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Daniel Cojocaru

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Thursday, 22 July 2010 10:04

Inception

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Before its release to the general public film critics heaped endless praise upon Christopher Nolan’s latest mind-bender Inception. Except for a few dissenting voices the verdict was clear: after The Dark Knight Nolan had created another cinematographic masterpiece. The critics’ greatest worry was that Inception’s plot would prove too complex for the general cinema audience. Roger Friedman, for example, writes on showbiz411.com: “During the first 20 minute sequence, Inception requires more attention than any other film of the last 20 years.“ Pete Travers from Rolling Stone is concerned that “trusting the intelligence of the audience can cost Nolan at the box office. We’re so used to being treated like idiots. How to cope with a grand-scale epic, shot in six countries at a reported cost of $160 million, that turns your head around six ways from Sunday? Dive in and ...drive yourself crazy, that’s how.” Even critics, while sensing the film’s brilliance, thus find themselves at a loss how to capture that brilliance: John Anderson in the Wall Street Journal writes that the movie is “impervious to criticism, simply because no one short of a NASA systems analyst will be able to articulate the plot.”

            Anderson is certainly on the right track. However, Inception is not rocket science but mimetic science. I’d like to argue that mimetic theory offers all the necessary tools to come to terms with the plot and with the various narratorial perspectives. In the following I’d like to suggest that there are three basic possibilities of how to watch the film. Each possibility is a valid viewing of the film, supported by pieces of evidence in the film. Each reflects the ontological presuppositions (i.e. what one thinks about being, individuality and reality) of the person watching the film. Each also contains at its core a mimetic component. But only the third possibility – because it incorporates the first two and is the most mimetic of all three – can account for all the evidence and the intricacies of the plot.

 

First Possibility: The Blockbuster Viewing

            Christopher Nolan is too much of a Hollywood professional and business man to think that he will ever receive 160 million dollars again for a film from Warner Brothers, if he’d just produce a mind-boggling conundrum of a film that only a handful of his most faithful fans will bother to decipher. The first possibility of how to watch Inception is thus as an action-packed blockbuster. In order to do so, one has to unquestioningly accept Dom Cobb’s (played by Leonardo Di Caprio) view of things.

 

            Cobb is an “extractor” who specialises in stealing people’s secrets by invading their minds with the help of a science-fictional device. While the victims of extraction are asleep, the dream thieves join the sleepers and construct a shared dream space. The victims then fill the dream space with their unconscious. The victims’ deepest secrets are deposited in a pre-constructed secure space in the dreamscape, for example a bank-vault, a safe or a prison. The thieves then try to break into that space to steal the victim’s secrets. The victims of extraction do not realize that they are asleep and when they wake up don’t remember that their unconscious has been invaded.

 

            In this first possible viewing, Inception is a heist movie in the vein of Ocean’s Eleven, with the only difference being that the theft is taking place in the virtual world of a dream. In this case the plot is actually relatively straightforward and simple. Cobb accepts one last job of dream invasion from Saito (Ken Watanabe), an influential Japanes business man, who in return promises Cobb to pull some strings so Cobb can re-enter the US and re-join his children. Cobb is wanted for the murder of his wife and a life-sentence awaits him on his return to the States.

 

            But what Saito requests is not extraction but “inception”: rather than stealing a secret from the subconscious of a business rival, Robert Fisher (played by Cillian Murphy), he wants to plant an idea into the mind of the rival: the idea that the latter should dissolve his own business empire. In order to plant Saito’s idea into Fisher’s subconscious, with the latter being convinced that it is his own idea, Cobb and his associates must plant the idea in the deepest depths of his subconscious, which requires them to construct three dream levels.

 

            When Arthur (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) objects to Saito’s plan by claiming that it’s impossible to fake true inspiration, Cobb’s instinctive reply is: “It’s not true.” From a Girardian perspective it is clear what he means: There is no true inspiration in the sense of a monadic individual having an original idea detached from a social context. As Girard has pointed out throughout his oeuvre, this is the romantic myth of the isolated “truly” inspired individual that is at the core of Western self-sufficient identity. Cobb knows that all he can do, is exchange Robert Fisher’s mediator. This will change Fisher’s whole being, as the inceptors tie the idea that Fisher should dissolve his father’s empire to the very idea of the Freudian identification with the father. Fisher’s relationship with his dying father is strained and Robert, thinking that his Father is disappointed that he is not like him, conflictively imitates his model and decides to follow in his footstep.

 

            When Fisher’s father dies and Fisher travels from Sydney to L.A. for his funeral, the inceptors sedate him on the plane and enter the deepest depths of Fisher’s subconscious. In a sense it is a travel back in time of Fisher’s psychological development to a place where Fisher’s relationship with his father was one of identification, where his imitation of his father was not yet conflictive. It is there that the inceptors make Fisher encounter a fake version of his father, who tells him to be his own man. But he can only become his own man because his father apparently says so. Thus he is not his own man at all but just imitates what for him is his father’s desire. But in reality it is Saito’s desire in disguise. If Saito can manage to become the model of Fisher’s desire without his knowledge, then he can evade conflictive rivalry. Fisher will cease to be a business rival of Saito and dissolve his empire. Saito will not have to fear an act of revenge from Fisher because Fisher does not know who his model is.

 

            In this reading, the film is “simply” about Cobb entering Fisher’s subconscious, creating three spectacular dream spaces, planting the idea, leaving Fisher’s subconscious and receiving as a reward his freedom that allows him to return to his children. There are only minor complications, such as Fisher’s “militarized subconscious” which fights against being incepted in the form of heavily armed mercenaries that guarantee the appropriate level of “action” on the various dream levels.

 

            Another “minor” complication is Cobb’s dead wife Mal (Marion Cotillard) who appears every now and then as a projection in the dream levels and sabotages Cobb’s plans. In this first reading, the tragic story of Cobb and Mal is simply a side-plot. We learn that Cobb and Mal experimented with dream-within-dream construction until they reached a place called “Limbo”, which is described as raw unconscious. Because in every additional dream level time passes more slowly, as the brain works more quickly, they grow old together in Limbo.

 

            As Ariadne (Ellen Page), Cobb’s designer of dreamscapes for the Fisher-job, gradually grows to become his confidante, Cobb tells her how he realized that Mal started to believe that limbo was real. In order to take her back to reality, he planted the idea in her subconscious that her world was not real. Thus he was able to convince her to return with him to the real world. Because the only way to return from limbo to the real world is to die in limbo, Cobb and Mal throw themselves in front of an imaginary train and wake up again in the real world. There they are young again as only minutes have passed in the real world.

 

            But the idea that Cobb has planted in Mal’s mind – that her world is not real – sticks even in the real world. She tries to convince him to commit suicide with her again so they can return to yet another real world and be with their real children. On their anniversary she throws herself from a hotel-room window and dies. Cobb, because he thinks the world they are in is real, does not follow her. He becomes a murder suspect, as his wife, in order to pressure him into joining her in suicide, left a document with her attorney stating that Cobb threatened to kill her. Thus Cobb becomes the mind-thief on the run, waiting for the opportunity to return home to L.A. to his children.

 

            Because Cobb feels guilty of Mal’s death, her projection in his subconscious sabotages his extraction work. But with the help of Ariadne he is able to eventually forgive himself and purge his subconscious from Mal’s traces. Cobb is reunited with his children and has learnt to deal with Mal’s death and his guilt.

 

            This version of the plot allows for many breath-taking Hollywood action scenes, incorporates a tragic love story and offers the viewer the satisfaction of closure. But again, it depends on the acceptance of Cobb’s ability to tell reality and dream apart.

 

Possibility 2: The Fan Viewing

           

But what if Mal is right? What if what Cobb thinks is real, is actually a dream? How can Cobb know that he is not in a dream? When Ariadne joins Cobb’s team, Arthur explains to her that every dreamer needs to have a totem: an object with very specific characteristics that only the dreamer knows. Thus even within a dream only the dreamer can imagine the totem and thus can know for certain that the dream world is not constructed by someone else. Cobb’s totem is a spinning top. But when he tells the story of Mal we find out that the top was actually his wife’s totem. For her, in a dream, the top would endlessly spin without toppling. After her death, Cobb just uses her top as his totem.

 

            What if his wife is right and the reality they wake up to together is just another dream? Then she would certainly be right in suggesting that they kill themselves again in order to wake up to the real world. After all, Mal, with her totem, has a safe way of telling reality apart from dream. Significantly this would also mean that Cobb has no totem of his own, i.e. no way of being sure that the world he lives in is real. It is his wife’s interpretation of reality that haunts him throughout the film.

 

            There are numerous shreds of evidence littered throughout the film that Cobb’s reality is indeed still a dream. His very team of fellow mind-thieves, rather than being fully-developed, realistic characters, are reminiscent of Jungian and mythological archetypes. Eames, a forger who can impersonate people in dreams, is the shapeshifter. Arthur, who explains to Ariadne how she can construct Escheresque, paradoxical staircases in dreams to deceive the subconscious projections of the extraction victims, is the trickster. Ariadne is the anima, whereas Saito, can be seen as the wise old man who brings Cobb safely home. Some critics have pointed to the lack of depth of the characters as a major flaw of the film. But to allow for a reading in which Cobb’s reality is a dream, Nolan has to keep Cobb’s supporting cast flat, as the characters are supposed to be pale reflections of real people. We begin to slowly understand why the film is impervious to criticism.

 

            If Cobb’s reality is indeed a dream, then Mal has left Cobb’s dream by killing herself and only haunts him as a Jungian Shadow in his subconscious and reminds him of the possibility that he is wrong about reality. In this reading Ariadne’s role is, as in the Minotaurus myth, to lead the hero out of the maze. The maze signifies the ambiguity of Cobb’s world, the puzzle of whether his world is real or a dream. The monstrous Minotaurus in the myth absorbs the ambiguity and through its expulsion, Theseus, with the help of Ariadne, leaves the maze, the ambiguous world and restores a stable order.

 

            In our second reading, the film is thus about the repression of Mal’s perspective and the eradication of any trace of ambiguity that would destabilize Cobb’s ordered universe. It is about Mal’s expulsion by Cobb. Just as the Minotaurus, in the Girardian view of myth represents the opposites of the demonized and deified victim, so does Mal represent the expelled perspective that threatens Cobb’s Cartesian binary of real and unreal. Mal’s perspective survives, like the perspective of the victim in myth, only as a trace in Cobb’s narrative.

 

            The main plot of the Fisher-Job fades into the background. In this reading the Fisher-plot is simply an elaborate design to make Cobb’s return to the U.S. appear credible to his own subconscious. When he arrives at his home in L.A. he leaves Mal’s top spinning on the table and leaves without waiting to see if it topples or not. With this image the film ends, leaving the viewer hanging, as to whether the ending is real or not.

 

            I’ve labelled this possibility of viewing the film “the fan viewing” because, discovering Mal’s perspective forces the viewer to reread, i.e. to watch the film again. Fans like myself, who, four days after its release have watched the film already multiple times, try to note even the least detail that might resolve the question of whose narrative the film actually supports .This is the world of the online fan forums. One fan, for example discovered that Cobb only wears his wedding ring in what he considers dream worlds, whereas he doesn’t wear it, in the real world. The wedding ring therefore is his totem that allows him to tell the difference between real and imaginary.

 

            But once Mal’s perspective is discovered, Inception does not offer the viewer the satisfaction of closure. The wedding-ring argument that favours Cobb’s view of reality can also be constructed as supporting Mal’s narrative. If Inception is read as the expulsion of Mal’s perspective than the wedding ring can be taken as a symbol of Mal’s and Cobb’s union. In the world that Cobb takes for real, he no longer wears a wedding ring because Mal has already left that world. Their union has already been shattered. This might be, because she has either left Cobb’s dream world or is really dead. In the lower layers of Cobb’s dream world, Mal’s presence still haunts him. He has not yet separated himself from her: hence he still wears the wedding ring.

 

            Let me just give one more example of an ambiguous piece of evidence. At the end of the film Cobb returns to Limbo with Ariadne to save Saito, who has died in the third dream level and therefore entered Limbo. There he encounters a projection of Mal and convinces himself that she is not real, that she is indeed just a shadow, that the real Mal is gone. Significantly Ariadne shoots Mal’s projection. But the fact that Mal is only a projection in Limbo supports both perspectives. If we follow Cobb’s view, she would naturally be just a projection in his subconscious because she is dead. But even if she is not dead, she would still be a projection because through her suicide, the real Mal has left Cobb’s dream world and is in reality. I could go on and on like this about every piece of evidence offered in the film. But what the evidence signifies depends on our decision of which model we follow: Cobb or Mal.

 

Possibility 3: A fully mimetic viewing

The driving question behind any viewing of Inception is the question about reality. In my first proposed viewing the question is settled from the very beginning of the film until the end: we have chosen Cobb as our model and trust him that he will take us through the many layers of the dream world and back. In the second possibility we are no longer quite sure who to trust and follow. Our interpretation of what is real oscillates endlessly from Cobb to Mal and back. We desperately want to know what is real but are aware that we can only decide by choosing one model at the expense of the other.

 

            Does that mean that we have to abandon the question of reality in the film? Is Inception just a postmodern allegory in which both perspectives are coherent – or incoherent for that matter – from within their own argumentative logic but in which we can never choose one over the other?

 

            I think there is a way out of the impasse. If we look closer at the two models available to us we realize that they are not so different from each other after all. Both Mal and Cobb claim to know the difference between reality and dream over and against the other’s version of the story. Cobb claims to have planted the idea of unreality into Mal’s subconscious, thereby positioning himself as model to her desire, but has to admit that the idea of having totems as arbiter of reality is Mal’s. Mal through her suicide tries to become a model for Cobb but fails because he does not follow her. They are mimetic doubles and rivals. Both offer us their version of a Cartesian reality of clearly defined categories.

 

            Recognising their mimetic rivalry allows us to identify the only thing of which we can be certain in the film: Cobb and Mal were once together but are now separated in bitter rivalry. This perspective contains both previous possible viewings and offers us a further angle, in which the situation of Cobb and Mal resembles a messy divorce rather than anything else. Concluding this analysis, I will draw on Jean-Michel Oughourlian’s reading of the Biblical story of the Fall in his recent The Genesis of Desire to explain this last possibility of viewing the film.[1]

 

            When Cobb tells Ariadne the story of how he and his wife experienced Limbo, he uses paradisical language. In Limbo Mal and Cobb create entire worlds together. This paradisical idea of joint creation is captured visually by a stunning dreamscape of skyscrapers, built directly on the beach. The beauty of this world remains intact as long as they are together. When they commit joint suicide to return to the real world, they actually do not know whether they will return to reality. But to them it does not matter as long as they are together. After Mal’s suicide in the real world they both accuse each other of betrayal. Cobb because he thinks Mal has left him and the children, Mal because Cobb has not followed her. When Cobb and Ariadne revisit Limbo, the skyscrapers are in ruin, Cobb’s and Mal’s imagined world is falling apart because of their separation.

 

            Limbo might not be a physical “reality” in the commonsensical meaning of the word that I have implicitly used so far in the analysis, but it captures what Oughourlian describes as psychological reality. Limbo before the estrangement is a harmonious place where the psychological reality lies in the mysterious transparency of the relation between two persons (34).

 

            Psychological reality is according to Oughourlian not constructed by a monadic subject but through relation. It is relation that gives birth to selves (57) and opens up endless creative possibilities. When Ariadne enters Cobb’s dream world for the first time, she opens two giant mirror doors into the street so that they are facing each other. The mise-en-âbime of endless reflection signifies the infinite possibilities of two Girardian interdividuals creating in harmony. But Ariadne shatters one of the mirrors, which signifies the expulsion of Mal’s perspective from Cobb’s unconscious.

 

            What Oughourlian observes in the case of Adam and Eve is also true for Cobb and Mal: Their relationship is sick (8). They fall from a state of innocence where there is no rivalry (70) to a state where both try to form their own solipsistic reality and engender the desire to incorporate and dominate the being of the other (62). Each becomes a prisoner of Cartesian dualism (101), forever caught in their own constructions of reality. In Oughourlian’s relational psychology these monadic constructions of reality are illusions (47). As Oughourlian further observes, it is the memory that brings back the otherness of desire (108). This is why Cobb, as he tells Ariadne, wants to change his memories, in order to forever expel the memory of his wife and of the paradise they had. Their mutual reality is lost because they have left each other. And that loss stings. Regardless of who of the two actually inhabits the physical reality, they have both lost their mutual psychological reality. This is why, according to Oughourlian, one can never get completely over a separation because each of the partners forms a unique part of that reality (111). Mal’s projection realizes that when she asks Ariadne, if she knows what it means to be half of a whole.

 

            Inception offers no possibility of reconciliation between Mal and Cobb, as the relational sickness and the emotional distancing between the two continues to progress throughout the film. But it offers us an analysis of the mimetic mechanism between the two, buried beneath the blockbuster and fan viewings of the film, waiting to be brought to the surface. Thus we can at least learn from their mistakes, while enjoying the film as a blockbuster and as a mind-bender. Inception can thus be solidly placed within the Horatian tradition: It teaches and delights us.



[1] Jean-Michel Oughourlian, The Genesis of Desire, East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2010. Page references are in brackets in the main body of the text.

Tuesday, 16 September 2008 11:03

Spiderman 3: A Girardian Reading

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According to René Girard’s Mimetic Theory the expulsion of a scapegoat is made possible through the projection of one’s own guilt onto someone else. Only when we thoroughly believe that the victim of our projection is guilty, can we engage in scapegoating.
In this respect it is interesting that in Spiderman 3 Peter Parker aka Spiderman struggles more with himself than with any outside enemy. The “black Spiderman” embodies the dark side of both Spiderman and Peter Parker. “Spidy” is starting to enjoy his vileness and increasingly neglects his superhero duties. Once he comes to his senses, Spidy tries to shake off the enticing black spider-suit. The suit, which has developed an agency of its own, is clinging to him like a chewing gum stuck in one’s hair and only lets go of him once Peter Parker’s rival Eddie Brock appears. His rival is enveloped by the suit and from that moment on Spiderman’s dark side is externalized and projected onto Eddie. Being rid of his internal conflict through the projection of his own dark side onto a scapegoat, Spiderman can once again assume his position as a “good” American superhero. In the final showdown Brock is defeated by Spidy. The latter regains his identity through the expulsion of the demonized Brock and his admiring audience will soon forget that it was only because Brock took the destructive black spider-suit onto himself like a scapegoat that the return of the good hero was possible.

In I See Satan Fall Like Lightning René Girard draws on Matthew 12:26 to explain that Jesus understands the paradoxical process of good being restored by evil, as it is portrayed in Spiderman 3: “If Satan drives out Satan, he is divided against himself. How then can his kingdom stand?“ Girard suggests that Satan is indeed driving out himself, that violence casts out violence. And that is exactly what happens in Spiderman 3. Spiderman violently projects his own dark side onto Brock, before violently getting rid of that dark side by defeating Brock. Spidy’s kingdom cannot stand and the resistance of the film to a happy ending is evidence of a certain awareness of the violent nature of the restoration of Spiderman’s identity.

I leave it to the reader to infer what the discussed scene means for American identity today, the war in Iraq, and the war on terror. May I just suggest one final observation: the black spider-suit appears to consist of a rather oily substance.
Tuesday, 16 September 2008 11:15

The Dark Knight

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“Do I really look like a guy with a plan?” In Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight, the Joker, magnificently impersonated by the late Heath Ledger, wants to make everyone believe that there is no motif for his neurotic sowing of destruction and mayhem in Gotham City. “I’m an agent of chaos”, he explains to Gotham’s new district attorney Harvey Dent. He seems to appear from nowhere at the exact moment, when Gotham is on the verge of convicting its few remaining criminals. He has no history whatsoever, as commissioner Gordon resignedly admits: “No matches on prints, DNA, dental, […] no name, no other alias.”

No rational explanation can be found for the sheer purity of his evil deeds, for the rigor of his seething rage. Even Batman, alias Bruce Wayne, is at an utter loss of accounting for this kind of absolute evil. When he unconvincingly claims that “criminals aren’t complicated Alfred, we just need to figure out what he’s after”, it is his butler who puts into words what Bruce was probably thinking anyway: “With respect master Wayne, but perhaps this is a man you don’t fully understand either. […] Some men just want to watch the world burn.”

Yet, that does not mean that there is no structure, no plan underlying the Joker’s actions, even if he claims the opposite. The structure is to be found in the violence itself. René Girard claims that we live in an age, where we are forced to choose between absolute non-violence and violence without end. What the Joker does is nothing less than creating situations in which people are faced with the utter dilemma of either having to die themselves, or to commit an act of violence and survive. One such example is when the Joker threatens to blow up a hospital, if Colman Reese, who is about to reveal Batman’s true identity, is not dead within 60 minutes. This all-against-one setting is the structure of scapegoating violence that René Girard has revealed in his oeuvre. The choice of the victim is completely arbitrary, as Reese is not the one to blame for the blowing up of the hospital. The Joker is thus first and foremost the manipulator of the satanic expulsion of one victim in order to create peace. The label on the Joker’s truck confirms this reading: “Slaughter is the best medicine.”

The Joker seeks to proliferate this principle of expulsion. Most of all, he wants Batman to abandon himself to this type of scapegoating violence. This explains Batman’s astounding passivity throughout the movie and the relatively little screen time Batman-actor Christian Bale gets. The problematic nature of Batman’s own violence is already hinted at in the closing frames of The Dark Knight’s predecessor Batman Begins, when the threat of the Joker dawns on Gotham’s horizon. “What about escalation”, asks commissioner Gordon right before the end of Batman Begins. Batman eventually understands the full course of violence, as it necessarily gets out of control: “Either you die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”

With Batman-imitators running wild, Bruce understands that it is his own example that has brought the escalation of violence on Gotham. If he kills the Joker, he would be exactly like him. Evil is not limited to the person of the Joker but is found in the principle of arbitrary violence against one victim. This becomes clear, after Batman eventually captures the Joker. When he resists the impulse to kill the Joker, the latter is amused: “You didn’t think I’d risk losing the battle for Gotham’s soul in a Fistfight?” Being defeated himself, he has planted the seed of destruction into Gotham’s “white knight”, Harvey Dent. With half his face burnt off, the latter becomes Two-face. In despair, after his fiancé is murdered by the Joker, Dent hunts down all the corrupt officers in Gordon’s police department and tosses a coin to decide their fate.

Dent has surrendered to the Joker’s evil logic: “The only morality in a cruel world is chance, unbiased, unprejudiced, fair.” But what he means, of course, is not fairness but arbitrariness. It is the arbitrariness of violence against the victim that is continually brought up in The Dark Knight. When in another of the Joker’s constructed situations, the passengers of two ships, one of which is a prison ship, refuse to blow up the other ship to save themselves, it is not because, as Batman believes, “they are ready to believe in good” but because they recognize that the other passengers have not done anything to deserve their violence.

The all against one mechanism of scapegoating is maimed in a world that recognizes the arbitrary position of the victim; the impulse to violence, however, remains. Batman himself becomes the scapegoat, when he takes Dent’s blame onto himself to save the myth of the white knight, by becoming “the dark knight”, hunted down by the whole of Gotham. The Joker is right when he states that “madness, as you know is like gravity. All it takes is a little push.” The Joker has lifted the protective veil of culture from Gotham that allows people to think of themselves as good. By forcing situations of scapegoating on them, however, he reveals the primordial urge to violence within them: “When the chips are down, these civilized people, they’ll eat each other.” To avoid self-destruction in a struggle of all against all and to preserve their sanity, the people of Gotham need to find a scapegoat. Batman is the only one left in whose guilt they can believe, who seems not like an arbitrary victim – for now, that is. For as Gordon’s son remarks utterly puzzled: “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

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Valentine and Proteus can be friends only by desiring alike and, if they do, they are enemies. […] This Gordian knot is its own explanation, in the sense that any effort to bypass the mimetic double bind, short of total renunciation, must produce some kind of “monster”, a false reconciliation of entities that should remain irreconcilable.[1]
It seems that we generally assume that conflicts arise because of our differences between each other. In the above quote on Shakespeare’s The Two Gentlemen of Verona from A Theater of Envy and throughout his oeuvre René Girard claims the opposite. As long as we are different, conflict cannot occur as our desires remain isolated from each other. It is only once our desires merge on the same object that potentially conflict can develop. However, conflict does not originate from the desire for an object but from the desire for the rival’s being. Only when we are no longer different, when we desire to be like our neighbour, can our desires converge on the same object. Conflict is thus a result of the loss of differences due to imitated desire.
This is exactly the situation as we find it in the following excerpt from an episode of Desperate Housewives (Season 4, Episode 12). Bree Van de Kamp, played by Marcia Cross, explains to her rival Katherine Mayfair (Dana Delany) that the reason why she and her friends can get along without conflict, is because they each have their niche. Their differences protect them from rivalry. Katherine on the other hand occupies the same niche as Bree. While it is true that their being alike potentially opens the way for a much closer friendship, there is also the risk of a much fiercer rivalry. This is the Gordian Knot Girard talks about. This is why the most vicious conflicts are between “enemy brothers”, or in this case “enemy sisters”, – because they once were the best of friends.
However, as the narrator accurately observes at the end of the episode, we are usually blind to the fact that friendship and enmity emerge from the same source, which is the imitation of desire.


[1] René Girard, A Theater of Envy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991, pp. 16f.
Monday, 02 February 2009 12:48

Fight Club

According to the DVD-commentary of Fight Club by director David Fincher, the “Chemical Burn” – scene is the turning point in the narrative. The narrator’s imaginary alter ego Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt) exposes the anonymous narrator (Edward Norton) to unbearable pain by kissing his hand and pouring lye on the saliva. The latter and lye cause a chemical reaction that results in a scarring burn. It is at this moment of utter pain that Tyler reveals the foundational mechanism of culture to the suffering narrator: “Without pain, without sacrifice we would have nothing.” A less painful way for them to reach this insight would have been to read their Girard. My point here is that this scene could have come straight from Violence and the Sacred.

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If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm hostility. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The following review of Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige was inspired by the above quote which I discovered on the front page of the Raven Foundation’s website.
The Prestige exemplifies Longfellow’s insight by telling the story of two rival magicians in turn of the century London. The story of their escalating rivalry is reconstructed from their respective diaries.
Because, as the film teaches us, magicians tend to keep the secrets to their tricks in their diaries, both antagonists, Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman) and Alfred Borden (Christian Bale), steal each other’s diary. But they do not find what they hope to find. The respective diaries do not contain the secrets to their rival’s tricks but the secret to their rival’s identity – or rather the lack thereof. As they read each other’s secret histories, they discover that their rivalry is a quest for the being that the other is suspected to possess – driven by their own lack of being. They imitate each other’s mask of independent being: an illusion both are forced to keep up in the face of their rivalry.
But this insight is only gained in retrospect. Only once they both have successfully achieved their mutual destruction – and thus think they have finally assumed the coveted position of the rival – do they discover that there is nothing there: that the rival’s happiness, the life that they envied is in reality a history of division, torment and evidence of a fickle and contradictory nature – ultimately a lack of being.
Tuesday, 09 June 2009 13:38

X-Men: Girard and Derrida

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In Violence and Difference Andrew McKenna explores the many parallels between Jacques Derrida’s deconstruction and René Girard’s victimary hypothesis. This important book not only explains why Girard’s theory can stand the test of deconstruction but also argues convincingly how the mimetic hypothesis can save deconstruction from becoming a mere language game and can recover an ethical dimension to poststructuralism.
But to the uninitiated Derrida’s criticism of the whole of Western philosophy can often seem inaccessible and tedious in its insistence on a complex origin and undecidability of meaning. It is quite tempting at times in an act of frustration to conclude that life is too short for deconstruction.
X-Men 3: The Last Stand offers us an entrance into the Derridean world that might lead us to a different conclusion. In the third part of the cinema version of the comic-saga, humans have apparently found a cure for the mutant x-gene that gives the mutants their supernatural powers and makes them different from humans. Interestingly enough, the source of the cure is a mutant boy, who has as his supernatural gift the force of neutralizing mutant powers. As Dr Kavita Rao, member of the research team that developed the cure, explains: “We can replicate it but we can’t generate it.” Thus even when all the mutants are “cured” and turned into “normal” humans, there remains one mutant at the very centre of humanity from which the cure stems.
The difference between mutants and humans cannot therefore be absolutely discerned. It follows the same “poststructure” as Derrida’s discussion of Plato in “Plato’s Pharmacy”. Plato can only distinguish “real” knowledge from the madness of the poison of false knowledge through an act that works itself like a poison, an antidote. The same applies to Girard’s theory of violence. When a society tries to expulse violence to an outside through the expulsion of a scapegoat it commits an act of violence that will remain at the very centre of the community.
In X-Men 3 a rebellious mutant group under the lead of “Magneto” tries to kill the boy who is the source of the cure in order to destroy humanity. However, their project is subject to the same paradox as the human project. They will never be able to kill the boy because as soon as they come close to him they lose their supernatural power and become human. There is thus never an outside to either humanity nor the mutants and thus no absolute difference between the two but only difference within the two – what Derrida called differance. The difference between humans and mutants is produced from a source that is both mutant and human and cannot itself be differentiated and is thus truly undecidable.
Wednesday, 26 August 2009 14:36

The Children of Men

 

One major point of criticism that is often inveighed against René Girard’s mimetic theory is that it seems to stem from a culturally pessimistic position. And to a certain extent this criticism is understandable. When we read Girard’s oeuvre his accounts of mimetic desire are largely negative. Think of his descriptions of enemy brothers, where he reminds us that the most intimate relations between human beings can be fiercely antagonistic. Or when he claims that the only cultural mechanism to grant us relative peace is the violent, satanic expulsion of one victim. But then he robs us of even of this relative peace through his reading of the Gospels as the revelation of the innocence of the victim, with the consequence that in our modern day version of the sacrificial crisis we might end up in a situation of violence without end.
And even when within the Colloquium on Violence and Religion (COV&R, the society devoted to developing Girard’s theory) there are voices speaking of positive mimesis as an alternative, one wing of COV&R immediately claims that there is no positive mimesis. So are we hopelessly trapped in our conflictive imitations and cycles of violence? Is Girard a cultural pessimist, not come to bring us peace but a sword?
Girard himself has always pointed out that mimesis itself is neither positive nor negative but that it depends on the models whether the effects are positive or negative. And if it seems that he does not outline an alternative to mimetic violence and the scapegoat mechanism, then I would like to suggest it is for a specific reason. For Girard, there is an alternative but it is an alternative that he is very cautious of capturing in specific terms, as this alternative too might be turned into an oppressive ideology of violence.
In Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World Girard points to the Johannine Logos as found in the prologue of the Gospel of John, the Logos of non-violence, as being the alternative to the cycle of violence. He distinguishes it from the Greek Logos of philosophy based on reason and states: “The Johannine Logos is foreign to any kind of violence; it is therefore forever expelled, an absent Logos that has never had any direct, determining influence over human cultures. […] The Logos of love puts up no resistance; it always allows itself to be expelled by the Logos of violence.”[1]
In this description one might have the impression that this logos has no power at all to suspend mimetic conflicts that it is of no significance whatsoever. Yet this apparent weakness is exactly its strength. Maybe an illustration of this power in weakness will help us to understand the Johannine Logos a bit better. The recent dystopian film The Children of Men portrays a world in which humanity has become infertile – people have not seen a new born in more then twenty years. But then, in a modern recapitulation of the Nativity story a young woman becomes pregnant and gives birth to a baby in a refugee camp.
At one point mother and child have to walk through a war zone and suddenly the warring parties suspend their fighting because, having not seen a child for more than twenty years, they are in awe of the scene that unfolds before them. The weakness and innocence of the new born child has the power to suspend all violence. It is the light shining in the darkness of mimetic violence. But as soon as mother and child have passed through, the conflicts resume. As in the prologue of John, the darkness has not understood the light.
It is this fragility of the Johannine Logos that lets Girard be wary of formulating a clear alternative to mimetic violence. But it is this Logos of non-violence – which is Christ – that Girard and the Gospels encourage us to imitate. Even if fragile, this is the Logos through which we might find, after a long and arduous journey – peace. It has the absolute power to overcome violence in its weakness– if only we, in our weakness, continue to imitate it.


[1] René Girard, Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World Trans. Stephen Bann &
Michael Metteer. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987. pp. 271/274.
Thursday, 17 July 2008 10:09

Scapegoating in Spiderman 3

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According to René Girard’s Mimetic Theory the expulsion of a scapegoat is made possible through the projection of one’s own guilt onto someone else. Only when we thoroughly believe that the victim of our projection is guilty, can we engage in scapegoating.
In this respect it is interesting that in Spiderman 3 Peter Parker aka Spiderman struggles more with himself than with any outside enemy. The “black Spiderman” embodies the dark side of both Spiderman and Peter Parker. “Spidy” is starting to enjoy his vileness and increasingly neglects his superhero duties. Once he comes to his senses, Spidy tries to shake off the enticing black spider-suit. The suit, which has developed an agency of its own, is clinging to him like a chewing gum stuck in one’s hair and only lets go of him once Peter Parker’s rival Eddie Brock appears. His rival is enveloped by the suit and from that moment on Spiderman’s dark side is externalized and projected onto Eddie. Being rid of his internal conflict through the projection of his own dark side onto a scapegoat, Spiderman can once again assume his position as a “good” American superhero. In the final showdown Brock is defeated by Spidy. The latter regains his identity through the expulsion of the demonized Brock and his admiring audience will soon forget that it was only because Brock took the destructive black spider-suit onto himself like a scapegoat that the return of the good hero was possible.
In I See Satan Fall Like Lightning René Girard draws on Matthew 12:26 to explain that Jesus understands the paradoxical process of good being restored by evil, as it is portrayed in Spiderman 3: “If Satan drives out Satan, he is divided against himself. How then can his kingdom stand?“ Girard suggests that Satan is indeed driving out himself, that violence casts out violence. And that is exactly what happens in Spiderman 3. Spiderman violently projects his own dark side onto Brock, before violently getting rid of that dark side by defeating Brock. Spidy’s kingdom cannot stand and the resistance of the film to a happy ending is evidence of a certain awareness of the violent nature of the restoration of Spiderman’s identity.
I leave it to the reader to infer what the discussed scene means for American identity today, the war in Iraq, and the war on terror. May I just suggest one final observation: the black spider-suit appears to consist of a rather oily substance.
Monday, 25 August 2008 13:56

The Dark Knight

“Do I really look like a guy with a plan?” In Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight, the Joker, magnificently impersonated by the late Heath Ledger, wants to make everyone believe that there is no motif for his neurotic sowing of destruction and mayhem in Gotham City. “I’m an agent of chaos”, he explains to Gotham’s new district attorney Harvey Dent. He seems to appear from nowhere at the exact moment, when Gotham is on the verge of convicting its few remaining criminals. He has no history whatsoever, as commissioner Gordon resignedly admits: “No matches on prints, DNA, dental, […] no name, no other alias.”
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