Desire, Coca-Cola, Zizek and Cinema

Following up on my last post on the gaze, I thought it would be important to explain a little bit of Lacan's concept of desire. 

Desire is the desire to desire. What does this mean? For Lacan, the logic of desire operates on lack, not fullness. Think of your favorite song that you listen to over and over, or watching a movie such as Star Wars or The Lord of the Rings repetitively. 

For Lacan, these "empirical" objects stand in for what he terms the object cause of desire, or sometimes referred to as the "lost object." As long as the lost object remains lost, desire sustains its force. Listening to a favorite song or watching a movie repeatedly - both objects stand in for the lost object, but can never be the "thing" itself. And because this empirical object (song, movie, book, coffee, etc.) can not fill the shoes of the psychical lost object, desire continues to desire. 

Slavoj Žižek offers a great example of the lost object using Coca-Cola's old slogan: "Coke is It." Žižek asks: What is this "it"? Why do we keep drinking coke if "it" is indeed "it"? There is a failure in drinking Coca-Cola that keeps us drinking more. Why? Because Coke is not it. This is the logic of desire.  As long as we keep "missing" the lost object, desire continues to desire.

 
Desire also has a temporal component which can be found in classical Hollywood narrative.  Classical narrative films exemplify the notion of desire because they demonstrate that the story's solution resides in the future. Die Hard (1987) is a great example of the logic of desire and classical narrative form. 

John McClane (Bruce Willis) finds himself alone in the Nakatomi building where Hans Gruber (Alan Rickman) and his group of thieves seize the tower and hold a group of employees hostage, including John's estranged wife, Holly (Bonnie Beldelia). John's goal is to outsmart Hans. John is constantly backed into a corner as we wonder how he will survive. The goal is for John to win - to reach his goal - to defeat Gruber. 

It is no surprise that this winning aspect of desire has a strong correlation to the logic of capitalism as explored in Todd McGowan's outstanding book, Capitalism and Desire.

Lastly,  although desire operates on lack, it paradoxically provides the subject pleasure. This is why Lacan argues that the lack of lack (to be lacking lack) equals anxiety. We enjoy our desire. For example, I love to collect DVDs. I think the worse thing that can happen to me is to lose my desire for buying DVDs.

The Lacanian Gaze and Psycho

The Lacanian gaze is one of the hardest concepts I teach for my Film Theory course. The way we commonly think of the gaze (to look) is not what Jacques Lacan argues. Rather, he argues that when we encounter the gaze, we encounter an impasse, a blind spot within the field of vision. As Todd McGowan states, "the gaze is a distortion within the visual field" (72). The gaze is how our unconscious desire distorts the visual plane. But because this process is unconscious, the field of vision appears objective. But the visible field is not objective but mediated by our desire. Movies can express the distorting effect of the gaze. 

One of the important things that must happen in order to encounter the gaze is that you must be invested in the film. That way, when we encounter the gaze in cinema it demonstrates the activity of our unconscious desire. So what does that mean? And why is the gaze is not defined as the look?

One of the best examples of the gaze (from Slavoj Zizek and Todd McGowan) can be found in Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (1960). After Marion (Janet Leigh) has been murdered by "mother" in the shower, Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins) cleans up the mess. Notice how long it takes for Norman to clean the bathroom. This is important because Hitchcock is a laying a trap for our encounter with the gaze.

After Norman cleans the bathroom, he place Marion's body in the trunk of her car and drives out to the swamp near his motel. Norman pushes Marion's car into the swamp. Norman anxiously watches the car as it begins to sink. Suddenly, for a brief moment the car stop sinking. I always ask my students what their reaction was when the car stops sinking. Their response: they want the car to sink. How does this happen? Why are we suddenly complicit in Norman's cover up of the murder?

This is the moment when we encounter the gaze. The gaze demonstrates your unconscious desire at work in the film. The gaze is an absent structure at work in the scopic field. The halting of the car in the swamp makes this evidence. This is why film form is so important to understand in studying the gaze in cinema. In my book Cinema of Confinement, I explain how directors set up these types of cinematic moments such as the swamp scene in Psycho. They are designed so that we encounter the shocking impact of the gaze.

An example I use is the final sequence in Alien (1979) when Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) learns that the alien sneaked aboard the escape shuttle. The way in which director Ridley Scott films this scene sets up the viewer for an encounter with the gaze--namely, when Ripley shockingly discovers the alien. We think Ripley has defeated the alien, which is emphasized when she says: "I got you, you son of a bitch." Even the soothing musical score suggests that Ripley is safe. But as we know, she is far from safe. Alien's final scene is so scary because of the way Scott lays a trap for us to encounter the gaze. This is why it is important that Hitchcock show us all the details of Norman cleaning up the murder in Psycho. He is a laying a trap for the gaze: when the car stops sinking in the swamp. That's when we all go "Oh shit!" You're now siding with Norman's cover up of Marion's death.

What does the gaze tells about how we watch movies? First, it demonstrates how our unconscious desire is at work when we watch a movie. And we can locate the activity of desire through cinematic form. Second, you must be invested to look in the movie, otherwise you are less likely to encounter the emotional impact of the gaze. Lacan's example of Hans Holbein's painting The Ambassadors explains this point.

As you observe the painting, you see the riches that surround the men. But when looking  toward the bottom of the painting, there is a stain. When looking awry, you see that the stain is a skull that looks back at you.

 

The skull reveals the gaze as objet petit a in the field of vision. This is why you have to be invested in looking at the painting in order to discover the skull. When we encounter the skull, it takes our desire into consideration. Likewise, when Marion's car stops sinking in the swamp in Psycho, we have a visceral reaction, demonstrating that we are complicit in Norman covering up the murder. It illustrates how our desire is at work in the film. Yet it is these moments in cinema, such as Ripley seeing the alien aboard the ship and Marion's car that temporarily stop sinking in the swamp, that draws us to the movies.

 

The gaze is no to look but an absent structure that distorts the field of vision. It emerges in the limits of our looking. Or as Lacan states in Seminar XI, "The gaze is presented to us only in the form of a strange contingency, symbolic of what we find on the horizon, as the thrust of our experience, namely, the lack that constitutes castration anxiety" (72-73).  For Lacan, castration anxiety is the what constitutes the subject as lacking when becoming a part of the symbolic order. This obstacle in seeing, the limits of the horizon, is the impossible object or objet petit a in the scopic field.

 

References:

Todd McGowan,  Psychoanalytic Film Theory and the Rules of the Game (New York: Bloomsbury, 2015).

Slavoj Zizek, "In his Bold Gaze"  in Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Lacan. . . .  But Were Afraid to Ask Hitchcock, ed. Slavoj Žižek (London: Verso, 1992). 

 

Jacques Lacan, Seminar XI: The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, ed. Jacques-Alain Miller, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Norton, 1978),  

The Conversation - Sound and Surveillance

I often teach Francis Ford Coppola's The Conversation (1974) for my Introduction to Film and Film Theory courses.

 
The Conversation exemplifies the art and theory of sound in cinema, especially the opening long take zoom shot in Union Square in San Francisco.

 

A topic we often discuss is the film's exploration of surveillance. Harry Caul (Gene Hackman) is the best of the best when it comes to secretly recording or "bugging" conversations. During a small party in Harry's studio, we learn from his friend, Bernie (Allen Garfield), that Harry is known in New York for the "welfare fund 68" job, where he secretly recorded a conversation having to do with a bogus fund run by the teamster's president. Bernie asks Harry how he secretly tapped the teamster's president and his accountant--a conversation that occurred on a boat. Of course, Harry does not share his technique. But we do learn that three people were killed because of the conversation Harry had recorded.

Little does Harry know that Bernie has planted a pen mike and transmitter on him.

When Bernie reveals that he had been recording Harry during the party, he becomes enraged and kicks Bernie and his friends out of his studio. As we learn, Harry is a lonely and private person. Harry's motto is that he does not emotionally get involved with the subjects he records. Harry is not curious about what's being said. Rather, it is about getting the best sound that matters to Harry.

A question I asked my students: does Bernie's pen mike speak more to our current times in terms of big data and surveillance? Here, it is worth noting Mark Andrejevic's article, "The Twenty-First Century Telescreen." The telescreen is from George Orwell's novel Nineteen Eighty-Four. The telescreen is a television that watches you. 

One of the concerns with digital televisions, especially internet ready digital televisions, is surveillance. Could these screens watch us? Andrejevic claims that it is a misnomer that digital television is a telescreen. Andrejevic argues that digital television is surveillance with a commercial fare. Whereas the telescreen makes one aware that they are being watched, Andrejevic suggests that the future of digital television is collecting data on our viewing behaviors which can impact how content is curated to us. 

Although Bernie's pen mike and transmitter is not a screen, it does demonstrate how a pervasive object such as a pen can potentially be used to monitor us (not unlike how companies can track our purchasing behaviors online). This is a different type of surveillance - an apparatus that does not make one aware that they are constantly being watched, which brings me to the film's shocking twist at the end.

At the end of the film, we learn that Harry misunderstood his recording of Mark (Frederic Forrest) and Ann's (Cindy Williams) conversation, specifically when Mark says: "He'd kill if he got the chance." Harry believes that Ann and Mark were in danger, but in fact they were planning to kill Ann's husband (the Director played Robert Duvall), the man who hired Harry to bug Ann and Mark.

The film's final scene shows Harry playing his saxophone in his apartment. He receives a call from the Director's assistant, Martin (Harrison Ford), who tells Harry that: "we'll be listening." Martin plays back a recording of Harry playing his saxophone. Of course, Harry is shocked to learn that he has been secretly bugged (again). Harry rips his apartment apart looking for the bug, which he never finds.

The question I asked my students: Is Harry upset because his privacy is now under threat? Or, is Harry upset because he has been out-bugged?