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Posts Tagged ‘human freedom’

Treefingers: Robert Bresson

2013/07/15 4 comments

From this point forward, many if not all of my posts on film will be appearing on the Project Treefingers blog, along with posts from others. I have just posted some reflections on choice in the films of Robert Bresson, aptly titled Choice in Bresson.

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Creativity and Conditioning in Emerson’s “The American Scholar”

2013/07/08 1 comment

I want to continue looking at the way that Emerson navigates tensions internal to his work, this time looking at the relation between creativity (freedom, the creation of the new) and conditioning (custom, the influence of the past) in Emerson’s “The American Scholar”. As before, I am using the Library of America edition of his Essays and Lectures, pp. 51-71.

A bit into the oration, Emerson sets out a view of creativity:

Whatever talents may be, if the man create not, the pure efflux of the Deity is not his;—cinders and smoke there may be, but not yet flame. There are creative manners, there are creative actions, and creative words; manners, actions, words, that is, indicative of no custom or authority, but springing spontaneous from the mind’s own sense of good and fair. (58)

Creativity is, unsurprisingly, set apart from custom and authority, from doing things the same old way. But in this passage, Emerson makes this contrast extreme: creation is “indicative of no custom or authority”; it springs “spontaneous from the mind’s own sense of good and fair.” The vision of creation espoused here is creation ex nihilo, completely unconditioned by anything that came before. Of course, this is impossible—even the most dogged defender of the existence of free will believes in parenting, after all. Moreover, the passage comes in a section in which Emerson is discussing what influences the scholar. He has completed the section on how nature influences the scholar, and is now discussing the influence of past thought. Moreover, one proper way for past scholarship to influence the scholar is by providing inspiration for creation. Any such inspiration is likely to be indicative of custom and authority.

What Emerson is doing here is, I think, presenting an image of a pure ideal that is unattainable in our world, conditioned as it is, whose application to the decidedly non-ideal world he will show as much as say. Similarly to the distinct movements I isolated in my previous post on Emerson, there are passages in “The American Scholar” that show us how to understand this passage, despite not referring back to it explicitly. One such passage comes two pages later:

The world,—this shadow of the soul, or other me, lies wide around. Its attractions are the keys which unlock my thoughts and make me acquainted with myself. I run eagerly into this resounding tumult. I grasp the hands of those next me, and take my place in the ring to suffer and to work, taught by an instinct, that so shall the dumb abyss be vocal with speech. I pierce its order; I dissipate its fear; I dispose of it within the circuit of my expanding life. So much only of life as I know by experience, so much of the wilderness have I vanquished and planted, or so far have I extended my being, my dominion. I do not see how any man can afford, for the sake of his nerves and his nap, to spare any action in which he can partake. It is pearls and rubies to his discourse. Drudgery, calamity, exasperation, want, are instructors in eloquence and wisdom. The true scholar grudges every opportunity of action past by, as a loss of power. (60)

I count three indications of custom and authority in this paragraph, and there may be more. In the first sentence, there is a reference to Plato’s famous analogy of the cave and the shadows on its wall. The world is a shadow, as it is for Plato, but now the source of the shadows, the reality, is “the soul”. Plato’s analogy is thus subsumed under Emerson’s vision of self-reliance. Later, Emerson speaks of his dominion, referencing the biblical notion of human dominion over the earth. Again, in an old reference, Emerson finds himself by inventing a new, creative use of an old source. Finally, in the final sentence, comes a nod to Bacon’s famous “knowledge is power.” Emerson borrows Bacon’s inscription to show how his (Emerson’s) scholar is active, and not aloof and passive. All three quite distinct ideas are run together until they are currents in a single idea, Emerson’s. A page before, Emerson wrote, “one must be an inventor to read well.” Here, he exemplifies his point. The result of his reading of Plato, Bacon, and the Bible is his own invention. It is conditioned, but nonetheless creative.

This notion of unconditioned creativity carries in it another problem: the scholar will, it seems, be abstracted from the world of the moment. Emerson writes:

These being his functions, it becomes him to feel all confidence in himself, and to defer never to the popular cry. He and he only knows the world. The world of any moment is the merest appearance. Some great decorum, some fetish of a government, some ephemeral trade, or war, or man, is cried up by half mankind and cried down by the other half, as if all depended on this particular up or down. The odds are that the whole question is not worth the poorest thought which the scholar has lost in listening to the controversy. (64)

Here is the picture of the philosopher, his head in the clouds, disconnected from the world around. Emerson is here praising it, and it goes hand in hand with his view of unconditioned creativity. For all reliance is to be placed by the scholar in himself, and none in the popular cry—this harkens directly back to the notion of creation “springing spontaneous from the mind’s own sense of good and fair.” But we have already seen that that notion cannot work, and that in any case Emerson believes nothing of the sort. Why does it get reintroduced? For one thing, it provides a platform for Emerson to introduce a countervailing virtue. Here he has displayed freedom. But freedom is not the only virtue of self-trust. Bravery is another:

In self-trust, all the virtues are comprehended. Free should the scholar be,—free and brave. Free even to the definition of freedom, “without any hindrance that does not arise out of his own constitution.” Brave; for fear is a thing, which a scholar by his very function puts behind him. Fear always springs from ignorance. It is a shame to him if his tranquility, amid dangerous times, arise from the presumption, that, like children and women, his is a protected class; or if he seek a temporary peace by the diversion of his thoughts from politics or vexed questions, hiding his head like an ostrich in the flowering bushes, peeping into microscopes, and turning rhymes, as a boy whistles to keep his courage up. So is the danger a danger still; so is the fear worse. Manlike let him turn and face it. Let him look into its eye and search its nature, inspect its origin,—see the whelping of this lion,—which lies no great way back; he will then find in himself a perfect comprehension of its nature and extent; he will have made his hands meet on the other side, and can henceforth defy it, and pass on superior. (65)

From the standpoint of bravery, the very aloofness of the scholar comes to seem ostrich-like rather than noble. From the standpoint of bravery, the scholar who see himself as part of a privileged class is no scholar at all. The scholar engages with the world around him. Whatever purity, creation, and freedom there is to be found, is to be found in the world in all its details. (Emerson later celebrates the emergence of a literature that explores the common and the low, and not just the high and sublime.) The scholar requires the bravery to face that world, and to see through it. Now we can understand why freedom/creativity should be presented as so pure an ideal initially: it allows Emerson to invoke a second virtue, bravery, by which this freedom finds a place in the world, a place in which it can operate effectively.

Throughout all of this, there is a subtle and profound troping of Plato going on. Plato, of course, separated the shifting, unstable world of becoming from the stable, eternal world of the forms. The appearance-reality distinction was the distinction between fleeting becoming and eternal being. Emerson invokes this distinction heavily. The world of the moment is mere appearance; the brave scholar who faces it sees through it; and so on. Yet Emerson then does something marvelous with it: he turns it on his head. He writes:

Not he is great who can alter matter, but he who can alter my state of mind. They are the kings of the world who give the color of their present thought to all nature and all art, and persuade men by the cheerful serenity of their carrying the matter, that this thing which they do, is the apple which the ages have desired to pluck, now at last ripe, and inviting nations to the harvest. The great man makes the great thing. (65)

In Locke (who is mentioned and extolled earlier in the essay), we get a distinction between primary qualities (length, shape, etc.) and secondary qualities (color, taste, etc.). The former are taken to be more real; the latter less so. Even without Plato’s forms, the appearance-reality distinction survives, with primary qualities occupying the privileged side and secondary qualities the merely apparent face. But Emerson here shows his idealism for what it really is: it is a belief in the primary reality of “secondary qualities”. Great men alter not just matter (greatness is not a crude power to control), but can create new relations. They “give the color of their present thought to all nature and all art.” Emerson likens creative becoming to secondary qualities, those that exist only becomes minds exist to perceive them, and then sets these relations as the primary, poetic reality. Therein consists his idealism, and also his debt to and defiance of Plato (and Locke).

This then, is yet another example of the conditioned creativity that he extols, creativity that occurs in the world and has a definite history without which it would be impossible. That the essay so well exemplifies the position it sets out to defend is a substantial source of its brilliance. It also serves to reveal the essay’s major flaw. After setting out his view of the scholar in the abstract, Emerson closes the essay by relating his picture to specific conditions of the day. This transition makes sense within the context of the essay (Emerson has shown freedom; now he must show some bravery). More even than elsewhere in the essay, Emerson strives to be inspiring in his ending. This is sensible: it is a speech he gave before Phi Beta Kappa, and that context is one in which inspiring endings are appropriate. Of course, this is a custom, and so is ripe for Emerson to exemplify yet again the creativity he has championed. Sadly, he ends up lapsing into the naïve view that he worked so hard to qualify and deepen in the ways I discussed above. It sounds bold, but that is mere appearance: in reality, it is a faltering step, too conditioned, not free enough.

But this misstep mars the essay only slightly: much more than that, it reveals the altitude climbed earlier.

Two Sedation Scenes

2013/06/21 1 comment

Continuing my run of posts reflecting upon my recent viewing of John Cassavetes’ A Woman Under the Influence, I would now like to think about the sedative scene in Cassavetes’ film as it relates to the sedative scene in Tarkovsky’s The Sacrifice.

I have already written about the way the sedation scene in Andrei Tarkovsky’s The Sacrifice forces the viewer to sin. We, the viewers, are made so uncomfortable by the Alexander’s wife’s horrible, panicked yelling that we long for nothing more desperately than for her to shut up, and so we are gratified when Victor finally gives her the sedative. We get so swept up in the unpleasantness of the moment that we come to desire what, in hindsight, is not at all what we should desire. The wife’s response to the threat of nuclear warfare is, in its own way, entirely rational and understandable: the news is horrible, and too much for her. Does this mean she needs to be sedated, for her own good? Or is it simply that we project our own desires as her needs so that we may think of our selfishness as noble? In this case, I think it is the latter.

In the Tarkovsky scene, the object of our attention (the hysterical wife) is a relatively peripheral character, though there are so few characters that none is of little importance. Her breakdown and sedation serves to exemplify the concept of sin as that which is unnecessary, given voice (literally) earlier in the film—it is only in this scene that the impact of those words is fully felt. This scene, if we realize how it has made us sin, prepares us for Alexander’s sacrifice to follow. In this way, the scene marks a turning point in the film: we are brought to an awareness of our own wretchedness just in time to sympathize with Alexander as he confesses his own wretchedness to God.

The scene in A Woman Under the Influence is similarly uncomfortable, and similarly marks a crucial turning point in the film, yet it works quite differently from the scene in Tarkovsky’s film. The primary source of discomfort here is not Mabel, who is being sedated, but Margaret, whose repeated calls for Dr. Zepp to “do something” (because Mabel is “crazy”) are nauseating, a source of physical revulsion. But it is also uncomfortable for a second reason, which may become apparent only on a second viewing: we feel the injustice of what is being done to Mabel. We come to see just how cornered she is, and for no justifiable reason. We are made uncomfortable in a new way: we see the sick overrunning the healthy. (A sort of Nietzschean disgust.)

When we next see Mabel again, she is traumatized, having been locked away for six months in a place whose horrors of which we get a glimpse before, of course, Mabel is made to shut up, since acknowledging those horrors would be too “impolite” for a party. In what follows, we get the sense that the distinction between Mabel’s treatment in the asylum and her treatment at home is a difference only in degree, and perhaps not a great degree at that. The sedative scene thus marks a decisive turn in Mabel’s life: her being sedated marks the moment at which the world finally succeeds in breaking her, in which insanity finally prevails.

By contrast, the sedative scene in The Sacrifice works to prime the viewer, to make us more sympathetic to Alexander’s apparently “mad” actions to follow. By forcing us to sin and making us aware of our own wretchedness, Tarkovsky brings us closer to Alexander, puts us in a position to understand him, if only marginally. But, in a way, beyond this difference, the sedative scene in A Woman Under the Influence plays a similar role: if there is one scene in the film that proves that Mabel is not crazy, it is the sedative scene.

Sedation is, in the worlds at large of both films, seen as a way of dealing with insanity, whether that insanity is temporary or a lasting condition. But, in both films, the scenes in which sedation plays a role are scenes in which we are prepared or made to realize that what we would normally take for insanity is perhaps the height of human freedom. Tarkovsky and Cassavetes have very different visions of what that freedom is, but they share this: sedation will lead us astray.

Science and Art on Human Freedom

2013/06/21 9 comments

The general tenor of the “free will” debate, both today and in days past, revolves around issues of determinism and causality: if our actions are entirely the result of physical, insensate matter, then it seems we cannot be said to make free choices. Since moral responsibility is further said to depend on just this ability to make free choices, quite a bit is at stake. To save freedom, we apparently need to posit some mysterious causal influence that is not physical, but instead stems from our will, conceived as a thing. Or we can renounce freedom. (Or we can find some tepid compatibilist position, as most philosophers do.) These seem to exhaust our options. Physics and neuroscience have, as it were, taken human freedom hostage.

Philosophically, there is much to quibble with in this picture. For instance, one could argue (and I would argue) that it is only a quite mistaken analysis of phrases like “I did X, but I could have acted differently” that can make moral responsibility depend upon the results of various scientific disciplines. (I say the analysis is mistaken in that it is untrue to our actual use of such phrases, which are not sensitive to the results of science in the relevant ways.) One might also wonder what it means to say the universe is deterministic. I think I know what it means for a scientific theory to be deterministic, but I am quite sure I have no idea what it means for the universe itself to be deterministic. And, in any case, I think it’s clear determinism isn’t the real issue. Fundamental physical theory is no longer deterministic, but that’s no great relief for anybody. Indeterministic theories may still account for behavior (of particles or people). What really drives the debate is the contention on one side (taken as threatening by the other) that scientific theories, deterministic or not, are sufficient to fully account for our behavior. (We might ask what it means to “fully account for” something, which seems suspiciously related to the suspicious notion of a “complete” theory, but carrying out this line of inquiry would distract me from my real goals.)

This seems to be the heart of the issue. Saving human freedom seems to require positing a special region of the universe not open to empirical study, and that is surely a losing battle. But even if it weren’t a losing battle, I think the battle is still lost. If there is supposed to be this special region is that there is some non-physical causal force, then we should start asking of this force: well, is it deterministic, or indeterministic, or random? None of the options seem friendly to freedom. If this battleground is where human freedom is to be saved, the battleground of the will as a causal force, then the battle seems lost from the outset.

Since I think the notion of human freedom is a rich notion worth saving, I face the question of where it should actually be located. In my previous post, on John Cassavetes’ A Woman Under the Influence, I spoke of Mabel Longhetti’s “freedom”, the flip side of which was her instability. I want to use that discussion as a jumping off point for exploring why I think art is especially apt to address questions of human freedom and to work out what this means about how we ought to relate to works of art.

In A Woman Under the Influence, Mabel’s freedom lies in her relation to social conventions and clichés. Against them, she violates personal reaction bubbles, invites strangers to dance with her, and lets her daughter run naked around male children (I estimate the various kids’ ages as falling in the 8-12 range). Her violation of these norms—through a purity of ethical vision made possible only by her ignorance of the content of said norms—makes her seem crazy to others: Margaret, Dr. Zepp, etc. What is really going on, however, is that her freedom has an unhealthy side to it: she does not know how to live in a world where such norms are a driving force, and she is rendered unstable by it. That is why she breaks down when Dr. Zepp arrives to take her to the asylum: she is terrified and cannot handle herself.

Because this freedom has its unhealthy side, the natural question to ask is whether this same freedom is attainable in a healthful manner. Mabel’s freedom unsuits her for the actual world—must this sort of freedom always have this effect? And if it does, could we want freedom? (For what it’s worth, I think we could: Mabel’s position seems to me infinitely more desirable than Margaret’s.) What causes her instability is her inability to understand and respect (which does not mean obey) these norms. Her freedom makes no use of them, and they end up confronting her only as a mysterious and terrifying other.

The question whether healthy freedom is attainable thus becomes: can such norms be respected and understood without sacrificing freedom altogether? In the film, we see Nick (Mabel’s wife) struggling with just this. He respects these norms too much, is too concerned about his image and about how other people will misunderstand Mabel’s actions (which he claims, believably, to understand). This limits his freedom and poisons (non-lethally, though the threat is there) his relationship with Mabel. But Nick does have his moments of healthful freedom, namely when he is alone with Mabel. But they are only moments, and come, I wager, from his interactions with Mabel and not from himself. In the world of A Woman Under the Influence, then, such healthful freedom seems to be always under threat.

Looking outside of the film, I think we find in Nietzsche (a scathing critic of the notion of freedom of the will) and Emerson a model for such healthful freedom. In Emerson we find the person who can trope such conventions, twisting them to her own ends. Each such act of troping involves creative freedom that threatens to regress into cliché, and must itself be troped if it isn’t to become repressive. In Nietzsche, we are given the camel-lion-child progression: first one bears the heavy burden of established values, then one throws them off, and finally the child creates new values. Crucial to this is the first phase, in which such values are not only understood and respected, but obeyed. The lion phase undoes the obedience, but the understanding and respect remain, no longer yielding laws to be obeyed, but instead furnishing resources for the child’s re-valuation of all values. Read in an Emersonian light, these three metamorphoses no longer become distinct phases through which one passes, each stage superseding the last, but rather a cycle. Each revaluation threatens to become a load or burden of its own, which needs to be thrown off in its own right. Childhood passes right back into camelhood.

(Aside: I will not attempt here to argue that this is Nietzsche’s understanding of the three metamorphoses. I will note only that they are presented in part one of Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Since the dramatic movement of that book significantly involves Zarathustra coming to reinterpret or revalue his early speeches and behavior, my interpretation is not ruled out by the presentation of the three metamorphoses as successive stages. Of course, close reading would be needed to establish that my interpretation is a viable one. I will also say, defensively I admit, that the value of such a cyclic conception of the three metamorphoses does not depend on it being found in Nietzsche.)

In Cassavetes, Nietzsche, and Emerson, we see an exploration of freedom as standing opposed, not to determinism, but to repression. Cassavetes is involved in the creation of scenarios that reveal the relevant differences between freedom and repression. Nietzsche and Emerson, for their part, create the concepts (circles, Over-soul, Genius, Übermensch, gay science, eternal recurrence, camel-lion-child, etc.) that allow us to recognize freedom and repression of this sort as they confront us. These are not scientific experiments and concepts, helpful in prediction and control of human behavior, but aesthetic experiments and philosophical concepts that allow us to go on in healthier ways.

I certainly do not mean to claim that, between them, Nietzsche, Emerson, and Cassavetes have exhausted the question of human freedom. I use them as examples because they show that there is an interesting notion of human freedom that has nothing whatsoever to do with freedom of the will, where the opposition is not between freedom and causation but between freedom and repression. I also think they reveal a sense of freedom whose fate is not beholden to the results of science. Scientific questions are, by and large, irrelevant to the question of Mabel’s freedom and its pitfalls. Of course, scientific inquiry may here play a subservient role as handmaiden to the arts and the philosophies, but it too provides resources to be used much more than answers to the core questions.

I think this allows us to see art as, in one of its functions, as a form of serious inquiry. Of course, this is not its only function, but it is an important one, and one that should be taken seriously. David Foster Wallace once said that art is about locating and resuscitating the possibilities for being alive and human in dark times (if times are dark). This was a crucial task before the rise of modern science, and remains a crucial task after its rise. Of course, the rise of modern science changes the possibilities in all sorts of ways, and a responsible art will explore these ways and locate the new possibilities that have arisen and the old possibilities that have been closed off. Because the landscape of such possibilities is perpetually changing, the task itself is perpetual. If art, unlike science, does not progress, we may perhaps diagnose this difference as resulting not from the ineliminable subjectivity of art, but from the fact that, in the domain of art, unlike science, the truth changes over time.

Is Mabel Longhetti Crazy?

2013/06/20 4 comments

The title question and my negative answer shall, I hope, serve as a springboard for close in­vestigation of certain aspects of Cassavetes’ A Woman Under the Influence. It is thus less a thesis than an organizing principle. Since my thesis is not original, I take this as a virtue.

The world certainly believes Mabel is crazy, with perhaps the exception of her husband, Nick (and yet he is the one who calls Dr. Zepp to take her to the nuthouse—more on this later). Thus it has her locked up, treads lightly around her when she is free, and refuses all of her uncomfortable advances. But she is not crazy.

She can be interpreted as crazy because of these uncomfortable advances. For instance, at the beginning of the film, she interacts with one of her husband’s coworkers in a way that, for most people, would constitute flirting. Her husband is right there, as are many other of his coworkers. The night before, she took a man (not her husband) home, then kicked him out screaming in the morning, asking where her kids are (her mother took them the prior day so that she could have time alone with her husband).

There are two other scenes where she might seem crazy. One is the sedative scene, a scene every bit as hard to watch as the sedative scene in Tarkovsky’s The Sacrifice. There, she acts like a deranged, caged animal, terrified and frightened, while the doctor first tries to talk to her, then give her a sedative. She makes what might be taken as paranoid accusations about her mother-in-law keeping her from her kids. The second is the scene, after she is released from the “nuthouse”, in which she tries to commit suicide after a welcome home party in which she becomes increasingly uncomfortable.

Why does she seem crazy? She is clearly aloof from social conventions. In the scene at dinner, early in the film, she gets very close to Billy, violating the norms of reaction bubbles (link to an elucidatory image). Her husband yells at her to stop, and explains later that she didn’t do anything wrong, but that Billy would get the wrong idea. Similarly, just prior to the sedative scene, some of her kids’ friends come over, and Mabel tries to get their father (Harold) to dance. After he refuses, the kids go inside for a costume party, and we end up with two naked young girls running around the house, to the horror of Harold and, when they return, Nick and his mother. (It is this incident that prompts Nick to call Dr. Zepp.) Once again, she has violated social norms.

It is this aloofness from social convention that makes her seem crazy. People can only understand her actions by fitting them to some pre-established social role. Thus Garson (the man she brings home) tries to understand whether she is getting back at her husband using him (or some related alternative). Nick makes Mabel sit down at dinner (when she is getting too close to Billy) because Nick believes Billy will only be able to interpret her actions by fitting them to the social norms of personal space: if Mabel is getting into Billy’s personal and intimate space (see the image above), it must (so he will think) be because she is interested in him romantically, is flirting with him. (Of course she is interested in him, but not like that.)

Such aloofness is not craziness, however. Moreover, Mabel is painfully aware of this, and is constantly asking her husband what she is supposed to, worrying whether she did something wrong, etc. She tries to fit in, to conform to the norms. She fails, and so she is taken as crazy. Yet she is really just trying to get other people to react in a spontaneous, non-socially determined way with her. She wants Garson, Harold, Billy, to dance with her—a request each refuses (except Billy—Nick refuses for him).

But what about the sedative scene? Surely there she has a nervous breakdown, at least. If we closely attend to what happens, though, this interpretation falls apart. She has just been “caught” with the two naked girls, first by Harold, then by Nick and Margaret (his mother). We must understand that up to this point she has done nothing crazy. She has simply done something not socially allowed, though she can see no harm in it. (This for the simple reason that, beyond the social convention, there is no harm in it. In a way, Mabel can be said to have a very pure ethical vision, untainted by the moralizing of social norms.) Nick freaks out, calls the doctor, and freaks out some more, all while his mother is even worse. He yells at Mabel, who is for the most part meek, though clearly upset.

Then Dr. Zepp arrives. From that point on, Mabel more and more starts acting like a caged animal. You might attribute this to her having a nervous breakdown, but there is no need to do so. For her caged-animal-like behavior is fully explained by her literally being a caged animal. She is, in more ways than one, backed into a corner, terrified. So she lashes out. The behavior that ultimately gets her taken away is, in fact, the most sensible, understandable, reasonable, and justified behavior in the entire film: a caged animal acts like a caged animal. (Perhaps she would have gotten out of it by acting “civilized”, responding calmly and “rationally”, but then civilization is precisely what is treating her so savagely. Why should she sell her soul to the devil?)

As for the attempted suicide scene, it too is not at all crazy. Mabel has just come home from the asylum to a party with her family. (Nick wanted a much larger party, but Margaret kicked everybody else out right before Mabel arrived.) She tries to joke, but is clearly uncomfortable, much less free than before—her experience has not left her. At one point she starts recounting parts of it, but is told to stop. Eventually, she can no longer take it, and asks everyone to leave. Margaret, who has so far been quite kind and thoughtful, so it seems, refuses to leave because “I came here for a party.” This immediately reveals that her apparent concern and sympathy earlier was not genuine, but simply part of an attempt to fill the social role of caring mother-in-law. So no one leaves. Mabel starts acting out more and more, until finally it is too much, and people leave. (Does Mabel do this consciously? Perhaps, but then she would have to know a good deal about social roles that she did not before—a chilling thought.)

Alone with Nick, she reprises the dying swan dance from earlier in the film. Before, she and the kids (hers and Harold’s) had performed it in a scene that exemplifies Mabel’s freedom. (It also exemplifies how kids, unlike everyone else, are open to her freedom. In one of the more tragically hilarious scenes in the film, Harold tells Mabel that he worries about leaving his kids with her!) Here, however, it takes on a new resonance: she is the dying swan, and soon after she tries to commit suicide, though Nick stops her. I think it should be clear that it is the hostility of the world, a world that hates her freedom (if patriotic Americans want to know what hatred of freedom is, this film provides a better example than any foreign country), that drives her to such an extreme. It is certainly not an illness.

So Mabel is not crazy. Yet neither is she fully healthy. She is free, unconstrained (internally) by social norms (which is why the external constraints society imposes on her are so traumatic), but her freedom is not a balanced freedom, not stable. Why is this? Precisely because of her aloofness. Instead of being able to trope social norms (e.g. in an Emersonian way), twisting them to her own ends, modifying them, exploring their possibilities, she just hovers above them. Her purity (in the sense described above) is on the one hand admirable, but on the other hand means that she is not well suited to survive in a socially constrained world (and there is no other world to survive in, at least not any other such world with dance partners). Instead of dancing around and on social conventions, she dances entirely outside them. Hence she is unstable. Hence the world is traumatic for her.

The difference between instability and insanity is not merely verbal. It is crucial to understanding the film. If Mabel is crazy, insane, then she needs paternalistic care. She needs Dr. Zepp’s sedative, needs her stay in the asylum. If Mabel is merely unstable, and her instability is the flip side of her freedom, however, what she needs is exactly the opposite of paternalistic care. If she is unstable, paternalistic care is precisely what would break her—which is exactly what happens in the film. Only when she is “offered” (ha!) “help” does she have a nervous breakdown, and only from the perspective of those trying to help can it be characterized as a breakdown. If she is unstable, it is the incessant paternalism of the world that is crazy.

It is the world, not Mabel that is insane. Mabel’s apparent “insanity” is simply her inability to survive in such an insane world, try as she might.