Bad Conscience and the Birth of the Sovereign Individual

Friedrich Nietzsche’s “On the Genealogy of Morality” includes his theory on man’s development of “bad conscience.” Nietzsche believes that when transitioning from a free-roaming individual to a member of a community, man had to suppress his “will to power,” his natural “instinct of freedom”(Nietzsche 59). The governing community threatened its members with punishment for violation of its laws, its “morality of custom,” thereby creating a uniform and predictable man (36). With fear of punishment curtailing his behavior, man was no longer allowed the freedom to indulge his every instinct. He turned his aggressive “will” inward, became ashamed of his natural animal instincts, judged himself as inherently evil, and developed a bad conscience (46). Throughout the work, Nietzsche uses decidedly negative terms to describe “bad conscience,” calling it ugly (59), a sickness (60), or an illness (56); leading some to assume that he views “bad conscience” as a bad thing. However, Nietzsche hints at a different view when calling bad conscience a “sickness rather like pregnancy” (60). This analogy equates the pain and suffering of a pregnant woman to the suffering of man when his instincts are repressed. Therefore, just as the pain of pregnancy gives birth to something joyful, Nietzsche’s analogy implies that the negative state of bad conscience may also “give birth” to something positive. Nietzsche hopes for the birth of the “sovereign individual” – a man who is autonomous, not indebted to the morality of custom, and who has regained his free will. An examination of Nietzsche’s theory on the evolution of man’s bad conscience will reveal: even though bad conscience has caused man to turn against himself and has resulted in the stagnation of his will, Nietzsche views it’s development as a necessary step in man’s progression towards becoming the sovereign individual.

Man’s development of “bad conscience” is a complicated process that sees its beginnings in slave morality’s doubling of the doer and the deed. According to Nietzsche, the slave (the weaker man) developed ressentiment towards the noble (the stronger man), labeled the noble as “evil” and blamed him for causing the slave’s suffering (20-22). The slave separated the noble (the doer) from his instinctive actions (the deeds) and claimed the noble possessed “free will;” the slave believed “the strong are free to be weak” (26). The slave set up the ideal of his own weak and passive instincts being “good” and the strong and active instincts of the noble being “evil” (26-27). As stated by JHarden, when defining his weakness as good, “the slave turned [his] natural condition of suffering at the hands of others into a condition which should be desired” (JHarden). As religions developed and slave morality became dominant, this ideal of “good” and “evil” prevailed and forced man to become conscious of his instincts as separate from himself, something he could control.

In Nietzsche’s account, the original free-roaming man lacked memory. To be happy and to not hold on to the pain of unpleasant memories, man possessed an “active ability” to forget (Nietzsche 36). Man’s memory developed as he formed relationships and began making promises to repay debts to creditors. He had to remember to repay on time or face the pain of punishment – a pain that the creditor of this relationship took pleasure in producing (40-41). As communities developed, man now owed his debt to society (46). Fearing punishment for his sins against society’s “morality of custom” (36) resulted in man becoming predictable and tame as he was forced to relinquish the freedom of acting on his instincts (36, 59). Additionally, with society now regulating punishment, man (as creditor) was also denied his instinctual pleasure of inflicting pain on his debtor. Nietzsche states, “All instincts which are not discharged outwardly turn inwards” (57). With his aggressive drive forcibly restrained within society, man turned his outward drive inwards, felt ashamed of his animal instincts, received a perverse pleasure in his own pain, and developed the “illness” of bad conscience (59).

Nietzsche views the development of bad conscience as a stage in man’s progression towards becoming the “sovereign individual.” Although he states that man’s break with his “animal past” is both a step forward and a decline into a terrible condition (57) – the suffering of “man against man,” Nietzsche offers that “man” is not the telos of this battle, but only “a bridge” to something greater (58). He asserts that progress to a goal can be measured in sacrifice and “man’s sacrifice en bloc to the prosperity of one single stronger species of man – that would be progress” (52). Throughout Nietzsche’s essay, he addresses the cost of the sacrifices made when man broke with his “animal past” (57) to become the tamed man of society. Nietzsche notes that whenever an ideal is created: reality is misunderstood, lies are endorsed, and conscience is disturbed (65). In relation to the ideal of the civilized man, he seems to be referring to the reality of morals, the lies of religion, and the conscience of man. As long as man continues to view his animal instincts with a scornful eye, he will remain predictable and tame and will deny himself his full potential. In order to progress, Nietzsche asserts that man must destroy the “shrine” of man as sinner (66). He must destroy the ideals that say “no” to life. This would be the autonomous “sovereign individual;” a man who has learned to keep his promise within society, has turned inwards and examined his own morals, and can now rise above the “morality of custom.’ He is his own master, one who is responsible to himself and does not require the control of the governing society to ensure he keeps his promise. According to Nietzsche, this is the telos of man imprisoned by society’s “morality of custom.”

Some read Nietzsche’s essays and conclude that not only did he view man’s bad conscience as a negative development, but also that he held slave morality as a whole to be damaging. Nietzsche does present some harsh criticism of slave morality, but also notes that man first became interesting upon its arrival. Their resentment of the nobles produced an internal struggle for the slaves and created the hitherto unknown concept of “evil.” Christianity and the entrance of the priestly caste turned the outward hate of slave morality inwards and deepened the slave’s soul, giving him a depth lacking in the self-contentment of noble morality (16). The slave’s lack of outward power led him to direct his power inwards, resulting in man’s first exploration of his inner life.

While critical of the attitude of ressentiment found in slave morality, Nietzsche includes it as an important factor contributing to the bad conscience of man. And even though Nietzsche dislikes the negative results of bad conscience – man’s suppression of his instincts, hate for himself, and stagnation of his will – Nietzsche does value it for the promise it holds. Nietzsche foresees a time coming when man conquers his inner battle and regains his “instinct of freedom.” In anticipation of that day’s eventual arrival, Nietzsche views the development of bad conscience as a necessary step in man’s transformation into the “sovereign individual.”

Works Cited

Nietzsche, Friedrich. On the Genealogy of Morality. Ed. Keith Ansell-Pearson.

Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2007.

JHarden. "Nietzsche’s Spontaneous Nobles and Clever Slaves" Weblog post. Revolutions

in Modern Philosophy. 27 November 2011. philo218fall2011.blogspot.com. 17 Dec

2011. < http://philo218fall2011.blogspot.com/2011/11/nietzsches-spontaneous-nobles-

and.html>.

“Producing Race,” Exceptions to Equality in American Liberalism

“Producing Race,” Exceptions to Equality in American Liberalism

Appearing at the Asian American/Asian Research Institute on Friday, November 11^th, Professor Falguni Sheth discussed “Producing Race,” a chapter from her book, “Toward a Political Philosophy of Race.” Concerning the equal protection afforded all persons in American liberalism, Professor Sheth highlighted how there are always exceptions -- certain groups who do not qualify for full-fledged membership into the polity. The “exception group” has changed throughout history and at different times has included blacks, women, Asians, and many others. Much of Professor Sheth’s discussion, and the heart of her book, deals with the current state of Muslims being the “exception group” since 9-11. Her examination of the creation of “exception groups” leads her to argue that it is not actually hypocritical to the ideal of American liberalism but is instead an intrinsic part of how liberalism operates in the United States.

In her book, she states that America’s “equal and universal treatment can hardly be recognized and valued unless it was understood to be acquired through difficulty” (115). In other words, part of the value of having full “membership” as an American is that it is not to be easily attained by just anyone. Additionally, Professor Sheth argues, “it is only by identifying an enemy or stranger that a liberal polity can understand itself and its function” (115). Therefore, American liberalism requires an enemy within its borders, an enemy to whom it can deny full and equal rights as a way to underscore the value of membership in the polity and to allow its members to understand themselves by seeing in the enemy what they are not.

Determining what group becomes the exception to inclusion in liberalism’s equal protections has many factors. In her book, Professor Sheth discusses how the persons in the exception population are determined to be not quite “human-like-us.” They are typically an immigrant population that does not possess the same values, or share the same God, or are so culturally different with such different beliefs that they are seen as a threat to the American way of life. In her discussion at AAARI, Professor Sheth used the term “unruly” to describe this not “human-like-us” group and explained how the sovereign power uses race as a “technology” or “instrument” to manage the “unruly” group who refuses to assimilate. In her analysis, race is partially a political construct used to control the “exception group” through what she called “gaps or ambiguity” in the nation’s laws.

Professor Sheth’s book also finds exceptions to be “intrinsic” to liberalism since “they enable sovereign authorities to manage and secure their own claims to power” (117). The sovereign power uses the focus on the exception group to highlight the “potential vulnerability for all populations” within its borders, thereby encouraging other groups to behave or risk becoming the next target. During her talk on Friday night, Professor Sheth briefly discussed how this dynamic leads to a “triad” of populations. There is the sovereign power, the “exception” or outsider population, and existing between them is what she calls the “border population.” This “border population” often facilitates the ostracizing of the outsider group. They were formally the outsider group but were brought up in the ranks to gain inclusion so the new exception group could become the focus of the sovereign power’s manipulation. When this happens, they may be held up as an example in order to highlight their strengths compared to the “evils” of the new exception group.

While not functioning in exactly the same manner as the “model minority myth,” which was used to pit Asian Americans against African Americans in the 1960s, the concept of “border populations” does share some similarities. When a nation confronts an “unruly” minority that appears to threaten its stability (whether a new threat, or an existing one that is fighting for equal rights, like blacks in the 60s) it can use another minority (even one that doesn’t truly have full and equal rights) to try to influence the “unruly” group. Even if it does not succeed in moderating the actions of the “unruly,” by highlighting the threatening qualities of the “unruly” group compared to the “border population” or “model minority,” it may garner enough support from the majority of its polity to alter existing laws or create exceptions to those laws that will further limit the rights of the “unruly” group. Professor Sheth gives the example of the Patriot Act, created after 9-11, which allowed for violations of the civil rights of America’s Muslim population with the claim that it was protecting the majority of America’s population. Professor Sheth discussed how at the time when Muslims became “the enemy” there was an increase in media stories claiming racial discrimination (primarily against African-Americans) was no longer an issue in America. And during this time, President Bush made sure to have many racially diverse people high up in his administration. She noted how both of these things enabled America to claim it was not being racist while it was targeting a new portion of its population in a decidedly racist manner.

Professor Sheth’s concept of “exception groups” in American liberalism fits right in with most everything we have studied throughout this semester in our class. Asians, from their earliest appearance in America (and even, in some respects, today) were viewed as “alien,” as not quite “human-like-us.” They were seen as unable to assimilate and were therefore determined as “unruly” and a threat to American society. Laws were enacted to restrict their civil rights and to prevent them from naturalizing and gaining “membership” in America. Professor Sheth’s discussion of those having membership in a polity understanding themselves against those who they exclude can be seen in direct relation to Orientalism and how the Occidental, the west, understood itself by what it was not – it was not “the other,” the Oriental. As mentioned earlier, her notion of “border populations,” and the distinctions and conflicts it raises between minority populations, shares similarities to the development of the model minority myth in the 60s. Additionally, Professor Sheth’s discussion of how America can use a time of crisis and perceived national threat to limit the rights of a group of its own citizens – as it has currently with Muslim Americans – directly relates to America’s internment of Japanese Americans during World War II.

While I would like to believe in the ideal of liberalism in a democratic nation – that equal rights for all and equal protection under the law is possible, Professor Sheth’s argument is too strong. The creation and maintenance of “exception groups,” minority populations that are exempt from full equality in the nation in which they reside, has been and continues to be an intrinsic element of American liberalism.

Reversal of Nature, Reversal of Fortune: The Marriage of the Macbeths

One of the reoccurring themes in William Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” is that of nature’s accepted order of things, which becomes upset and unbalanced when Macbeth murders King Duncan to gain the crown for himself. However, prior to Duncan’s death, Macbeth and his wife, Lady Macbeth, do not appear to have a properly balanced relationship that adheres to 17^th century Scotland’s ‘natural order of things’ since it does not conform to that time period’s accepted gender roles of man and wife. When the play begins, it is evident that Lady Macbeth is in control of the relationship -- a relationship that seems more of a strong partnership than a loving marriage. Lady Macbeth plays the more dominant role, which is usually taken by the husband, and Macbeth is subordinate to her wishes. Ironically, it is only in the aftermath of Duncan’s murder, when the natural world has lost its order, that the couple’s relationship briefly adheres to the proper standard of their day. But the evil and unnatural act that brought them to this new order will haunt the couple, and their partnership will pay the price. An examination of the relationship between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth before, during, and after the murder of Duncan reveals not only the transformation of the couple’s power dynamic, but also exposes the reversals in their individual natures – changes that lead to the death of their partnership and, eventually, of each other.

Before the Murder

When we first see Lady Macbeth, she is reading a letter from her husband informing her of the weird sisters prophecy that he would one day be king. In this letter, Macbeth addresses his wife as “my dearest partner in greatness” (1.5.11-12). The use of the word “partner,” and the absence of any other terms of endearment, suggests that their marriage may be more of a partnership than a romantic one. With knowledge of the sisters’ predictions, Lady Macbeth immediately turns to thoughts of murdering Duncan in order to expedite the prophecy, but fears her husband is too weak of a man to perform the deed: “I fear thy nature; / It is too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness” (1.5.17-18). She uses the word “illness” to describe the cruelty she thinks her husband lacks (1.5.21). Lady Macbeth determines that she must convince her husband to kill Duncan by chastising him with her manipulative words. She describes it as pouring her “spirits” into his ear, an interesting word choice that works to link her to the unnatural “spirit” world of the weird sisters (1.5.27).

This connection of Lady Macbeth to the supernatural is given further support when she wishes to possess the nature to murder Duncan herself: “Come, you spirits / That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, / And fill me . . . / Of direst cruelty” (1.5.41-44). She believes that it is in a man’s nature to kill, not a woman’s, and asks the spirits to take the milk from her “woman’s breasts” and replace it with “gall,” desiring to remove the nurturing source of ‘woman as mother’ with the boldness of a man who acts without compassion (1.5.48-49). However, she herself contradicts her own theory of women being compassionate and lacking cruelty, for Lady Macbeth certainly does appear most vicious and cruel and holds no compassion for Duncan when planning to kill him as a means to fulfill her ambition.

In contrast to Lady Macbeth’s uncompassionate and single-minded ambition, Macbeth’s contemplation of the murder shows him to possess some awareness of right and wrong. He also fears that they may fail. Macbeth is plagued by doubt and lacks the confidence of Lady Macbeth’s decisions. When returning home, his thoughts of Duncan’s removal remain unresolved. However, Lady Macbeth has reached her decision. Seeing as Duncan will be staying that night in their castle, Lady Macbeth plans for Macbeth to kill him as he sleeps. Macbeth is noticeably troubled by this plan and Lady Macbeth comments on his expression: “Your face, my Thane, is a book where men / May read strange matters” (1.5.63-64). She sees the panic and fear of the deadly plan registered on her husband’s face and advises him to “look like th’ innocent flower, / But be the serpent under ‘t” (1.5.66-67). She has already begun to try to strengthen her husband’s weak resolve.

Scene 7 of Act 1 finds Macbeth still unsure of the plan to murder Duncan, who now resides in their castle. He worries that the consequences of the murder will not play out in his favor and that he may face an “even-handed justice” (1.7.10), since it is said that “Bloody instructions [will] return / To plague th’ inventor” (1.7.9-10). He tells Lady Macbeth the plan is off. She proceeds to chastise him with her words, just as she had planned. She first berates his manhood: “Art thou afeard / To be the same in thine own act and valor / As thou art in desire?” (1.7.39-41), basically asking if he fears he will fail in the act of murder in the same way that he fails in the act of making love. This becomes further evidence that their relationship is sexually dysfunctional and possesses more partnership than passion. She goes on to state that when Macbeth promised to murder Duncan, he was acting as a man, and that only by sticking to his plan could he become even more of a man (1.7.49-51). Next, Lady Macbeth tries to guilt her husband into the act by contrasting Macbeth’s weakness to her strength of courage. She does this by using a most cruel and horrifying example; saying that if she had promised her husband to kill her own child, she would not hesitate to pull the suckling baby from her breast and smash it’s brains out in order to keep her promise (1.7.56-58). Again, Lady Macbeth is shown to be merciless and without conscience while Macbeth is weak and indecisive.

The Murder

Once Lady Macbeth has poured her “spirits” into Macbeth’s ear, filling him up with the manly “illness” required to murder another man, Macbeth resolves to carry out their plan, but becomes ‘ill of mind’ and experiences the first of a series of hallucinations. He comments on the death of nature around him: “Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse / The curtained sleep” (2.1.50-51). It is now night and the decency of day sleeps while evil is brewing, thus causing his disturbing vision. “Wicked dreams” refers not only to Macbeth’s hallucination and his wicked plans to kill Duncan, but also foreshadows the nightmares that will haunt Macbeth and his wife after Duncan’s death.

When the murderous hour arrives, Lady Macbeth, playing her evil version of the good wife, prepares the scene of the murder like a good wife would prepare dinner for her husband. She drugs Duncan’s guards and sets their daggers in their place for Macbeth to carryout the deed. Although she had previously wished for the “gall” to murder the king herself, but contended her woman’s nature prevented her from the act -- even though she showed no signs of a womanly compassion -- she now reveals a modicum of empathy, saying, “Had he [Duncan] not resembled / My father as he slept, I had done ’t” (2.2.12-13).

Macbeth meets his wife upon completing the murder and relates to her the details of the grisly scene. He describes hearing the guards awake momentarily and then say their prayers as they fell back to sleep. He laments that he wanted to join them in saying “amen,” but the word stuck in his throat (2.2.28-32). Committing an unforgivable crime against nature, Macbeth’s conscience felt the strong desire for God’s blessing, but was prevented from even speaking the holy word. God has now abandoned him. He next makes another reference to sleep, saying he thought he heard a voice declare, “Macbeth does murder sleep” (2.2.35) and “Macbeth shall sleep no more” (2.2.42). It’s unclear if these words were actually spoken by Duncan or if Macbeth is hearing the voice of his guilty conscience warning him that it will deny him any peace in the future, although the latter is more likely.

In his distressed state, Macbeth has neglected to leave the daggers in the hands of the guards, but refuses to go back into the chamber. Lady Macbeth characteristically berates him for his childish fear, takes the daggers from him, and goes to place them where they need to lie in order to make the guards appear guilty of Macbeth’s crime. Doing so, her hands become bloody (literally and figuratively), thereby securing her role in the murder and making her and Macbeth true partners in crime. With their collaboration in the murder of Duncan, their partnership has reached its pinnacle. They now share responsibility in the deadly deed and are now bound by a tremendous trust in one another to keep their secret.

After the Murder

Their plan proved successful, gaining them the crown, but, as predicted, neither the new king nor queen sleeps peacefully now; their “desire is got without content” (3.2.5). However, Lady Macbeth suffers more from guilt while Macbeth suffers primarily from paranoia, fearing the loss of his crown. Consequently, they have different ideas about how they should proceed. Macbeth is solely focused on staying king by any means possible, murdering all those who he perceives as a threat. Lady Macbeth, on the other hand, desires no more murders and believes that it would be best to continue as they are so as to not raise any further suspicions about their role in Duncan’s death. Her guilty conscience weighs on her and in order to repress it, she wishes to put the memory of the evil deed out of her thoughts. She is able to conceal her inner turmoil and maintain an outward composure. Seeing her husband unable to act in the same manner, Lady Macbeth tries her old ways of swaying her husband’s thoughts with her words and urges her husband to stop dwelling on the events: “those thoughts which should indeed have died / With them they think on? Things without all remedy / Should be without regard: what’s done is done” (3.2.10-11). However, it appears that Lady Macbeth no longer holds the same power over her husband. Their relationship has been transformed into a more typical 17^th century marriage, with Macbeth now dominant and Lady Macbeth powerless.

When murdering Duncan, Macbeth became the ‘man’ Lady Macbeth dared him to be, with the same compassionless manly traits she wished for herself when summoning the spirits to “unsex” her. Their unbalanced gender roles from before the murder have reversed. Macbeth is now dominant, cruel, and uncompassionate and can no longer be manipulated by his wife. And not only does he no longer require the encouragement of his wife, he doesn’t even feel the need to tell her of his plans. Additionally, much like Lady Macbeth summoned spirits in Act 1, Macbeth now summons the evils of the night to assist him in Banquo’s demise. Lady Macbeth is shocked and frightened by his speech, but Macbeth assures her, “Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill” (3.3.55). The “illness” that Lady Macbeth saw her husband lacking, the wickedness to kill, Macbeth now possesses in spades. This illness has overtaken him like a disease, making him a murderous monster.

As Macbeth becomes more tyrannical, trying to outwardly control his unraveling world, Lady Macbeth withdraws inwards and succumbs to madness. As quickly as their partnership transformed to typical man and wife gender roles, it now collapses altogether. By the end of the play, when Macbeth is told of his wife’s death, he doesn’t even bother to ask how she died, but only regrets the timing of her death: “She should have died hereafter; / There would have been a time for such a word” (5.5.17-18). He has no time to think of his wife since he is too busy defending his crown. He then receives the “even-handed justice” he previously feared when he is killed by Macduff.

In conclusion, the act of murdering Duncan to satisfy their ambitions not only transforms the partnership of Macbeth and his wife, but also alters their individual natures. They may momentarily take on the time period’s typical gender roles of man and wife, but with Macbeth no longer dependent on Lady Macbeth, their relationship dissolves completely. Macbeth’s previously indecisive nature becomes consumed with a murderous, power-hungry paranoia, while Lady Macbeth’s uncompassionate cruelty gives way to a guilty conscience that drives her to madness. Their ambition and ruthlessness brings about not only the demise of Duncan, but of their own marriage as well, and consequently, leads to the deaths of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth.

“The Gaze of Desire” as Seen in Psycho and Repulsion

Repulsion, Roman Polanski’s 1965 black & white thriller about a sexually repressed killer, opens with a close-up of a motionless and unblinking eye. The shot is a direct reference to Psycho, Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960 black & white thriller, also about a sexually repressed killer. However, in Psycho‘s famous close-up, the eye belongs to Marion, a female victim of the film’s male killer, while Repulsion’s eye is that of Carol, its female killer. Hitchcock’s film begins with the audience identifying with Marion, the victim, before it transfers a tenuous identification to Norman, the killer. But from the opening shot of Repulsion, the audience is made to identify with Carol. Polanski alters the narrative perspective used in Psycho and structures the entirety of his film from the standpoint of the psychotic killer. In Psycho, Marion is the female victim of Norman’s male gaze of desire, a gaze which sparks his psychosis and leads him to murder. Conversely, in Repulsion, being the object of the male gaze is what sparks Carol’s murderous psychosis. Carol is both victim and killer in Polanski’s film.

Psycho and Repulsion use the male “gaze of desire” to arouse the repressed sexuality of their killers. This gaze objectifies its chosen subject and arouses sexual conflict in its owner, who is both desirous of and repulsed by sex. In Psycho, when Norman’s gaze of desire has been activated, it arouses the shameful sexual thoughts he struggles to repress. His sexual psychosis demands that he must kill the object as a way to eliminate the source of the shame. In Repulsion however, being the female object-of-the-gaze arouses the conflicting sexual thoughts in Carol, who then isolates herself from the world, locking herself into her apartment in order to avoid the men who gaze at her. Only when men get too close, forcing their way into her apartment, will she kill them as a way to eliminate the threat to her repressed sexuality.

A side-by-side comparison of specific scenes from Psycho and Repulsion reveals how the films’ respective killers react when the gaze of desire cracks their repression. The lack of dialogue in the scenes (the scene from Psycho has none and the scene from Repulsion only features two short lines from the secondary character) leaves room for many individual interpretations. However, Polanski and Hitchcock’s specific use of film form, and a close analysis of each character’s focus of their gaze within these scenes, strongly supports the “gaze of desire being” the activating force that spurs their killers’ conflict with their repressed sexuality and leads them to violence.

The scene from Psycho follows Norman and Marion’s dinner scene in his motel’s parlor where they shared a conversation about their “private traps.” We see Norman, now alone in the parlor, as he contemplates his decision to spy on Marion. The scene ends with Norman sitting slouched and conflicted at the kitchen table in his mother’s house. The scene from Repulsion begins with Carol sitting in a parked car with Colin, a young man who has been persistently pursuing her. He has just given her a ride home from her job at a beauty salon – a job that is devoid of men (helping her avoid the male gaze), but is all about the beautification of women for their role as the objects of male desire. The scene ends with Carol in her bathroom, vigorously brushing her teeth after fleeing in horror from Colin’s kiss.

Both scenes feature symbolic elements of mise-en-scène. Psycho‘s scene begins in a medium close-up of Norman surrounded by the stuffed birds in the parlor. An owl of prey, with its wide all-seeing eyes, looms high on the wall above him and represents the “Mother” part of Norman’s dual identity – the violent and controlling half of his personality. The dead and stuffed owl watches over Norman in the parlor, much like Mother (a dead and stuffed corpse) sits watching over the motel from her bedroom window, ready to attack when necessary. In contrast to the small and delicate birds, which are shown in the previous scene to represent Marion, the large pheasant in front of Norman in this scene represents the other half of his identity –timid and harmless. Norman stands caught between the two opposing forces of his fractured personality. Repulsion‘s scene begins with a wide shot from across the street of Carol’s building that contains the whole of Colin’s double-parked car, and features a street sign that reads, “one way street.” The message of the sign could be read several ways, but most strongly indicates Carol’s descent into madness, a direction that Colin will help push her towards with his persistent advances.

Both scenes start out with a very similar progression in their use of the male gaze of desire. In Psycho, as Norman silently stands next to the wall that separates him in his parlor from Marion in her cabin, he debates his next move, and turns his eyes towards the wall. His gaze is directed toward the thought of Marion on the other side, knowing that she must be undressing as she prepares for bed. Marion occupies her motel room with an assumption of privacy, but is under the control of Norman who has chosen this room for her, allowing him observe her like a caged bird.

In Repulsion, Colin and Carol sit in silence, looking straight ahead, not at each other, until a cut to a two shot from Carol’s front left side of the car shows Colin turn his head to direct his gaze at Carol. Debating his next move, Colin’s eyes move up and down several times, alternating their focus between Carol’s eyes and her lips. Carol, however, continues to stare blankly ahead, silent and motionless. Similar to Norman ensnaring Marion in a room of his motel, Colin has Carol captured within the net of his car. He is both literally and figuratively in the driver’s seat and has Carol within the confines of his possession. Seeing as she sits next to Colin in the open space of his convertible, Carol can have no real expectation of privacy, yet she still attempts to shut out Colin and maintain her personal space; by not looking at or talking to Colin, she denies his desire any encouragement. Additionally, in contrast to Marion, Carol appears able to escape from Colin if she chooses. Marion stands little chance of getting away from Norman.

Colin decides to take action and leans over into the personal space of Carol in an attempt to kiss her. Carol closes her eyes and turns her head slightly down and away from Colin to deflect his advance. Similarly in Psycho, after Norman has decided to spy on Marion, he takes action and removes the painting from the wall to reveal a peephole. He then leans in towards the hole and gazes through – violating the private space of Marion with his gaze of desire. He sees her in her undergarments, but she quickly slips on her robe and exits the frame. Norman’s aggressive gaze is denied its object in much the same way that Colin’s aggressive gaze took action and was denied its sexual advance on Carol. Colin now removes his gaze from Carol as he returns to his position on his side of the car and lights a cigarette – an oral substitute for the sex he wants, but is denied. While in Psycho, Norman removes his gaze from Marion and replaces the painting on the wall.

Thus far, the two scenes have shown more parallels between Norman and Colin’s actions, but there are similarities to be found between Norman and Carol as well; although, Carol’s are revealed more by her choice of inaction than action. She remains in the car, even though she knows Colin is sexually attracted to her and may make an advance towards her. And when he does, she doesn’t run, but remains seated in the car. As demonstrated throughout Polanski’s film, Carol is torn between desire and repulsion, much like Norman is in Psycho. Having repressed their sexuality for so long, neither character knows how to respond to their sexual desires when they surface. Carol may long for a relationship, like that of her sister and her boyfriend, but there is something she has repressed, some event or trauma, that causes her to find men and sex repellant. This inner turmoil brews beneath Carol’s stoic surface.

An additional connection between Norman and Carol arrives later in Repulsion, just prior to her first murder, and shows Polanski referencing Psycho‘s use of the peephole. When Colin arrives at Carol’s apartment and she refuses to let him in, Carol looks out her front door’s peephole to see Colin on the other side. In Psycho, Norman peers through a peephole with his gaze of desire, which leads him to murder Marion. Repulsion reverses the positions; Carol – who fears becoming the victim of the male aggressor – peers through a peephole at Colin with a gaze of repulsion. When Colin forces the door open and enters Carol’s apartment, he violates Carol’s private space. His intrusion leads Carol to bludgeon him to death with a candlestick. In her advanced psychotic state, Carol feels as threatened by Colin’s presence in her apartment as Marion must have felt by Norman/Mother’s presence in her bathroom. With the tables turned – the female victim of the male gaze being the psychotic killer – and with her resemblance to the Hitchcockian blonde, Carol could be seen as the psychotic reincarnation of a vengeful Marion. Carol enacts Marion’s retribution on the dominant and objectifying male gaze of desire.

Returning to the peephole scene in Psycho, Norman’s choice to stoke the fires of his sexual repression and spy on Marion as she undressed has raised his desire to alarming rates. He must take action to subvert it, or to eliminate it if possible. He turns his gaze in the direction of the house, towards Mother. “Mother” holds the solution. In the Repulsion scene, Carol decides to face her fears and engage with her own sexual repression. As Colin smokes his cigarette in the seat next to her, Carol’s rigid state begins to shift. She had resumed her forward-facing stare after Colin attempted to kiss her, but now turns her gaze downwards and then furtively glances towards Colin. She exhales slightly, causing her shoulders to drop from their tense and protective position. Colin now returns his gaze to Carol with a questioning look. Carol turns to answer his gaze. Colin’s face softens as he rests his cigarette in the ashtray (he may not need an oral substitute after all), smiles, and then leans forward for a second attempt at a kiss. Carol allows the kiss, but remains wooden. Polanski now cuts to a 180-degree reverse shot from Colin’s side of the car, revealing Carol’s blank and unblinking stare during the kiss. With no reciprocation from Carol, Colin disengages, but pauses to witness the empty eyes of Carol’s dead gaze as he leans back into his seat and faces forward.

As Colin pulls away, the sound of an approaching car becomes audible and grows louder during the next two cuts. First, Polanski cuts to a close-up of the ashtray in the car’s dashboard, which is positioned between a fuel gauge that registers empty and a temperature gauge whose dial rests on low. Colin takes his cigarette that burns there and stubs it out, symbolically stubbing out the smoldering fire of his own desire in an ashtray surrounded by gauges that register the low “fuel” and low “temperature” of Carol’s kiss. Next, Polanski cuts back to the previous shot, and we see Carol open the door to Colin’s car, causing it to nearly get hit by the passing car that has been audibly approaching. The driver slams on his brakes, honks his horn, and yells at Carol as she runs away, calling her a bitch – a verbal addition that adds to Carol feeling assaulted. Colin turns towards Carol and calls after her.

During this sequence, the prior calm and quiet of the scene, which featured only diegetic elements of traffic sounds from a nearby street, a barking dog, a couple pedestrians walking by, and a barely audible piano being played somewhere in the vicinity, is torn to shreds by a quick succession of violent sounds, which are joined by Chico Hamilton’s discordant, drum and cymbal heavy soundtrack. This audio design underscores the inner panic felt by Carol when the stimulation of her repressed sexuality finally cracks her outward stoicism. Carol runs away from the source of her sexual anxiety and heads to the safety of her apartment.

Back at the Bates Motel, Norman leaves the source of his sexual anxiety and runs home to (become) “Mother.” He determinedly exits the office with his jaw clenched, pauses in the doorway, and looks towards the house. Hitchcock positions the camera outside the office door to catch Norman’s exit. When Norman turns his head towards the house, the camera anticipates his next move and trucks ahead of Norman in the direction of the house, while panning slightly to stay focused on him. This distinct camera move seems to encourage Norman to take his next step by almost beckoning him to his mother. Hitchcock then cuts to a wide shot, looking up to the house, showing Norman’s ascent on the stairs as ominous clouds float by in the moon lit sky. Cutting to the interior of the house, we see Norman resolutely enter, only to hesitate at the bottom of the stairs. Shot from behind, Norman looks towards the top of the stairs as he places his hand on the banister, takes one step up and then suddenly stops. As he removes his hand, his head slowly drops down and his body seems to deflate. His confidence in his mission appears to have abandoned him. Placing one hand on the lower inside of the banister and stepping to the outside of the stairs, he boyishly swing-steps into the hallway and then places both hands into his pockets as he proceeds to the kitchen.

With all of this being shot from behind, Hitchcock denies us any reading of Norman’s facial expressions, but Anthony Perkins does an amazing job of conveying Norman’s emotions through the change in his body’s tension, posture and gait. We can see Norman change from a confident adult to an insecure child in the body language of Perkins. Entering the home, Norman seemed well on his way to becoming Mother until he reached the stairs. A possible awareness of violence resulting from telling/becoming “Mother” may have seeped into the “Norman” half of his consciousness and short-circuited his resolve. Torn between the violent and the harmless halves of his dual nature, Norman isolates himself in the kitchen and sits hunched over the table, fidgeting with a sugar dish. Shot from the hallway looking into the kitchen, Hitchcock uses the double internal framing of an outer passageway’s doorframe and the kitchen’s inner doorway to highlight the isolation, confinement, and immobility of Norman. Additionally, the dark curtains that hang on the wall behind him create a vertical bar pattern, resembling the bars of a cage and supplying further emphasis of Norman’s trapped nature. Polanski echoes elements of this shot for an earlier scene in Repulsion that features Carol sitting in her kitchen as she gazes at her reflection in a tea kettle; her distorted reflection working as a visual metaphor for Carol’s increasingly distorted view of herself and the world around her.

Norman’s house is both his refuge and his trap. It’s the only place where he and “Mother” can be safe to continue their bizarre existence, and where he can remain safe from the “cruel eyes” of the outside world. His home may be his cage, but he feels safe there. In Repulsion, Carol’s apartment is also her refuge, the place where she is able to avoid the gaze of desire that haunts her in the outside world. Although, as Polanski’s film progresses, Carol’s apartment will torment her as it begins to physically manifest symbolic elements of her psychosis – walls begin to crack, turn to clay, or sprout arms that grasp at her. Other hallucinations will include nightly sexual attacks by a man who forces his way into in her bedroom. Carol appears terrified and fights against his assaults, but is later shown putting on lipstick as she anticipates the rapist’s arrival – reinforcing the idea that she both desires and is frightened by sex.

Currently, at the moment in the film when Carol flees Colin’s car, she is both running to the safety of her apartment and seeking to rid herself of the disgusting taste left in her mouth from the kiss. Unlike Norman in Psycho, she doesn’t yet require the removal of the source of her aroused sexuality, but only seeks to remove any lasting reminder of the event that sparked it. She is seen violently wiping Colin’s kiss from her mouth as she rides the elevator to her floor. Like Norman’s walk to the stairs, Carol’s ascent in the elevator is shot from behind, and provides a disturbing perspective as we see her turn her head and forcefully use her whole hand and wrist to wipe her open mouth.

From the shot of Carol’s flight from the car, Polanski used an ellipsis when cutting straight to Carol in the elevator. The previous two shot of Carol and Colin before the kiss lasts over sixty seconds and comprises over half of the scene’s total running time. From the moment Carol lets Colin kiss her, the edits increase and correspond to Carol’s inner panic and frenzy. Using only one edit in the first half of the scene, Polanski now applies five edits in quick succession for the final forty-two seconds of the scene. Polanski employs a second ellipsis from the elevator shot to Carol in her bathroom. She is framed from a low angle with the camera close to the wall and slightly higher than the sink. In the foreground, Carol’s drinking glass rests on a wall shelf. In it are seen the toothbrush and razor of Carol’s sister’s boyfriend who often stays over at Carol and her sister’s apartment. Earlier in the film, Carol shows annoyance at this man’s use of her glass for his toiletries. There’s an obvious sexual metaphor in his placement of his dirty and private “phallic” items in her empty and pure glass. Of particular significance is the straight razor, a sharp and deadly object that threatens the fragility of her glass “vessel.” Carol vigorously brushes her teeth and then reaches for her glass. Just as she about to grasp the glass, her hand pauses as she spots the toothbrush and razor. She then grabs it and pours the offensive items into the trashcan. The camera follows the downward movement of her hand and captures Carol’s foot as she steps on the trashcan’s pedal to open the lid. The non-diegetic music ends sharply as the items land in the bin, allowing the clang of its closing lid to be heard in isolation, and signaling the end of the traumatic sequence – both for the audience and Carol. She has cleansed herself of the taste of the repulsive kiss and the sight of the phallic objects, all of which were reminders of her conflicted sexuality. Closing the lid on the trashcan, Carol metaphorically represses and closes up her desires. However, that won’t be the last sight of the razor. It will become Carol’s next weapon in her second murder. Like the knife Norman wields as “Mother” in Psycho, Polanski has chosen phallic objects as Carol’s instruments of punishment – first a candlestick and then a razor. The objects, as phallic symbols, represent man’s dominance and violation of women. Carol, threatened by the reality of the male penis, kills men with symbolic versions of what she fears. In effect, she removes their dominance and murders them with it.

Returning to where we began: the comparison of the close-up shots of Carol and Marion’s eyes, we can see that both eyes hold a similar dead gaze. Marion’s is truly dead, the victim of Norman’s aggressive gaze of desire. Carol’s is dead in a different sense. As a way to avoid knowledge of the male gaze that haunts her, and to avoid engagement with the gaze, as well as (in a broader sense) a way to deny the unsatisfying reality of her outer world, Carol represses her own vision. She turns her gaze inward, into the world of her mind. As the film progresses, Carol’s psychosis gives more and more power to her inner world until it takes over and begins to manifest itself in her outer world in the form of hallucinations.

What was the original cause of Carol’s sexual aversion that turned her mind inside-out and set her on the path to violence? Unlike Hitchcock, Polanski doesn’t try to explain Carol’s psychosis. Repulsion contains no psychiatrist, like the one found in Psycho, who appears in the film’s final moments to explain the killer’s madness to the audience. Polanski ends his film the same way it started, but in reverse. Repulsion begins with a zoom out from an extreme close-up of the adult Carol’s eye and ends with a zoom in on the young Carol’s eye. The closing shot is of an old family photo that shows Carol standing a few feet behind her seated family. The young Carol stands removed and detached from her family with her head tilted, gazing emotionlessly off into the distance. Polanski zooms into the photo until Carol’s eye fills the screen. It’s evident that Carol has possessed her same dead gaze as far back as childhood. Was she a victim of molestation? Did her father, in whose direction the young Carol faces, sexually abuse her? Polanski supplies no answers, but simply leaves you with young Carol’s eye, allowing you to speculate on the connection to her past and what those eyes may have seen that led her to madness.

In conclusion, Hitchcock and Polanski’s masterful command of film form adds layers of meaning to these scenes – scenes which are devoid of any dialogue that “tells” the viewer what they need to know. With intelligent choices in framing, editing, sound design, and mise-en-scène, the directors supply abundant information concerning Carol and Norman’s respective relationships to the “gaze of desire.” A side-by-side comparison of the specific scenes from Repulsion and Psycho reveals that, although both characters struggle to keep their sexuality repressed, both are torn between desire and repulsion. The scenes demonstrate how Carol and Norman tempt fate by engaging their desire – choosing to act on their longings, even though they know it will lead to the feelings that repulse them. Norman’s desire compels him to spy on Marion, while Carol allows her desire to surface long enough for a kiss from Colin – both actions have traumatic results. The scenes uncover how of Norman and Carol’s reaction to the “gaze of desire” results in the disturbance of their respective sexual repressions and leads them to violence.

Dark Humor, Serious Message: Thomas Hardy’s “Channel Firing”

Written by Thomas Hardy just prior to World War I, “Channel Firing” clearly expresses Hardy’s opinion that war is pointless, as well as his fear that man will never change – never learn from history. Hardy’s poem employs a simple rhyming structure and a casual, conversational manner to tell the story of dead men buried in a church that wake one night to the sounds of gunfire and think judgment day has arrived. God speaks to the dead men to assure them that it’s not judgment day, it’s only mankind preparing for war by firing guns in the channel. Instead of writing in a dire and depressing manner, which may limit the potential audience for a poem, Hardy employs dark humor and structures the poem in a way that makes it not only easy to read, but entertaining as well. Hardy’s serious message concerning the futility of war becomes accessible to a wide audience through his use of an easy rhyme, a simple narrative structure with informal language, and by way of his framing the story in a humorous manner.

“Channel Firing” is written in an uncomplicated iambic tetrameter with an ABAB rhyming pattern where the first and third lines rhyme as well as the second and fourth lines. This provides the poem with a steady and consistent rhythm, giving it a nice lyrical quality and making it very easy to read. The poem is a simple narrative, telling a story through descriptive action and character dialogue, and utilizes uncomplicated sentence structure with proper punctuation to plainly communicate the action and conversation of the narrative. The poem could be called a dramatic monologue since its skeleton narrator tells his and his neighboring dead’s story by addressing the living. This is evident in the first lines’ use of your and we: “The night your great guns, unawares, / Shook all our coffins as we lay” (1-2). Also evident in these opening lines, Hardy’s word choice is simple and informal and results in creating a relaxed conversational tone to the language that is both relatable and easily understood by the casual reader. Even the voice of God is given unadorned, informal speech; no “thou” or “thee” are to be found in his words. For example, God tells the awakened dead, “Just as before you went below; / The world is as it used to be” (11-12). The poem’s structure and language approximate that of a nursery rhyme, allowing its message to be easily accessible to the common man -- the same common man who may never have truly examined the futility of war.

Hardy’s decidedly comic framing of the narrative creates an almost lighthearted feel that contrasts with his serious message about the madness of mankind in their pursuit of war. Starting with the poem’s first bit of action, a loud noise that literally “wakes the dead,” Hardy shirks realism in favor of a comically absurd, macabre story. Images of skeletons sitting upright in their graves, of a mad and “drooling” cow, and of a wisecracking God provide ample dark humor to the poem. God’s remarks are indeed witty; he comments on how nations at war do no more for his sake (Christian love) than for the dead who are “helpless in such matters” (16) and that the warring men should be grateful that it’s not judgment day since his punishment for them would indeed be harsh. Humor is also found in the dead preacher’s remarks. He says he wasted his life preaching, since his parishioners learned nothing, and wishes he’d “stuck to pipes and beer” (32). The skeletons in their graves, and God himself, mock and laugh at the ignorance of man.

Yet within the comic images and witty remarks of “Channel Firing,” Hardy encloses his decidedly serious message of war being pointless. And with the final stanza, Hardy adopts a noticeably more somber approach, exploiting a sudden shift in tone to powerfully convey his fear that man may never learn from their savage history.

Again the guns disturbed the hour,

Roaring their readiness to avenge,

As far inland as Stourton Tower,

And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge (33-36).

The legendary civilizations of Stourton Tower, Camelot, and Stonehenge invoke three different periods in England’s history – one real, one mythical, and one mysterious – that appeal for a contemplation of war and its role in England’s history and national identity. Hardy seems to ask what cost is England willing to pay if it continues to avenge its national honor with deadly war in order to maintain its supposed heroic identity.

In conclusion, with Hardy’s choice of a simple structure and easy rhyme and his selection of a witty and darkly comic narrative filled with ghoulish imagery, “Channel Firing” becomes accessible to a wide and diverse audience. Hardy masterfully uses absurd and somewhat grisly humor to convey the poem’s serious and deeply felt message and, in doing so, creates a poem that is both entertaining and enlightening.

Kant’s Antidote to Idealism

Immanuel Kant’s doctrine of transcendental idealism contends that all we can know about external things lies in their appearances as they are presented to us and affect our sensibility. Initially, this may seem to be the same principle found in traditional idealism. However, unlike traditional idealists, Kant does not deny the existence of the external things. He believes that these objects are indeed real. However, we cannot know anything about their existence independent of us, how they may truly be in themselves; we can only know about their appearances, which are represented in us (Kant 40). The heart of the difference between Kant’s transcendental idealism and the traditional idealism of George Berkeley can be found in their opinion of space and time. Berkeley groups space in with experience. He considers it to be purely empirical, existing only in the world we perceive and known to us purely through experience (Kant 126). Kant, on the other hand, ascribes space and time to be a priori forms of pure intuition that lie inside of us, which allow for our perception of things, thereby creating their appearances (Kant 35). By first understanding Kant’s proof of space and time being a priori intuitions and how they relate to his distinction between appearances and things in themselves, we can proceed to contrast his views with those of Berkeley. When understanding their contrasting philosophies, it becomes clear that Kant’s transcendental idealism not only opposes Berkeley’s traditional idealism, but also, in the words of Kant, turns out to be its “proper antidote” (Kant 44).

Kant maintains that space and time are a priori intuitions that we possess and bring to objects to make their appearances possible (Kant 35). Space is not a part of the external object, but is a property of our intuition that allows for the possibility of perceiving appearances of objects outside us. It is this possession of “space in thought” that gives physical form to the external objects (Kant 39). Kant persuasively uses mathematics to prove space and time as being a priori forms of our sensibility that make empirical knowledge possible. Giving the spatial example of a line drawn to infinity, Kant correctly argues that this can exist only in our intuition and cannot be conclusively proven through experience (Kant 36). Kant claims that all mathematical concepts are first arrived at in intuition by use of space and time; spatial intuition allows for geometry, while temporal intuition forms arithmetic and its use of units (Kant 34-35). Furthermore, by adding new concepts, these a priori mathematical propositions can be amplified to become what Kant describes as synthetic a priori judgments. Giving the example of 7 + 5 = 12, the concept of 12 is not present in 7 + 5 but arrives through the use of intuition. The resulting 12 can also be proven empirically through the counting of objects (Kant 18-19). As Jon Perri concludes, Kant proves “that not only can we know something and synthesize new knowledge about it, but we can also see it demonstrated empirically” (Perri).

In Kant’s epistemology, cognition of the outside world is only made intelligible to us through intuition and how the objects of our perception affect us through our senses. Our understanding then applies thought and creates concepts, forming representations of the objects (Kant 156). He adamantly states, “our sensory representation is by no means a representation of things in themselves, but only of the way in which they appear to us” (Kant 38). What we know in experience, empirical knowledge, belongs merely to the sensible world of appearances. We cannot truly know the “thing in itself” as it really is since it is independent of our experience; we can only know about its appearance. However, Kant does believe we can gain some truth from appearances, but only as they relate to experience; any transcendent knowledge that reaches beyond the “boundaries of experience” is illusory (Kant 44).

According to Kant, traditional idealists like Berkeley, believing space to be cognized only through experience and perception, relegate appearances and experience to mere illusion since they do not see anything a priori related to them (Kant 126). They argue that nothing truly exists except for “thinking beings” and everything else are only mere appearances that have no true corresponding objects outside of the “thinking being” (Kant 40). However, when establishing space and time as a priori forms of our intuitions, Kant discovers that objects outside of the “thinking being” can correspond to inner concepts. The object’s representation affects our senses and we can identify it outside of us. It remains “unknown to us [as it is in itself] but is nonetheless real” (Kant 40). Kant cannot deny the existence of the corresponding objects, the things in themselves, for they underlie the appearances formed by intuitions of space and time. Therefore, the thing in itself “is not nullified, as with idealism, but is only shown through the senses [that] we cannot cognize it at all as it is in itself” (Kant 41). Berkeley’s subjective idealism gives truth only to the “thinking being” but denies any truth in experience, a very pessimistic and restricted view of life. Kant’s transcendental idealism stands in opposition and provides the optimistic “antidote” to traditional idealism by giving truth to experience.

Some have argued that Kant neglected to consider a third alternative regarding the properties of space and time, namely, that they belong both to our subjective intuition and to the objective reality of the things in themselves (Guyer). However, when adhering to Kant’s epistemology concerning external things, it would be impossible to prove the properties of space and time in the things in themselves given that they exist outside our “boundaries of experience.” Even if external things do share space and time, could a priori knowledge of these objective properties be proven? Isn’t it this a priori knowledge that is required? When using mathematics as clear evidence, Kant was able to prove that space and time are part of our intuition. The examination of their properties belonging to both subjective intuition and to external objects could be a possibility (something for future philosophers to tackle), but it does not unconditionally nullify Kant’s doctrines.

In conclusion, with his doctrine of transcendental idealism, Kant was able to establish that our cognition of external objects is dependent on our a priori intuitions of space and time. We bring this “space in thought” to external objects and give them form, creating the appearances of them that lead to empirical knowledge. Even though we can only have knowledge of their appearances and can never know the ‘things in themselves,” the objects are indeed real given that they underlie their appearances and correspond to our concepts of them. This distinction, that the objects underlying the appearances do exist, opposes the pure illusory nature of appearances in traditional idealism and provides its “antidote” by allowing for truth in experience.

Works Cited

Guyer, Paul. "Kant, Immanuel." Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy. London, 29 Feb.

2004. < http://www.rep.routledge.com/article/DB047SECT5>.

Kant, Immanuel. Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics With Selections fron the

Critique of Pure Reason. Ed. Gary Hatfield. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2004.

Perri, Jon. "Mathematics as a Response to Empricism" Weblog post. Revolutions in

Modern Philosophy. 11 September 2001. philo218fall2011.blogspot.com. 22 Oct

2011. < http://philo218fall2011.blogspot.com/2011/09/kants-analysis-of-pure-

mathematics-in.html>.

Unity & Duality, Mirrors & Shadows: Hitchcock’s “Psycho”

When Marion Crane first enters the office of the Bates Motel, before her physical body even enters the frame, the camera initially captures her in a mirror that is prominently placed on the wall opposite the lens. Norman Bates briskly enters behind her and for a split second is seen sharing the space in the mirror with Marion. The mirror reflection of Marion has already been established through earlier shots to represent the guilty immoral half of her duality. As she enters the office, the mirror “captures” this half of her, trapping it in the alternate realm of Norman’s world. His appearance in the mirror alongside Marion not only suggests that Norman also possesses a guilty immoral half, but also signifies that his and Marion’s immoral sides are now linked – trapped together in an unknown destiny.

Throughout “Psycho” Alfred Hitchcock cleverly uses mirrors and mirror images, as well as shadow images, to signify characters’ duplicity, false identities, distorted realities, and fractured personalities while exploring the film’s structural oppositions of unity and duality – suggesting that all people possess varying levels of both good and bad, of moral and immoral behavior. In this shot, the audience is aware of Marion’s duplicity, having already witnessed her theft of $40,000, but knows nothing yet of Norman’s duality. The fleeting moment when they are both reflected in the mirror is the film’s first hint that Norman may also have a dual nature. The scenes that follow this dual entrance of Marion into Norman’s dual world are important to the film not only in respect to their narrative content (Marion meeting Norman and their paths becoming linked), but are important for their use of film form. Hitchcock’s mise-en-scène, camera positioning, and editing techniques work to highlight the film’s structural opposition of unity and duality as shown through each characters’ mirror or shadow images, and, ultimately, through their mirroring of each other.

Following Marion into the office, Norman moves quickly to assume his spot behind the check-in counter. As he crosses the screen, his back momentarily obstructs the camera’s view, effectively blocking and then, with his continued movement, removing the sight of his reflected double and denying the audience any extended meditation on his duality. Once Marion and Norman settle into place on opposite sides of the counter, Marion’s double remains visible in the mirror to her left; a continual, uneasy reminder for the audience of her duplicitous behavior. However, Marion will not look into the mirror herself since she is unwilling or unable to face her immoral self.

To fully understand the film grammar of the mirror motif in “Psycho,” it’s important to examine how Hitchcock has used a variety of mirrors in the first thirty minutes of the film to establish Marion’s split from a unified to a dual identity. In the opening hotel scene, as she examines herself in a mirror after her illicit lunchtime meeting with Sam, the mirror is off camera. Marion’s identity begins in a position of relative unity. She hasn’t yet taken the immoral path of thievery, so Hitchcock does not utilize her mirror double at this point. The first time we are shown Marion’s mirror image, and the only time that we see her willingly look at her own double, occurs in Marion’s apartment. She gives herself a conflicted look, turns her gaze downward, and then turns to look at the envelope of cash resting on the bed behind her. Deciding that she will “take the money and run,” she turns her back on her mirror double and walks away from it – symbolically walking away from her moral self. Her unity is now visibly split. From this point on, Marion will be unable to confront the repressed reality that follows her via her mirror reflection, causing her worldview to distort and leading her to behave in increasingly irrational ways.

As night falls during her drive out of town, Marion inexplicably chooses to sleep in her car on the side of road, despite the fact that she’s a woman alone with $40,000 cash in her purse. The next morning, when a sunglasses wearing cop leans in her car window and questions her about there being “anything wrong,” Marion will be forced to face her reflection in the lenses of the law that confront her, but will deny the moral “wrong” of her dual identity reflected back at her and choose to continue on her irrational immoral path. Her muddled thinking next leads her to trade in her car, even though the cop has followed her and could easily track the new vehicle. Her grasp of reality has become distorted beyond rationality. In the bathroom of the car lot she encounters another mirror as she furtively takes from the stolen cash to buy the new car. Hitchcock frames the shot from a high angle with Marion’s profile to the mirror, creating a visual discomfort for the audience that corresponds to Marion’s distorted reality. The mirror reflection of her profile fractures her body into two halves and relates to her worsening moral behavior. She’s gone from taking the money to spending the money, causing a further crack in her personality that is symbolically represented by her fractured mirror double.

When she finally arrives at the Bates Motel and faces Norman in the motel office, the screen is split in two by a table lamp on the far side of the counter next to the wall mirror. Marion’s profile remains visible in the mirror on her side, but Norman’s side of the wall is bare except for a framed wall thermometer that seems to stick in his back as he comments to Marion, “Dirty night.” At this moment the thermometer appears to take Norman’s temperature; the image registering the heat of his desire for Marion while his words hint at his unclean thoughts and foreshadow the “dirty” events that will soon unfold. Marion signs in using an alias, strengthening her commitment to her dual nature by giving her deceitful half a name, a new false identity. She is now shown from a front side angle with the office window behind her. The window’s inner sheer white curtains frame Marion’s right side while its outer heavy black drapes frame her left – a visual reference to her dual (and dueling) moral and immoral sides. A folded newspaper is seen jutting from the top of her purse that sits on the counter next to her. Ironically, the word “Okay” is all that can be seen of the paper’s headline.

The check-in complete, Norman grabs Marion’s bags and leads her to her room: cabin 1. When he enters, he comments on the room being stuffy as he unbuttons his coat and opens the windows. The room may be stuffy from it’s infrequent use, but more likely it’s a result of Norman’s sexual desire uncomfortably heating up as he occupies the intimate space of a bedroom with Marion. Pausing outside the bathroom door after opening the windows, Norman highlights the room’s amenities to Marion. There is no mirror in this shot to reflect Norman, but his distinct shadow (an alternate kind of mirroring) falls on the wall to his side, creating a dark and mysterious alternate Norman. Hitchcock will employ this shadow double to expose Norman’s suppressed ulterior motives. As Norman leans forward to demonstrate the softness of the mattress, his shadow double’s face lands on a framed picture of a bird hung on the wall to the side of the bathroom door. This is the same bird picture that becomes unquestionably linked to Marion when it falls off the wall after her death. Seen here, the shadow double of Norman appears to almost kiss the bird as the physical Norman touches the mattress, suggesting his double’s immoral ulterior thoughts. Further importance is given this bird when Norman next motions to the “hangers in the closet” and causes his shadow double to point right to the bird picture. His dual shadow self may already desire to possess Marion like he possesses the stuffed birds that “hang” on the walls in his parlor.

Norman starts to leave, but stops in front of the open door and invites Marion to dinner up at the house. They stand facing one another in a composition that it very similar to the previous scene in the office, with Norman in profile on screen right and Marion in profile on screen left and, once more, with a mirror (this time a dresser mirror) in the background that, yet again, reflects Marion. As they talk, Hitchcock proceeds to cut back and forth between single shots of each that maintain their screen placement in exact opposite positions. Within the reverse composition of the shots, Norman and Marion now appear to be mirroring each other, implying a shared duplicity.

Starting when she first turned her back on her mirror double in her apartment, Marion has repressed and denied half of herself, causing her world to fracture and putting her on the path to meeting Norman, the epitome of repression and denial. On this journey, she’s been presented with many mirrors, many chances to face her dual nature. Norman now acts as a new kind of mirror for Marion – one final chance for her to see the reality of her fractured identity. Establishing Norman as being a reflection of Marion means that there’s some element of him that she possesses. Could Norman possess the reflection of herself that she will need to face in order to solve her own duality and unite her fractured identity? Will she recognize her own dual nature, as reflected in Norman’s struggle with his own fractured identity, in time to save herself from the increasingly duplicitous and potentially dangerous path she is on? Not yet, given that Marion’s reflection, her duality, remains visible on screen in the mirror within her frame. It remains there for her (to her side, ignored and unacknowledged) and is not yet reflected back to her in the mirror of Norman. Only later, in the parlor scene, will Marion see her refection in Norman and realize their sharing of “private traps.”

The reverse composition shots of Marion and Norman mirroring one another contain a noticeable difference in the framing of their backgrounds. Norman’s shot is devoid of a mirror. To the front of Norman the wall is bare, supplying no mirror reflection or shadow double to represent his duality. However, Norman is standing in front of the room’s open door and the room’s number, the number “1,” is visible between his profile, which occupies the left side of the door, and his shadow, which falls on the right side. Marion is positioned with her double trapped in the internal frame of the dresser mirror, but her physical self has no internal framing. This seems to imply that she still has some freedom, some choice between her dual personalities. In contrast, both Norman and his shadow double are trapped within the internal framing of the open door with a symbolic “1” between them. This “1” can be read to symbolize Norman’s mother as the one coming between the moral and immoral Norman, controlling them both. It can also be read to symbolize the unity of Norman’s duality, his mother and son personalities that will merge by the film’s end. Alternately, it can signify Norman as being “the one,” the murderer of the film.

Will Marion’s unity be restored by the film’s conclusion? Will Norman play a role in resolving her duality? Hitchcock may have already supplied the answers in the earlier shot where this essay began – Marion captured in the mirror with Norman.

As previously noted, when Norman crosses the screen, his back momentarily obstructs the camera’s view, effectively blocking and then, with his continued movement, removing the sight of his reflected double. However, a frame by frame examination reveals that Norman’s reflection has already stepped almost completely outside of the mirror’s frame before his back fully obstructs the camera’s view of the mirror. Therefore, his continued movement actually results in removing Marion’s mirror double from view. Her fractured double enters the mirror – Norman’s mirror, so his fractured world – and he joins her for moment before his other half wipes out the both of them. This split second of screen action foreshadows the relationship of the characters. Norman will bring Marion’s duality to a resolution, but she will skip becoming “1” and go straight to “0.”

The scenes where Marion and Norman first meet, and their dual natures first encounter and begin to mirror one another, provide wonderful examples of Hitchcock using mise-en-scène, camera set-ups, and editing to communicate the film’s themes of unity and duality, of false identity and fractured personality. His masterful use of film form provides valuable narrative content that reveals hidden depths of the characters and deepens the suspense of the story. Marion’s reoccurring mirror double creates a disquieting reminder of her duality and her continued path away from her moral self. Norman’s shadow double creates a sinister presence that suggests dangerous ulterior motives lie just below his outward nervous puppy dog manner. Their initial shared moment in the mirror tells us that they share a certain duplicitous nature and an uncertain destiny, while the eventual mirroring of Marion in Norman leads us to believe that he will somehow affect her duality and alter her course. After their initial meeting, the narrative appears to be taking another turn, but where it’s heading, we can’t be certain. The continued duality of Marion and the implied duality of Norman tell us that appearances can’t be trusted and nothing is as it seems.