirits, in the context of this film, can be seen to symbolize the more general idea of communities protecting each other. Older societies, though believing in a lot of religious nonsense, as well as bigoted, chauvinistic nonsense, at least had a basic sense of togetherness, motivating them to be more protective and loving towards each other.

In contrast, modern society, though better educated in scientific matters and thus more open-minded and freer–all undeniably good and indispensable advances–is nonetheless plagued by alienation and self-centeredness. As a result, we see in Haddonfield a number of examples of parental neglect–with babysitters looking after kids…and often enough, the babysitters themselves are neglectful of the kids.

Annie Brackett–with her wandering off to wash her clothes, and her plans to hook up with her boyfriend, Paul, leaving Lindsey Wallace (played by Kyle Richards), the little girl she’s supposed to be babysitting, alone to watch The Thing from Another World (a film Carpenter would do a remake of several years after Halloween) on TV–isn’t the only one neglectful babysitter of the movie. So was Judith, who instead of watching over her little brother was making love with her boyfriend just before she was murdered.

Laurie can be said to be the surviving babysitter for moral reasons in that she is the one babysitter who is properly doing her job–watching over little Tommy Doyle (played by Brian Andrews) as well as Lindsey. Note that Tommy correctly identifies Myers as “the bogeyman.” It’s fitting that one of the three boys who bully Tommy at school, mocking him for his fear of the bogeyman, runs into Myers immediately after. The bogeyman is believed to punish children for bad behaviour; those teen babysitters who neglect their work are also ‘punished’ by Myers.

The bullies, supposedly too old to have childish fears of things like the bogeyman, nonetheless go to the Myers’s house on Halloween night, one of them being dared to go inside. The notion that a house where a murder has been committed has become haunted with the ghosts of the victims is a popular belief in small towns like Haddonfield, hence its inclusion in the film. The three ‘tough’ little boys are easily scared away by Loomis’s imitation of an angry spook hiding behind a bush near the house.

Even with these three boys, though, why aren’t they at home? Why aren’t their parents watching out for them? It’s this kind of neglect that leads to so much family dysfunction, which in turn results in the traumatic basis for so many mental disorders, which in turn, often enough, results in criminally insane behaviour, such as what we see in Michael Myers. Hence the evil in Halloween is the result of societal neglect and alienation.

Further proof that Myers must be possessed of a demon is in his unexplained ability to drive a car. All that Loomis can jokingly say is that, maybe, someone in the mental hospital gave Myers driving lessons. Only an evil spirit, with its supernatural abilities, could steer a car in the body of someone locked away since he was six.

While it’s still light out, Myers is driving around the neighbourhood of his boyhood, surveying his prey in Annie, Lynda Van Der Klok (Soles), and especially Laurie, who is the most disturbed of them by the presence of the man in the white mask. She’ll see him briefly for one moment, look away in worry, then look back to see he’s gone. We see, in how this stalking leads to the murders, that it’s the alienation between Myers and the girls that is the basis of the evil.

Mute Myers can’t communicate with them, neither verbally nor in gestures, and that mask ensures no facial expression of feeling. He just stands and stares, with neither the ability nor the willingness to connect with others. Exiled from the social realm of the Symbolic, Myers can only wait for the night to obscure the distinction between things so he can embody the traumatizing, inexpressible Real, and kill people.

His one, concrete (pardon the pun) act of communication is to steal the headstone from Judith’s grave and to place it at the head of the bed on which he’s laid Annie’s corpse, to give Laurie an especially bad scare before he attacks her. In Halloween II, Carpenter ret-conned her character to be Judith’s and Michael’s younger sister, adopted into another family, hence her new surname, Strode. Carpenter would regret this change; Quentin Tarantino rejects it altogether.

The idea that Myers is obsessed with killing his sisters is rather absurd. He kills more or less indiscriminately, though there’s an emphasis on babysitters as victims (Judith, Annie, and Laurie; bear in mind that I have little interest in the contradictory sequels, and therefore their wider variety of victims) because, as I’ve argued above, Myers has found them to be negligent in caring for kids.

The evil spirit entering the body of little Michael can be seen to symbolize the violent effect of the childhood trauma of feeling neglected and abandoned, felt to be a kind of betrayal from not only his parents leaving him at home to have dinner (or whatever it was that they were doing instead of watching over him), but also from his older sister, who was more interested in making love with her boyfriend than in taking care of him.

This isn’t to say that parents are never to be allowed occasionally to leave their kids with a babysitter to enjoy an evening together as a couple; nor is it to say that babysitters can’t occasionally relax and do a few enjoyable things while minding the kids. And of course, I’m not saying that these people deserve to be murdered for negligence! I’m saying that the laxity we see in Myers’s parents and in his sister on that fateful Halloween night in 1963 is symbolic of the kind of neglect that can lead to trauma in children, which in turn can lead to mental illness and violence.

Laurie, as I said above, is the only babysitter showing a proper concern for others’ well-being, so she manages to survive. Myers, in the traumatic state he’s in, symbolized by the evil spirit possessing him, can’t distinguish between good and bad babysitters (or good and bad people in general), so he tries to kill her anyway.

The other one seriously concerned about human life, Dr. Loomis, tried for years to connect with expressionless Myers, but couldn’t get through, because the damage had already been done, symbolized by the demonic possession. Loomis saw “the devil’s eyes” in little Michael. This disturbing look on the boy’s face was inspired by Carpenter’s having visited a mental institution in Kentucky, where he saw, among the most extreme cases, an adolescent boy with a blank, “schizophrenic stare.” Hence, the evil in Myers represents extreme mental illness.

Note that not only were Myers’s parents and sister neglectful, nor was only Annie neglectful of little Lindsey, but also Annie’s father, Sheriff Leigh Brackett (played by Charles Cyphers), isn’t all that motivated to find and stop Myers. He doesn’t even seem to notice the marijuana smoke in his daughter’s car when she and Laurie have been smoking up in it. His lack of sufficient vigilance leads up to his daughter’s murder.

Myers’s being possessed by an evil spirit, as well as his ‘Halloween costume,’ can be seen to symbolize something else–his alienation from himself. Trauma changes us, it causes a distortion of what we originally, really were. Whether the demon entered little Michael’s body outside the house, with the boy standing there and looking through the windows before entering, or if it entered the house, found and entered his body in a dark room before he turned on the light and got the knife, ultimately doesn’t matter. A little boy was left alone in the dark, left uncared for, and in his sensitive state, he found it emotionally overwhelming. The resulting trauma made him take on a false persona, that of a costumed, possessed killer, and the real Michael has hidden behind that false self ever since.

Of the many things that Friday the 13th ripped off from Halloween was making explicit what is implied in the latter and vastly superior film: negligent childcare leads to madness and murder. Unlike the Friday the 13th films, which are orgies of gore, Halloween shows next to no blood at all; the filmmakers wisely knew that the key to making a horror film genuinely scary is to maximize suspense and use lots of darkness and an eerie atmosphere (i.e., Carpenter’s music). [As a side note, I find it amusing that, though I originally intended to finish and publish this analysis just before Halloween, I ended up publishing it on Friday the 13th!]

Note how the two houses where the babysitting is going on, and where Myers is lurking, are facing each other across the street. The houses are like a head looking at itself in the mirror, and someone looking at himself in a mirror is in itself a Lacanian metaphor for the narcissist admiring himself and using others (metaphorical mirror reflections) as a means of furthering his self-interest, as Annie does when taking Lindsey Wallace across the road and having Laurie watch her while Annie drives off to get her boyfriend, Paul. Myers kills her in her car.

Similarly, Lynda and her boyfriend, Bob, arrive at the Wallace house expecting Annie and Paul to be there so all four of them can party there together. Finding themselves alone and not knowing that Annie’s just been murdered, Lynda and Bob make love and drink beer, them being no less self-centered than Annie.

Lynda is especially self-centered and narcissistic, wanting Bob to get her a beer from the fridge, then, after Myers has killed Bob and disguises himself as his victim with his glasses and a white sheet for a cheesy ghost costume, she flashes her breasts for ‘Bob.’ She expects him to mirror her narcissism back to her with a compliment on her beautiful body, and of course, Myers stays mute, because he personifies the non-verbal Real, while Lynda exemplifies the narcissistic, mirroring Imaginary.

There is a dangerous proximity between the trauma of the Real and the narcissism of the Imaginary, since the one dialectically phases into the other, as I see it. Narcissism is often a protective façade against the fragmentation that leads to psychotic breaks with reality. I suspect that six-year-old Michael was so neglected, so ignored by his family, that he traumatically found verbal communication to be pointless, and so he replaced it with ‘communicating’ through stabs of the knife, symbolically a kind of projective identification, in Bion‘s sense of primitive, pre-verbal communication, the stab wound being the yonic container (a receiving of Myers’s pain), and the knife being the phallic contained (the non-verbal expression and projection of his pain).

Since the Wallace house is where the narcissistic, self-centered behaviour occurs, this is also where the murders occur, for as I said above, traumatizing fragmentation (the Real) is dangerously close to narcissism (the Imaginary); it is only in the social, verbally-expressive realm of the Symbolic that mental health resides, hence Laurie is in the house across the street, the Doyle house, where responsible babysitting is going on. Unlike Annie and Lynda, Laurie is concerned for Others–not just one other person as a mirrored, narcissistic extension of herself. So when she hears Lynda dying on the phone, Laurie naturally wants to cross the street to find out what’s going on in the Wallace house.

She finds Annie’s corpse on the bed Lynda and Bob were making love in, with Judith’s headstone there, Myers’s way of telling Laurie that his sister is, if you will, the archetypal negligent caregiver. Jamie Lee Curtis demonstrates her scream-queen credentials here, and Laurie takes on the role of the final girl. Myers’s knife slash on her arm is, again, his non-verbal communication as projective identification, negative containment (Bion, pages 97-99), a kind of containment that does the opposite of soothing, resulting in a nameless dread. Six-year-old Myers, not having received the proper soothing of his anxieties because of negligent parenting, felt this nameless dread, an inexpressible fear of annihilation, and he has been trying to project that fear onto others in his murders.

All of Laurie’s and Dr. Loomis’s attempts to kill Myers fail because, apart from my interpretation that an evil spirit is animating his body regardless of how many bullet holes and stab wounds it has, evil never dies. Since Halloween is derived from Samhain, a festival when the souls of the dead come back to walk the Earth, it marks the beginning of winter, the darker half of the year, with the dying of the sun god, who will be reborn in midwinter.

Just as pagan myths of dying and resurrecting gods reflect such cycles as the changes of the seasons of the year, so does trauma have a way of being repressed and forgotten about temporarily, then returning, often in an unrecognized form. Myers killing his sister, being put away in the sanitarium, and “the night he came home” wearing a mask, can be seen to represent the original trauma, its repression, and its disguised return, just like the coming of fall, then winter, spring, summer,…and the return of the fall.

His obsessive, relentless killing can be seen as representative of Freud‘s notion of the death drive and the compulsion to repeat a traumatic experience. Hence, he personifies evil, which never dies.

…and an undying evil, as demonstrated in the inexplicable disappearance of Myers’s body on the lawn after having been shot point blank by Dr. Loomis, is what makes Halloween such a scary movie, even sans sang.

Analysis of ‘Duel’

Duel is a 1971 thriller directed by Steven Spielberg originally for TV, then extended for theatrical release. It was written by Richard Matheson, his screenplay based on his short story of the same name. The film stars Dennis Weaver.

Duel received generally positive reviews, with especial praise for Spielberg’s direction. It’s now considered a cult classic and one of the best made-for-TV movies of all time.

Here is a link to quotes from the film, and here is a link to the short story.

Matheson’s story was based on an incident while driving home from a golfing match with a friend, the very same day as the Kennedy assassination: November 22nd, 1963. He was tailgated by a trucker, and wrote the idea down soon after.

The juxtaposition of events leading to his inspiration is interesting in itself: a golf game, the assassination, and the aggression of the truck driver. In a sense, we can see in these three things a common theme–competition, and a particularly aggressive form of it in two of them.

The whole point of an assassination, whatever the political reasons may be for it, is competition over who will lead the country: kill the president, and replace him with someone more desirable, or at least less threatening to the current system. Driving can lead to a kind of competition over who ‘owns the road,’ with the frustrations of that leading to road rage.

Obviously, the man driving the tanker truck in the film, he who is terrorizing and endangering the life of David Mann (Weaver), has an aggravated case of road rage. In the short story, it’s discovered that the trucker’s name is Keller, a pun on killer that’s so obvious, it’s mentioned as such in the story. Just as obvious is Mann’s name as a pun on man, since he’s an everyman, nobody special, just an ordinary salesman who is forced into being his own hero.

…and why is Keller trying to kill Mann? For the unpardonable sin of passing him on the road, or so it would seem. Actually, we really don’t know for sure what really is Keller’s problem with Mann. Sometimes not knowing a killer’s motives, as with Michael Myers, can make a movie all that scarier…fear of the unknown, and that kind of thing. Never seeing Keller’s face (or even knowing his name, as far as the film is concerned) adds to the tension. We see only his arms and brown, snakeskin boots.

Because we never learn who the truck driver is or what his full motives are, it’s been said that the truck itself is the real antagonist, not the driver. Spielberg himself went along with such an interpretation, seeing his film as an indictment of the mechanization of life. Though it’s his film, I must respectfully disagree with his interpretation.

Machines and technology aren’t in themselves the problem; it’s how we use them, for good or ill, that must be focused on. Even today, with AI technology, it isn’t AI per se that we should worry about, but rather its application. AI, as well as automation in general, could be a most liberating thing, freeing us from our work so we can maximize our potential and enjoy life…provided that the production of commodities is to serve universal human need. In a society that produces commodities to maximize profit, though, as we have now, that very AI and automation will only result in plunging millions of people into joblessness.

So if it isn’t the tanker truck itself, as a symbol of the apparent evil of machines and technology in general, that is the source of hostility in the film, as I would insist, then what is that source? I’d go back to what I said towards the beginning of this analysis, and say that the source of this hostility is aggressive competition, fueled by alienation.

Marx described alienation as manifesting in many forms, but the form that matters in this film is alienation from other workers. Now, Mann being a salesman and Keller being a trucker means, of course, that they aren’t directly competing with each other for higher wages from the same boss; but one can see a broader, more general kind of competition between the two, symbolized by Mann’s attempts to get past the slow-moving truck up ahead, and to get safe from the attacks of Keller’s truck when it’s fast-moving.

The tanker truck is old and dilapidated, as opposed to Mann’s red Plymouth Valiant. The vehicle one drives typically gives one a sense of one’s social status, hence the great pride people often have in their cars. Keller must envy other men for driving much nicer-looking vehicles that his beaten-down truck. Small wonder that he wants to dominate the road with his truck, which at least is so much bigger and more powerful than Mann’s car, as ugly as his truck is. He needs to compensate for his feelings of social inferiority by bullying the drivers of nicer-looking cars.

In the short story, the truck is full of gas, so it explodes when it falls off the cliff at the end. In the film, though, the truck is empty, so there’s no explosion after it falls. Keller driving an empty truck on the highway (recall how old and dilapidated it is), unless he’s driving home from having delivered the gas, suggests that maybe he’s angry because he’s out of work. Mann, in contrast, is driving through the Mojave Desert on a business trip…not that Keller knows anything about that, of course, but he has every reason to believe that Mann has it a lot better than he. In the short story, Mann imagines Keller must have a police record, having harassed other drivers as a habit.

Mann is the only substantial character in the story, Keller being faceless, mysterious, and without any dialogue. Though it’s called Duel, the story might as well be called Solo, since Mann is so lonely throughout most, if not all, of it. His feeling friendless just adds to the film’s sense of alienation, since his cries for help fall largely on deaf ears.

The film begins with Mann driving out of the city, the camera looking out of his windshield from his POV, thus establishing our sympathy for him. He’s playing the car radio, and we hear a married man on a talk show explaining how, because he hates work, he’s become a househusband while his wife is the breadwinner. Because of this arrangement, he feels emasculated, his working wife seeming to be the true head of the house, the ‘man’ of the house.

In the man’s shift from a pro-feminist career choice to an anti-feminist resentment over feeling ruled over by his wife, we can see how the humiliation he feels reflects already the themes of competition and alienation in the film. He feels that, as the husband, he should be above his wife. We will soon also see how this man, who does’t appear in the short story, is a double for Mann, who in his own way also feels dominated by his wife, a housewife played by Jacqueline Scott.

Mann stops at a gas station where the attendant tries to sell him a new radiator hose, which Mann suspects is just the attendant trying to get some more money out of him for something he doesn’t really need. This is yet another example, however small, of capitalism engendering alienation: one is far more interested in making money than in helping people. (As we’ll later learn, though, the attendant’s warning about the radiator hose is justified, so the alienation is really manifested in Mann’s refusal to listen to him.)

Mann, by the way, has by this point already passed the truck and been mildly annoyed by Keller. Mann uses the gas station telephone to call his wife, who as I said above, seems far more the boss of his home than he is. He calls her to apologize to her for something that happened the night before. A man at a party made unwanted sexual advances on Mann’s wife, and she’s mad at him for not standing up to the aggressor. This is yet another example of the theme of aggressive competition, in this case, of who gets to have Mann’s wife.

She also gripes at him to finish his business trip as soon as possible so he’ll return home as soon as he’s promised to. This means that he’s also going to have to compete with the time. Of course, we know by the end of the film how that competition will turn out for him.

Keller is at the gas station, too, honking his horn again and again. The attendant thinks Keller is pressuring him to hurry up and fill up his truck with gas, but we should already have an inkling that the honking of the horn is meant to irritate Mann.

Mann is out of the city by now and entering the loneliness of the Mojave Desert. He has only Keller to keep him company.

Being tailgated by Keller, Mann puts his hand out the window and waves to have the truck pass him. This is an act of goodwill by Mann, since he doesn’t want any conflict or competition with Keller. Later, when Keller’s out front and driving slowly in a deliberate attempt to annoy Mann, he imitates Mann’s waving to have him pass, but as Mann is trying to pass in the lane for oncoming traffic, a car is approaching at that very moment, almost causing a collision. Keller’s ironic act of ‘goodwill’ is to have Mann killed!

One thing to keep in mind, as a side note, about this film is that the soundtrack–composed by Billy Goldenberg for strings, harp, keyboards, and lots of percussion, along with Moog synthesizer effects–is mostly not conventional music in the sense of having themes, melody, and harmony. It has a largely metallic, jarring sound, since nothing in this story is harmonious in terms of human relationships.

The short story begins by pointing out how Mann passed the truck at 11:32 a.m., as if this is focal to the plot. About twenty minutes into the film, Mann manages to pass the truck by finding a small dirt road to the side of the highway, racing through it, and coming around back to the original road to be in front of the truck. Mann is exultant to the point of gloating that he’s finally passed the truck. He’s briefly experiencing the joy of winning out in a competition.

We soon get a sense of Keller’s vindictive rage at this outsmarting of him, a kind of narcissistic rage, so Keller races up behind Mann, honking his horn and threatening to rear-end him. Mann’s car spins off the road, near a diner, and crashes into a fence. The truck passes by and continues down the road, and Keller seems no longer interested in terrorizing Mann.

A couple of old men have seen the crash, and one of them goes up to Mann to see if he’s OK. When Mann says that the truck driver was trying to kill him, the old man won’t even consider the possibility that he’s describing the situation as it actually was, and insists that Mann simply has a bit of whiplash. This lack of validating Mann’s experience is yet another example of alienation in the film. Mann feels so alone and friendless.

He crosses the road, enters the diner, and goes into the men’s room to put some water on his face and calm down. Imagining the nightmare to be over, he looks at himself in the mirror as he’s processing what just happened. Lacanian psychoanalysis can deepen our understanding of Mann’s mental state, particularly with the symbolism of the mirror he’s looking into.

The terror of having almost been killed by Keller’s truck, of Mann’s body being mangled to pieces, is in a way symbolically comparable to the fragmented feeling an infant has of its own body prior to seeing itself for the first time in a mirror. The specular image gives the child a sense of his own self as a distinct ego, as opposed to his prior perception of himself as formless, divided, and fragmented. This establishment of self brings about the Imaginary Order, as opposed to the traumatizing, formless, ineffable state of the Real, caused in Mann’s case by Keller’s threat to his life, the threat of destroying Mann’s body.

Looking in the mirror calms Mann because it helps him re-establish his sense of self and a sense of order in the world he lost when Keller plunged him into the Real. Still, as any Lacanian knows, the ideal-I seen in the mirror reflection is self-alienating, because although Mann sees himself, that image is over there in the mirror, not in here in Mann’s body. Mann sees what seems like another person rather than himself, because he’s over there and not here. This Lacanian angle on alienation is just another example of the film’s theme of social estrangement in general.

What’s worse, the lack of sympathy for Mann from anyone in the diner just reinforces his estrangement. When the owner of the diner asks him what went wrong outside, Mann is so shaken up that he can’t put his trauma into words. This inability to verbalize an experience is the essence of the Real. To feel a connection with society, one must be able to use the commonly-shared form of language to communicate one’s feelings, to enter the social and cultural world of the Symbolic. Mann can only say that the incident with Keller was “just a slight complication,” to which the owner replies that it “looked like a big complication,” getting laughter from the diner’s patrons, and further alienating Mann.

Even worse than this, Mann looks out the window of the diner and sees Keller’s truck parked outside! No, his nightmare is by no means over. The calm he felt in the men’s room, symbolized by his seeing himself in the mirror and re-establishing his sense of self (the Imaginary) in the chaotic world of the Real, was an illusion. He sits at a table, all alone, knowing that no one in the diner is his friend.

Rather than even consider that Keller is the crazy one, everyone thinks Mann is the crazy one. What’s more, it seems that Keller has entered the diner, judging by the number of men who are wearing similar brown boots and jeans. Which one of these men is Keller, though?

Mann believes at one point that he has identified Keller in a scene not in the short story–he sees a man at a table eating a sandwich. In his nervous confrontation with the guy, who naturally denies even any knowledge of what Mann is talking about, he knocks the sandwich out of his hand, angering him and getting knocked to the floor. The man then storms out of the diner.

The patrons of the diner think Mann is all the crazier now, and he is, after all he’s been through. Significantly, he sees Keller’s truck being driven away, as well as the man he had the altercation with driving away…in a different vehicle. Keller has succeeded in passing on his craziness to Mann–what can be called an instance of projective identification–and so he can drive his truck away feeling some spiteful satisfaction.

Keller’s frustrations with life have led to his aggression against Mann, whose frustrations have in turn led to his aggression against the man eating the sandwich. Most people think that the frustrations of life are just that…life, as in “That’s life.” It doesn’t occur to most of us that our discontents and grievances are mostly caused by the capitalist class, who in the years since the making of this movie have not only been squeezing the poor harder and harder, but have tricked us into thinking that this squeezing harder–neoliberalism–is just ‘reality.’ As a result, we take our frustrations out on each other rather than on the ruling class.

This taking it out on each other–what the ‘duel’ between Mann and Keller represents–is often referred to as “punching down,” or at least punching horizontally, as opposed to what we should be doing, which is “punching up,” or critiquing the power structures that hurt us all…or even better, as I see it–organizing in solidarity to overthrow the ruling class.

“Punching down,” caused by alienation, only exacerbates alienation.

‘Punching down” comes in many forms, not just the kind of fighting we see in the diner, or between Mann and Keller on the road. The working class, often swayed by the demagoguery of the right, tend to blame their problems on immigrants, refugees, and illegal aliens, coming within their country’s borders, rather than blame the capitalist class for causing the economic problems and imperialist mayhem in other countries, which forces the afflicted in those countries to come into ours in the hopes of finding a better life.

If foreigners aren’t being blamed for society’s ills, then either those receiving welfare are, or LGBT people, POC, or people thought to be masterminding some evil, Satanic plot are (the Jews, Freemasons, etc.). Their scapegoating, or that of other ‘ne’er-do-wells,’ is the kind of reactionary nonsense we’ve been hearing in recent songs like “Try That In a Small Town,” or “Rich Men North of Richmond.”

Some people on the left may try to defend the message of this second song on the grounds that at least part of its lyric diagnoses our problems correctly (“I’ve been sellin’ my soul…for bullshit pay”); and while acknowledging the stupidity of the line, “if you’re 5-foot-3 and you’re 300 pounds/Taxes ought not to pay for your bags of fudge rounds,” defenders of the song insist that we need to blur over certain ideological differences in order to unite the people against the rich, and to have a dialogue with the right to persuade them to join the left. While, ideally, we on the left would much rather convince those on the right to abandon their reactionary views through rational argument, the rightists all too often regard us on the left as too “extremist” or “Satanic” to take our ideas seriously. Therefore, no reconciliation can be made, and alienation continues.

To get back to the movie, Mann leaves the diner and continues to drive. He comes to a school bus stuck on the side of the road because its engine is overheated (this scene isn’t in the short story). He stops to see if he can help the driver and the kids get the bus moving by pushing his car against the back of it.

Not only can he not make the bus budge, he gets his front bumper stuck under the bus’s rear bumper. The kids find his frustrations amusing, laughing and making faces at him. This moment demonstrates the absurd lengths to which alienation can take us: surely even little kids have enough sense to understand that this man is trying to help them; if he can’t, outside of anyone else’s help (coming soon, but they don’t know this yet) they’re all stuck in the middle of nowhere. These kids should be cheering him on, appreciating his efforts.

Mann gets out of his car and sees Keller’s truck in a tunnel down the road: naturally, he begins to panic and tries to persuade all of the kids, who are playing out by the side of the road, to get back in the bus for fear of crazy Keller driving at them and killing them in his attempt to kill Mann. The kids, however, and even the bus driver, think it’s frantic Mann who is the crazy one. Alienated Mann has no friends at all in this film.

He gets back in his car, manages to free his bumper, and hurries away as the truck comes over. Keller, with his big, powerful vehicle, gives the bus its needed push. By succeeding in helping the bus driver and kids where Mann has failed, Keller once again projects his craziness onto the victim who also failed to convince the bus driver that Keller has been trying to kill him. Psychopaths and narcissists are often very good at convincing you that it’s their victims who are the crazy ones.

Keller, of course, is and has always been the crazy one, and he demonstrates his craziness once again by coming up behind Mann, who’s stopped at a railroad crossing, and tries to push Mann’s car onto the railroad to make him crash into the oncoming train. Mann prevents this just barely by hitting the brake and putting his car into reverse.

Once the train is past, Mann floors the gas and crosses the tracks, then goes off the road. After Keller continues down the road, Mann follows slowly, hoping to distance himself from his enemy as much as possible. We can see another driver passing him at a more normal speed for a highway. Many of us can’t stand drivers who go so slowly (I sure don’t!), so Mann’s need to slow down to thirty mph, just to avoid a truck he’s about to meet up with again, isn’t going to make him any friends.

Indeed, Keller has pulled up on the side of the road and has been waiting for Mann to catch up. The antagonizing is about to continue.

Mann stops at a gas station whose owner also sells rattlesnakes, tarantulas, and lizards. As she’s taking care of his car, he uses a phone booth there to call the police and tell them about Keller, who’s pulled over on the side of the road and is then turning back to the gas station.

Mann can’t get any help from the seemingly lackadaisical police, especially since Keller races his truck at the phone booth, forcing Mann to rush out of it. The truck not only terrorizes Mann, smashing the booth, but it also smashes into a number of the gas station owner’s cages of animals. Keller’s punching down, as we can see, doesn’t only affect Mann, but potentially many other people. Mann’s gentle coaxing of a tarantula off of his leg is symbolic once again of how not only is Keller, but all of life on Earth, it seems, is against Mann.

He gets in his car and drives away to temporary safety, then decides not to move for at least an hour. He’d have Keller win the competition fully, just to be rid of him.

Finally, he starts driving again, but it isn’t too long before he sees Keller’s truck again, sitting by the side of the road, waiting for him. In his nervousness, Mann screeches to a halt with his car perpendicular to the road, unintentionally blocking it so other drivers can’t go straight through. Indeed, one approaching driver has to slam on the brakes to avoid ramming into Mann. His tires screech as he passes around Mann’s car, and as he’s driving away, we can see him raising a furious fist at Mann for leaving his car in such a foolish position on the road. Mann just can’t make any friends today.

Mann drives closer to the truck and stops. Keller starts his engine, Mann tries to drive past, but Keller blocks him, forcing him to turn around. Mann gets out of his car, and in exasperation, he walks toward the truck, meaning to confront Keller face to face; but the truck goes further away.

Keller’s distancing himself from Mann tells us two things: first, in a world of alienation, there can be no real communication, no human-to-human contact. Hence, we never see Keller, nor do we hear him say anything. His only words are in the animalistic honking of his horn.

The second thing this tells us about Keller is that he, like all bullies, when you get right down to it, is a coward. It’s easy to terrorize somebody when driving a big, powerful truck. It’s not so easy to do so man to man, without a shield of anonymity, as internet trolls have nowadays.

Mann flags down a car with an elderly couple in it. He begs them to drive to where there’s a phone, and call the police to tell them Keller is trying to kill him; but the couple is uncooperative, and they drive away at the sight of the approaching, threatening truck. Alienation is so extreme, no one helps anyone.

He gets back into his car and sees Keller with his hand out of the truck window, tauntingly offering to let him pass again. Mann races past, with Keller chasing behind.

Mann imagines that if he can go up the grade, that is, a slope leading up to a summit, Keller won’t be able to maintain the speed needed to continue chasing him. Keller manages to keep up fairly well, though, amazing Mann with his vicious determination.

Worse, Mann’s radiator hose breaks, causing his engine to overheat and forcing the car to slow down. He should have listened to that gas station attendant after all!

He reaches the summit and goes back down in neutral, but Keller is catching up. In his stress, Mann has bitten himself, and his mouth is bleeding. This self-inflicted wound of his is symbolic of how, as with his scoffing at the gas station attendant’s warning about the radiator hose, alienation and competition cause one to hurt not only others (as Keller is doing), but also oneself.

Eventually, Mann manages to pick up speed again, and he reaches the edge of a canyon where he’ll have his final showdown with Keller. As Matheson said of his story, this moment is really where the duel happens; previously, it was just Mann trying to avoid the competition Keller has been imposing on him. Mann has finally grown the guts to fight back, being so desperate and having no other way to deal with Keller.

Mann turns his car around to face the truck, he uses his briefcase to keep the accelerator down, and he steers his car right at the truck. He jumps out of the car at the last moment, and Keller smashes into it, the flames and smoke obscuring his vision, so he goes over the edge of the canyon, crashes below, and dies.

Mann rejoices over his final victory, but he’s also exhausted. The film ends with him sitting on the edge of the cliff, tossing pebbles into the canyon as the sun sets.

And so, with the end of the Duel, we go back to him, Solo.

Mann is all alone, in the middle of nowhere, with no car or any other means to get back to human society. He’s stuck in the undifferentiated, traumatizing Real, unable to get back to the Symbolic of culture, or even to the Imaginary, where he can see himself in a mirror and regain some sense of self and emotional stability. His pointless tossing of pebbles over the cliff is reflective of his loss of meaning, purpose, and–unless someone drives up, finds him, and offers him a ride back into town–hope.

His victory over Keller thus is a pyrrhic one, to say the least. He’s been left with nothing. These are the fruits of competition, so valued in the neoliberal years since the release of this film. Marx predicted that capitalist competition–in a way, something we could see as symbolized by Keller’s and Mann’s duel to the death–would end in its self-destruction under its own contradictions. We have seen such a self-destruction over the past fifteen years, with these two huge economic crises in 2008 and 2020.

The result of that destruction? We’re left with nothing, in the middle of nowhere, alienated…just like Mann, a personification of the ordinary man or woman in our lonely, desolate world.

This is why the common people should punch up, not down.

Analysis of The Dark Knight Trilogy

Introduction

Given the subversive interpretation of these three movies that I’m about to make, I find it fitting that the actor cast to play billionaire/playboy Bruce Wayne and his alter ego, the Batman, should be the same actor who only five years earlier played yuppie psychopath Patrick Bateman, a personification of the cruelties of capitalism, as I observed in my analysis of that film.

Though director Christopher Nolan is undoubtedly one of the best talents in filmmaking over the past two decades, he’s also a very bourgeois one, and this trilogy of films solidly demonstrates bourgeois liberal values, if, on occasion, in a somewhat conflicted way. Though Batman, Jim Gordon (Gary Oldman), Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart), Rachel Dawes (Katie Holmes, and later, Maggie Gyllenhaal), Alfred Pennyworth (Michael Caine), Robin John Blake (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), and Lucius Fox (Morgan Freeman) are, of course, supposed to be the heroes, and Ra’s al Ghul (Liam Neeson), the Scarecrow (Cillian Murphy), the mob, the Joker (Heath Ledger), Bane (Tom Hardy), and Catwoman (Anne Hathaway) are supposed to be the villains, there’s a moral ambiguity in the Batman story that leaves a huge grey area between the black and white of stereotypical good and evil.

For the true centre of evil, as powerfully given in these three movies, is Gotham City itself, a city said–repeatedly by those who wish to destroy it–to be impossible to save. A city in which the hero, a billionaire and a glorified, militarized policeman, represents justice, and in which many are so poor and desperate that they have to resort to crime in order to survive, is one in which the mob (i.e., criminal businesses) rules–this tells us all we need to know about what Gotham City symbolizes…capitalism.

As we know, what prompted the reboot of the Batman franchise was the disastrous failure of Joel Schumacher‘s Batman and Robin (1997), which gave us the generally loathed, campy presentation of Batman, as opposed to the preferred dark antihero version as seen in Nolan’s trilogy. A nauseatingly fitting song in the soundtrack of Schumacher’s film is “Gotham City,” by R. Kelly, with a lyric that includes the line “A city of justice, a city of love, a city of peace…” a line that is as totally misrepresentative of the fictional city as it is barf-inducing in its mawkishness.

If Gotham City is a place of justice, love, and peace, why is Batman needed? Why are villains like Mr. Freeze, Poison Ivy, and Bane there? No, the very last things that Gotham City represents are justice, love, and peace: its name, which to me suggests a pun on Gothic, has connotations of darkness and evil that Schumacher’s film willfully avoided presenting to moviegoers in its proper tone.

In terms of theme and its presentation of the subject matter, Nolan’s trilogy has an aesthetically appealing ABA structure, as in much classical music: statement, departure, return. Batman Begins and The Dark Knight Rises share not only references to Ra’s al Ghul and the League of Shadows, if not outright presenting them, but also the theme of fear. The Dark Knight, on the other hand, has the theme of escalation, and as far as the Joker and Harvey Two-Face are concerned, the latter is referred to and briefly shown in Rises, while the former is never referred to or shown, not even once, though the effects of his actions are thoroughly felt in Rises.

Batman Begins

With the establishment of the fear of bats of young Bruce Wayne (played by Gus Lewis), we are also introduced to his father, Thomas Wayne (played by Linus Roache). Billionaire Thomas is a doctor, head of Wayne Enterprises, and a liberal through and through. As a kind and charitable man, he is not only a child’s ideal father, he’s also the exemplar of bourgeois generosity. Still, all these virtues are a mask, a distraction from the plain and simple fact that billionaires simply shouldn’t exist, especially in a city riddled with poverty, desperation, and crime.

What must be emphasized in such a world is that the only difference worth noting between businesses like Wayne Enterprises and the mob is that the former are law-abiding capitalists, while the latter are not law-abiding capitalists. As far as law enforcement is concerned, the cops touch neither group of capitalists because they are paid for through two channels: the former, through taxes; the latter, through bribes. All three groups–legitimate business, the mob, and the law enforcers–keep the capitalist, class system intact.

The first and third of these groups thus represent the government-regulated forms of capitalism, while the mob represents the deregulated, “free market” form. Incidentally, there will emerge another character, who in his lawless, privatized form of law enforcement, will also represent that “free market” form of capitalism…the Batman.

That we.see such an intermingling of the state-regulated vs. deregulated forms of capitalism–sometimes cooperating and complementing each other, sometimes fighting with each other–in this trilogy makes it a perfect portrayal of our neoliberal world.

It’s interesting to compare and contrast the Thomas Wayne of this film with him in Joker, the film I looked at here, and more in depth here. Nolan’s Thomas is so kind, gentle, and liberal, whereas the Thomas of the 2019 film (played by Brett Cullen, who also played Congressman Byron Gilley in The Dark Knight Rises) is gruff, mean-spirited, and even Trumpish. Could it be that the superrich and those in power are…two-faced? (For reasons that should be obvious to you, Dear Reader, I’ll be exploring this idea much more in the Dark Knight section of this analysis.)

With Joe Chill‘s killing of young Bruce Wayne’s parents, it’s only natural that he, as a kid, will be focused on only his own pain. His focus on his own trauma stays with him until his young adulthood, when he considers shooting Chill when he’s about to be released early in exchange for testifying against crime boss Carmine Falcone (Tom Wilkinson). A woman hired by Falcone shoots Chill instead.

It takes Rachel Dawes, now no longer just a childhood friend of Bruce’s, but a DA, to get him to understand that it’s the mafia of Gotham, with their control of the economy, police, and politicians, that drives the poor to such desperation that people like Chill rob and kill. Up until this point, we’ve been sympathizing with Bruce; now, we finally manage to spare some sympathy for the poor.

What’s not acknowledged in this liberal film is that Bruce Wayne’s family is part of the problem. The rich become that way not through hard work, contrary to popular belief, but through exploitation of the working class. The money the rich get through their profits, surplus value, is just money not paid to their employees. Put another way, the rich get rich through stealing from their overworked, underpaid workers…and it’s all legal.

Though as I said, this reality isn’t acknowledged in the film, that doesn’t mean there are no Freudian slips that occasionally give away the hidden meaning. William Earle (Rutger Hauer), CEO of Wayne Enterprises, tells young Bruce around the time of the funeral of Thomas and Martha Wayne that he’ll be watching over “the empire” until Bruce grows up and can take over. Don’t get me started on how capitalism leads to empire. Read this and this instead.

As a young man, Bruce travels to the Far East to learn about such things as hunger and the drive to commit crimes. Bruce, you’re still a billionaire: you can take a vacation from starvation and desperation any time you like; the scrawny, dirty East Asians all around you cannot.

His hanging out with and helping criminals steal show, in symbolic form, the blurred line between law-abiding capitalists and the criminal businesses of the mafia. Still, when arrested, Bruce insists that he not a “犯人.” In a Bhutan prison, he often has to fight off the local prisoners, who just see in him a rich white man. It doesn’t matter whether or not they know he’s billionaire Bruce Wayne: in the Third World, anyone from the First World is correctly understood to be the 1% of the Earth, regardless of whether they happen to be of the ruling class, the middle class, or even the working class of the richer countries.

The League of Shadows learns not only of Bruce being in East Asia, but also of him fighting off groups of prisoners, so “Henri Ducard” goes to the prison to offer Bruce membership in the League, as well as training, and “a path.” Upon release from the prison, Bruce goes to find Ducard in the mountains.

Bruce learns all he needs to know about engaging groups of fighters and taking them all out. He learns that “training is nothing” and “will is everything.” Ducard also tells Bruce of how, many years back, he lost his “one true love,” something that will be developed in the third film, one of many examples of the ABA structure of the trilogy that I mentioned above.

When Bruce finishes his training and proves himself to be the best pupil of the League of Shadows, he is disappointed to learn that he is expected to practice extrajudicial killings. The liberal in Bruce, something he learned from his father and from Rachel, cannot just execute a man without there first being a trial for him.

Ducard insists that in a world of corrupt bureaucrats, there is no such thing as a fair trial. What we see in the contradiction between Bruce’s liberal point of view and the hard line of the League of Shadows is what essentially amounts to a straw man, if looked at more closely. The hard line is portrayed as cruel, extreme, and unreasonable compared to the liberal position. This becomes especially apparent when Bruce learns that he’s expected to lead the League of Shadows into Gotham City and destroy it, which of course he’ll never do.

When we remember that Gotham, permeated throughout with corruption and crime, represents capitalism, which cannot be reformed or saved, the League of Shadows’ position is not so unreasonable or extremist. Also, the film portrays the group of assassins as mere destroyers, rather than revolutionaries who would rebuild a just society on the ruins of the old, capitalist one. We thus see a narrow Overton Window that misrepresents our options as only capitalism, or nihilist destruction…no room for socialism.

Wayne’s belief that there are some good people in Gotham, as against Ducard’s insistence that there isn’t even one good person there, reminds one of Abraham’s negotiating with God (Genesis 18:20-33) over whether there are any in Sodom and Gomorrah who are worth sparing the destruction of the sinful cities by fire and brimstone. Such a suggestion reinforces the idea that Gotham City is beyond redemption, in spite of Bruce’s protestations. Note in this connection the “immortality” of Ra’s al Ghul (Ducard’s secret identity, as we learn soon enough), which makes him rather Godlike in relation to Bruce-as-Abraham.

Bruce escapes and destroys the home of Ra’s al Ghul, thinking he’s left him for dead, too (though actually killing an Asian decoy played by Ken Watanabe), and saving “Ducard.” Bruce returns to Gotham to take over the helm of Wayne Enterprises, only to learn that William Earle, thinking Bruce is dead, is making the company go public. In this we see how Earle, another cutthroat capitalist, is trying to wrest the power of Wayne Enterprises from the Wayne family.

Bruce discusses with Alfred his plan to save Gotham from the mob by presenting himself as a symbol, wearing a mask to conceal his identity and thus keep safe those he cares about. Since bats have always frightened him, he’ll dress in a Batsuit. By ordering the different parts from various manufacturers in places all over the world, he hopes it will be harder to trace them all to him. Adding to this all of the equipment he’ll get from Lucius Fox (the cape, the utility belt, the Batmobile, etc.) and the cave beneath Wayne Manor, the Batman is born.

Note how the Batmobile has been reimagined to become “the Tumbler,” essentially a kind of tank. This ties in well with what I said above, that Batman is a glorified, privatized, militarized policeman. The police, properly understood, don’t ‘fight crime’ per se, or ‘enforce justice’ so much as they protect the interests of the capitalist class. The recent militarizing of the police, a perfect preparation for any attempts at proletarian revolution, has made them particularly threatening to the common people.

It is in this context that we should understand the Dark Knight, a metaphor expressing the idea of protecting a king, a wealthy, landowning ruler. It should come as no surprise that this Dark Knight should be a billionaire, called “Master Wayne” by his butler. This masked vigilante is privatized law enforcement helping the cops; this combination of private and state law enforcement is symbolic of the combination of free enterprise and state-regulated economies, just the right combination for the convenience of the ruling class: “free market” (i.e., low taxes and minimal social programs, to ensure a maximization of profit at the expense of the poor) when convenient, and government involvement (e.g., state subsidies for corporations) when convenient…the essence of neoliberalism.

Batman’s fighting of the mob, who are just another kind of capitalist (as I’ve argued elsewhere), and his helping the cops to fight the mob, should thus be seen as different factions of the capitalist class competing over who will rule the city. Some represent a more state-regulated version of capitalism (the cops), while others, in their relative or extreme lawlessness, represent the “free market” version, Batman and the mob.

Note how the “free market” representatives can be ‘good’ (Batman) or evil (the mob). The representatives of the state-regulated version of capitalism (the cops) can be horribly corrupt, too, as becomes especially apparent in the second movie.

Now, with the excesses of this kind of world, with the extreme wealthy on one side, as well as the mob and the corrupt cops, and the desperately poor and exploited on the other side, it is inevitable that all of these contradictions and conflicts will lead to massive numbers of cases of mental illness.

Here’s where Dr. Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, comes in.

As a psychiatrist with a fear toxin, a hallucinogenic drug, that he uses to induce insanity on anyone deemed a threat or just because it’s convenient to do so, Crane is an example of the corruption in the field of psychiatry that I discussed here. Though he thinks that his collaboration with Ra’s al Ghul, to threaten Gotham with his fear toxin, is meant to hold the city to ransom, it will actually be used by the League of Shadows to make the people of Gotham tear each other apart with fear and madness, thus destroying the city as Ra’s al Ghul intended.

Of course, Batman also uses fear to fight crime, as we see him do to Arnold Flass (played by Mark Boone Junior), a corrupt cop working for Falcone and corrupt Commissioner Loeb. Though in the scene in question, we see Batman intimidating a cop, Batman as privatized cop (even though he insists he doesn’t look like one!) is simply doing what we know regular cops do all the time, those bullies with bullets. And as the ‘good,’ privatized cop going after the corrupt state police, we see another example of the neoliberal agenda in The Dark Knight trilogy.

While Batman is one mask that Bruce wears, another is the act he puts on as Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, going about everywhere in public with beautiful women on his arms. But of course, this playboy persona isn’t the “real” Bruce, either, since our hero is far too noble to be chasing skirt in earnest. Besides, he’s still in love with Rachel.

And since Rachel is the love interest of this conservative trilogy, she must also be the damsel in distress…in spite of, or rather because of, her pluck as an assistant DA fighting corruption in Gotham. First, Falcone hires some muscle to kill her, from whom Batman saves her; then, after she’s exposed to Crane’s fear toxin upon her discovery that it is being put into the city’s water supply, Batman has to rush her to the Batcave to give her the antidote Fox has made.

What’s interesting is how interconnected all the actors are in the conspiracy to destroy Gotham City. Ra’s al Ghul and the League of Shadows are at the centre of the conspiracy, but not only is the Scarecrow involved–as mentioned above–with his fear toxin, but also Wayne Enterprises is, through the use of a powerful microwave emitter that will vaporize the liquid toxin so all of the people of Gotham breathe it in and go mad with fear.

Though Bruce doesn’t know about the microwave emitter until the climax of the film, William Earle and other senior staff at Wayne Enterprises surely know about it, some of them–including Earle in all probability, since he fires Fox for asking too many questions about it–also being in on the conspiracy to at least some extent. That these capitalists, along with a corrupt psychiatrist and at least some corrupt cops like Flass, have at least an inkling of the plot to destroy capitalist Gotham is symbolic of how it’s been predicted that capitalism will one day destroy itself through its own contradictions.

Ra’s al Ghul and the League of Shadows, on the other hand, represent a leftist revolutionary movement, though in this bourgeois film, such a political movement can only be portrayed unsympathetically. They’re just destroyers, bent only on tearing down the old, oppressive order. As such, they’re more like nihilists or Trotskyists, since Ra’s al Ghul’s boast that the League of Shadows has existed throughout history, tearing down one decadent city after another, sounds a lot like permanent revolution. There’s never an interest in rebuilding society along socialist lines, such as providing universal free education and healthcare, subsidized housing for all, 100% employment, and a social safety net for the poor. A bourgeois film like this one is content with such omissions.

Wayne Enterprises having the microwave emitter, which can be used to make the Gotham population kill each other through maniacal fear, has its parallel in the third film (recall the trilogy’s ABA structure) with the fusion reactor, ostensibly meant to provide eco-friendly energy, but which can also be converted into a nuclear bomb that Bane will use to destroy Gotham. And Bane is an excommunicated member of the League of Shadows.

Part of the destruction of Gotham as a nerve-centre of capitalism is the burning-down of Wayne Manor by the League of Shadows, an arson even Bruce himself has spoken of wanting to commit. If revolutionaries don’t destroy capitalism, it will destroy itself by its own contradictions. But of course, liberals will fight to keep capitalism alive by attempting to reform it, either by social democrat means or through the libertarian ideal of market fundamentalism. We see this symbolically through the joint efforts of Gordon and Batman defeating Ra’s al Ghul.

…and one day, when Batman retires, Bruce can have a real love life–but with Rachel?

The Dark Knight

Batman Begins ends with Gordon, promoted to lieutenant, warning Batman of the dangers of escalation and giving him the Joker’s card. This anticipates not only the arrival of the Joker, of course, but also the main theme of the second film: escalation.

Normally, we think of the Joker as being just a murdering psychopath, a mad dog chasing tires and foaming at the mouth. Now, unlike the Joker whom Joaquin Phoenix played, Heath Ledger’s Joker has very little backstory to explain how he became a homicidal maniac, apart from his two contradictory stories for how he got his Glasgow smile.

However he got those scars, be it from an abusive father (far more likely than him giving them to himself, in an attempt to appease the woman he loved), they’re an obvious sign of trauma that, among other things presumably, drove him to a life of crime. Bourgeois ideology have very little interest in exploring the real roots of crime in class conflict; hence, we get very little, if any, backstory on the Joker, as we do in the 2019 film.

What we do know of this Joker, though, is surprising. Consider who he attacks throughout the movie. We see him and his gang of wearers of clown masks rob a bank…run by the mob. He kills cops and imitators of Batman, who as I’ve said above is a glorified cop himself. We’ve never sympathized with the mafia, and sympathy for the cops has recently–at best–been dwindling. By the end of the film, the mayhem he’s caused results in the bulk of Gotham’s criminals behind bars, aided by the myth of Harvey Dent’s heroism. Is the Joker the secret hero of this film?

Now, the Joker isn’t an anarchist in the strict sense of the term. We don’t see him set up the anarchist, i.e., stateless, version of socialism because, as I said about Ra’s al Ghul and the League of Shadows, the bourgeois liberal ideology of these films insists on an Overton Window narrow enough to exclude even the contemplation of socialist possibilities. This is because ‘There Is No Alternative to capitalism,’ apparently.

The Joker does, however, personify the anarchist solution to the problem of capitalism, if only in a stereotyped form. He speaks of the only sensible way to live being one without rules, and that he’s an “agent of chaos.” Now, such ideas are not truly anarchist, of course, but they are stereotypically associated with anarchism (meaning “no rulers,” not “no rules,” actually), and this film’s bourgeois agenda would have you continue to believe the misleading conception of anarchism, in the hopes that you’ll never consider such a radical solution to society’s ills. His saying to scarred Harvey, “Introduce a little anarchy, upset the established order, and everything becomes chaos,” is meant to reinforce the stereotyped association of chaos with anarchy.

At the same time, who does the Joker kill, for the most part? Cops, mafia men and their bosses (criminal capitalists, remember), lawyers, judges, anyone in a position of power and authority. No rulers, in effect. Yet as with the League of Shadows, there’s no rebuilding of society, because the bourgeoisie cannot allow the people to see a newer, better world.

The Scarecrow makes a brief appearance, having sold his fear toxin as a supposed narcotic. A mobster known as the Chechen (played by Ritchie Coster), who works for Sal Maroni (Eric Roberts), is upset that the fear toxin’s ‘bad trip’ won’t produce “repeat customers.” In this scene, we see an example of how the mob are just another kind of capitalist. The Scarecrow doesn’t care about money, though: he, being a psychopath, just wants to spread fear into the world, his toxin being symbolically a projection of his own fears and traumas brought on by his having been bullied and abused as a child.

In all of the imitators of Batman, we see people admiring the notion of Batman as the ‘Great Man,’ another myth the ruling class has always used to justify its existence. The faux-Batmen can never measure up to the real Dark Knight, of course, because they wear “hockey pants” instead of the proper armoured Batsuit. In other words, these ordinary men lack the money to pay for a proper Batsuit, which Bruce can even afford to replace with one that will let him turn his head more comfortably.

The new district attorney, Harvey Dent, represents the lawful way of defeating the mob, and therefore Bruce has high hopes that Dent will make Batman no longer necessary. Then, he imagines, he can be with Rachel…only she’s been seeing Harvey.

In the shift from Batman being Gotham’s hero to Harvey being that hero, that is, from lawless protector to lawful protector, we see how capitalism can shift from a deregulated to a regulated system, depending on the social, economic, and political conditions of the time. Yet even at this early point in the movie, those corrupt cops Harvey has been monitoring have already been calling him “Two-Face.” This unflattering nickname suggests the dual nature of the capitalist system: regulated at one time, when convenient, and non-regulated at another time, when convenient.

It’s an economic system of multiple faces, with a liberal smile, a libertarian sneer, and a fascist scowl.

Since the Joker has been stealing the mob’s money, and Batman has been giving them a hard time, Sal Maroni, Gambol (played by Michael Jai White), and the other mafia men have had to meet in secret places. Lau (played by Chin Han), a mafia banker from Hong Kong, has moved all their money to keep it safe where he is.

The Joker barges in on their meeting, laughing at Lau’s feeble promise of protection, knowing that even though the Chinese would never extradite Lau, Batman has no jurisdiction: he will bring Lau back to Gotham, make him squeal, and get the cops all over the mob, which, of course, the Batman does.

Batman catches Lau in Hong Kong, making him beg Batman to let go of him and promising to give him anything he wants. This is the first time we’ve known Batman to go outside of Gotham to catch a criminal; note that Hong Kong can be seen as a capitalist Gotham in its own right. In this scene, we see again how Batman, in his lawless fighting of crime and defying China’s forbidding of the extradition of any of its citizens, represents the deregulated, privatized form of policing. His apprehending of Lau, a mafia capitalist, is also an example of how these three films aren’t so much about good vs evil as they are about competing forms of capitalism.

As a result of Lau’s squealing, Harvey, Rachel, and the police are able to arrest a whole slew of the mob; only high-ranking members like Maroni and the Chechen have the money to make bail. In this great success of Harvey’s, Bruce sees a real hope that he can hang up his cowl soon, and then be with Rachel. He hosts a fundraising party for Harvey in his new home (while Wayne Manor is being rebuilt), repeating the slogan, “I believe in Harvey Dent.”

Bruce’s entrance to his party, from a helicopter, wearing a nice suit, and with not one, not two, but three beautiful women (Russian ballerinas, I assume) on his arms, deserves comment. I’m sure I’m far from being the only man who was awed by this amazing entrance of Bruce’s, back when the film came out in theatres. A similar feeling comes when one sees the home, cars, suits, and technology of Tony Stark in the Marvel movies: the effect is to engender more simping for billionaires among young men, who fantasize about attaining such wealth themselves one day.

Now, hitting the mob as hard as Batman, Dent, and Gordon have done is not going to pass without any retaliation. Here is where the escalations begin. Maroni, the Chechen, et al decide to hire the Joker to go after Batman. By saying he’ll kill people for every day that Batman doesn’t reveal his true identity (something Batman will never do, of course), the Joker is making Batman into a scapegoat for all of these deaths. Once again, we see a blurred line separating the ‘good’ from the bad.

Commissioner Loeb’s liquor is poisoned, a judge is killed by a car bomb, the Joker crashes Bruce’s fundraiser, looking for Dent and dropping Rachel from a window, forcing Batman to rescue the damsel in distress again. Disguised as a policeman, the Joker makes an attempt on the life of Gotham mayor Anthony Garcia (played by Néstor Carbonell), for whom Gordon takes a bullet, seeming to kill him and causing his grieving wife to blame Batman.

To stop the violence, Bruce is ready to reveal himself as Batman and turn himself in to the cops, who are portrayed very sympathetically in this conservative film. But Harvey claims to be Batman, and Bruce lets him do it. Just before doing so, Harvey tries to reassure the frightened public that “the night is darkest just before the dawn,” implying that the film’s title is a pun on The Dark Night, a reflection of how bad the escalations are getting.

Of course, Harvey, as a reflection of how the law ‘should’ be enforced, as someone so ‘incorruptible,’ and as someone taking the fall for Bruce, is Gotham’s White Knight…but if you’re familiar with my ouroboros symbolism, you’ll know how quickly and easily the whitest of innocence can fall to the darkest of evil. “You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”

After the exciting car chase scene, in which the Joker fires a bazooka at the armoured police vehicle carrying Harvey, and when Batman’s Tumbler takes the hit, totaling his armoured vehicle and making Batman convert the remains into his Batcycle, or “Batpod,” the Joker is apprehended, and we learn that Gordon never died…he’s soon to be promoted to commissioner by the mayor, too.

The pressure is being put on both Harvey and Batman when they realize that Rachel is being targeted by the Joker. They are increasingly being tempted to sidestep the rule of law to stop the bad guys, putting themselves in danger of becoming bad guys themselves. And when law enforcement, whether in its privatized or state forms, protects the capitalist system as illegally as the mob practices capitalism, we know that Gotham’s ‘good guys’ are no better than its bad guys.

When Harvey, pointing a gun at the Joker’s paranoid schizophrenic henchman Thomas Schiff (played by David Dastmalchian), is flipping a coin with two good sides, we know he’s showing his potential for evil already. He’s already Harvey Two-Face. When Batman, as the “bad cop,” is beating the crap out of the Joker, and Gordon as the “good cop” assures the other cops watching the beating that it’s “in control,” we see again how the police’s defence of private property is nowhere near as justified as it would seem to be. Such a lack of justification is all the more apparent when we see Batman, the privatized form of ‘law enforcement,’ is also willing to bend the law by using a cellphone surveillance system to monitor all of Gotham, violating citizens’ privacy, in order to catch the Joker.

The Joker’s method is a form of accelerationism. He pushes the law enforcers to their limit to get them to show their repressed, ugly sides. Killing Rachel and burning half of Harvey’s face, as well as burning one side of his coin, has turned him from a liberal defender of the class system to one comparable to a violent fascist. The Joker tries to do the same with Gotham’s citizens, with the threats to blow up hospitals if Wayne Enterprises employee Coleman Reese (played by Joshua Harto) isn’t killed for trying to reveal Batman’s identity, and with the threat to blow up the two boats (with the “sweet innocent civilians” on one, and Gotham’s “scumbag” convicts in the other), but without the same success.

When the Joker, disguised as a nurse in Gotham General Hospital, tells Harvey that no one gets upset if a truck of soldiers gets blown up, a theory was formed that the Joker could be an Iraq War veteran, his trauma from that causing his psychopathy. When people from the bottom part of society are killed, like troops or a “gangbanger,” who cares? But if someone from the top, like a mayor, is killed, “then everyone loses their minds,” because such upper echelon deaths are not “part of the plan.”

The Joker, as an ‘anarchist’ of sorts, is trying to prove the point that no one group of people is inherently better than another. We’re all beasts, underneath it all…but more importantly, no one has the right to exercise authority over another; so if those in authority can decide who dies and who doesn’t, so can people like the Joker. The film portrays his attitude as being merely loving of destruction for its own sake, as with the League of Shadows: “Some men just want to watch the world burn.” This is how the bourgeoisie wants us to understand socialists’ aims to be.

Though Harvey himself–overwhelmed with how deep the corruption is among the Gotham police, how the Joker and the mob can so easily pay off cops like Wuertz (played by Ron Dean) and Ramirez (played by Monique Gabriela Curnen) to have Rachel killed–betrays the very justice system he condemns these cops for betraying, Gordon and Batman know they can’t let the public know of Harvey’s crimes, including the killing of cops. All of those Harvey has had incarcerated would go free, and Gotham would no longer have any hope in eradicating crime.

The lie of the efficacy of conventional law enforcement must be maintained in this lie.

This lie must be maintained in Gotham City because it must be maintained everywhere that the capitalist system is upheld. If not, we’ll have either socialism, or barbarism.

…and we all know that socialism cannot even be considered.

So Batman has to be a kind of Christ-figure and take the fall for something he didn’t do: kill all those Harvey killed. Gordon reluctantly calls it in, to have his cops chase Batman for the killings, as well as for the threat Harvey made to his wife, himself, and his little boy.

Everybody knows that the police all too frequently use excessive force, engage in police brutality, and kill needlessly (often blacks, often with impunity). Such is the two-faced nature of law enforcement and the protection of private property. In his attempt to tear the whole system down, to remove all systems of authority–which, one might hope, would be replaced with a socialist system that produces commodities for the general need, instead of for profit–the Joker, in trying to make Gotham “[his] city,” was trying to save it.

The Joker is not interested in having huge sums of money, comparable to the way an anarcho-communist wants a society without money, so he burns it. Batman “completes” him in a dialectical sense: the Joker imagines he’ll be fighting Batman forever, an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, in an eternal contradiction between, on the one hand, the capitalist use of state (or privatized) authority for the sake of the protection of private property, and on the other hand, the revolutionary aim of destroying those very capitalist forms of authority.

But instead of saving Gotham in the accelerationist way the Joker initially intended, the corrupt police system has remained intact; still, at least all the major criminals are behind bars. So as far as the Joker being the real hero of the second film is concerned, some might say, what he has ended up achieving is close enough.

The Dark Knight Rises

Though the streets of Gotham are generally clean, our protagonists are scarred right down to the bone. Gordon is racked with guilt over years of never telling the truth about Harvey Dent, and how he threatened the lives of the Gordon family, causing his wife to take their son and leave him. Bruce, with an injured leg, is still mourning the loss of Rachel, and has become something of a recluse.

As I mentioned above, though the Joker is never, not even once, mentioned in this third film, the effect of what he did in the second is still felt, throughout this one. Also, as I said before, this film’s themes and subject matter return us to those of the first film…fear in particular.

Bruce was mourning his parents in the first film, grieving for years afterwards; now, he’s mourning Rachel, wounded by her loss for years. His emotional wounds are symbolized by that bad leg of his. As at the beginning of the first film, at the beginning of this one, there is no Batman. Batman began in the first movie; the Dark Knight must rise in this one.

Another motif in this film, a new one, is hell. Bane and his men, the villains according to the trilogy’s bourgeois ideology, work and plot in the underground of Gotham. After Bane beats Batman in their first fight, incapacitated Bruce is put in an underground prison somewhere in the Middle East, a hell in which all hope is to be abandoned precisely because the tantalizing hope of climbing up and escaping is frustrated by its near-impossibility.

Despair is dialectically strengthened by this perpetually frustrated hope. Finally, there’s one obvious underground hell to outdo all hells: the Batcave, the headquarters of our privatized, militarized policeman who defeats the mob (hope), but keeps alive the very capitalist system that spawns more mafia (despair).

Selina Kyle is an interesting case of the dialectical opposition between seeming to be one kind of person vs actually being a completely different kind. At first, she seems timid and submissive, then revealing herself to be sly and a formidable fighter. As a cat burglar trying to find a way to wipe out her criminal record, she’s a villain going so far as to steal Bruce’s fingerprints to bankrupt him and help Bane in his revolution; yet she also turns heroine, helping Batman in the end and even killing Bane with the guns of the Batpod.

For these reasons, she is yet another example of the moral ambiguity of this trilogy. That moral ambiguity, of course, goes both ways: the one in accordance with bourgeois values, as described in the previous paragraph, and the one in accordance with the Marxist values I’ve been trying to argue for here. As I said above, billionaires shouldn’t exist; and though her saving of Batman is in aid of capitalism, her earlier helping of Bane is the helping of a revolution that needs to be properly interpreted. Recall what she whispers in Bruce’s ear: “There’s a storm coming, Mr. Wayne. You and your friends better batten down the hatches, because when it hits, you’re all gonna wonder how you ever thought you could live so large and leave so little for the rest of us.”

Bane’s agenda, being a return to that of Ra’s al Ghul and the League of Shadows, is the destruction of Gotham, a city regarded as far too corrupt to save…and as a symbol of capitalism, I’d have to agree that it can’t be saved. Still, as with the previous two films, the revolution ends in mere destruction: we don’t see any socialist rebuilding of society because the trilogy’s bourgeois ideology won’t have it.

What sets Bane’s revolution apart from those of Joker and Ra’s al Ghul is that Bane doesn’t just destroy Gotham immediately after beating Batman and putting Bruce in the underground prison in the Middle East: he takes over the city and protects his revolution with his men and their use of such weaponry as Tumblers from Wayne Enterprises. Such a protection of his revolution, through military force, suggests the Marxist-Leninist notion of the dictatorship of the proletariat, which in this bourgeois film is inevitably portrayed as a kind of death cult.

The use of the Wayne Enterprises weaponry, the blowing-up of all but one bridge connecting Gotham City to the outside world, and the relatively brief time that Bane’s men control the city, implies that Bane’s revolution, if understood as a kind of leftist one, is comparable to the short-lived Paris Commune, where cannons were kept to protect the working-class revolution.

The conversion of the fusion reactor core into a decaying neutron bomb seems meant to remind us of the fears the West has had of nuclear weapons programs in the USSR, Mao’s China, and the DPRK. Of course, so many of us in the West conveniently forget which government created the original nuclear weapons program and used it the one and only time to kill people.

If Bane’s revolutionary government and kangaroo courts seem terrifying and oppressive to you, Dear Reader, recall that, apart from the films’ propagandistic, denigrating portrayal of such revolutionary change as I’ve explained above, the Dent Act, incarcerating people based on the lie and, indeed, cult of personality surrounding Harvey, is hardly innocent, democratic, or respectful of the rule of law. Bourgeois government is predicated on force and violence every bit as much as, if not more than, proletarian government. In The State and Revolution, Lenin explained how any state, whether capitalist or socialist, is used by the dominant class to rule over the dominated class. In socialist governments, the workers rule over the capitalists; in bourgeois governments (the vast majority of governments around the world), it’s the other way around. Either way, someone is stepped on; why not have the common majority control the rich minority for a change?

Gotham Mayor Garcia has refused to repeal the Dent Act, in typical bourgeois state fashion. Gordon, for all his ‘goodness,’ hasn’t grown the courage to admit that the circumstances surrounding Dent’s death were depicted dishonestly. The rich of Gotham, the real thieves of the poor there, continue to live in luxury without ever being held accountable.

One such example of such a vampiric capitalist crook is John Daggett (played by Ben Mendelsohn), who hopes Bane will help him absorb Wayne Enterprises, and arrogantly thinks his wealth gives him the right to boss others around…fatefully, even Bane. It’s easy to feel no sympathy for him when Bane kills him, but Bruce, Gordon, Garcia, et al are in principal no better…except in how they lack Daggett’s obnoxious attitude. A capitalist nonetheless is still a capitalist, and a protector of such vampires is still a protector of them, whether polite or rude. The same applies when comparing the vices of Trump with those of Biden, Obama, Gates, etc.

Officer John Blake, being a Robin-esque cop, blurs the line between state and privatized police in a manner comparable to Batman, but as an orphan, he reminds Bruce of his social duty as a “billionaire orphan” not to forget the orphans he used to give charity to. In the end, he gives Wayne Manor to those orphans who have grown too old to stay in orphanages. Such charity is as far as liberals will allow, when the best solution to the problem of the homeless, orphan or non-orphan, is to provide housing for all, as such examples of the dictatorship of the proletariat in Cuba do.

Blake, becoming fed up with the shackles of state law enforcement by the end of the movie, will give up on being a cop. He’ll discover the Batcave at the very end, and we are to assume that he will take up the mantle of Batman once Bruce has left Gotham and retired his role as the Dark Knight…or perhaps ‘Robin’ will become Nightwing. In any case, his switch from state cop to privatized cop once again reflects the trilogy’s implied neoliberal agenda.

While The Dark Knight Rises is generally a well-made film, it is also riddled with plot holes, these mostly being based on how incapacitated Bruce becomes by the middle of the story. One must assume that the strapping-up of his bad leg is left intact by Bane’s men when he is taken to the underground prison; otherwise, that near impossible leap he makes to escape the prison just becomes all the nearer to impossible.

Also, though his cellmate fixes the vertebra in his back, surely it continues to hurt like the hell he’s trapped in, right up to his leap to freedom, again, making the leap all that harder to do, as well as making it harder for him to fight Bane again…let alone defeat him. And how was Bruce, without his money, a passport, or any of his Batman equipment, able to get back to Gotham without being detected by Bane’s men?

Apart from filling in these gargantuan plot holes with an added, impractical story arc that would have lengthened an already long film by at least another thirty minutes (Bruce presumably contacting a rich, influential friend in the Middle East, someone to lend him some money, help him get a new passport to get him back to the US, etc.), seeing him back in Gotham, with all of his miraculous return’s willing suspension of disbelief, reinforces the ruling class’s myth of the “Great Man,” able to overcome impossible odds by “the most powerful impulse of the spirit.”

The ability or inability of escaping the prison is to be understood dialectically. The only ones who have ever escaped–young Talia al Ghul, as we eventually learn, and Bruce–did so without the aid of a rope, which makes them have to look fear right in the face. Having the security of the rope, however, ensures failure.

One surprising plot element of this third film, which is a kind of return to an element of the first film, yet in the form of its dialectical opposite, is Alfred’s commitment to helping Bruce, through thick or thin. In Batman Begins, Alfred twice says he’ll “never” give up on Bruce. Yet in The Dark Knight Rises, in the hopes of getting Bruce to give up on trying to revive Batman and to save his life from almost assuredly being killed by Bane, Alfred does give up on Bruce! He quits!

This giving up, this quitting, is related to despair, another major theme of this third film, related to the hell motif described above (recall how Bruce, having been taken to the Middle East prison, that underground hell, wishes in his despair that Bane would kill him). The wish to destroy Gotham, as opposed to the wish to reform the city and purge it of its mafia element, is also related to despair. No inkling of an intent to rebuild Gotham along, say, socialist lines is even to be considered, of course. It is either to be a reformed capitalism, or it must be “ashes.”

Note how Gotham as a symbol of capitalism is expanded to one of American patriotism with the little boy singing The Star-Spangled Banner. The football fans, deeply moved by his “lovely, lovely voice” (which even Bane acknowledges as such), give the boy enthusiastic applause. Shortly afterwards, Bane blows up most of the football field; since his revolution is, as I described above, akin to the establishment of the dictatorship of the proletariat, these detonations are symbolic of an anti-imperialist act, tearing American hegemony and hubris down to size.

The entirety of the Gotham police are, around the time of these detonations, trapped in the underground hell of the city. When Batman frees them, they can do battle with Bane’s army, who, far better armed, threaten the cops with violence if they don’t back off…in a manner we expect of riot police. Such an understanding exposes this presentation of belligerents as a form of projection: those cops were trapped in an underground hell because they are like John Milton‘s fallen angels turned demons. Still, we sympathize with them, not those who threaten them on the street the same way riot police would threaten protestors.

If we are to think of the Gotham kangaroo courts as being unfairly denigrated as such due to the trilogy’s biased bourgeois ideology…that is, if we should really condone the people’s condemnation of the rich, and those who work for the rich, like Philip Stryver (played by Burn Gorman), for “living off the blood and sweat of people less powerful,” then does this suddenly make Dr. Crane, the judge of these courts, a good man, in my estimation? No…as a psychopath no less corrupt than the other bad ones of Gotham, Crane is a mere opportunist in the new order, taking advantage of the vicissitudes of the time, and avoiding punishment with all the other guilty Gothamites. Having him as judge, though, for the purposes of the film’s bourgeois agenda, only reinforces the notion of the cruelty of these courts.

As far as the chanting, in 5/4 time, of “Deshi Basara” (“Rise!”) is concerned, the sympathetic, galvanizing character of the music, first heard when we see Bane’s men take over and crash the plane with the CIA men in Uzbekistan, is a case of a Freudian slip in this otherwise bourgeois film. The cruelties of the CIA over the years are so many that one should find it hard to sympathize with their agents, so seeing Bane bash the face in of one of them, while “Deshi Basara” is playing, should be quite gratifying to watch.

Conclusion

Nolan flatly denies that there’s any political message in his Batman trilogy, but the political elements, regardless of whether you assess them my way, the opposite way, or any other way, are so obvious that they scream out at you. The only way Nolan’s denials could have any honesty in them (apart from being a deflection of leftist criticisms, he presumably just wants to prevent any limits to the films’ interpretations) is that neoliberalism as an ideology has so smothered all of political and cultural life over the past several decades that many of us simply haven’t noticed it as such. (Of course, to be fair to Nolan, capitalism as a standard economic way of doing things was already so entrenched in the comic and previous TV shows, cartoons, and movies, that Nolan had only this to work with in his adaptation.)

The bourgeois liberal way of doing things is so ‘standard,’ such a default position, that the average moviegoer sees the resolution of the trilogy as satisfying. Though Bruce most charitably has given Wayne Manor to the orphans and given his estate to Alfred, he must still have plenty of money for himself (the fraudulent circumstances of his bankruptcy having been exposed), for how else could he and Selina have gone to Florence, where they see Alfred at a restaurant? Since Blake has found the Batcave (with the help of a package from Bruce), he is obviously to be the next Batman, anticipating future crime in Gotham, crime of a magnitude requiring another superhero crimefighter…or, as I would call him, another glorified, militarized cop.

All of these things mean that the class structure of Gotham City has remained intact, with a few rich at the top and a multitude of poor people at the bottom. New mafia will rise up to replace Falcone and Maroni; they will exploit the poor, driving them to desperation and more crime. Blake with have to deal with this problem, as well as any new ‘supervillains’ bent on destroying Gotham, since such a capitalist city needs to be destroyed. The trilogy ends with these contradictions only seeming to be resolved, to a ‘reasonable’ extent, at least.

Getting rid of a few billionaires (Bruce and, I assume, some of the exiled Gothamites who fell through the ice and drowned), while providing Bruce’s home to some orphans, may seem to liberals to be a generous sacrifice, but such concessions are far from enough to solve the problems of extreme class conflict. Furthermore, portraying the revolutionary but real solutions to these problems as cruel and extremist only further ensures that no real solution will even be tried, because such a solution will be deemed unthinkable.

There may be sunny skies at the end of the third movie, but a dark night will rise on Gotham again, and soon, a night that may never end in a dawn, as many of us fear the 2020s are such a night.

Analysis of ‘Spellbound’

Spellbound is a 1945 psychological thriller directed by Alfred Hitchcock and starring Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck, with Michael Chekhov, Leo G. Carroll, and John Emery. The screenplay was written by Ben Hecht, from a treatment by Angus MacPhail, after an earlier treatment by Hitchcock’s wife, Alma Reville, which all was “suggested” by the 1927 novel, The House of Dr. Edwardes, by Hilary St. George Saunders and John Palmer (the two authors going under the pseudonym of Francis Beeding).

The film was a critical and commercial success; it was nominated for six Oscars, including Best Picture and Best Director, and it won Best Original Score. The score, by Miklós Rózsa, inspired Jerry Goldsmith to become a film composer. (I must be honest, though, in saying that I find the love theme rather mawkish, and the spooky music, with the whistling theremin, melodramatic; but you can hear the music and decide its merits for yourself, Dear Reader.)

Here is a link to quotes from the film, here’s a link to the full movie, and here’s a link to the novel by ‘Beeding.’

When we see how often this story was revised, and was “suggested” by the 1927 novel, we see an example of how a Hitchcock film has changed so much of the original story as to retain very little, if anything, from the original (The Birds is another example of such radical changes.).

The few things that Spellbound retains from The House of Dr. Edwardes include the character names of Dr. Edwardes, Constance (Bergman)–though in the film, she’s Dr. Constance Petersen, and in the novel, she’s Dr. Constance Sedgwick (the change of surname owing presumably to a need to accommodate Bergman’s accent, which sounds anything but English), and Dr. Murchison (Carroll). Also retained is the idea of having a mentally ill man impersonate a psychiatrist, though in the film, Dr. Edwardes is impersonated by, as we eventually learn, John Ballantine (Peck), whereas in the novel, a madman named Geoffrey Godstone impersonates Dr. Murchison.

A huge transformation in plot from novel to film is how, in the latter, Constance and Ballantine are chased by the police while she, in love with him, tries to cure him of a guilt complex in which he believes he’s killed the real Dr. Edwardes, while in the former, Godstone not only relishes in his crime of imprisoning, incapacitating (with drugs), and impersonating Dr. Murchison, but also practices Satanism in Edwardes’s mental hospital, a secluded castle on a mountainside in France!

Despite these huge differences between novel and film, though, they do share a few common themes that deserve investigation. Namely, these are the blurred line between doctor and patient, or sane and insane, as well as the juxtaposition of the life and death drives, or Eros (which includes libido) and Thanatos.

The first of these two themes is especially significant in that it calls into question the authority of the psychiatrist. Though common sense reminds us that the doctor is as much a fallible human being as the patient is, we nonetheless have a habit of attributing great wisdom and expertise to the analyst, whom Lacan called “the subject supposed to know.” The novel and film punch holes in this supposed psychiatric authority, in both literal and symbolic ways.

Not only do madmen impersonate psychiatrists in these stories, they also manage to fool the rest of the staff in their respective mental hospitals, if only for a relatively short time. Only Dr. Murchison knows the truth right from the beginning: in the novel, because the real Dr. Murchison is being held against his will by the madman; in the film, because Dr. Murchison is Dr. Edwardes’s real murderer!

In the novel, an old castle in France, the Château Landry, has been made into a mental hospital. Its inaccessibility among the mountains, as well as the evil practices believed by the local villagers to be going on there, reminds me of the Château de Silling, a castle in the German Black Forest, in the Marquis de Sade‘s unfinished erotic novel, The 120 Days of Sodom, adapted as Salò by Pier Paolo Pasolini, in which four wealthy libertines (who, being a duke, a bishop, a president, and a banker, are also of dubious authority) sexually abuse, torture, and kill a number of young, often naked, victims. This clash between a place supposedly meant to heal the sick, but really a place of Satanism and/or perversion, underlines the implied anti-psychiatry and antiauthoritarianism of the novel.

In the film, the blurring of the lines between sane and insane, and doctor and patient, can be seen not only symbolically in Ballantine’s brief impersonation of Dr. Edwardes, but also in the growing mental instability of Dr. Murchison, which leads to him murdering Dr. Edwardes, threatening to murder Constance, and finally committing suicide, all with the same pistol. Finally, Constance’s own professionalism as a doctor is taken into question when she lets her countertransference for her patient, Ballantine, run wild: she’s as much in love with him as he is with her.

Her love for him, translating into a need to have him, is representative of a Lacanian application of Hegel‘s master/slave, or lord/bondsman, dialectic, a holdover from feudal times. She would be the one in authority over him, as analyst over analysand, but her countertransference weakens that authority.

As Ian Parker says in his book, Lacanian Psychoanalysis: Revolutions in Subjectivity, “…Hegelian phenomenology…[was]…influential on Lacan’s early work…the psychiatrist becomes a master who discovers that he is dependent on the slave he commands to work, who discovers that he himself relies on the other he imagined he would dominate, for without that domination his activity would amount to nothing. This master-slave dialectic is actually rooted by Hegel…in the feudal relationship between what he preferred to term ‘lord’ and ‘bondsman’, and it only then starts to have retroactive hermeneutic effects on the way longer past historical relations between masters and slaves might be understood…we can already see the spectre of a totalising system of knowledge–very much of the kind [Hegel] is accused of unrolling and celebrating on the stage of history–haunting psychiatry.” (Parker, page 23)

In the novel, that the mental hospital is in a castle, an icon of feudal times, is significant in how early, authoritarian forms of psychiatry came out of the feudal world, thus reinforcing the mystique around the authority of psychiatrists over the mentally ill, an authority that is challenged–symbolically and literally–in both the novel and the film.

“The bourgeois-democratic revolutions that ushered in new forms of the state in Western Europe to guarantee capitalist interests never completely eradicated feudal power relations, and the remnants of feudalism were recruited into and re-energised in specific ideological projects that served class society well. Psychiatry was thus incorporated into the psy complex, the meshwork of practices that individualize subjectivity and regulate the activities of bourgeois subjects…This replication and recuperation of feudal social links under capitalism has consequences for political-economic analysis of the development of psychoanalysis.” (Parker, page 25)

The fact that, back in feudal times, mental illness was perceived as being caused by demonic possession (recall how Hamlet, in having seen his father’s ghost, is quite possibly really mad, and not merely pretending to be) is echoed in the novel in how not only the villagers neighbouring the Château Landry believe that the patients are possessed, but also rightly suspect that Satanism is being practiced there. This devil-worship, practiced by a madman who convinces the medical staff for quite a time that he’s Dr. Murchison, reinforces the blurring between doctor and patient.

As for the authority of those who have practiced psychoanalysis, a method endorsed in Hitchcock’s film, I am greatly influenced by it myself, as many of my articles have demonstrated, but I have no illusions about it. Psychoanalysis is no science. Freud got a lot more wrong than he got right. Wilfred R. Bion was much more insightful, but his own traumas from his war experiences further demonstrate the blurred line between doctor and patient. Lacan, with his frustratingly obscurantist way of communicating his ideas, comes off as a pretentious narcissist.

For all of these reasons, a novel and film about the mentally ill impersonating psychiatrists seems a fitting topic. In the larger sense, people in all positions of authority–be they psychiatrists, politicians, or bosses–are far too often impostors.

The mad can often do an expert job of faking sanity and self-control, as Ballantine does for much of the film, despite his frequent moments of agitation. Psychopaths and narcissists are also frequently skilled at pretending to be empathetic, caring, and socially conforming; we can see Dr. Murchison do this throughout the film, right up to his suicide; we can also see this self-control in Godstone as he impersonates Dr. Murchison through most of the novel.

These characters wear masks of sanity that slip only from time to time. We all wear masks.

The film begins with a nymphomaniac patient, Mary Carmichael (played by Rhonda Fleming), being taken to see Constance for a therapy session. Fleming’s portrayal of a madwoman in the one scene we have of her (most of the rest of her character was removed from the film for having stretched the limits of 1940s movie censorship…rather like repression of unacceptable unconscious urges, is it not?) is, I’m sorry to say, terribly overacted; still, maybe that’s the point. The mentally ill, in their inability to blend in with society, are simply ‘bad actors.’ the sane know how to maintain the dramatized illusion of sanity.

Constance’s ‘performance’ of a woman totally uninterested in sexual or romantic feelings is impeccable…until “Dr. Edwardes” arrives, that is. Dr. Fleurot (Emery), who up to the arrival of the surprisingly young and handsome “Dr. Edwardes” (In the novel, “Dr. Murchison” is also quite young, unlike Carroll’s Murchison.) and his effect on Constance, has remarked that embracing her is like “embracing a textbook.” So when Fleurot sees her schoolgirl-like crush on “Edwardes,” he can’t help poking fun at her for it.

One suspects that the origin of her countertransference is in her presumably Oedipal relationship with her father, since she complains of how the poets romanticize about love, raising our hopes with it, only for us to be disappointed and heartbroken; actually, our romantic feelings for someone are just a transference of our original Oedipal feelings for the (usually) opposite-sex parent. What’s more, she’s read all of Edwardes’s books, and obviously admires him for his psychiatric expertise, the way a child will regard his or her (then-younger!) parents’ knowledge as quite infallible.

Another patient in Green Manors, Mr. Garmes (played by Norman Lloyd), embodies the opposite, it seems, to Constance’s Oedipal feelings: he imagines he killed his father and has guilt feelings from this delusion, when it’s really just his unconscious wish to remove his father, rooted in childhood, so he could have his mother. Constance reassures him that analysis will help him see the truth buried in his unconscious, and seeing that truth will cure him of his guilt.

Now, Ballantine, in his impersonation of Edwardes, is listening to Garmes talk about his fantasy of having killed his father, and instead of understanding how unconscious Oedipal feelings, rooted in jealousy, can lead to delusions of guilt when the object of jealousy is killed, Ballantine can relate to that guilt and find it very real, since as we learn towards the end of the film, his own guilt complex is based on an accidental killing of his brother, presumably another object of jealousy, another rival for the attention of their mother.

So Ballantine’s most imperfect impersonation of a psychiatrist, especially apparent when he has a mental breakdown during surgery on Garmes, is symbolic of the human imperfections of psychoanalysts, reminding us of the limits of their authority.

To go back to the novel, it isn’t only the authority of the doctors that is questioned (only Constance seems to keep her head the whole time), but also the patients, who though being obviously ill are also often people associated with some form of authority. There’s an extremely forgetful colonel, an ineffectual, foolish druggist named Mr. Deeling, a reverend who finds himself easily brought under Godstone’s Satanic influence, and an elderly woman–normally someone who would be revered as a wise matriarch–who has delusions of being a little girl, and behaves accordingly. And the madman is often referred to as the Honorable Geoffrey Godstone.

The juxtaposition of Eros and Thanatos as mentioned above, of feelings of love and of death, are demonstrated when Constance, always trying to deny her love for “Edwardes,” nonetheless gives in and embraces him. Just at that point, though, he becomes agitated when he sees the pattern of dark lines on her white robe, triggering his memory of ski tracks in the snow where he saw the real Dr. Edwardes fall off the side of a mountain to his death.

Constance realizes that “Edwardes” is an impostor when she compares his signature on a recently-written letter with that of the real Dr. Edwardes in one of his books. A parallel scene can be found in the middle of the novel, when Constance goes through some of the books of “Dr. Murchison” and finds writings on Satanism and the witches’ Sabbath. Not only is psychiatric authority to be questioned, but given the feudal era’s association of mental illness with demonic possession, it can sometimes also be the opposite of therapeutic.

Still, Constance is smitten with John B., as she knows him to be named, and she wants to help him get well, refusing to believe even his own insistence that he killed the real Dr. Edwardes. Her countertransference has gone from an Oedipal one (a ‘daddy thing’) to more of a Iocaste-like transference, with Ballantine, in his vulnerability and fear, being like a son to her.

He leaves Green Manors, having been found out to be not only an impostor but also a suspect in the killing of Dr. Edwardes. He’s left Constance a letter, telling her he’s staying at the Empire State Hotel, so she goes there. She’s waiting in the busy hotel lobby, not far from the elevators, out of one of which we see Hitchcock doing his cameo, him walking out of one of them carrying a violin case and smoking a cigarette.

A drunken lout (played by Wallace Ford) sits next to her and annoys her until the hotel detective (played by Bill Goodwin) gets rid of him. This hotel detective, well-meaning and wanting to help her, catches hints from her body language and facial expressions to help him figure out what she needs. He fancies himself something of a psychologist, since one needs to be one in his line of work. His discussion of his skills in human psychology with Constance, who as an actual psychiatrist finds his skills most charming, is yet another example of the film blurring the distinction between doctor and non-doctor.

As Constance tries to analyze Ballantine, he–not wanting to confront his traumas–tries to resist her probing, even getting angry with her. Such hostility to the doctor is as frequent a manifestation of transference as are feelings of love. Again, in this love/hate relationship we have an example of the juxtaposition of Eros and Thanatos.

Eventually, Constance and John end up at the home of her old teacher and mentor in psychoanalysis, the elderly Dr. Alexander Brulov (Chekhov). Though this doctor is a good, capable man, he has his own clownish eccentricities and idiosyncrasies that remind us of how human therapists also are. For example, he makes a few on-the-spot diagnoses that come across as rather ludicrous: he claims Ballantine has “photophobia,” and is a “schizophrenic.”

And in spite of Brulov’s assertion that “Women make the best psychoanalysts until they fall in love. After that they make the best patients,” he also shares some of that old-fashioned Freudian sexism, wishing that Constance wouldn’t fill his ears with “the usual female contradictions. You grant me I know more than you, but on the other hand, you know more than me. Women’s talk. Bah!”

Recall how Freud, on the one hand, wanted to have more female psychoanalysts to shed light on the “dark continent” of female psychology (hence his famous question, “What do women want?” and his daughter, Anna, becoming an analyst), yet on the other hand, he believed women to have a less-developed superego, and therefore a less-developed sense of morality.

Brulov quickly figures out that something is wrong with “John Brown,” and when he finds the man descending the stairs with a razor in his hand, held like a murder weapon, and with a wild look in his eyes, Brulov resolves to drug John’s milk to knock him out for the rest of the night.

Ballantine seen drinking the drugged milk is one of two significant POV shots that Hitchcock put in the film, the other being the one when Dr. Murchison points his pistol at his face and shoots himself. Apart from the POV linking the two shots is also the fact that both characters have obvious mental health issues, Ballantine in the film impersonating a psychiatrist, and in the novel, a madman impersonating Dr. Murchison.

Ballantine’s taking of the razor blade, as if to use it as a murder weapon, can be seen as a case of what Freud called “the compulsion to repeat,” in that Ballantine, imagining himself to be Dr. Edwardes’s murderer (rather than just the accidental killer of his brother), is repeating an expression of his toxic shame, in the futile hopes of processing that shame and thus eliminating it. Luckily, he never successfully reenacts that supposed inclination to murder on either sleeping Constance, with her white blanket and its dark, straight lines caused by shadow–which obviously has triggered Ballantine–or on Dr. Brulov.

After his long, drug-induced sleep, and an argument between Constance and Brulov over whether to treat him or hand him over to the police, Ballantine wakes up and describes the dream he’s just had to the two psychoanalysts. The designs for the dream, fittingly, were done by surrealist Salvador Dalí.

We see the inside of a gambling house with curtains with eyes all over them, suggesting that it represents Green Manors, and that the eyes on the curtains represent the guards of Green Manors, or just criticizing eyes in general. A scantily-clad woman, representing Constance in a wish-fulfillment for Ballantine, is going around from table to table kissing all the male guests in the gambling house.

Someone with huge scissors is cutting all the eye-covered drapes in half, suggesting a wish to eliminate all those critics watching guilt-ridden Ballantine, who has been playing cards with an elderly man in a beard…Edwardes. The card game could represent a therapy session between the two, since Edwardes’s unorthodox methods included allowing his patients to enjoy recreational activities…like in the skiing incident.

The proprietor of the gambling house, wearing a mask, suddenly appears, accusing the elderly card player of cheating. The former, representing Murchison, as we eventually learn, threatens to “fix” the latter; in other words, Murchison is threatening to kill Edwardes, and the masking of his face represents Ballantine’s repression of the memory of Edwardes’s real killer.

Next, we see the elderly man standing at the edge of a sloping roof on a building. The slope of the roof represents the snowy slope of the side of a mountain, where Edwardes and Ballantine were skiing. The elderly man falls off the roof; then we see the masked proprietor again, hiding behind the chimney of the roof. He’s holding a warped wheel, shaped a bit like a revolver. He drops it on the roof.

What the dream is trying to remind Ballantine, albeit in an extremely distorted form so as not to wake him in a state of great distress, is that Murchison, hiding behind a tree, shot Edwardes in the back, causing him to fall off the mountain to his death, so Murchison could stay on as the “proprietor” of Green Manors, instead of being replaced as such by Edwardes.

The dream ends with Ballantine being chased by a great, shadowy pair of wings down a hill. A speculation of angel wings leads to him recalling where the skiing with Edwardes occurred: a ski lodge named Gabriel Valley. Ballantine and Constance go there to ski, in the hopes that they can bring up more memories to fill in the puzzle of his troubled unconscious. As they’re going down the slope, though, the two skiers are also hoping he won’t, in a fit of repetition compulsion, kill her, too. In this scene, we again see the juxtaposition of Eros and Thanatos.

Just before they reach a precipice, he remembers the time he, as a child, accidentally killed his brother. Little John was sliding down a side ramp, where one puts one’s hand to go up or down stairs in front of a building, and his brother was sitting at the bottom of the ramp, with his back to John and ignoring his cries to get out of the way. John’s feet knocked him off and onto a spiked fence, stabbing the spikes into his guts.

This sliding down and killing someone became a repressed memory that returned to Ballantine’s conscious mind in the unrecognizable form of him sliding down a snowy hill on skis and seeing Edwardes in front of him, like his brother, then seeing him fall to his death. Such returns of the repressed in unrecognizable new forms is common enough.

His innocence of the death of Edwardes seems fully established, except for when the police find the body, right where Ballantine says it was…and with a bullet in the corpse’s back. Ballantine is arrested, tried, and convicted.

Refusing to give up on Ballantine, Constance keeps searching for ways to acquit him. She discusses her heartbreak over his conviction with Dr. Murchison, who lets it slip that he knew Edwardes “slightly” and didn’t like him. (He’d earlier said he never knew Edwardes…though Constance wasn’t in the room to hear him tell this lie!)

Suspecting him, she discusses Ballantine’s dream with Murchison, who freely interprets it in a way to help Constance incriminate him. Since under his calm shell, he is also mentally ill, Murchison in his cooperation with her is demonstrating the promptings of the death drive, especially when he pulls his gun on her. The imposter Murchison of the novel, though at first denying he’s really Godstone, also freely admits to it when the evidence against him is stronger.

In the POV shot of Constance leaving the room with Murchison’s pistol following her, we can expand on the parallels with the POV shot of Ballantine drinking the drugged milk. The perspective is of a madman who either has impersonated or is impersonating a psychoanalyst; the person being looked at is a real psychoanalyst. One receives a drug and sleeps; the other receives a bullet and dies–“to die, to sleep, no more…”

The person seen in both cases, an actual, sane doctor, as opposed to the madman seeing the doctor, is a metaphorical mirror, in the Lacanian sense, of the mentally-ill viewer of him or her. The doctor being watched is thus the ideal-I of the viewer, who in his frustration cannot measure up to that ideal, and therefore must be knocked out or killed.

In these observations we see how Spellbound can be understood to be a critique, allegorically speaking, of the psychiatric profession. One must be careful to ensure that the therapists are as psychologically healthy as humanly possible, for the line between doctor and patient is blurred. Hence, when Constance tells Ballantine that all psychoanalysts must first be analyzed themselves before they can begin practicing, he says, “Ah, that’s to make sure that they’re not too crazy.”

Analysis of ‘My Dinner with Andre’

My Dinner with Andre is a 1981 film directed by Louis Malle. It was written by André Gregory and Wallace (‘Wally’) Shawn, who also star in it, playing fictionalized versions of themselves having a discussion at dinner in Café des Artistes in Manhattan, the topics including experimental theatre, the nature of theatre and of life, and Andre’s spiritual experiences.

Just as Andre and Wally are based on the actors who play them, Andre’s experiences as described in the movie are based on the real-life experiences of Gregory from the mid- to late 1970s: his growing misgivings about the theatre, the fear of a trend towards fascism in the US (he and Shawn are Jews), his trip to Poland to work with Jerzy Grotowski on experimental theatre before private audiences, and his years spent with spiritual communities like Findhorn.

The film has received universal acclaim, with a 92% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes, based on 25 reviews. Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert praised it highly on Sneak Previews, which kept the film in theaters for a year.

Here is a link to quotes from the film, and here is a link to the full movie.

A fascinating irony about this film, brilliantly made fun of at the end of Waiting for Guffman, with Corky’s “My Dinner with Andre action figures” [!], is that the bulk of the film is just these two men sitting at a table in a restaurant chatting…and yet Andre is discussing these out-of-this-world experiences in remote places like Poland, Tibet, India, the Sahara, and Scotland. Andre is advocating going out there and experiencing real life in all of its mystical ecstasy, hallucinatory madness, and tear-inducing trauma…yet he and Wally are just sitting in a restaurant in New York, chatting the whole time, never leaving the city.

Since both men are playwrights and actors, in real life as well as in the film, we see a blurred distinction between the acting world and the real world, reminding us of Jacques‘s famous speech in As You Like It: “All the world’s a stage…” Andre’s ‘sermon,’ if you will, spoken during this ‘last supper’ with Wally, is that we need to break free of the phoniness, the ‘theatre,’ of our boring routines and experience real life. Andre’s dropping out of the New York theatrical scene to travel the world is thus symbolic of such a break with the numbing routine of ordinary life.

Wally, his dialectical opposite, defends this routine, though. The film begins with him on his way to meet Andre at the restaurant, walking the streets of New York, getting on a graffiti-covered subway, and thinking about all of his day-to-day troubles as a struggling playwright, barely making ends meet. He only reluctantly is going to meet Andre, having not seen his old colleague in years, and having heard dauntingly bizarre stories of what the theatre drop-out has been doing.

Wally lived an easy life as a kid in a rich family, always thinking about art; but now, he’s 36, and only thinking about money. As the pragmatic realist of the two men, Wally is preoccupied with the material issues of life. Andre, having much more money and thus able to travel the world, is more preoccupied with abstract, idealistic things.

Wally would rather his girlfriend, Debbie, cook his dinner than eat with Andre. Instead, she has to be a breadwinner for them, as a waitress, rather than ‘play the role’ of housewife. In the dull routine of his life, the phony existence of his that’s symbolized by his work as a dramatist, he’s so conformist as to have his girlfriend cook for him instead of him cooking for himself.

In his private thoughts, a soliloquy given in voiceover as he’s on the subway, he remembers Andre’s “amazing work…with his company, the Manhattan Project (the actual name of the real André Gregory’s theatrical company). When we consider Andre’s misgivings about the role of theatre in modern life, how he, in his discussion at dinner with Wally, talks about how fake our interactions are with others, how like actors pretending and not living real life, we can see how fitting it is that Andre named his company after the research undertaking that resulted in the first of those very weapons that can wipe out all life on the Earth.

The notion of Andre suddenly dropping out of the theatre, traveling the world, and ‘talking with trees,’ when he never used to want to leave his home and family, suggests to Wally that “something terrible had happened to Andre,” as opposed to what Andre will insist were deep, mystical, enlightening experiences.

Just before entering the restaurant, Wally puts on a tie: all actors must put on their costumes before walking onstage. Given Andre’s problems, Wally wonders if he is supposed to play the role of doctor, of psychiatrist, for his apparently ill former colleague.

It’s interesting that the chosen restaurant is called the Café des Artistes, where two men of the theatre will engage in a theatrical dialogue of their own, with Wally doing an acting job of pretending to be interested in whatever Andre has to say. Wally waits for him to arrive at the bar.

Wally has heard a recent story of Andre being seen sobbing because he’d seen a scene from Autumn Sonata, in which Ingrid Bergman‘s character says, “I could always live in my art, but never in my life.” These words touched Andre so keenly because this has precisely been his problem as a dramatist: his whole life has been only fakery, acting, pretending; it has never been a real life. All the world’s a stage…

Andre arrives, sees Wally, and gives him a warm hug and a big smile. Wally, the actor, puts on his fake smile for Andre, says Andre looks “terrific,” though Andre insists that he feels terrible. (Falsely saying an ailing or profoundly unhappy person looks “terrific,” a phoniness that infuriates Andre, will be dealt with again later.) Fittingly, Wally notes that he’s “really in the theatre” at this moment.

Early on in their conversation, Andre mentions Grotowski, his old theatrical mentor who’d also dropped out of the theatre. Their table is ready, and they can go sit down: the rest of the film, minus Wally’s taxi ride home at the end, is just them sitting at their table chatting, for about an hour and forty minutes out of the total hour and fifty-one minutes.) Kids, get out Corky’s action figures and have some fun!

Since Wally is feeling very nervous about having to socialize with Andre for the whole duration of this dinner, he figures the best way he can get through it all is to ask him questions. He’s sometimes thought of himself as a private investigator, as a detective: once again, Wally is finding himself an actor playing roles instead of just being himself. He still has that fittingly fake smile on his face. They order their meals, Wally hardly understanding the French on the menu, while Andre orders expertly…even though Wally has always known Andre to be quite ascetic in his eating habits. Maybe Andre is being a bit of an actor here, too.

Though at first reluctant to talk about what he’s been doing for the past five years, Andre finally opens up about it. First, he discusses going to Poland to be with Grotowski and a group of Polish actors in a forest there. None of these actors could speak English.

As the leader of a group of people who couldn’t understand a word he was saying, and vice versa, Andre had no frame of reference by which he could communicate with them or organize the improvisational theatrical events. Out in a forest, they were far away from modern civilization and all of the things that Andre had been coming to dislike. The actors would act on impulse, doing anything that came to mind…but they, as improvisors, weren’t trying to embody any kind of character from a play. They were being themselves.

They weren’t speaking from a script. They weren’t pretending to be someone else. They weren’t being fake, or following a plan. They were being real, as natural as their green setting. Andre was seeing real life in action, a breaking-free from the routines of New York.

Andre speaks of Grotowski’s “beehives,” paratheatrical events that involved simple interactive exchanges and unstructured work that Andre was fascinated with. Grotowski made Andre lead a beehive, which made Andre very nervous, since he didn’t know what to do to organize an event with a huge number of Polish strangers. But that was the point: there was to be no organization at all. The group of people ended up singing a beautiful song of St. Francis, a song these people didn’t even know how to sing.

Now, Grotowski’s beehives–in real life, that is–generally weren’t successful as attempts to blur the line between performer and audience, to bring about genuine creative spontaneity; the participants mostly gave stock emotional reactions, causing stereotypical, clichéd performances. Andre’s beehive, however, seems to have been a glorious success with this St. Francis song, sung over and over again.

There were no costumes or makeup for the performance, but it was a performance all the same. The beehive was, as it were, a sublation of the opposites of performance and non-performed, spontaneous, natural action. People were singing the song and dancing an impromptu dance; it built into a group trance, something Andre compares to one of Hitler’s Nuremberg rallies (this being one of a number of references in the film to Naziism), so we see how trance can be heavenly or hellish.

Nonetheless, all of this improvisational work in Poland has been like an enlightening, mystical experience for Andre, a discovery that theatrical performances can still be genuinely felt, as long as they maintain this level of spontaneity. Life, like drama, can be real if unscripted, free of routine.

An example of one of the wonderful experiences he had with the Polish improvisers was seeing two of them fall in love. This, during an improvisation about being on an airplane with a bad motor, and therefore fear among the passengers that they might die. Here, we see the heaven and the hell of the mystical state felt in trance-like improvisation, the fusion of acting with real life.

These two lovers, having left the group to be alone in the forest, understood the real meaning of these unstructured improvisations: it was all about really living.

On the last day of the improvisations in the forest in Poland, the group arranged a christening, a baptism for Andre. It was a simple ceremony, with flowers, candles and torches set up all over a castle in “a miracle of light.” Again, this was a spontaneous act, yet also a ceremony, a fusion of the planned with the impulsive act, a dialectic of theatre and life. A man and a woman played the roles of Andre’s godfather and godmother. He was named Yendrosh, and it really felt like a new name for him; it could be said that Andre felt reborn.

He says that this experience in the forest was the first time in his life that he’d ever felt truly alive. Again, such a mystical experience has both a heavenly and a hellish aspect to it; such spiritual feelings are not a mere sentimental removal of all of one’s pain. In Andre’s feeling of being truly alive, there’s also the frightening realization of the opposite of that state…death. He will later discuss an experience he had during Halloween of almost dying that is the dialectical opposite of this experience in the Polish forest. The mystical feeling of being connected to everything means also being connected to death.

Andre’s next major topic of discussion is The Little Prince, and certain feelings of synchronicity associated with Antoine de Saint-Exupéry‘s book. Andre discusses a trip to the Sahara with a Japanese monk (whom Andre imagines to embody the little prince) to work on a play based on the book. Analogous to Andre’s travels around the world, the little prince also leaves his tiny planet to visit a number of other planets, including Earth, where he meets a pilot who’s crash-landed in the Sahara, far from civilization…rather like the Polish forest. So if Kozan, the Japanese monk, is the little prince, in this context, does this make Andre the pilot?

A recurring criticism in The Little Prince is that of adults; the little prince considers them to be very strange. Andre’s experience in the Polish forest, with the unstructured improvisations, was that it made everyone like children at play again, something he found to be wonderful. The little prince’s nobility is in his childlike state: he’s a prince because he’s little. Andre and the improvisers were truly alive because they were children again.

Other parallels between My Dinner with Andre and The Little Prince can be found, thus further justifying Andre’s discussion of the book in the movie. Both stories involve two males, the one telling the other about his travels to many places, meeting interesting and even strange people. Wally thus is the pilot, and Andre in this context is the little prince. Wally at first dreads having to have dinner with Andre, worrying about his own personal, financial problems; the pilot is at first annoyed with the little prince wanting him to draw a sheep for him, when he urgently needs to repair his plane. Just as the little prince cares for the flower that he’s left behind on his little planet, and is fearful of her dying, so does Andre care about his wife, Chiquita, and his two kids, Nicolas and Marina, and he grieves bitterly over his mother’s death.

One major difference between the two stories, though, is that while in The Little Prince, the two friends meet in a desert, the pilot having a limited supply of drinking water, in My Dinner with Andre, the two friends are eating in a fine restaurant, with Andre ultimately treating Wally. This opposition of famine and feast, however, can be interpreted dialectically, as can the film’s other oppositions: theatre vs life, routine vs spontaneity, ecstasy vs agony, staying in the same place vs going out there into the world.

Andre’s noting of the oft-repeated word “tame” in The Little Prince is also worthy of commentary. The little prince tames his flower, the fox, and by implication, the pilot, making them all his friends. Andre tamed his Polish improvisers, making them all his friends, too. We all need taming, so we can be each other’s friends. In the act of spontaneously experiencing real life in those improvisations, the group of people collectively experiences a mystical, ecstatic oneness, inspiring mutual love.

In any case, nothing productive came from the trip to the Sahara with Kozan, so Andre, still acting on impulse (a habit he no doubt picked up from the Polish improvisations), brought the Japanese monk with him to New York to stay with him and his family. Kozan ended up staying with them for six months, taking over, since Andre, always wanting to travel to places like Tibet and India, wasn’t being much of a father.

It was as though Kozan and Andre were trading places. The monk taught the family about meditation, Asia, and his monastery, but he also began wearing Gucci shoes under his robes, as well as eating beef. Just as Andre had been neglecting his children, Kozan came off as not liking them, either. His taking over was like him being the new father…the implication being that Andre, wanting to go to Tibet, getting into meditation, and having these mystical experiences, was turning into a kind of Buddhist. In these two men we see another instance of the unity of all things, the blurred boundary between self and other.

Andre speaks of a hallucination he had in a Catholic Church on Christmas Eve: he saw a six-foot-eight apparition, half-man, half-bull, with blue skin and violets coming out of its eyelids! It remained for the whole Mass. Andre couldn’t erase the monster’s presence from his mind. With enlightenment also comes madness, paradoxically–that mixture of heaven and hell. And indeed, he did feel some enlightenment with this madness that wouldn’t go away, for Andre felt that the creature was there to comfort him, that even though he wasn’t being productive as a dramatist, all was okay, just a part of the journey. Hang in there, Andre, for the bad luck would soon change to good.

Around when Kozan left, Andre got this odd idea of getting a flag, and he ended up getting one with a Tibetan swastika on it. Though, of course, it was nothing at all like the Nazi swastika, one cannot help making the association, and so when he took the flag home, his wife and daughter found it intolerable to look at. Again, we see in this flag associations of extreme opposites: the ancient, Tibetan meaning of the swastika, a symbol of divinity and spirituality; and the Nazi meaning, linked with virulent racial hatred.

After this, he went to India in the hopes of finding great spiritual enlightenment, but he left the place disappointed, feeling his experiences were no better than those of a tourist. After that, he went to Findhorn in Scotland, and found far better spiritual inspiration among the people there and their plants. He tells Wally of having run in the forest there, in a state “where laughter and tears seem to merge.” He was also having lots of wild hallucinations at the time: once again, enlightenment meets madness, heaven meets hell in the realm of mysticism. Indeed, Andre alludes to William Blake, who wrote The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.

In the fall, after these experiences, he had his last wild one, on Long Island. This was the hellish one to contrast with the heavenly one he had in the Polish forest. It was during Halloween. He and the other participants were made to write out their last will and testament. After this, he had to wear a blindfold and run through a field. Then he was taken to a basement and made to get naked. He was so scared, he was thinking about Nazi death camps and secret police.

The participants of this Halloween event took photos of him, naked and blindfolded; he was made to run naked in a forest, still blindfolded, and taken on a stretcher through forests and lowered into the ground. It was one of six graves, each eight feet deep! Wood and dirt were put on him, and a sheet was put over his head, all to make him feel buried alive. He was left in there for about a half-hour, though he didn’t know how long he’d been left there…then he was “resurrected,” as it were.

The blindfold was taken off, and they had him run through fields until he came to “a great circle of fire” with music and wine, “and everyone danced until dawn.” So his first experience in the Polish forest was the ecstatic, nirvana-like one that he wanted in some way to relive as best he could in places like the Sahara, India, Findhorn, and this Halloween event…but this last one was so traumatizing that Andre didn’t want to do these things anymore. Still, in all of it, he was really living.

The extremes of these experiences, going to heaven and back, and later to hell and back, are rather like going all the way along the coiled body of the ouroboros, as I’ve described it and used as a symbol of the dialectical relationship of opposites, something I’ve written about in so many other blog posts. The biting head represents one extreme, and the bitten tail represents the opposite extreme, them both meeting at the bite, of course, while the rest of the serpent’s coiled body symbolizes all the intermediate points on a circular continuum.

When Andre, so disillusioned as he was with the state of the theatre in New York in the mid-1970s, left it to experience the blissful spontaneity of the beehives in the Polish forest, he moved up the serpent’s coiled body from the back half, near the tail, to the biting head. He loved it, like a cocaine high, and he tried to sustain that high, tried to stay as close to the serpent’s biting head (if you’ll indulge me in my mixed metaphor, Dear Reader!) as he could.

It is a reality in life, though, that the initial ecstasy of the ‘religious experience’ will wear off over time, and one will come back down to a middling experience, one around the halfway point between the head and the tail. Still, Andre felt the urge to return to that point of extremity, but he went the other way during the Halloween event…he went to the bitten tail, where a kind of harrowing of hell led back to the biting head, the circle of fire, the wine and the dancing–heaven.

This going all the way around the circular continuum that I’d have the ouroboros symbolize is the essence of what Andre would deem living real life. It isn’t a sentimental place where one never feels pain again…on the contrary, one can feel torturous pain as well as profound joy. All of it, all the same, is experiencing life to the fullest.

Wally, on the other hand, prefers life in the comfortable, safe area in the middle of the coiled body of the ouroboros–not too happy, but not too scary, either. Hence, towards the end of the movie, he vehemently defends his enjoyment of simple pleasures: coffee, an electric blanket to keep himself warm in winter, writing his plays, and being satisfied with just staying in New York.

The extremes that Andre has gone through have made him feel as though he’s guilty of some kind of delusion of grandeur, and thus he’s a terrible person, as bad as someone like Albert Speer, the Nazi architect and Minister of Armaments and War Production. Andre compares himself to the man because he imagines himself, like Speer, to be guilty of narcissistically thinking himself above the normal rules of human conduct, that they don’t apply to him.

Since Andre has seen a lot of death around him over the past several years, he knows that when you die, you do it alone. None of your life’s achievements matter anymore. Dying alone feels like facing judgement before God, as it were; so Andre is feeling guilt over the excesses he’s been experiencing. Were they any less theatre than the plays he’s done? Were those events he participated in any less phony than his plays? The trauma of the live burial, combined with the deaths and hospitalizations in his family (a family he left behind, he abandoned, to travel the world) must have gotten to him.

His mother died, other family members have had medical problems…and he had left these important people in his life in a Buddha-like quest for enlightenment in India, Tibet, etc. Far from attaining his desired spiritual growth, Andre was indulging in some kind of self-absorbed solipsism–if anything, a spiritual degeneration…or so he feels, at least.

In his feeling that he was fooling himself in this spiritual quest, we see another example of the dialectical relationship between good and evil, heaven and hell, saint and (Nazi-like) sinner. He starts complaining about some talkative Norwegian director, telling story after story, and sounding pompous. Yet what has Andre been doing this whole time, if not talking and talking endlessly, telling story after story, while Wally patiently listens? Just as with Kozan, this Norwegian is another double for Andre, another case of the blurred boundary between self and other, further proof of the oneness of everything.

The Norwegian gabbed about his mother constantly, and Andre found him so intolerable that he politely asked his garrulous guest to leave. Recall that, around this time, Andre’s mother died. He wept, since this guest had been a good friend of his for some time. Then after the man left, Andre saw a man on the TV win at some sporting event, “smiling malevolently at his friends,” and Andre judged the guy harshly…then he realized he was projecting his own bad qualities onto him.

Just as he’d projected his own chattiness onto the Norwegian.

At a show on Billie Holliday, Andre was similarly judgmental of some businessmen-types, then again realized he was no better–just projecting his own vices onto them. When Andre’s speaking at this point in his discussion with Wally, his words are all shot out rapid-fire, like bullets from a machine gun. He is in quite an extreme, turbulent emotional state. He hates the theatrical phoniness of the world, yet he feels himself to be no less theatrical or phony!

And Wally, the whole time, is just listening to Andre pouring out his thoughts in an endless torrent, listening as if he was Andre’s psychoanalyst, making the occasional comment or interpretation, trying to figure out just what is troubling him.

Andre, in his highly emotional state, feels the world is getting worse and worse. Few people seem aware of how bad things are. He recently met a number of people who said he looked ‘wonderful’ (i.e., his physical appearance), when he really felt awful; recall that Wally, when he first saw Andre in the restaurant, said he looked “terrific,” yet he’s really been feeling awful.

Only when Andre met a woman, whose aging, beloved aunt was in hospital for a cataract and was crippled from a fall from her poorly-prepared bed (therefore the woman was very upset for her aunt), did he find in her someone who, in her own pain, could clearly see how awful he felt! Only those of us in deep pain, roused from the torpor of our comfort zones, can see “with complete clarity.” The rest of the complacent world cannot, because they’re living in a kind of insane dream world.

Andre’s observations here tie in with what he was talking about before, with the Halloween event, and how I interpreted it above, in terms of my ouroboros symbolism. His having gone to hell and back, from the trauma of the serpent’s bitten tail to the enlightenment of its biting head, is like this woman’s pain for her aunt’s sake giving her the empathic insight to see Andre’s pain for what it really is.

Wally can empathize with Andre, too, for he can understand that those who thought Andre looked “wonderful” couldn’t see the real him–they only saw what they wanted to see, being in their insane dream world. Andre discusses his dying mother in the hospital, and how infuriated he felt with a doctor who saw her and said it was so “wonderful how she’s coming along.” Andre felt she looked as awful as any survivor of Auschwitz or Dachau. Again, this doctor was in a complacent dream world.

This idea of Andre’s, that most people are in some kind of fog, in a trance, a dream world, also ties in with the idea explored above about how life is like theatre, a display of false emotions and scripted words, planned routine, lacking spontaneity and genuine creativity. As Wally is growing more sympathetic with what Andre is saying, we can see Wally going from just politely agreeing with him, acting out a role of his own, waking from his own dream world, to offering some experiences of his own of this kind of inappropriate communication, from friends whose words are ultimately hostile to him.

Social convention, Wally observes, requires one to express oneself indirectly, resulting in awkward, inappropriate word choices. This is the phony theatre of life that Andre has been trying to escape from. In fact, the hostile words of Wally’s friends were in the context of a theatrical performance in which there were serious problems with Wally’s costuming, a cat suit he’d be uncomfortable wearing onstage, making him hear everything wrong. His friends, colleagues in the performance, were pointing these problems out in a taunting way, as if to laugh at him and make him feel humiliated onstage in front of a presumably large audience. Here is an example of how My Dinner with Andre uses theatre as a metaphor for life.

Wally, in his having not yet woken from his own torpor from the societal dream world, hadn’t known what to think about his colleagues’ taunting words. Over the course of his listening to Andre’s recounting of his extreme experiences, though, Wally is beginning to wake up to the kind of world we’re all living in.

Andre and Wally continue to discuss how bizarre people’s topics of conversation can be, such as the death of Mary Jo Kopechne–and laughing about it. This joking about macabre things is a reflection of social alienation and a lack of consciousness…it’s also another example of people performing, in the theatre of life, rather than being themselves. Hence, Grotowski left the theatre, as Andre attempted to.

People, in these public performances, know exactly how they ought to act and present themselves, yet privately, they don’t know who they are or what they should be doing, what Marx called alienation from one’s species essence. We focus on goals and plans, the structure of the performance of the theatre of life, but none of those goals and plans have anything to do with reality. Life becomes habitual, dream-like, and meaningless.

Very rarely do things happen in a spontaneous way anymore, since if they did, people would be too disoriented by the shock to deal with it, as happened when Brando rejected his Godfather Oscar, having Sacheen Littlefeather decline it on his behalf as a protest against Hollywood’s negative portrayal of Native Americans. Andre insists that if we’re always living by habit, those planned performances in the theatre of life, then we’re not really living.

In Sanskrit, he says, the root of their verb for “to be” is the same as “to grow,” or “to make grow.” To exist in a meaningful sense, we must grow and help other people and things grow.

Andre then discusses a mathematician associated with Findhorn who refused to have any kind of imaginary or dream life, yet who saw, in the gardens of Edinburgh, a faun! A man who insisted on having only a direct perception of reality, apparently saw a mythological creature! Again, the boundary between fantasy and reality has been blurred. All is one. The extreme insistence on experiencing only direct reality, the serpent’s biting head, can lead to the experience of fantasy, the bitten tail.

We’re so stuck in our states of habit that we lose consciousness of what we’re doing or saying, ignoring such things as the taste of our food or the macabre things we laugh about, and thus we enter that dream world that Andre dreads so much. Wally, enjoying the comfort of his electric blanket or the taste of the food he’s eating in the restaurant, has far less of such a dread.

Andre, not liking such technological advances as electric blankets, feels that the comforts provided by these things lull us into a dangerous comfort that blinds us to direct perception of reality. When, lacking the electric blanket, you feel the discomfort of the cold of winter, not only are you aware of your own discomfort, you’re also aware of the discomfort of your cold partner lying beside you, and you feel compassion for him or her. Schopenhauer noted how the hell of suffering leads to the heaven of compassionate love, as I observed here.

Andre complains about how we treat one another in our semi-conscious state, and Wally agrees that this is a problem. Some of this alienation is due to class differences, and some of it, as Wally observes, is based on being focused only on our experiences in our own part of the world, ignoring what’s outside of it.

Though Wally admits that he ignores large parts of the world, like Africa, which are not relevant to his immediate place in it, he enjoys writing plays that he feels connect him with some sense of reality. He agrees with Andre that the theatre (a metaphor for real life, remember) is in terrible shape, yet at least a few years ago, people acknowledged what bad shape it was in. Now, it’s so bad that people can’t even see what’s wrong with it.

Andre, too, understands that the theatre, if done well, can bring the audience face to face with reality. He tells Wally about a production he did of The Bacchae when, at the point of the dismemberment of Pentheus, he’d wanted to have a head…a real one…passed around the audience. The actress playing Agave, for obvious reasons, refused to do this. Andre wants a kind of theatre that shocks people out of their dream-state, but contemporary theatre lulls people further to sleep by just presenting things all too close to everyday life, so close to it that people don’t notice what’s wrong.

Still, Wally, who is becoming more and more engaged in the conversation, insists that one shouldn’t need to escape all the way to Mount Everest to experience the fullness of life. Surely, one can experience that fullness just from a trip to the local cigar store, provided one’s consciousness is sufficiently sharpened. Surely one can still write meaningful, realistic plays today, too! All of reality, human experience, is uniform on a deeper, mystical level…all is one, so where one experiences it is irrelevant.

Andre agrees with Wally’s argument in principle, but most people are blind to this uniformity of truth. Most cannot see that nirvana and samsara are the same, as the Mahayana Buddhists see these opposite states of being. This blindness of most people has become more and more serious in recent years, as Andre has come to understand.

Now, Andre comes to an extremely important point, perhaps the most important one of the entire film. This inability of most people to see the nirvana in samsara, the hidden Mount Everest, so to speak, inside the ordinary cigar store, comes from a boredom, an apathy to life that in turn comes from a self-perpetuating kind of brainwashing.

…and with this brainwashing, things start to get scary.

This self-induced brainwashing, this conditioning not to care about what’s going on around us, was started “by a world totalitarian government based on money.” Now, I suspect that most people who hear Andre’s words at this point focus on “world totalitarian government” (which it surely is), but pay far less attention to “based on money” (a.k.a. capitalism).

So many people in recent years have been lulled into believing in the popular NWO conspiracy theory, which tends to be a far-right-wing conspiracy theory (though admittedly, some leftists believe in a version of it). They imagine that its centre of evil is in the government-as-such, rather than in the love of money, and the power that comes from owning billions of US dollars.

The far-right ideologues that believe in the coming totalitarian ‘One-World-Government’ also think it is a kind of socialism, since, apparently socialism is ‘anything a government does,’ rather than how I explained it here and here. But Andre isn’t talking about a left-wing world government; he’s talking about fascism (recall all of his references to Naziism in the movie). Our current world government is in Washington, DC, NATO is an extension of it, and American military bases can be found all over the world.

The totalitarianism we need to fear isn’t communism; it’s capitalist imperialism, which has plundered the Third World for resources in a big way since at least the years of the Scramble for Africa. Meanwhile, those of us living in the imperial core, like Wally, have wandered about apathetic to the problem, because if we did wake up to it, and began to care, the powers-that-be would feel threatened. Those powers have an investment in keeping us all asleep.

Andre tells Wally of a man who no longer reads newspapers or watches TV, to escape the brainwashing. He speaks of another, a man from Findhorn in his eighties who’s trying to save the trees, who goes everywhere with a backpack because he could end up anywhere tomorrow. This old man told Andre that New Yorkers never leave the city, even if they say they really want to. He told Andre that the reason for this staying in New York is because they’re psychologically imprisoned there; the Big Apple has become a kind of concentration camp that the inmates have built for themselves. Their pride in what they’ve built (symbolic of nationalism?) keeps them imprisoned in the city.

Andre says that he and Chiquita have had the same, growing fear that they need to get out of this Auschwitz that they’re living in…except that every city, in every country around the world, is growing into its own Auschwitz. There’s nowhere to escape to anymore. In this predicament, we see the sublation of the dialectic of Andre’s wanderlust and globetrotting on the one hand, and Wally’s preference to stay in New York on the other, all encapsulated in a film the bulk of which is just two men chatting at a dinner table, going nowhere else.

Andre then states his belief that the 1960s were the last decade “of the human being, before he was extinguished.” For him, this moment being 1981, when the movie was made, is the beginning of “the rest of the future, that from now on, they [the people, that is] will simply be all these robots walking around, feeling nothing, thinking nothing, and there’ll be nothing left almost to remind them that there once was a species called a human being, with feelings and thoughts…”

It’s significant that this beginning of “the rest of the future,” especially now, understood by us in hindsight, should be the early 1980s, with the beginning of the ‘Reagan Revolution.’ Recall that this “world totalitarian government” is “based on money,” that is, it’s a capitalist government…and Reagan and Thatcher were the ones who inaugurated the neoliberal, “free market” version of capitalism in the 1980s.

As I’ve argued many times, right-wing libertarian ‘small government’ is a con game, which, by cutting taxes for the rich and deregulating businesses so capitalists can maximize profits, allows the wealthy to become super-wealthy and thus buy all the political parties in order to control them better. When the common people try to resist, this capitalist government becomes more authoritarian…fascist, even.

Back in the 1960s, political leftism was still a formidable force, pushing liberals to the left, if only relatively so. Now, after all the ill effects of Reaganite neoliberalism have set in, liberals are so far to the right, without even realizing it, that they’re banging the war drums against Russia and supporting Ukrainian Nazis!

Technology has numbed us with smartphones, tablets, and social media to the point where we scroll and scroll while ignoring those sitting next to us. Andre is being prophetic about these social ills we now have, and his fears of a resurgence of fascism, way back in the 1980s, when the ideology was still latent, were also foretold by Frank Zappa, who was scoffed at for it…and yet what Reagan began has become much more apparent in the 2020s, with such things as the overturning of Roe vs Wade and the authoritarian measures used to deal with the pandemic.

Now, Andre has some hope that we can “preserve the light” through these new dark ages. Pockets of resistance are popping up here and there with organizations like Findhorn, the kind of thing Andre was trying to do with his spontaneous beehives. He wants a new language, one of the heart, as there was in the Polish forest, where language wasn’t needed. He wants us all to have a “sense of being united to all things,” because all is one.

After hearing all these wacky things that Andre has been going on and on about, Wally offers his thoughts about it all. As Andre’s dialectical opposite, Wally isn’t concerned with deep, spiritual issues or political conspiracies; he’s just trying to survive. He is living on the plain, ordinary, surface level of material existence.

Accordingly, Wally derives happiness from simple things: being with his girlfriend, Debbie, drinking coffee, and reading Charleton Heston’s autobiography. He gains intellectual satisfaction from writing plays and reading those of other playwrights, as well as reading reviews of those plays. Simple stuff.

He has a notebook with lists of errands and everyday responsibilities–his routine to which he adheres, all antithetical stuff to Andre’s hyper-spontaneous philosophy of life. Wally can’t imagine there being anything more than his simple, hum-drum life. Why can’t we just be happy with what we have? he wonders.

The dialectical opposition between Andre and Wally is that the former is hovering–to use my ouroboros symbolism again–around where the serpent is biting its tail, at the extremes, while the latter is in the moderate middle of the serpent’s coiled body. Ironically, both Andre and Wally are, each in his own way, experiencing a verson of both opposites together: Andre has had heaven and hell thrust in his face in a vivid, shocking way, while Wally has had both in the sense of being in the middle of them, a dull experience of half of the one and half of the other. This is the unity of their opposition to each other, further proof that all is one.

Wally also rejects Andre’s synchronicity, affirming modern science over a belief in heavenly-ordained coincidences. Wally can understand the temptation to believe in synchronicity, but his rational mind cannot accept a belief in omens or portents of the future.

Now, Andre and Wally don’t completely disagree: Andre acknowledges that total belief in omens can be abused in order to avoid responsibility for one’s own actions. The occasional agreement of dialectical opposites is their sublation, a manifestation of their unity in opposition. Such unity is a further example of how My Dinner with Andre uses dialectical opposites to show how all is one.

Andre acknowledges that the kind of spirituality he’s been exploring can grow authoritarian, even fascistic; but science, too, if held in too high an esteem, can also be perceived as a kind of “magical force” capable of solving anything. He sees a destructiveness in science that people are reacting against.

The two men agree that both religious feeling and a credulous acceptance of science, taken to excesses, can be equally bad for humanity. So again, we see the dialectical opposites in Andre and Wally being sublated.

Wally observes that the whole purpose of Andre’s workshops was to strip away all purposefulness in order to experience “pure being,” which seems Zen-like. Not doing any particular thing, a state of ‘no-thing-ness.’ Wally objects to such a project, feeling instead that one shouldn’t have moments of not trying to do anything. It’s in our basic human nature to have purpose, he argues.

Andre notes that the idea of doing nothing, of just being, seems to frighten Wally, to make him nervous, which Wally deems a perfectly understandable emotion to have in such a situation. Andre considers it equally absurd, and deadening, to find oneself always needing to have something to do, a neurotic need that, incidentally, has only grown exponentially worse in our neoliberal era.

One should only do things if one really feels the passion to do them; but if one does things mechanically, as Andre says, one isn’t really living. One is just acting out roles in the phony theatre of life. In relationships, in marriage, this can be a problem, too; we often only play the roles of partner, husband, wife…the love is gone.

An irony about Andre’s own relationship with his wife and kids, after a day of being annoyed with them, was that a contemplation of what it would be like to leave them all, to abandon them, led to the realization that he all the more wanted to stay with them. However one chooses to do it, by going to the Sahara or just staying at home, Andre insists that we must, at some point in our lives, “cut out the noise,” stop performing, and listen to what’s inside ourselves, the silence.

Wally admits to disliking “those quiet moments”: they scare him. Perhaps they’re like doing Shadow Work, “the fear of unconscious impulses.” He’d feel exposed and vulnerable to failure. Andre can understand Wally’s fears: feeling emotions as intensely as Andre’s been feeling them can be overwhelming…but one can also be filled with overjoyed enthusiasm, a true lust for life.

All the patrons except Andre and Wally have left. The restaurant is about to close. Andre pays for the whole meal, so Wally can treat himself to a cab ride home.

The first of Satie‘s Trois Gymnopédies is heard on the piano. It’s a fitting piece of music to end the movie with, firstly because the title means “three nude dances,” symbolic of how Andre threw himself into the world ‘naked,’ as it were, vulnerable and unprotected from the abrasiveness of his surroundings; secondly, because the opening back-and-forth of the G-major 7th and D-major 7th chords suggests a symbolism of that unity-in-opposition as personified in Andre and Wally.

As Wally’s going home in the cab, he looks out the window and remembers all the places he’s been to at some point in his life. He’s feeling a mystical union with New York. Andre’s words have touched him. He knows that all is one.

…and he didn’t even need to leave the city to realize that unity.