Art's in an ethical pickle: Film and Morality

The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and sold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is a soul in each one of us. I know it.
- The Picture of Dorian Gray

In Crimes and Misdemeanors (Woody Allen, 1989), a doctor meets a filmmaker at a party and tells him the story of a man who is cheating on his wife. The mistress begins to demand that he leave his wife for her, or she will tell his wife of the affair. He feels he is left with no choice but to have her killed. At first, he is riddled with guilt, suffering terrible nightmares. Convinced his crime will be revealed, he is on the verge of confessing all to the police. Then, one day he wakes up and the guilt is gone. He is never investigated by the police. Rather than being lead to ruin, he suddenly prospers.

In Philosophy Goes to the Movies, Chris Falzon writes that at the core of Allen's film is a question of morality: “why should we be moral in the first place? Why should we do the right thing if we can do the wrong thing and get away with it?” (Falzon, 2002, p83) He continues, noting that:

"We are all familiar with those moments when we find ourselves wanting to do something even though we know we shouldn't, or not wanting to do something even though we feel that we ought. The tension here is sometimes characterised as being one between self-interest and morality, between acting purely to satisfy my own interests regardless of others, and doing the right thing. In such cases it might be thought that the moral considerations are the ones that ought to win out, and that in a morally good person they will (Falzon, 2002, 84)."

This subject, the tension between acting out of self-interest or acting in a moral way, has been central to art for some time now. Falzon makes mention of several films that have been concerned with characters who have a moral transformation, moving from acting out of self-interest to acting morally, films such as Casablanca (Michael Curtiz, 1942), Schindler's List (Steven Spielberg, 1993) and On The Waterfront (Elia Kazan, 1954).

Falzon makes note of films such as Wall Street (Oliver Stone, 1987), which explore the idea of acting out of self-interest. In Wall Street, Gordon Gekko argues that “Greed is Good”, and that greed drives all human activity. Falzon sees the parallel between Gekko and the writings of Plato in his book Republic. In Republic, Plato recounts the tale of the Ring of Gyges. Essentially, it is the story of a man who can do whatever he likes, as he will never be caught. Plato is suggesting that the only reason we act morally is because we fear being caught. If we remove this possibility we have no reason to act morally. Plato is arguing that we all act out of self-interest, there is no 'moral' compass.

Falzon asks, “is it true that the only reason people adhere to ethical standards is because of fear of being caught and punished if they do not? Or can we give a better answer to the question of why we should be moral? One response might be that even if we can avoid external punishment, we will suffer at our own hands for evil deeds, through guilt or remorse (Falzon, 2002, p87).”
Can conscience really point us in the right direction? In Crimes and Misdemeanors, the doctor's conscience isn't as powerful as he thought it would be; when he sees he will go unpunished for his deeds, his conscience reveals to him that he is able to live with his crime. He can become rational in his thinking about the immoral act.

This leads us to thinking about something more powerful than simply our conscience, or our ability to act rationally and to think critically about the ways in which our actions will affect not only our own life, but other people's lives. Theologians will argue that God is the guide that directs us to be moral. This is the idea that there is a higher purpose and that the truth of the world is revealed to a higher being such as God. In having this knowledge God develops rules in which we can live by, and acting morally means living in accordance to these rules and hence the higher purpose. What does this mean? What are the benefits of acting in accordance with these rules? The benefit is that by living with these rules we will one day have revealed to us the truh of the meaning of life. But only when we move on from this world and into the next. There is a part of us that will live on in the next life, and this is what we need to take care of by living in accordance with the commands of God.

This is the soul. This is the thing dear to us, that moves on from this world to the next. But how can we be sure of the soul's existence? Surely if some people can act immorally without consequence, this is proof that there is no soul or even a God. The filmmaker in Crimes and Misdemeanors finds the doctor's story terrifying, because it is proof that God doesn't exist. There is no moral guide, no afterlife, no soul to nourish in preparation for the next life.
But what happens if the soul is real? What if it is not only real, but you can see the affects your actions have on the soul? If you could separate your soul from your self, would you take care to ensure the soul remained pure? Or would you let it deteriorate, knowing that it bear the burden of your immoral acts?

This is the question posed by Oscar Wilde in The Picture of Dorian Gray. If you could remain unaffected by your actions, letting the physical (and in this case visible) manifestation of your soul carry the weight instead, would you do whatever you liked?

In The Picture of Dorian Gray, a young man makes a wish that the portrait of himself would age and bear the burden of his actions while he remains as young and beautiful as he is in the portrait. For that, he claims that he would give his soul. His wish is granted and the portrait essentially becomes his soul.

What Dorian initially sees as being his ticket to freedom, this separation of his soul from his self, becomes his prison. He becomes terrified that someone should see it, and in effect see his soul. And while some refuse to believe the stories whispered about him because he looks so young and innocent, he can never really hide from them. There are some who shun him, and he loses friends and potential lovers along the way. He eventually commits murder to conceal the true nature of his soul. And yet the worst of this is seemingly the idea that not only does he really feel any remorse for his actions, but that his closest friends agree with his actions and share a similar disdain for acting morally. It is the words of the man who will become his closest companion that provoke him to making the wish that he comes to regret.

We should pay for our crimes, shouldn't we?
Oh, I don't know. I think knowing that you've committed a crime is suffering enough. And if you don't suffer, maybe it wasn't a crime after all.
- The Player

Falzon writes that when the idea of morality is explored in art, particularly in Hollywood films, those who act immorally are either punished, or the film suggests that the idea that there are no consequences for such actions is abhorrent. Perhaps one film that provides no comment on the morality versus self-interest is The Player (Robert Altman, 1992), in which a man who commits murder still gets his happy ending. This ending is performing not only this function, that of providing a critique of morality, but also subverting the moral judgments inherent in the conflict and resolution in the Hollywood narrative.

For what The Player really questions are the myths, platitudes and ideas that Hollywood expounds to the people through its writers. Writers provide the foundation for the film's structure. Griffin Mill, the writers' executive, finds the question of eliminating the writer from the creative process an interesting one, especially as he does this literally in the murder of David Kahane. He finds that he can continue to write the Hollywood story as a business product while espousing the importance of film as art. He identifies the “certain elements that we need to market a film successfully: suspense, laughter, violence, hope, heart, nudity, sex, happy endings. Mainly happy endings.”

The strength of Altman's film is that it questions the moral codes embedded in the Hollywood narrative and subverts them completely whilst operating entirely within the narrative structure being critiqued. But what lies at the heart of this film, for me personally, is the way in which film writes our moral code for us (literally in the days of The Hays Code). Hollywood has long been the place for questions of not only what it means to act morally, but how to live a moral life, or the good life. The ways in which we punish greed, crime, adultery, have always played a central role in Hollywood narratives, but not only that; film constantly provides myths that allow us to remain happy with our position in our life.

For some, this is an extremely depressing idea. For example, in "The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception", Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno argue that film blinds society to this idea through the entertainment industry, in effect forcing individuals to accept society as they present it, through the standardisation of form and content:

"The entertainment manufacturers know that their products will be consumed with alertness even when the customer is distraught, for each of them is a model of the huge economic machinery which has always sustained the masses, whether at work or at leisure—which is akin to work. From every sound film and every broadcast program the social effect can be inferred which is exclusive to none but is shared by all alike. The culture industry as a whole has molded men as a type unfailingly reproduced in every product. All the agents of this process, from the producer to the women’s clubs, take good care that the simple reproduction of this mental state is not nuanced or extended in any way (Horkheimer and Adorno, year, p4)."

If the standardisation of Hollywood film can lay claim to this power of exerting control over individuals not by force but through the reinforcement of certain ideas prevalent within culture, otherwise known as hegemony (well, if I've defined it well enough, that is), then certainly it has the power to reinforce moral judgements or ideas that allow individuals to be satisfied with their place in society.

How many times have you heard someone say, if I had his money, I could do things my way? But little they know, that it's so hard to find one rich man in ten with a satisfied mind
- Satisfied Mind

It's not only Hollywood film that reinforces these myths and ideas. All art seems to reflect certain ideas we come to hold that seem to allow us to become accustomed to our situation. As Johnny Cash suggests, money brings unhappiness. Crimes and Misdemeanors suggests that if we accept the idea that people only act morally out of a fear of getting caught, then we accept that there is no God. Are we willing to pay such a price for our moral freedom? The Picture of Dorian Gray asks us to realise that we all have a soul, and to see our soul as something tangible, and then to question how we would behave if we could see what effect our actions have on our soul.

More than that, they ask us to accept certain platitudes or 'home truths' – the reason we are horrified at the behaviour of these characters is because we have received messages from art and society; the man who pursues wealth will be ultimately unhappy. Beauty is fading, and those who privilege it above intellect and compassion are doomed. Criminals should be punished for their crime, and if they aren't punished by the law they should be punished by their own conscience.

But what happens when art shows us that this may not be the case? What if a man pursues wealth at all costs, only to find that he's pretty happy. What if he commits terrible acts in order to gain everything he desires and founds that it was worth it?

That's the idea I'm currently working on. I guess it's a little derivative in that these moral questions are a big part of the idea, but I want to really examine these concepts that we invent in order to reconcile ourselves to our situation and ask what it means if we can see that they are merely fabricated? A lot of people in the 'real world' know that they're not. Well, we suspect. But is this a case of art catching up to the spectator? For after all, Oscar Wilde tells us that “it is the spectator, and not life, that art truly mirrors.” Interesting, innit?

What are your thoughts? Are there films you feel perfectly articulate these ideas? Any I've missed out (and before you start, I know I've forgotten No Country For Old Men)? Do you think sometimes that art moves slower than society in the use and discarding of ideas?
Better yet, how about films in which characters who act morally are portrayed as dangerous? I'm thinking Travis Bickle, but please tell me more!

References
Books
Adorno, T and Horkheimer, M 1973, The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception, Dialectic of Enlightenment, pp120-167.
Falzon, C 2002, Philosophy Goes To The Movies, USA and Canada, Routledge.

Plato, Republic.
Wilde, O 1890, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

Films
Casablanca (Michael Curtiz, 1942)
Crimes and Misdemeanors (Woody Allen, 1989)
On The Waterfront (Elia Kazan, 1954)
The Player (Robert Altman, 1992)
Schindler's List (Steven Spielberg, 1993)
Wall Street (Oliver Stone, 1987)

Apologies for the incredibly inconsistent referencing.

Why the French Hate Marie Antoinette (Sofia Coppola, 2006), and why I love it

I usually hate Biopics. I think they're boring and unconvincing. I listen to every word of dialogue thinking, 'how do they know that's what he actually said?' Ahh, when it comes to biopics, I'm that guy. That guy who watches Bad Boys and thinks the car chases and explosions are unrealistic. That guy who thinks science fiction films are rubbish because they don't reflect real life (well, they do, but we're not dealing with someone sane here). I'm that guy who sits there and scoffs, uttering those dreaded words that make all film lovers cringe: as if that would happen in real life.



I usually want to kick that person in the eye. So why do I treat biopics in such a shabby fashion? I think it's because format shifting is a tricky business, unless you're a computer geek (hello, friends!) or a music pirate (hello friends!). Source material that hasn't been made especially for a film is tough to produce in a satisfying way. It can be achieved, but by people who know what they're doing. Or people who have absolutely no idea at all what they're doing.



Now, if you read my debut post, which is a review of a well-made biopic, you'll remember what I said about biopics: balancing act. Because really, it all comes down to one thing: Narrative. Simply put, narrative is how you tell the story. It's how you let the story unfold. It's how you turn the plot into a fully realised cinematic experience. Which basically means that everything comes down to narrative. Well, that's my theory, and trust me, it's not very original. David Bordwell, Kristin Thompson and Janet Staiger wrote the book on Classical Hollywood Cinema (literally. It's called Classical Hollywood Cinema: Film Style and Mode of Production to 1960), and I think that not only can you extend their analysis of classical Hollywood cinema to mainstream cinema, i.e. contemporary Hollywood cinema, I think you can still apply it to cinema in general. This theory remains largely untested, I'm fully prepared to find that I'm mayor of Wrongtown on this, but the fact is: Much like classical Hollywood cinema, every element of film is subordinate to narrative, which is what Bordwell found when he watched a veritable shiteload of classical Hollywood films. And I reckon that's still true. How you tell the story is the key. It seems completely effing obvious, but those are usually the things that are left unexplored.



So film narrative, obviously, is different to say, narrative in literature. And it certainly isn't the same as real life. Film narrative borrows from the three-act structure and turns it up to 11: exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, denoument. Now, this is universal dramatic structure, but film has to do it visually and aurally, and it only has a certain amount of time do it all in. Which brings me back to the biopic.



How do you take a real person and turn them into a constructed story that conforms to the dramatic structure of narrative film? Inevitably, you're going to start with them on the brink of notoriety if they're famous, maybe end on their downfall, basically focus on their life from start to finish. Which is why I think I can't connect with them. You have to turn their life into an exciting adventure, in a nutshell (hmmm, there's an idea, make a film about a celebrity inside a nutshell...), and what if their life just doesn't fit that mould? On the other hand, if it doesn't, why are they making a film about them in the first place?



There's a tendency in many biopics to be completely faithful to the subject, mostly for the sake of the family. However, there's a difference between accurately portraying an historical figure and playing it safe in the narrative. There are so many things you can do with film, so my theory is why not use all your available resources? You can still make an exciting film that stays true to the essence of a historical figure. By narrowing your focus, you can create an exciting film that's still historically accurate. And why does it have to be a period piece? If an historical figure reminds you of something modern and new, why not incorporate it? No matter how hard a film maker tries, their film will only ever be an interpretation of someone's life, so why make something dull? No matter how accurate it is, the people who know the subject best will not be entirely happy with the finished product. For Natalie Curtis, Control is distracting, because it's not quite like the stories she was told, and she thought her mother should have been a more dominant presence in the film, a not-invalid point, because after all, Deborah Curtis' book is the source material for the film. Roseanne Cash said she didn't want to watch Walk The Line because she didn't want to see the Hollywood version of her father's drug addiction. If I saw a film about one of my family members, I don't think I'd be entirely happy with the finished product, either. I think a film maker has to be respectful, but also have the courage to tell the story they want to tell. Which is why I haven't watched a lot of biopics, and the ones I have are mostly boring. Except for three. And those are Walk the Line (James Mangold, 2005), Marie Antoinette (Sofia Coppola, 2006), and Control (Anton Corbijn, 2007).



Walk the Line is probably the most conventional of the three, but that's not a bad thing. I think it's the narrowed focus and opening that makes this biopic really great. For those who have no idea, it's the story of Johnny Cash, and in particular, his drug battle and relationship with June Carter Cash (I'll give you a hint: they get together at the end). It opens with Cash in a prison, about to perform for the inmates. Some machinery reminds him of his childhood and takes him back to an event that will haunt his adult life. I don't want to spoil it, because I think everyone should watch it, but it's a film that takes Johnny Cash's well-documented drug abuse, long, illustrious career and high profile relationship with June Carter Cash and turns it into a beautiful story about the power of love.



tip: watch the video for Johnny Cash's cover of Hurt. It's the last video he made, and it's heartbreaking. It's like watching a sunset.



Now, I don't know if every single French person hates Sofia Coppola's treatment of their teenage queen, but the response to the film when it was shown at Cannes was a sign that maybe the French don't have a sense of humour when it comes to historical figures they murdered during the Revolution. I know it's not everyone's cup of tea, but I count Marie Antoinette as my favourite Sofia Coppola film, and one of my favourite films of all time. Sure, it's partly my girl crush on Kirsten Dunst, and well, Sofia Coppola, but it's mostly the bold treatment of the subject. Coppola based the film on the book Marie Antoinette: The Journey by Antonia Frazer, but I think it was very losely based. In an interview with Coppola, she said that the French court during Marie Antoinette's reign reminded her of the New Romantics, a music movement in the 1980s (post-punk, slightly post-joy division). Coppola incorporated this idea into the film by using a soundtrack made up of new romantic music, including Adam and the Ants, New Order, Bow Wow Wow, The Cure, and Siouxsie and the Banshees, as well as contemporary artists such as the Strokes and Aphex Twin, which I thought was brilliant. Add to that awesome soundtrack a trailer set to New Order's Age of Consent, a shot of powder-blue chuck taylors amongst 18th Century heels, and the Blondie-esque movie poster and you've got a fairly vivid imagining of 1770s France. But don't confuse rock and roll treatment for historical inaccuracy. The stunning attention to detail makes the film absolutely delightful to look at. The colourful food, the cakes and pastries and ornate clothes, ah! It makes you wish you were there. Coppola's wish to make something about Marie Antoinette that felt like it was from Marie Antoinette's perspective, and that association with the music Coppola probably listened to as a teenager has lead her to create, for me anyway, not so much a biopic so much as a 1980s teen film with Marie Antoinette as the protagonist. It is this treatment of the material that makes me admire the film so much: Coppola didn't feel the need to make a conventional biopic, which is why I love it.

tip: Listen to all the records from the 80s that your older sister threw away (or, for you younglings, your parents).

Anton Corbijn loves his black and white. Ain't nothing wrong with that, because i love black and white too. I've produced two music videos, and we used the same technique as Corbijn for both of them: shot in colour and printed to black and white. Why? Because black and white just makes those little flares of light so much more interesting. And don't shoot in black and white when you can use a filter in Final Cut, just in case it looks a bit rubbish (how could it? But I'm sure it's possible). As someone whose photos were largely responsible for Joy Division's legendary status (one of the few times NME were right), who better to chronicle the life of lead singer Ian Curtis than someone who not only helped create his image but loved his music? Control is a studied, personal, visually stunning insight into five years in the life of Ian Curtis and Joy Division. Joy Division and Tony Wilson's involvement in their career had already been touched on in Michael Winterbottom's 24 Hour Party People, but Corbijn chose to include it in his film, at times more as a comic subplot than as a central plot point. His source material is intimate: Touching From a Distance: Ian Curtis and Joy Division by Deborah Curtis, Ian Curtis' wife, and I guess the film is much more sympathetic to Curtis than even its source material, and yet it feels like Curtis' personality has been accurately portrayed, even if there is a certain amount of dramatic license (there has to be, it's a narrative film, not a documentary or a rock profile). It's Corbijn's dominant photographic style and execution of live performances (much like Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon in Walk The Line, the actors performed the songs themselves) that set this film apart.

tip: become as obssessed with Joy Division as I am. Then I'll have someone to talk to about them. Oh, and watch 24 Hour Party People. Then lend it to me.

I guess the tip I have for anyone making a biopic that I'll actually want to watch is not to try to throw away film narrative for the sake of accuracy. Because film can bring your subject to life in such a wonderful way. Use your subject as the inspiration for the kind of vision you have for the film. Make the film you want to make, and don't lose your style in the process.