by Colin Mcginn
Imagine if your dream life took another kind of form: instead of the visually based dreams you have now, they consisted of stories heard in the mind's ear—just as if someone were reading to you from a book. Suppose these auditory dreams had a certain degree of coherence and narrative force, as well as marked originality. It might be that your brain is producing them on the spot, with no planning or prior creative work. But surely it is far more likely that the stories were already formed before the reading began, stored in your brain for later enjoyment. This would be particularly true if the earlier parts of the story were clearly put there in anticipation of the later parts, thus indicating that the inner voice is not just making it up from moment to moment. In the same way, many dreams clearly proceed to a denouement that was decided from the outset—as with the typical anxiety dream that starts innocuously enough and then descends into fear and frustration. You are being sä up. The idea that a dream is a moment-by-moment affair, concocted at the very time of telling, is surely not credible. Even the most fluent and practiced extemporary storyteller must do his preparation, must have his store of plots and characters, his dialogue skills—it doesn't all happen at the moment of telling. In the same way, the storyteller embedded in our unconscious dream machinery doesn't just make it all up on the spot: the narratives have already been laid down long before they reach the stage of constituting an occurring dream.
ORIGINALITY
If we think of dream construction on the model of moviemaking, we gain a sense of the complexity involved and of the interrelated skills that need to be brought to bear. I never cease to be amazed by the power and ingenuity of the individual image in a dream. In the case of photographic images, the camera simply records what is in front of it; but in the case of dream images, there is often no such original— the image is entirely created. You can have a dream image of something you have never seen the like of before. The closest analogue to this in film production is computer-generated imagery—and think how costly and complex that is! The brain must synthesize a brand-new dream image from basic raw materials, just as the computer technician must build a complex image from pixels. The latter takes a lot of time and advanced technology; the brain does it seemingly effortlessly, but behind the scenes the process must be just as sophisticated. Nor should we underestimate the ingenuity involved in matching feeling to form in dreams—that finely tuned harmony between the emotion in the dream and its visual expression. How does the brain manage to produce something so perfectly designed to express a certain feeling? It's a mixture of science and art that must surely astound us. That bathroom in my dream, with its fine sculptures and utter filth, combined the high and the low in an intensely memorable way. Set design in movies aims for just such evocative realism, such objectified affect; dreams are splendidly replete with it.
In this chapter I have described the dream-making process in anthropomorphic terms, as if a little homunculus (or team of homunculi) sits in the head and makes decisions in the way people making a movie do. This is helpful from an expository point of view, but for my harder-headed readers let me make it clear that I do not suppose that the brain really contains any such little guys. For such readers I could speak of cognitive modules, executive functions, and computational procedures—it would amount to the same, but now in the language of cognitive psychology and computer science. The basic point is that dream making must be conceived as a complex, temporally extended, multifaceted procedure, not as a simple spontaneous upsurge at the moment of dreaming. The film analogy is intended to make this conception vivid by isolating the functions and phases that must be involved. For my less pedantic readers, then, I will say that the brain contains its own miniature Hollywood, complete with producers, directors, actors, technicians, designers, wardrobe people, and hair stylists—and maybe even agents and publicists. And what counts as a box-office hit? The recurrent dream, of course, with its many sequels, and the blockbuster dream that lodges forever in the memory. Then there are the dreams that come and go, making little impression on us—as it were, the B movies and schlock staples of the dream world. All of them, however, have to be produced with intelligence, planning, and forethought. No dream is a simple reflex occurrence.
Seven
CINEMA AND HUMAN NATURE
MOVIE POWER
I began this book by inquiring into the power that movies have over the viewer, their psychological impact. In effect, the whole book has been an attempt to answer this question, by linking movies to some of our most basic natural traits. First, films engage our perceptual faculties in fundamental ways, particularly through the visual stance of looking into(chapter 2). We are predominantly visual creatures, perceptually, and movies amply reward our inquiring eyes, our insatiable desire to look and see. Second, they answer to our metaphysical status as psychophysical beings, the mind-body nexus that constitutes our nature; in particular, they play upon our ambivalent relationship to our own body (chapter 3). The screen is an arena in which our spiritual nature is foregrounded, the limpid pool of the screen recapitulating the transparency of consciousness. Thirdly, movies delve into our dreaming self, that submerged and seething alter ego that emerges when the sun goes down (chapters 4, 5, and 6). In the cinema we relive the life of the dreaming self.
Movies thus tap into the dreaming aspect of human nature. Moreover, they improve upon our dream life. They give us the dreams we yearn for. It is a rare individual who is not fascinated by his own dreams, with their raw ability to reveal, their magical expressiveness; movies partake in this fascination. The impact of movies stems, then, at least in part, from the primal power of the dream. To be sure, the dream component of the movie experience is augmented by the special qualities of the medium, but the primary emotional hook originates in the evocation of the dream.
INFLUENCE
To what extent do dreams themselves reflect our experience with movies? Granted the affinity I have been insisting upon, might it not be that what you dream is influenced by the films you have seen? Indeed, if the influence is strong and pervasive enough, might this not account for the analogies I have cited? Might it not be the case that movies resemble dreams because our dreams have come to resemble movies! This, of course, would undermine the argument I have been making, since it would locate the admitted similarities between dreams and movies in the fact that dreams are shaped by movies. The dream theory would come out as true, but trivially so. So let us consider whether such a position—the movie theory of dreams, as we might call it— has any plausibility.
The idea is that our dreams are essentially cultural products, shaped in their nature by the artifacts of society—in particular, films. We have internalized the film medium to such an extent that we literally screen inner movies in our sleep—the very forms of our dreams are derived from the forms we encounter in the cinema. This thesis, in its extreme form, is surely wildly implausible. What were people's dreams like before film came along? Were there perhaps no dreams then? Did film impose a form on dreams that they never had before? Do your dreams change their basic nature once you start watching films? The answer to these questions is surely no. Can we really suppose that in the early days of film everyone dreamed in black-and-white, with no voices? Then, with the advent of color, did they start to dream in brighter and more varied hues? What color were their dreams before black-and-white film? Nor would it be at all plausible to suppose that some of the central properties of dreams I identified in chapter 4—such as sensory/ affective fusion and the blending of realism and fantasy— are by-products of cinema technology. These properties of dreams are surely ancient and hardwired. If an anthropologist told you that in some remote tribe people have dreams with sensory content but absolutely no emotional content, you would be rightly skeptical. Nor would you be very convinced if assured that in a saintly tribe somewhere safe from civilization no one ever dreams about himself. The suggestion that anxiety dreams began with industrialization would likewise leave you justifiably dubious.
We ar
e not taught to dream, any more than we are taught to reach puberty; dreaming arises in our minds because of an inbuilt genetic program. The case is similar to what Noam Chomsky has long argued with respect to language: humans are born with an innate capacity for language that unfolds as the child progresses.1 There are linguistic universal that transcend the particularities of culture, which are part of our biological nature. I suggest, similarly, that there are dream universals—such as sensory/affective fusion and egocentricity—that characterize all human dreamers. Dreaming is a matter of biology, not culture. Of course, as with language, the specific culture to which a person belongs contributes to the content of his or her dreams—you dream about what you have experienced and learned. What is innate and universal, however, are the basic structures of the dream, such as spatio-temporal discontinuity and object transformation. Eating is clearly an instinct, though what a person eats is determined by her culture; dreaming is an instinct too, though what a person dreams depends on her culture. So the fundamental structures of dreaming are not going to be affected by anyone's cultural exposure to movies or anything else. They are just not that plastic.
However, I don't wish to go to the opposite extreme and deny that movies make any contribution to our dream life. On the contrary, the marks of movies do sometimes show up in our dreams; and this is what we would expect if there exists a significant affinity between them. Dreams can contain what I shall call cinematic flourishes. For example, I recently had a dream about the death of a friend of mine, a distinguished philosopher I much admired. The dream was poignant in many ways, and appeared to suggest a wish to have spent more time with him, but it contained one very striking image: my friend's recently deceased body sitting in a chair, legs folded in contemplation, head lolling to one side, as if restfully As I approached the body I noticed, as if in close-up, a cigar in his right hand (though he did not smoke), which had burned down close to his lifeless hand and now supported an inch or so of teetering ash. This image, of the cigar lightly clasped in the fingers, still living, as it were, while its holder has expired, is a trope of the cinema that I have seen before. It really was as if the camera had swooped in close to reveal this poignant detail. This is what I mean by a cinematic flourish, a device from film that crops up in a dream. So I don't doubt that such local effects reflect the impact of cinema upon human dream life, and this kind of merging is exactly what the dream theory of movies would predict. What I doubt is the much more radical idea that the very architecture of dreams is simply a reflection of the movies we have seen.
CELEBRITY
We cannot avoid the question of celebrities. Actors appear in movies, playing characters; we see these actors, often again and again. Around the institution of film there have grown up ancillary institutions of celebrity, consisting of magazines, TV shows, online sites, and so on. Cults develop, fervor foments, and gods are born (and die). Two aspects of our relationship to celebrities stand out: a sense of familiarity and an attitude of worship. The attitude of worship reflects the manner in which stars are elevated to the status of Greek gods by the very medium in which they (or their flattened images) appear. But what accounts for the sense of familiarity, I think, is their assimilation to dream characters in the obscure recesses of our minds. For we dream about people we know. Friends and family are the primary dramatis personae of dreams—those with whom we are intimate. But if films approximate dreams, then it is as if we know the people who appear in them. If I am constantly seeing, say, Julia Roberts at the movies—getting close to her face, sensing her inward turmoil—I will automatically assign her to the cast of characters who populate my dreams: that is, my brain will tag her as an intimate. Why else is she in my dreams? Then I will have a strong impression that she and I are, well, close. Celebrity culture, then, trades upon this assimilation of film and dream, to create an impression (no doubt false) of intimacy. Who is a stalker stalking? Someone who features in her dreams, who else? If we end up literally dreaming about the star, then this line will become even further blurred. It will then be puzzling why the star does not know the fan: surely if I dream about someone, she should know who / am, because I typically dream about intimates of mine. The result is a confused and confusing state of mind.
As a footnote to this point, consider TV celebrities versus movie celebrities. TV celebrities seem to occupy a lower tier in the celebrity hierarchy than movie stars (though much higher than philosophy professors). The fantasies that surround them seem less potent. They are not deified in the same way. They seem, somehow, smaller, less radiant, less magnetic. We just don't feel the same connection to the stars of the small screen. Why? Because their medium doesn't mimic the dream in anything like the same way the film medium does. The absorption isn't there; the emotional hookup isn't anywhere near as pronounced; and the penetration into the psyche is nothing like as deep. Sure, TV celebrities have their ardent fans, but only movie stars reach the pantheon of the gods—which is really not so far removed from our own kitchen or living room. Movie stars are family. They have the supernatural sheen that rubs off from the movie screen, and the simple magnitude, but they are also part of our domestic dream life. They have a quotidian reality for us, as well as a godlike aura. The concept of a film star is thus confounding and crisscrossed—a mix of the sublime and the sublunary. (And what does the typical fan say, or scream, when confronted in the flesh by her film idol? Why, “Oh my god!” of course—as the mortal hand scrawls the illegible signature.) The movie star inspires a quite different constellation of attitudes and emotions from the TV star—the word itself seems out of place here.
PENETRATION
I have used the metaphor of penetration several times, to register the impact of movies on the mind. A well-known screenwriter of my acquaintance once remarked to me, in trying to express the particular power of cinema, that a good film “fucks you.” It gets to your most private parts and gives you a good going over. Watching a movie is like having sex, with the movie as the dominant partner. Now I don't know how far to go with this lively metaphor, but it certainly captures some of the intimacy of the film experience, as well as its intrusive nature. When you open your consciousness to a movie, you are letting it enter your private space, where your sensitivities and vulnerabilities are located. The experience may be very good, even ecstatic, or it may be pretty damn bad. In either case, you have been penetrated. The dream is very similar: it is common to wake from a powerful dream as if you have been recently ravished. The dream will penetrate to your innermost being, leaving you feeling worked over, spent, sometimes resentful. Feeling fucked by a dream is nothing out of the ordinary.
I think this is the right way to think about the question of censorship and movie ratings. I don't intend here to make legislative recommendations, only to shed light on the particular receptivity that constitutes movie watching. When a child watches a film, his or her mind is open and susceptible, as it is in dreams. And just as a bad dream can shake a child profoundly, so can a film, if it pushes the right (or the wrong) buttons. The movie The Ring is a profoundly disturbing and scary film, despite the lack of sex and violence in it, uncannily achieving the condition of intense nightmare. I have no doubt that it absolutely terrified many thousands of children (it scared me quite a bit and I don't scare easily), and I wouldn't be surprised if it caused many a nightmare. Is this a good thing to do to kids? Yet it wasn't even rated R. The fixation on sex and violence in our society lets through films that can have a much larger impact on the psyche. A horror film can really get inside a child's mind, merging with his worst nightmares, creating intense anxiety and fear. This, at least, ought to be recognized. I had some sleepless nights as a child after watching horror films on TV that were much tamer than what is available now. Critical faculties are down while watching an absorbing film, as they are in dreaming, and the impact on the mind is correspondingly amplified. A steady diet of nightmares sounds to me like a bad regime in which to raise children. In any case, we should be aware that watching
movies is a mentally invasive procedure. I have sometimes felt soiled by a film, as if I don't want it in my head and yet it is now in there {Lethal Weapon 3 stands out in this category). The power of film to penetrate and linger is not to be denied.
PROPAGANDA
The power of film in creating propaganda should be seen in the same light. The critical faculties are reduced, the mind entering a state of dreamlike susceptibility and suggestibility—this is fertile ground for persuasion of one kind or another. Not for nothing have dubious (or worse) regimes used cinema to influence the attitudes of its people, the Nazi propaganda film being the most obvious example. Unflattering stereotypes can easily gain traction in this state of diminished critical thought; they can pass unhindered into the receptive recesses of the mind. Reading isn't so effective, because you can't read at all with your higher mental faculties turned off. But the base self, common to dreams and films, can be swayed by the moving image far more easily. Not that this power of film cannot be used for the good; but we should recognize that it is, not to put too fine a point on it, a type of mind fucking. It is getting to the soft core of the self, without the carapace of critical intelligence to protect it. (Imagine if all you had to go on in forming your beliefs and attitudes about the world were the contents of your dreams: you would end up with some very strange convictions about reality.) Film propaganda works because of the power of film to penetrate to our least rational side—the side so ruthlessly exploited by the dream.
