Films that are sympathetic toward mentally disordered characters can have a potentially humanizing effect. In A Beautiful Mind, John Nash is presented as having positive qualities that invite the audience to like or even identify with his struggle, despite his sometimes erratic behavior. Films can also encourage viewers to reflect on how they may share some of the characteristics of so-called madness (i.e., psychological symptoms). For example, normal nightly dreams may appear similar to hallucinations (both of which feature unreal sensory perceptions), and both are similar to surreal movies. The tendency to see similarities between various domains of human experience (including such everyday phenomena as dreams and symptoms of mental illness like hallucinations) forms what has been termed a “formal parallel.”50
When we look at cinematic depictions of mental illness in this light, even extreme characterizations such as Norman Bates or the Joker are potentially revealing. Why do these characters fascinate us? Could it be that they are not only different from the average person, but that we also recognize something about them that is uncomfortably familiar? I don't view Norman Bates as a realistic patient, yet as a film character, he arouses deep anxiety and sympathy and speaks to my fears about a loss of rationality, self-control, and meaning. And while the Joker is an atrociously inaccurate depiction of mental illness, there is nevertheless something we can learn from him about the appeal of chaos.
Attention has also been given to the impact of film representations of psychologists and other mental health professionals. There is, however, one important distinction between this group and the mentally ill—we belong to a professional guild and we make a decent living. Thus, an argument could be made that health professionals need to be more thick-skinned and be prepared to put up with uncomplimentary depictions (the price of having social prestige and power).
Media representations of psychologists have actually been debated among psychologists themselves. In the late 1990s, the monthly newsletter for the American Psychological Association announced the formation of MediaWatch, a subcommittee devoted to monitoring and engaging in public relations issues around media representations of psychologists. The inappropriate behavior of movie psychologists in The Prince of Tides and Good Will Hunting were cited.51 A few months later, a practicing psychologist responded with a letter entitled “Political Correctness Run Amok.” He argued that MediaWatch was an indication of psychology's “continuing insecurity as a profession.”52 As a lover of such “psychologically incorrect” films as Psycho and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, I partly agreed with the letter writer. Yet having joined MediaWatch, I thought the group had a legitimate purpose. While psychologists certainly need to criticize/laugh at themselves, exaggerated depictions pose a danger to public perceptions of the profession.
Psychological treatment, particularly psychotherapy, is particularly vulnerable to misrepresentation. Psychotherapy sometimes has a mysterious aura, in part related to doctor-patient confidentiality, one of the bedrocks of competent counseling. Without the promise of confidentiality, clients would justifiably worry that their therapists might reveal their private thoughts, leading to a reluctance to share sensitive information. One of the unintended consequences of psychological confidentiality, however, is that it prevents most people from directly witnessing the counseling process. Movies and other media thus become the only way that the general public can get a glimpse into the private domain of psychotherapy. Even sophisticated viewers who are wise enough not to believe everything they see may find their understanding is affected in the absence of any other picture of therapy.
Even seemingly positive depictions of mental health treatment can be problematic. Several authors have pointed out the prevalence of the cathartic cure in cinematic psychotherapy—a dramatic moment of blinding insight when “the secret” is revealed, and the client, no matter how disturbed, is suddenly relieved of his or her suffering.53 I was awed by this phenomenon when I first saw The Three Faces of Eve in my high school psychology class; in the climactic scene, Eve (Joanne Woodward) is cured of multiple personality disorder through the revelation that her symptoms began when she was forced to kiss her grandmother's corpse at the wake. Other cathartic cures are featured in The Prince of Tides, Ordinary People, and Good Will Hunting. These catharses are dramatically satisfying as they symbolically pull together various threads and wrap them up in a gratifying conclusion. Unfortunately, that is not the way therapy generally works. Instantaneous cures of severe problems are almost nonexistent. Therapeutic progress is usually slow and much less dramatic.
Such inaccuracies raise the possibility that people may avoid treatment altogether. One study demonstrated that adolescents who were “vulnerable” (experiencing depressive or suicidal symptoms) were more likely to believe that treatment would be ineffective after seeing films like The Virgin Suicides, Girl, Interrupted, and A Beautiful Mind. This finding is particularly concerning since these films are at least marginally sympathetic to psychological treatment and certainly not the worst depictions of mental health treatment available.54
Another study compared the perspectives of people who had seen a particular film to those of people who had not. The film was Lovesick, a 1980s romantic comedy starring Dudley Moore as Dr Saul Benjamin, a psychiatrist who decides to pursue a relationship with one of his patients. This romantic decision liberates him and inspires him to give up his lucrative psychoanalytic practice in order to help the poor. Participants who saw the film were found to be more accepting of a sexual relationship between a therapist and a client than participants who did not see it. As a romantic comedy, the narrative success of the film depends on convincing the audience that true love trumps all other considerations, including professional ethics. However, spreading the attitude that a romantic relationship is possible between therapist and client is not in the public good. Potential clients could either be horrified by this possibility and avoid therapy, or be enticed to seek out therapy for all the wrong reasons.55
Psychology and cinema grew up together during the twentieth century, and psychology and psychotherapy are, like Hollywood, well-established institutions. Because psychology doesn't have as good a publicity machine, it has ended up relying on Hollywood for promotion. In the 1990s, one out of six blockbusters featured mental health professionals engaged in a variety of treatments including individual psychotherapy, marital counseling, substance abuse counseling, and psychological assessment.56 These practices have become commonplace within US culture, to an extent film may be simply reflecting reality. But it is also possible that the high level of therapeutic exposure in the movies has played a role in facilitating cultural acceptance (as well as considerable ambivalence).
Movie psychologists have encouraged some viewers to pursue a career in psychology or related fields. Marshall Edelson, a psychologist and psychiatrist at Yale, commented that Ingrid Bergman's performance as a psychoanalyst in Hitchcock's Spellbound had such an effect on him.57 Based on my conversations with colleagues, it appears that many therapists of my generation (born between 1960–1975) were inspired by Judd Hirsch's Dr Berger in Ordinary People. Skeptics may worry that Dr Berger's selflessness sets impossible standards for budding therapists, but the established counselors I've talked to weren't so blindly idealistic. Instead, they focus on some of Berger's characteristics (compassion, patience, sensitivity) that continue to inspire them.
Other commentators have found good therapeutic models in the movies. Though a supernatural ghost story, The Sixth Sense has been lauded as an example of the difficulty therapists can have accepting the subjective realities of their patients. In the beginning Dr Crowe can't accept the reality of his young patient, Cole, who declares, “I see dead people.” It is only when Dr Crowe does accept Cole's perceptions as the truth of his subjective world that he is able to help Cole cope with the ghosts that haunt him.58 Dr Crowe's lack of awareness of his own issues initially leads him to react defensively when confronted with Cole's belief system. By refusing to believe and
pulling away, he avoids confronting his own failures and limitations.59 Despite the supernatural twist of The Sixth Sense, we can see how a movie can reveal truths about successful psychotherapy, and successful interpersonal relationships in general.60
Further Reading
Dine Young, S. et al. (2008) Character motivation in the representations of mental health professionals in popular film. Mass Communication and Society, 11 (1), 82–99.
Gabbard, G.O. and Gabbard, K. (1999) Psychiatry and the Cinema. American Psychiatric Press, Washington, DC.
Hyler, S.E., Gabbard, G.O., and Schneider, I. (1991) Homicidal maniacs and narcissistic parasites: Stigmatization of mental ill persons in the movies. Hospital and Community Psychiatry, 42 (10), 1044–1048.
Pirkis, J. et al. (2006) On-screen portrayals of mental illness: Extent, nature, and impacts. Journal of Health Communication, 11 (5), 523–541.
Robinson, D.J. (2003) Reel Psychiatry: Movie Portrayals of Psychiatric Conditions. Rapid Psychler Press, Port Huron, MI.
Wahl, O. (1995) Media Madness: Public Images of Mental Illness. Rutgers University Press, New Brunswick, NJ.
Chapter 4
Crazy Genius—The Psychology of Filmmakers
In Woody Allen's Husbands & Wives, Gabe (Allen) and Judy (Mia Farrow) are New York intellectuals. From the outside, their marriage appears to be a model modern, urban relationship. The couple pursues successful professional careers while entertaining friends at dinner parties and going to restaurants and plays. However, a deep malaise has set in, and Gabe, a college professor and writer, finds himself drawn to one of his students, precocious 20-year-old Rain (Juliette Lewis). But after flirting with Rain and joking about years of psychotherapy dialing 911, he decides against pursuing her in order to break a pattern of doomed relationships.
Illustration 4.2 Mia Farrow & Woody Allen as Judy & Gabe in Husbands and Wives (1992) © AF archive/Alamy.
In the early 1990s, Woody Allen and Mia Farrow's own relationship was widely viewed as a model modern, urban relationship. Though not married, and maintaining separate apartments, they made a dozen movies together, and in public, appeared to be a loving, committed couple with several adopted children and one biological child. In 1992, a month before the release of Husbands & Wives, news broke that Allen had been having an affair with Farrow's 19-year-old daughter, Soon-Yi (adopted during Farrow's marriage to Andre Previn).1 Allen claimed that he was in love with Soon-Yi, that he had never been a father figure to Soon-Yi and that for some time his relationship with Farrow had been platonic and emotionally disengaged.2
The parallels between film and reality—an older man falling for a younger woman in the midst a dreary relationship hidden behind a public façade—were striking. Could they be “just a coincidence”?
Woody Allen downplays the significance of the connection between life and art. While acknowledging that artists borrow elements from what they see in their environment, he claims that Husbands & Wives, like all his movies, is a fictional story, concocted out of his imagination.3 Admittedly, the parallels are not perfect (Gabe and Judy are childless; Gabe decides not to pursue a relationship with Rain). Nevertheless, most people find Allen's assertion that Husbands & Wives is pure fiction disingenuous. It is evident to many that, in this example, art imitates the artist and vice versa.
Psychobiography and Filmmakers
This chapter shifts the focus from movies to moviemakers. Movies are not just about people, they are made by people—brilliant, egocentric, passionate, and maybe a little crazy. Any scan of the bookstore biography section or grocery tabloids will make it clear that, from Orson Welles to Lindsay Lohan, the public is passionately interested in the lives of people who make movies. This chapter considers how the experiences, personalities, values, and unconscious motivations of filmmakers are reflected in their work.
Psychobiography is the study of human lives across the lifespan.4 Like a regular biographer, the psychobiographer compiles details from a person's life and makes a case for which events are important. However, in psychobiography, the personality dimensions underlying the subject's overt behaviors are highlighted. Often there is an attempt to explain these patterns using a particular theory of human development. For example, Erik Erikson used his developmental theory (often referred to as the Eight Stages of Man) to analyze Martin Luther, placing emphasis on his identity development in adolescence and young adulthood.5
Biographies are generally about people who have lived in the public eye (politicians and prominent intellectuals). This is true of psychobiographies as well, and there is a preference for artists and writers as subjects, resulting in analyses of Vincent Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, and Elvis Presley.6 Not surprisingly, the first psychobiography was Freud's analysis of Leonardo da Vinci's life and creative work.7 One reason da Vinci provided such a fruitful subject was that he left behind a large body of paintings and notebooks (symbolic products) which shed light on his inner life. In psychobiography, an artist's creations are treated like life-long versions of the projective tests used in psychological assessment (in which subject's drawings and stories are taken to be reflections of their inner selves).8
When applied to film, psychobiography assumes that all the symbolic elements (dialogue, costumes, even camera movements) represent the psychological makeup of the people who created them. Psychobiographers go beyond the “what” of a filmmaker's career to ask “why?” Why do Hitchcock's films embody so much anxiety? Why does Jack Nicholson always play rebels? While there have been few psychobiographies of filmmakers by trained psychologists,9 the technique of making connections between the personal aspects of a filmmaker's life and his or her art is widespread.
Auteurs: Profiles of Directors
One of the important developments in film studies was the emergence in the 1950s of auteur theory, when French film critics argued that their focus should be directors who imbued their work with a personal vision exhibiting both stylistic and thematic consistency.10 The original auteur criticism championed particular directors as exemplars, but more than that, it meant that films, like novels, poems, and plays, could now have “authors.” One of the unintended consequences of the theory was that directors became ripe for biographical analysis. If one believes films are the reflections of an individual's personal vision, then movies themselves open up a director's life for study.
Alfred Hitchcock
Hitchcock's presence, as a personality as well as an artist, hangs prominently over his movies. Witness the audience fascination with his brief cameos in many of his films.11 Biographer Donald Spoto believes there is a close connection between Hitchcock's own complex and paradoxical character and his movies: “Hitchcock's films [are] his notebooks and journals … his almost maniacal secrecy was a deliberate means of deflecting attention away from what those films really are: astonishingly personal documents.”12 Outwardly, this doesn't seem to be the case. None of Hitchcock's movies are about a droll, corpulent Englishman leading a comfortable life in southern California. But Spoto asserts that if you look into Hitchcock's life and movies, you will find a man of stark contradictions. The public persona of a simple family man who just loved to make movies contrasts with a darker inner life of guilt, anxiety, and anger—hence the title of Spoto's biography, The Dark Side of Genius (1983).
One of Hitchcock's favorite boyhood anecdotes was about the time he committed a minor offense and his father William asked a policeman friend to lock Alfred in jail for a brief time to teach him a lesson. Hitchcock used this story to explain his lifelong fear of imprisonment and the police.13 His father comes off as an emotionally detached disciplinarian, a picture consistent with what little is known about him. Spoto speculates that his death when Hitchcock was 15 might have caused him guilt based on the hostile feelings (perhaps even a death wish) that he harbored for his stern father.14 Presentations of authority as unreliable, oppressive, and potentially dangerous are everywhere in Hitchcock films: the spy bosses in Notorious who callously throw Alicia (Ingrid
Bergman) into harm's way; the menacing motorcycle cop in Psycho; the flawed judicial system condemning an innocent man (Henry Fonda) in The Wrong Man; and so on.
While Hitchcock seemed to view the childhood jailing incident as a macabre joke, it demonstrates at least a sliver of awareness of the connection between his life and art. There may have been other connections Hitchcock was not so willing to publicly discuss. He was infamous for his unflattering portrayals of maternal figures. This is exaggerated in the character of Madame Sebastien (Leopoldine Konstantin) in Notorious, especially the scene where she lights a cigarette, glares menacingly, and contemplates how to extricate her wimpy Nazi son, Alexander (Claude Rains) from his marriage to an American spy. Psycho, Marnie, North by Northwest and others offer examples of mothers who are controlling or twisted. Spoto suggests that these mothers may mirror Hitchcock's ambivalence about his own mother, with whom he lived until his marriage to Alma Reville in his late twenties. He was reportedly very close to her, although he may have felt resentful when she became despondent after his father's death and required significant care.15
Spoto believes Hitchcock's anxiety about mothers and mothering continued into his relationship with Alma. She had an enormous influence over Hitchcock's life and work, but Spoto characterizes the majority of their private relationship as platonic.16 Again, this tension can be found in Hitchcock's movies. In Vertigo (1958) Midge (Barbara Bel Geddes) is attractive, intelligent, and committed to the protagonist, Scotty (Jimmy Stewart). Theirs is a close friendship dating back to their college days when they were engaged. Yet Scotty takes Midge for granted, at one point dismissing her concern with the remark, “That's awful motherly of you.”
Psychology at the Movies Page 8
