Sublimation and Repression: Inside Out, Star Trek, The Incredible Hulk, and The Babadook

Inside Out

Note: the following essay includes spoilers for each of the works under discussion.

In his essay “Freud and Nietzsche on Sublimation” (The Journal of Nietzsche Studies, Issue 38, Autumn 2009, pp. 38-59), the philosopher Ken Gemes discusses the difference between the psychological concepts sublimation and repression. “Sublimations,” he writes, “involve integration and unification, while pathological symptoms [i.e., from repression] involve splitting off or disintegration.” Pete Docter’s Inside Out is an excellent illustration of these concepts as defined by Gemes. In the film, we see not only the dangers that repression (or the splitting off) of a specific emotion can present within an individual but also what happens when the goal of sublimation is reached: when all of a person’s emotions are integrated into a unified self and are working together toward the same goals.

Though perhaps one of the best films yet to tackle these ideas within a narrative framework, Inside Out is not the first piece of art to do so. The Star Trek episode “The Enemy Within,” for example, examines quite literally what happens when the self is psychically split into two parts. And two works that take these ideas a step further by exploring what happens when repressed traumas cause the self to splinter and disintegrate are issue 377 of Marvel’s The Incredible Hulk and the Australian horror film The Babadook. Let us examine each of these works in turn.

Joy and Sadness

As hinted above, Inside Out is a narrative film which also happens to present a philosophy of mind that is both cogent and coherent. It envisions people as each governed by a group of five emotions: Joy, Sadness, Fear, Disgust, and Anger. These emotions take turns driving a person and coloring the person’s memories, which are then stored away to be recalled when needed (or eventually relegated to the subconscious). Some of these memories become the core memories, which power a person’s islands of personality. With this basic structure of the mind on display, the film offers a philosophically mature look at the self as a multifaceted and mutable concept. For the core memories and islands of personality are not permanent fixtures; they can be altered by other emotions or replaced as a person’s life experiences and interests change. And that is exactly what happens throughout the course of the film.

Our focus is on an eleven-year-old girl named Riley. In Riley’s mind, Joy is the dominant emotion. She gets nervous when the other emotions are in control of Riley for too long, and she thinks that the majority of Riley’s memories should be colored by her. Joy is particularly uncomfortable around Sadness. In one scene, Joy even tries to remove the influence of Sadness by drawing a chalk circle around her and telling her she must remain within it. She wants to deny that sadness is a part of Riley, a part of life. This is a typical model of repression. Gemes writes in his essay:

Repression is what happens when a drive is denied its immediate aim and is then split off from other drives in the sense that its aims are not integrated with the aims of other drives and it must battle, often unsuccessfully, for any opportunity to achieve expression.

This is the position that Sadness finds herself in at the start of the film; Joy rarely allows her an opportunity for expression.

Later in the film, after Riley’s life is turned upside down by a move from Minnesota to San Francisco, Joy and Sadness are both accidentally transported from the headquarters of Riley’s mind and must work together to find their way back. It is on this journey that Joy begins to see how Sadness can be valuable. For example, while comforting Riley’s long forgotten imaginary friend Bing Bong, Sadness demonstrates how she can connect with the pain of others through empathy. Also, she is the only one who can help Riley express the feelings of hopelessness and despair that are bound to crop up on occasion. At the end of the film, when Riley is literally running away from the things that are challenging her, Sadness is the emotion that helps her turn around to confront her parents with all that she is feeling.

This demonstration of the psychological importance of expressing sadness is consistent with the way in which we see the other emotions not as negative aspects of Riley’s personality, but as equally vital to her sense of self. Fear, for instance, keeps Riley safe. Anger helps her be an aggressive hockey player. And Disgust helps her with aesthetic choices and with navigating nuanced appearance-based social circles. Riley lives with parents who want her to be happy all the time. We, too, live in a culture that paints emotions such as sadness, fear, and anger in a negative light. Inside Out proves that all emotions, even joy, can have their downsides, but that does not make them negative, bad, or shameful things to be excised or repressed. They can be harnessed, sublimated, and used toward positive ends. Ideally, these emotions/drives will work together, creating (as they do at the end of the film) memories colored by input from each of them.

The Enemy Within

In the Star Trek episode “The Enemy Within” (Richard Matheson’s sole writing credit on the show), Captain Kirk finds himself in a situation that addresses the same issue of sublimation as Inside Out. At the beginning of the episode, after a planetary expedition, Captain Kirk beams aboard the Enterprise. However, there is a transporter malfunction. The Captain is seemingly OK, just a little lightheaded. But then, when the transporter room is unattended, another Captain Kirk beams aboard the ship. This version of the Captain appears maniacal and unhinged. While the first version of the Captain feels weak and returns to his quarters to rest, the second version immediately seeks brandy from sick bay and attempts to sexually assault Yeoman Rand. There is an obvious temptation to view the first version of Kirk as good and the second version as evil, but as the episode progresses, we see that it is not that simple. The following exchange between Spock and Dr. McCoy explains why:

SPOCK: We have here an unusual opportunity to appraise the human mind, or to examine, in Earth terms, the roles of good and evil in a man. His negative side, which you call hostility, lust, violence, and his positive side, which Earth people express as compassion, love, tenderness.

MCCOY: It’s the Captain’s guts you’re analyzing. Are you aware of that, Spock?

SPOCK: Yes, and what is it that makes one man an exceptional leader? We see indications that it’s his negative side which makes him strong, that his evil side, if you will, properly controlled and disciplined, is vital to his strength. Your negative side removed from you, the power of command begins to elude you.

Indeed, the first version of Kirk is weak, tired, unmotivated, and ineffectual as a leader. At his own admission, decisions are becoming more and more difficult to make. The second version of Kirk, while certainly impulsive, lustful, and aggressive, is also quite fearful and pathetic. In other words, neither version of Kirk is ideal on its own. As the first version of Kirk says when he first confronts his double: “Don’t you understand? I’m part of you. You need me. I need you.” Just as Joy realizes that Riley needs Sadness in Inside Out, we begin to see that Captain Kirk needs both sides of himself, even the part that seems on the surface solely negative and evil.  The lesson of both the Pixar film and the Star Trek episode is the opposite of the famous Christian idea of removing those parts of us that cause us to sin (“So if your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away”). We cannot simply cut away those parts of us that we find unsavory, negative, or evil. Rather, as Spock says, and as Joy learns in regard to sharing Riley with Sadness and the other emotions, our dark sides and personal demons, “properly controlled and disciplined,” are essential to creating a whole and healthy psyche.

This exchange between Kirk and McCoy captures this message perfectly:

KIRK: I have to take him back inside myself. I can’t survive without him. I don’t want him back. He’s like an animal, a thoughtless, brutal animal, and yet it’s me. Me.

MCCOY: Jim, you’re no different than anyone else. We all have our darker side. We need it! It’s half of what we are. It’s not really ugly, it’s human.

At the end of the episode, with the transporter fixed, Kirk is able to integrate both sides of himself into a single entity again.

The Incredible Hulk 377

In issue 377 of Marvel’s The Incredible Hulk (written by Peter David and penciled by Dale Keown), Bruce Banner is psychically divided in a similar manner to that of Captain Kirk in “The Enemy Within.” As the issue begins, we see Banner’s therapist, the gamma-powered Doc Samson, sitting with Banner and two separate Hulks: the so-called grey Hulk and the green, savage Hulk (who amusingly refers to the grey hulk as “Fake Hulk”). Using post-hypnotic suggestion, Samson has gathered these three parts of Banner together in Banner’s mind for one purpose. Samson tells the two Hulks: “You’re going to have to come to terms with each other because you’re all tearing this man apart.” It seems, just as Kirk could not exist as only one side of himself, and just as Riley could not exist without all of her emotions working together, Banner is also going to be unable to exist as a whole, healthy person if he remains splintered in three parts, each trying to gain control by destroying the other two. But what is keeping these three parts separated?

As the issue progresses, we learn that there is a monster lurking in Banner’s subconscious, one that even the two Hulks cannot defeat on their own. This monster, we find out, is Banner’s abusive father, Brian. We see the monster attack and kill Banner’s mother, with Banner watching as a child, unable to save her. And then, in a scene that will feel particularly resonant in relation to Inside Out, we see Banner realize that his younger self never really came to terms with what happened on an emotional level—because he was taught that emotions were bad:

BANNER: Cry, show some emotion.

YOUNG BANNER: Emotion’s bad. It hurts people.

BANNER: Not all emotion. Cry, blast it. Cry big racking sobs.

After Banner finishes pleading with his younger self, the green Hulk is released. We see now what the Hulks represent to Banner: the unleashed emotional and passionate parts of himself that he has always denied proper expression. It took a gamma bomb to unleash them, and even then, Banner tried for years to “cure” himself of them, to cut them out of himself. The reason his psyche is so splintered is because he had repressed his sadness at the time of his mother’s death. Samson’s goal in this particular therapy session is to get the pieces working together, not against each other any longer. He tells Betty Ross: “If we integrate the personalities, as I hope to, what we will get is a whole Bruce Banner, for the first time in years.”

Later, in another scene in Banner’s subconscious, we see that he carried his denial of emotional expression through even his college years. Here, we see Banner with a young woman who wants nothing more than to make love to him, but Banner responds: “I just have work to do, that’s all. This is college, not a playpen.” In this instance, it was the grey Hulk whom Banner was repressing. To return to the Gemes essay once again, he writes:

Aggressive drives, which are not viewed as acceptable, typically because acting on them would exact a painful retribution, are repressed to the point that one does not even acknowledge that one has such drives.

Due to his traumatic past and the strong repression of all of his emotions and passions, this is the situation in which Banner has found himself and which ultimately proved fertile ground from which to birth his Hulk personae.

Finally, toward the end of the issue, Banner confronts the monster in his subconscious: “You got so mad and I saw what emotions did and I…I was so…af…afraid…of buh-being like you.” With this admission, the monster begins to shrink and take the shape of a man—Brian Banner—before finally disintegrating. Now, Banner’s mother appears in his place and tells the two Hulks: “He needs you now. No more fighting.” They are hesitant, just as the dark half of Kirk was hesitant to be put back together again. But in the end, they concede. When Banner comes out of his post-hypnotic state, he is unlike he ever was before: finally, with all parts integrated into one, with Banner no longer repressing his emotions and passions, Banner has become a new merged Hulk—a super being with the strengths of all three parts, including Banner’s intellect, working together.

The Babadook

In the film The Babadook (written and directed by Jennifer Kent), we are faced with a protagonist, much like Bruce Banner, who has repressed a past trauma to the point that it is tearing her apart. Amelia (Essie Davis) is the widowed mother of a six-year-old boy, Samuel (Noah Wiseman). We eventually learn that Amelia’s husband, Oskar, was killed in a car accident while driving Amelia to the hospital to give birth to Samuel. And we soon discover that Amelia has never truly come to terms with this trauma and has repressed it (indeed, she even keeps all of Oskar’s possessions locked in her basement). Samuel sees that there is something going on with his mother, something changing within her, which is why he spends time developing weapons to use against the “monster” that he keeps thinking is going to get them.

This tense home life is complicated by the fact that Samuel’s birthday is coming up, a day that Amelia looks at more as the day her husband died than the day her son was born. Samuel has never even been allowed to celebrate his birthday on the actual day. Amelia does not do well around this time of the year, as a neighbor points out. And as her sister reminds her: “As soon as anyone mentions Oskar, you can’t cope.” But Amelia tries to hide it. When a co-worker asks her how she is doing, she says she is fine. He replies: “You don’t have to be fine, you know.”

We have already looked at the importance of allowing yourself to grieve in both Inside Out and The Incredible Hulk, but Amelia’s repression seems to be too deep. And just as Banner’s repressed feelings eventually forced themselves out as the two Hulks, Amelia’s repressed grief finds its own outlet for expression: a children’s book called The Babadook that Samuel asks her to read to him.

In the book, the titular Babadook is a dark figure with long fingers, a long coat, and a creepy hat who knocks on the door to a house demanding to be let in. Samuel is rightfully frightened by the chilling imagery, which seems to hit too close to home for him. Amelia is also disturbed and tries to get rid of the book, first by hiding it, then by ripping it apart, then by burning it—but it keeps coming back.

Finally, while looking at it again, she reads the line: “You start to change when I get in, the Babadook growing right under your skin.” And the Babadook does get in and change her. She starts lashing out at Samuel and threatening him. When Samuel tries calling their neighbor for help, Amelia cuts the phone line. She even snaps their dog’s neck. At this point, the Babadook is in complete control. But Samuel is prepared: he fights the Babadook with the weapons and traps he has prepared and helps his mother expunge the monster. But when it finally seems to be gone, Samuel recalls another line from the book: “You can’t get rid of the Babadook.”

Amelia has a final showdown with the monster in which she faces it in the same way in which Banner faced his monster in his subconscious: recognizing it for what it is. Ultimately, she makes peace with it, allowing it to remain alive in her basement where she can visit it and feed it. Of this ending, Jennifer Kent has stated in an interview:

We had many people fight the ending. I had to really defend that ending. To be perfectly honest, if I had to have killed that thing I wouldn’t have made the film. You can’t kill the monster, you can only integrate it. Even with Amelia, she can’t ever forget that her husband was killed in a car crash, that will never go away. So yeah, it’s the most crucial thing, to keep that thing alive on some level.

Like the other works we have discussed, the goal for Amelia in the film has been to face her repressed trauma and grief and sublimate it, to make it an integral part of herself. She can actually learn a thing or two about this from Samuel. At one point in the film, he learns about his neighbor’s Parkinson’s disease when he inquires why her hands shake. His mother is upset that he would have pried about this, but the neighbor says, “He wanted to know, so we talked about it.” And at the end of the film, when Amelia is meeting with government employees about Samuel’s schooling, and Samuel tells them about his birthday being the same day his dad died, she says: “Sam’s just like his dad, always speaks his mind.” The lesson for Amelia, then, is to talk about things and speak what’s on her mind, not to repress her feelings and pretend that everything is fine when it is not.

In her essay “Hannibal: Bedelia’s Dream and the True Face of Lecter,” Priscilla Page uses a quote from Joseph Campbell that is equally relevant to our discussion of sublimation and repression:

In the Greek, the demon is that unconscious impulse that is the dynamic of your life and which comes to you in vision and in dream, but in the Christian interpretation, it is a devil—all that a devil is is a repressed demon: one who has not been recognized, one that has not been given its dues, who has not been allowed to play into your life and so becomes a violent threat.

We have seen in The Incredible Hulk and in The Babadook how repressed demons can indeed become violent threats if not recognized and integrated via sublimation, and we have seen in Inside Out and “The Enemy Within” how seemingly dark, negative aspects of a person’s mind, if successfully sublimated, become positive and essential. But more importantly, I think these works can teach us to recognize these sorts of things going on in our minds and the minds of others. With any luck, they will help us sublimate our own monsters and demons into energies that we can harness and put toward positive and healthy ends. Because, as we have seen, we can’t kill the monsters; in fact, we may actually need them.

Further reading:

“That Enormous Distrust of the Titanic Forces of Nature”: Understanding Climate Change Denial through the Lens of Nietzsche

The Phantom of the Opera

In a recent editorial at Salon, Andrew O’Hehir discusses the new documentary Merchants of Doubt in the context of Friedrich Nietzsche’s concepts of the Apollonian and the Dionysian. Ultimately, he hopes to answer the question of “why the right-wing counterattack against a previously uncontroversial scientific consensus [regarding climate change] has been so effective with the general public.” His argument is that climate change denial is fueled by a Dionysian embrace of death among the American populace, and that science fails to counter this denial because it relies too heavily on cool, rational, fact-based Apollonian argument. On the surface, this makes sense, as these are not necessarily misuses of these Nietzschean terms. However, through a closer examination, we will see that that the reverse is true: that it is actually a victory of Apollonian illusion that is keeping a large number of Americans from embracing (or confronting) the unadorned and unpalatable Dionysian truths of science and climate change.

Near the beginning of his essay, O’Hehir writes:

It may seem like a ridiculous leap to connect a scholarly work about ancient Greek culture published in 1872 with the contemporary rise of climate denialism and other forms of pimped-out skepticism, in which every aspect of science is treated by the media and the public as a matter of ideological debate and subjective interpretation.

Today’s Nietzsche scholars would certainly not find it ridiculous to turn to Nietzsche’s philosophical insights in order to shed light on contemporary issues, but they would definitely call into question the use of The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche’s earliest published work, as the crux of O’Hehir’s argument. The concepts of the Apollonian and the Dionysian that are introduced in The Birth of Tragedy still resonate in our culture, to be sure. (And yes, I utilized these concepts myself in an analysis of The Lego Movie last year.) But Nietzsche’s views on science are clearer and much more evolved in his later works than they are in The Birth of Tragedy, and O’Hehir’s insistence that Nietzsche paved the way for science being treated as “a matter of ideological debate and subjective interpretation” is based, most likely, on a popular postmodern misreading of Nietzsche.

In his Nietzsche on Morality, in a chapter discussing the third essay of Nietzsche’s On the Genealogy of Morality, philosopher Brian Leiter addresses Nietzsche’s opinions on scientific truths:

There is no skepticism leveled here [the third essay] against the epistemic standing of scientific truths and thus nothing of the postmodern skepticism that recent, anachronistic readings have claimed to find in Nietzsche.

As Leiter strives to make clear, Nietzsche is “neither ‘against’ science, nor against ‘truth.’” This is an important point, as it is impossible to make sense of Nietzsche’s opinions on science without understanding what he actually thinks of it and what his true target is when he appears to criticize it. This target, according to Leiter’s analysis, is “the excessive valuation of truth characteristic of the scientific outlook.”

For Nietzsche, truth is not necessarily compatible with psychological well-being. Indeed, the excessive valuation of truth above all else can easily lead to what Nietzsche refers to rather bluntly as “suicidal nihilism.”

In an essay titled “Honest Illusion: Valuing for Nietzsche’s Free Spirits,” Nadeem J. Z. Hussain writes:

In his notes from the period right after The Birth of Tragedy, we see [Nietzsche] returning again and again to the thought that art might be an antidote or a response to the threat of practical nihilism generated by the natural sciences and their depiction of the world as lacking value in itself.

I wrote about this topic previously in my essay “Beautifying the Ugly Truth: Art, Religion, and Nietzschean Aesthetics” (which is also an analysis of Aaron Ridley’s essay, “Perishing of the Truth: Nietzsche’s Aesthetic Prophylactics”). The point I want to make here, though, and which Hussain’s essay highlights, is that after writing The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche began to clarify his views on the relationship between science and art that he introduced in that book. Essentially, he believes that art (which provides meaning and value) can be used either to mask scientific truths (e.g., that life is inherently without meaning and value) or to make them more palatable. As he famously wrote in his notebooks, “Truth is ugly. We possess art lest we perish of the truth.” With this in mind, we can return to The Birth of Tragedy, and it will become clear through this new context that Nietzsche wants to associate science and truth with the Dionysian, and art, image, illusion, form-giving, and value-creating with the Apollonian (the reverse of O’Hehir’s postulation).

O’Hehir writes in his piece:

Beneath the political, economic and tribal conflict over climate science lies a profound sense that what Nietzsche described as the “Apollonian” forces of social order, in this case being the book-learning of the professoriate and the rules and regulations of government, cannot contain or comprehend the chaotic and mysterious nature of reality.

Is it really true that these Apollonian forces “cannot comprehend the chaotic and mysterious nature of reality”? Or, instead, is the problem that, through science, we can comprehend the Dionysian nature of reality? Indeed, as O’Hehir writes: “There is certainly a heated cultural and political conflict over the issue of climate change, but there is no ‘scientific debate,’ no matter how many times Fox News hosts repeat that phrase.” The problem, as I see it, is that the science of climate change seems to tell only one story, one that people do not want to hear: we are doomed. There may be an Apollonian aspect to science (e.g., its reliance on reason and logic), but its failure is not an inability to make sense of the chaos of reality; its failure is that it does not know how to translate its more pessimistic Dionysian findings into a palatable message that can spur people toward optimism and change.

In The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche recounts a parable about King Midas learning the Dionysian wisdom of Silenus:

An ancient legend recounts how King Midas hunted long in the forest for the wise Silenus, companion of Dionysos, but failed to catch him. When Silenus has finally fallen into his hands, the King asks what is the best and most excellent thing for human beings. Stiff and unmoving, the daemon remains silent until, forced by the King to speak, he finally breaks out in shrill laughter and says: ‘Wretched, ephemeral race, children of chance and tribulation, why do you force me to tell you the very thing which it would be most profitable for you not to hear? The very best thing is utterly beyond your reach not to have been born, not to be, to be nothing. However, the second best thing for you is: to die soon.’

Is this pessimistic and unwelcome message not similar to the doomsday scenarios of the climate change scientists? If we accept Nietzsche’s opinion that truth is not always conducive to life, would not the American populace, many of whom already cling to religious dogma as protection from this Dionysian truth, be better off (psychologically speaking) not hearing this?

Later in his essay, O’Hehir describes what he sees as the Dionysian impulse run amok in American society:

Guns and fast cars and pornography and a history of careless and rapacious wastefulness are all expressions of the Dionysian impulse rendered into commodities and commercial enterprises, as are Hollywood movies and the oil industry and the McMansion.

Conversely, I think that these things have little to do with the Dionysian aside from the fact that they serve to hide it from people, to bury it along with the dark scientific truths it brings with it. Indeed, these are simple distractions, Apollonian comforts. This is the orgiastic masquerade ball at the center of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death.”

To be sure, here is Nietzsche describing the society of Ancient Greece as one shielded with Apollonian pleasures from the harsh Dionysian truths of Silenus:

Nothing here reminds us of asceticism (Askese), of spirituality and duty; everything here speaks only of over-brimming, indeed triumphant existence, where everything that exists has been deified, regardless of whether it is good or evil. Thus the spectator may stand in some perplexity before this fantastic superabundance of life, asking himself what magic potion these people can have drunk which makes them see Helen, ‘hovering in sweet sensuality’, smiling at them wherever they look, the ideal image of their own existence.

This sounds to me very similar to the American society described by O’Hehir. But O’Hehir believes that this is Dionysian, not Apollonian, and that “Americans ‘reframe or ignore’ the bad news about global warming or guns or cigarettes or fast food not because they’re terrified to face death but because they embrace it […]” But this clearly runs counter to Nietzsche’s conceptions as we can see from these passages from The Birth of Tragedy.

I believe that my analogy to Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death” above can shed light on why the Apollonian and the Dionysian are such slippery concepts (ones that Nietzsche later abandoned as inadequate to his needs). An orgiastic ball certainly seems Dionysian on its surface (just as guns, cars, and pornography do), with its apparent emphasis on pleasure, intoxication, and reckless abandon. But the idea of a masquerade is essentially, and without a doubt, Apollonian, especially if it is ultimately being used to “mask” the Dionysian truth of the closeness of death from the happily ignorant revelers.

Here, again, Nietzsche describes quite succinctly how Greek Apollonian culture overcame the grim Dionysian outlook of Silenus:

[…] it first had to overthrow the realm of the Titans and slay monsters, and, by employing powerful delusions and intensely pleasurable illusions, gain victory over a terrifyingly profound view of the world and the most acute sensitivity to suffering.

This is exactly what is happening with the victory of climate change denial over the grim outlook of the climate change scientists. It is a victory of the Apollonian over the Dionysian, not vice versa. Indeed, the modus operandi of the merchants of doubt is that they employ “powerful delusions and intensely pleasurable illusions” to convince legislators and the general public that climate change is not real and that we are not on the road to extinction.

O’Hehir writes about how his views on this matter differ from Australian economist Clive Hamilton:

Clive Hamilton has written that the doubt-merchants find a ready audience because it’s “just too hard” for many people to face the truth about climate change: “When the facts are distressing it is easier to reframe or ignore them,” just as few of us confront our own mortality until we are close to death. OK, maybe – but there’s a note of condescension in that psychological truism that rubs me the wrong way, and I would suggest that his explanation goes nowhere near far enough. To return to Nietzsche’s terminology, Hamilton is framing the problem in terms of cool, Apollonian logic, and declining to notice the darker, Dionysian factors of the equation.

I would say that Hamilton’s assessment is actually closer to what Nietzsche would make of the situation. The truth can be quite terrible, and some people will happily cling to a well-reasoned but false narrative in order to protect themselves from it. I also think O’Hehir is wrong when he states that Hamilton is “declining to notice the darker, Dionysian factors of the equation.” On the contrary, I think that O’Hehir is declining to appreciate the Apollonian comfort of the lies that mute the darker, Dionysian truths of science. If Hamilton’s interpretation is condescending, that does not mean that it is also, therefore, an incorrect one.

In the Aaron Ridley essay that I reference above, he discusses the Apollonian art of priests, which I think very much resembles the art of the merchants of doubt under discussion:

[…] it is, [Nietzsche] claims, part of the priest’s ‘distinctive art’–his ‘essential art’–to present to his flock a vision of the world so compelling that certain ugly truths (for instance, that death is the end, that fortune is capricious, that morality is ours) become al­together invisible.

To rephrase the primary question O’Hehir is seeking to answer, how can scientists effectively counter this deceptive priestly art? How can they combat the merchants of doubt, whose comforting Apollonian delusions many Americans are so eager to embrace? How can Americans be made to value the Dionysian truth of climate change science to the extent that it does not stifle them with “suicidal nihilism” but emboldens them to enact meaningful changes to their policies and practices?

O’Hehir and I will at least agree that our scientists perhaps need a different approach. Perhaps they require a touch of the Apollonian themselves but for a more honest type of art, one that balances and merges the Apollonian and the Dionysian as the young Nietzsche observed in ancient Greek tragedy, an art that, according to Ridley, “somehow facilitates awareness of (putatively ugly) truths while actually abolishing their ugliness.” As Nietzsche writes in Daybreak, “It is not enough to prove something, one also has to seduce or elevate people to it. That is why the man of knowledge should learn how to speak his wisdom: and often in such a way that it sounds like folly!” With any luck, well-loved superstar scientists like Neil deGrasse Tyson and Bill Nye (as opposed to abrasive and tone-deaf figures like Richard Dawkins) might just have what it takes to make science sexy enough for people to accept climate change and begin combatting it. If not, we know how the story ends: “And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay.  And the flames of the tripods expired.”

Further reading:

Beautifying the Ugly Truth: Art, Religion, and Nietzschean Aesthetics

Favorite Films of 2013

Stories We Tell

Much has already been written about 2013 being a great year for movies, and most critics have already released their “top 10” lists for the year. I am always late, as it usually takes me a while to catch up with some films I may have missed earlier in the year. And there are still always many that I will probably never see. That being said, I’d like to present what I consider my twenty favorite films of 2013:

Part I: Documentaries

The Act of Killing

  1. Stories We Tell (dir. Sarah Polley)
  2. The Act of Killing (dir. Joshua Oppenheimer)
  3. Tim’s Vermeer (dir. Teller)
  4. Leviathan (dir. Lucien Castaing-Taylor; Véréna Paravel)

I saw a lot of great documentaries this past year. These four left the most searing impact on me. I have already written on Tim’s Vermeer and Leviathan, but let me take a moment to discuss briefly the other two. 

Stories We Tell is an examination of the psychological role that narrative plays in shaping one’s life to make it meaningful and, by extension, bearable. Director Sarah Polley sets out to uncover individual accounts of a family secret. She interviews her family and family friends, and her father serves as narrator. By making the film about something personal in her own life, Polley actually manages to express better the universality of her theme. Perhaps more gracefully than any film prior to it, Polley captures the essence of remembering as a creative act, memory as a construct. (For a more detailed analysis, please read “Memory’s Chorus: Stories We Tell and Sarah Polley’s Theory of Autobiography” by Leah Anderst.)

Stories We Tell could also have been a good title for Joshua Oppenheimer’s The Act of Killing. The film looks at members of an Indonesian death squad who participated in the country’s genocidal efforts in the 1960s. But these apparent crimes against humanity were never punished. No, rather, they were celebrated and woven into the fabric of the country’s history, which in this case, was certainly written by the winners. Is this proof of moral relativity? Yes and no. When the filmmakers ask the celebrity killers to reenact their past deeds in the style of American genre films, they are forced to reexamine the act of killing in a new light. And some of them no longer have the stomach for it.

Part II: Visions of Excess

The Great Beauty

  1. The Wolf of Wall Street (dir. Martin Scorsese)
  2. The Great Beauty (dir. Paolo Sorrentino)

The Wolf of Wall Street and The Great Beauty both present lives of excess, but they do so in radically different ways and toward radically different ends. 

In The Wolf of Wall Street, we see Jordan Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio) rise to power as a leading stockbroker, a position he attains through dishonest and illegal means. Martin Scorsese establishes a tone of comic mayhem, and the film becomes a high-energy, drug-fueled orgy. Conversely, in The Great Beauty, we see Jep Gambardella (Toni Servillo) in his twilight years, still living the high life after publishing a successful novel decades earlier, but now also looking back and reflecting on the might-have-beens. Paolo Sorrentino builds a more melancholic and meditative tone within his film.

Both films highlight the allure of a hedonistic lifestyle, but neither outright condemns it, and each, in its own way, celebrates it. However, only in The Wolf of Wall Street are you likely to find the protagonist morally repugnant. Belfort is dishonest and driven by his appetites; his actions ultimately lead to a scenario where he endangers the life of his child. Gambardella, on the other hand, is very honest, very much in control. It’s impossible not to like him; it’s an absolute pleasure to be in his company. He may feel unfulfilled with aspects of his life, but this garners our sympathy for him, not our contempt for his mode of living.

In contrasting these two films, it’s easy to see that there can be great enjoyment, great beauty, in hedonism. It’s for the moral character of the one practicing it that we must reserve our judgment.

Part III: The Rest

Sightseers

  1. Inside Llewyn Davis (dir. Joel Coen; Ethan Coen)
  2. 12 Years a Slave (dir. Steve McQueen)
  3. Before Midnight (dir. Richard Linklater)
  4. Frances Ha (dir. Noah Baumbach)
  5. Short Term 12 (dir. Destin Daniel Cretton)
  6. Rush (dir. Ron Howard)
  7. Frozen (dir. Chris Buck; Jennifer Lee)
  8. Only God Forgives (dir. Nicolas Winding Refn)
  9. Like Someone in Love (dir. Abbas Kiarostami)
  10. Nebraska (dir. Alexander Payne)
  11. Beyond the Hills (dir. Cristian Mungiu)
  12. Blue Is the Warmest Colour (dir. Abdellatif Kechiche)
  13. Spring Breakers (dir. Harmony Korine)
  14. Sightseers (dir. Ben Wheatley)

I really love all of the films on this list, these fourteen not necessarily more or less than the six that preceded them. Some I fully expected to be brilliant (e.g., Inside Llewyn Davis); others surprised me with how much I enjoyed them (e.g., Rush). The final spot was very difficult for me to fill. There are plenty of other great films I would have liked to include (I won’t name them, but there are good examples from multiple genres). I ultimately went with Sightseers because I very much enjoyed its nutty and offbeat nature; it was fun to watch it in a packed theater.

Anyway, as always, I’m curious how my list differs from yours. Feel free to discuss your own favorites in the comments.

Blurred Lines: On Art and Pornography

Venus of Urbino

In an article appearing in The Guardian this past December, actor Stellan Skarsgård defends Lars von Trier’s forthcoming Nymphomaniac against accusations of pornography:

Pornography has just one purpose, which is to arouse you. To make you wank, basically. But if you look at this film, it’s actually a really bad porn movie, even if you fast forward. And after a while you find you don’t even react to the explicit scenes. They become as natural as seeing someone eating a bowl of cereal.

Critics mounted similar defenses against charges of pornography when Abdellatif Kechiche’s Blue Is the Warmest Color was released earlier last year. For example, Julie Maroh, the author of the work on which the film was based, stated that the sex scenes amounted to “a brutal and surgical display, exuberant and cold, of so-called lesbian sex, which turned into porn.” But according to Andrew O’Hehir at Salon:

Those scenes were intended to be challenging and destined to be controversial, but they are woven into the film’s design, not the reasons for its existence.

It’s not 1953, people – if your goal is to see French girls get naked, it’s not like you need to sit through a three-hour art film to achieve that.

Peter Bradshaw at The Guardian gets right to the heart of the matter:

For what it’s worth I entirely disagree that Blue Is the Warmest Colour is porn. Of course that charge can be levelled against any explicit material, and “porn” is a charge routinely made against anything that looks good: “food porn”, “property porn”, etc. But the film’s sheer uncompromising explicitness took it beyond the level of exploitation or titillation, and what also took it away from porn was its treatment of the unsexy aftermath: the agony, the tears, the arguments, the gloom and the despair. This is the long goodbye – a very unporn goodbye. I didn’t giggle at the sex scenes: I found them sexy, passionate and moving, in that narrative order.

In sum, according to all of these defenses, art differs from porn because its portrayals of sex are not necessarily titillating. They’re not “to make you wank,” as Skarsgård puts it. However, the history of art tells a different story. In the past, sexual art was common and created by the great artists for the very purpose of titillation; it was indistinguishable from today’s pornography in its expressed intentions to arouse its viewers. For this reason, and for the fact that by their very definitions porn and art cannot easily be separated, I would like to argue that charges of pornography levied against sexual content in art is a subtle way of avoiding any real confrontation with what the sexual content might signify. Also, I do not think that titillating and erotic content need necessarily disqualify a work from being considered art.

Part I: The History of Sex in Art (or, How Sex Became a Vice)

Blue Is the Warmest Color and Nymphomaniac are certainly not the first art house films to display graphic sex. A feature titled “A History of Real Sex in Movies” cites nine examples. One of these is 9 Songs, directed by Michael Winterbottom. Of the strong criticism levied against his film by British Parliament, Winterbottom remarked:

You can show people eating and doing normal things, but you can’t show two people making love, the most natural of all things.

This is a valid point. Why can’t we simply depict sex in art as a natural act? Why does it automatically become controversial, or worse, “obscene,” and threaten a work’s art status? As I have already mentioned, this was not always the case.

Jonathan Jones, the art critic at The Guardian, has written a lot on this subject (and even penned a book about it):

Europe’s great artists were making pornography long before the invention of the camera, let alone the internet. In my new book The Loves of the Artists, I argue that sexual gratification – of both the viewers of art, and artists themselves – was a fundamental drive of high European culture in the age of the old masters. Paintings were used as sexual stimuli, as visual lovers’ guides, as aids to fantasy. This was considered one of the most serious uses of art by no less a thinker than Leonardo da Vinci, who claimed images are better than words because pictures can directly arouse the senses. He was proud that he once painted a Madonna so sexy the owner asked for all its religious trappings to be removed, out of shame for the inappropriate lust it inspired. His painting of St John the Baptist is similarly ambiguous.

The sexual content of these classic paintings—not to mention the fact that some were clearly used as one would use pornography today (i.e., to arouse and stimulate sexual appetites)—does not negate their worth as art objects. They still hang in museums; they are still studied and appreciated.

We can go back even further in time, to Ancient Rome. In a blog about the ancient art of Pompeii, Jones writes:

The villas and brothels of Pompeii were full of erotic paintings, sculptures and kinky artefacts.

[…] It is a huge contrast with the Christian society that grew out of the ruins of Rome and still in many ways – whatever our personal beliefs – shapes the culture of the west. That contrast is sharply shown by what happened to the erotic art of Pompeii when it started to be rediscovered by excavators in the 18th century. It was admired, but also considered deeply provocative.

The point that Jones is making is that sex today is marred by sin, whereas “the art of Pompeii reveals that uninhibited sex and unrepressed art were universal in this ancient culture.” As Jones points out, Christianity is largely responsible for this differing perception of sex. Friedrich Nietzsche wrote about how this shift occurred in an aphorism titled “To think a thing evil means to make it evil” (Daybreak 76, trans. R. J. Hollingdale):

The passions become evil and malicious if they are regarded as evil and malicious. Thus Christianity has succeeded in transforming Eros and Aphrodite – great powers capable of idealization – into diabolical kobolds and phantoms by means of the torments it introduces into the consciences of believers whenever they are excited sexually. Is it not dreadful to make necessary and regularly recurring sensations into a source of inner misery, and in this way to want to make inner misery a necessary and regularly recurring phenomenon in every human being! In addition to which it remains a misery kept secret and thus more deeply rooted: for not everyone possesses the courage of Shakespeare to confess his Christian gloominess on this point in the way he did in his Sonnets. – Must everything that one has to combat, that one has to keep within bounds or on occasion banish totally from one’s mind, always have to be called evil! Is it not the way of common souls always to think an enemy must be evil! And ought one to call Eros an enemy?

To see this transformation in action (of Eros into an enemy, of love into sin), one need only look at the shunga art of ancient Japan. In an article for The Guardian, Charlotte Gibbons writes about a recent exhibit of shunga art at the British Museum:

Although shunga, meaning “spring picture” or “pillow picture”, was a mainstream artistic genre for several centuries, enjoyed by ordinary townspeople as well as aristocrats, it was suppressed in the 20th century when Japan opened up to the west and the country went through an accelerated “modernisation”.

At that point, instead of being regarded as a part of the texture of everyday life, presented to brides upon their marriages for instruction, arousal or amusement, shunga “was treated like pornography”, said [Tim] Clark [the show’s head curator].

Above all, said Clark, shunga is important because of its value as art. The greatest Japanese artists, such as Hokusai and Utamaro, made erotic images. Shunga invites us to question, he said, a western tradition that divided “great art” from “the obscene”. “That distinction simply does not exist in Japanese art of the period,” he said.

Thus, it was the western (Christian?) tradition of dividing “great art” from “the obscene” that turned Eros into an enemy, not only in the West, but across the entire globe. Still, the history of art and painting is full of works that embrace their erotic and sexual content. To return to Winterbottom’s complaint that he “can’t show two people making love, the most natural of all things,” I think we can now see why. It wouldn’t have been a problem in the pre-Christian world (e.g., Ancient Rome or Japan), where sexuality was celebrated and not seen as sinful. However, in our post-Christian world, we generally view sexuality in a negative light, as something shameful (or at least provocative). So, when today’s artists (e.g., Lars von Trier and Abdellatif Kechiche) attempt to depict graphic sexual content in their work, controversy inevitably follows, accompanied by charges of pornography. But what does this even mean?

Let us now look at definitions of pornography to see if it is in fact different from art.

Part II: The “Definitional Crossword” of Art and Pornography

In his article “Pornographic Art—A Case from Definitions” (British Journal of Aesthetics, Vol. 52, Number 3, July 2012, pp. 287-300), philosopher Simon Fokt attempts to determine, based on definitions of both art and pornography, whether there is enough to differentiate the two from each other. Fokt employs what he calls a “definitional crossword.” First, he lays out the most common definitions of pornography. Then, he sees how each one would fit within a particular theory or definition of art. (Since I have adopted an institutional theory of art on this blog, I will use that as an example.)

Fokt looks at five definitions of pornography. Aside from one definition that states that pornography features sexual content in which the participants are objectified, the other definitions focus on what they call pornography’s intention to sexually arouse its audience, or the fact that it at least comes with the expectation that its target audience will use it for sexual arousal. One definition claims that it is for this very reason (the focus on sexual arousal) that pornography cannot be appreciated aesthetically. If you are interested in the details that differentiate each definition, I urge you to seek out Fokt’s article; for the sake of simplicity, I will only work from my summary of the definitions described here.

The institutional definition of art employed by Fokt is the one formulated by George Dickie in Art and the Aesthetic:

A work of art in the classificatory sense is (1) an artifact (2) a set of the aspects of which has had conferred upon it the status of candidate for appreciation by some person or persons acting on behalf of a certain social institution (the artworld).

The first thing you will notice about this definition is that it contains no caveats about a work’s content. As Fokt writes, “[…] the work’s content is utterly irrelevant to its status.” Thus, the definition of pornography mentioned above that claims pornography features sexual content involving objectified participants (or any content-based definition of pornography) would not prevent pornography from being accepted as art.

Next, as Fokt writes, “[…] works can become art in the institutional sense irrespective of what they were intended to be in the first place.” Thus, it does not matter whether or not a work was intended to arouse its audience sexually, or even if the work is used for this purpose regardless of its creator’s intentions.

Of the idea that sexual arousal would prevent someone from appreciating a work aesthetically, Fokt concludes:

[…] it is unimportant for an institutionalist whether an object is appreciated aesthetically or artistically; in fact, Dickie argues that there is no such thing as aesthetic appreciation at all. In this light, [the abovementioned definition’s] claim that being aroused by pornography prevents one from appreciating it aesthetically or artistically is again irrelevant, as such appreciation is not required for the conferral of the status.

Fokt’s conclusion:

In sum, none of the claims made by exclusivists are even remotely relevant to what makes objects art in the institutional sense. On the contrary, it seems that some pornography can be, and some of it actually is, art. It is artefactual in the same way as art; it can have the art status conferred upon it; and it is not at all impossible that other institutions should overlap with the artworld. Clearly, such social institutions as the state or church can, so why not the porn-world? Thus such works as The Story of O can be treated as examples of works which are pornographic and yet also art, in virtue of the art status having been conferred upon them by members of the artworld.

For those interested, Fokt also examines historical and functional definitions of art, as well as cluster accounts, and he briefly touches on other definitions. Needless to say, he comes to a very similar conclusion in each case, namely that “some pornography can be and is art.”

Like Fokt, my purpose in taking on this subject is not to suggest that all pornography should be considered art (nor do I wish to diminish the valid ethical and feminist concerns about the depiction of women in typical pornographic media). In fact, I think that works of pornography, as produced and consumed today, are experienced quite differently and in completely different contexts from works more commonly understood as art. Moreover, I think that (unlike the video game industry or even the food and fashion industries), the pornography industry has no interest in making claims that its product is art. (As we saw in the last section, Christianity helped separate art and sex by making Eros into a villain. In doing so, it likely drove sex underground, which gave birth to the porn industry we know today, one that cares little for the art side of its product.) However, as Fokt helps illustrate, I think that all attempts to draw a clear line between art and pornography are doomed from the start. In cases where misguided moralizers attempt to diminish an artwork for its sexual content or because it may sexually arouse some viewers, it can and should be demonstrated that the “pornographic” content does not necessarily disqualify the work as art.

Part III: Of Dance and Lap Dance

In the last section, I state my belief that the porn industry has no interest in claiming that its product is art. However, if they are pushed, they will definitely make that claim, and I believe that they have every right to do so.

In October of 2012, the Huffington Post reported on a strip club in suburban Albany (Nite Moves) that had filed a lawsuit arguing that “fees for admission to strip club and for private dances are exempt from sales tax.” The article begins this way:

Lap dances are taxable because they don’t promote culture in a community the way ballet or other artistic endeavors do, New York’s highest court concluded Tuesday in a sharply divided ruling.

The court split 4-3, with the dissenting judges saying there’s no distinction in state law between “highbrow dance and lowbrow dance,” so the case raises “significant constitutional problems.”

The article later explains in more detail the viewpoint of the dissenting judges:

In the dissent, Judge Robert Smith wrote that it was a question of what the law and regulations actually say. The law defines a “dramatic or musical arts admission charge” for “a live dramatic, choreographic or musical performance,” he noted. Choreography means dance, and clearly the women at Nite Moves dance, he wrote.

Smith assesses, quite correctly, that the court decision amounts to judges defining, willy-nilly, what counts as “highbrow” art and what counts merely as “lowbrow” entertainment:

Smith added that while he finds this sort of dancing “unedifying – indeed, I am stuffy enough to find it distasteful,” discriminating on the basis of content such as imposing a tax on Hustler magazine and giving the New Yorker an exemption “would surely be unconstitutional. It is not clear to me why the discrimination that the majority approves in this case stands on any firmer constitutional footing.”

Thus, even if an act (such as a lap dance) meets the above-referenced law’s definition of art, which allows for “choreographic or musical performance,” the judges can apparently make a value judgment on the act for the purpose of excluding it from tax exempt status. Even though we have now seen how sexual content, historically, did not threaten a work’s art status, and that even by definition pornography should not be disqualified from being art, lawmakers are still fighting their hardest to keep art and sex separate.

Years earlier, a strip club in Idaho (Erotic City Strip Club) was faced with a city law passed in 2001 forbidding “complete nudity in public unless the display has ‘serious artistic merit.’” Just as with the Nite Moves case, the issue revolved around legislators’ attempts to define (arbitrarily) the moral and aesthetic values of their constituents. Luckily, Chris Teague, the owner of Erotic City Strip Club, saw the absurdity in the situation and used it to his advantage. According to a BBC report, he started charging patrons for a pad, a pencil, and dance performance. He called it “Art Club Night,” and as long as his patrons sketched the dancers, he met the law’s “serious artistic merit” exemption; his dancers were able to perform nude.

The absurdity of these cases illustrates perfectly how the line separating art and pornography is arbitrarily set by those whose values paint sexuality in a negative light. When this line is examined in both a historical and academic context, it blurs and fades away.

Conclusion

What I would like to suggest is that, in discussions of art, charges of pornography offer no useful commentary on a work’s artistic merits. Instead, the word “pornographic” serves only an outdated Christian function; it is meant to make sex shameful. However, I think that we should approach sex in art in a more value-neutral way. For example, a sex scene should not be seen as morally or aesthetically objectionable in itself. But what are the details and the circumstances of the scene in the context of the story and its characters? These should be the targets of our criticism (moral, aesthetic, or otherwise).

In sum, though I think that Stellan Skarsgård, Andrew O’Hehir, and Peter Bradshaw are right to defend the sexual content of Nymphomaniac and Blue Is the Warmest Color, I do not think they should have to trouble themselves with arguing why the sexual content is artistic and not pornographic. For even if the films were to meet any or all definitions of pornography, I do not think that this should disqualify them from being considered art.

Sex, as Michael Winterbottom suggests, is simply as natural a human faculty as eating. We do not see moral outrage over “foodie” films like Babette’s Feast, no matter how explicit the food or how hungry it makes the viewers. The same should be true for artworks featuring sex – graphic, unsimulated, or otherwise.

Further reading: