One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest: Provisions Of The Normal

When we put our faith in the society and institutions therein to decide the rules of living, we can either believe we are coming at a social agreement or realize that it just leads to greater ambiguities as to where, and much more importantly how, we really draw the line on pertinent issues. This is what the story is all about. We see here all kinds of ambiguities and the processes by which we try to delineate norms and laws. It talks of going through legitimate channels in hopes of negotiating what we want. And yes, individuals who are judged as mentally unstable have the same access to it. After all, isn’t the point of them being in the asylum one of the many products of social ambiguities too?

Two logical assumptions support the existence of asylums- the first being a societal filter to segregate the able-bodied from the incapacitated and the second being a restoration, or in more grieve cases, a reset factory for a deviant individual to be possibly reintegrated to society. Strange, but with regards to the second assumption, it’s as if the focus of Milos Forman’s movie rarely lingers in the asylum’s creed of societal reintegration. Ironically enough, it presents what seems to be a case of a micro-society with its set of well-imposed conformist protocols and a small political community stricken with a dictatorship hiding behind a veil of democratic practices.

Originally based from Ken Kesey’s novel (1962), One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) narrates the story of a boisterous man named Randall Patrick McMurphy whose shrewd crazy act lands him in an asylum facility under the rule of Nurse Ratched. In an environment that runs on predetermined, clockwork-precision activities, McMurphy’s find himself in a betting game to go around the rules according to his satisfaction with the ultimate goal of bringing down the nurse from her tyrannical stronghold. Beneath the surface of the plot, we could see an intricately woven context of power (or the abuse of it), social determinism, and concepts such as democracy, efficacy and finally, participation.

On a symbolic level, Nurse Ratched is deemed as the system. With an overarching power to the administration and the patients under her ward, her command goes beyond meetings and medication and trickles down to policy creation and mandates as to how every patient should conduct themselves. Such capacity is familiar to being an absolute power if it weren’t for the fact that a kind of democratic façade is under operation. It’s a façade because of the fear of standing up- or in this case, raising your hand. The overly allocated power at the nurse’s hand is an enough source of intimidation, if not the coercion at times of great need. Clearly, between Nurse Ratched and the patients, there’s a distinct relationship of the oppressor and the oppressed. This is where McMurphy’s character enters like a case of messianic complex. Whether his intention maybe noble or just for his commitment to gambling, he intends to deliver his fellow acute patients from their predicament whether or not they realize that they want to be pulled out from it in the first place.

If we analyze closely, the main problem why patients are too afraid is because of their deterministic nature. Come to think about it, the situation makes sense. These people diagnosed of being unable to thrive in a society are made to accept that they are deviant, that they do not follow or have a grasp to social norms that are given by nature. Once within the asylum, they are brainwashed that the only solution to re-enter society is to be a conformist. Thus, it comes no surprise if they wish to follow to every word of the nurse and much more to fear of going against it. The result is a clear example of how one grants permission to be oppressed and for the oppressor to gain more power. According to Ferguson (1997) as cited by Fischer (2010), “to avoid this [determinism-responsibility] problem, any explanation of how systems of domination are supported by dominators and submitted to by subordinates must avoid being deterministic in a way that implies that both those who benefit and those who are oppressed are not morally responsible for challenging and resisting those systems.”

If his mates are social determinists, McMurphy stands on the extreme opposite side of the spectrum. His character clearly portrays rebellion and nonconformism at every turn. He clashes with the system since day one and challenges to give life to their feeble democratic voting system over policies (though they seldom work) and even to break rules for his mere entertainment. Come to think of it, he is crazy in a way normal, free-minded people could be once they are stripped or denied of their duly accorded rights, even if it’s just voting for the right to witness the World Series.

The thrill of watching the film begins when McMurphy spreads what is known as internal efficacy, that is, ‘the confidence in the ability to influence public affairs’ (Norris, 2005). There are no longer silent meetings where the nurse has to prod them continuously to extract a response. Instead, speeches are done more often (and voluntarily) along side with petitions and critical questioning as to the existence of policies. They finally found there voice and demands change. If parallelized in the bigger society, such changes are barely met without resistance. Especially if there’s a dictator holding on to power. At the start of this change wave, the nurse uses soft power (through intimidation, persuasion and command of office) to keep things in order. By the time it proved to be non-effective, she resorts to hard power (force) as a last resort. This is shown by sending patients such as McMurphy, Chief Bromden and Cheswick to the electro shock therapy after finding their behavior to be ‘disruptive’. And this was seen later on too when lobotomy was performed at McMurphy returning him back to the ward as a certified vegetable for life. Of course one can argue that those things are done for purely ‘therapeutically’ reasons. After all, the asylum is meant to cure them. But when it comes down to empathizing with the experiences of these patients, it seems more harm is done than good. By this time, the scenario begins the way it started when patients couldn’t find their voice again after realizing that there’s no point of fighting with the system.

I’d like to comment too on a certain character that I find to be truly interesting- Chief Bromden. The reason for him being committed to the asylum was not mentioned explicitly. Though implicitly, it might be because of his Indian Chief turned defeatist-drunkard of a father or the World War (or maybe both). Whatever the cause is, in truth he doesn’t deserve to be there the same way that McMurphy entered the premises to escape from work farm. His background story present in the book (though omitted in the movie) gives as another content to talk about. In particular, it’s the story of how the native Indians are displaced of their natural habitat and how, to a wider implication minorities are being undervalued and mistreated by a government who works under the empty slogan of the ‘greater good’. Whether it is turning to a drunkard or being branded as insane, the issue is that these minorities are most likely to suffer ill fate at the mercy of the public majority that does not understand, or intend to understand, the way they live. It is the very reason why Chief Bromden pretended to be deaf all these years. Nobody bothered to listen anyway.

With Chief Bromden’s escape, the conclusion tells us that failure to resolve a social ambiguity may ultimately lead to individualistic pursuits- that our lives above all still is in our own hands. The system is showcased to be hopeless and unyielding. Therefore the only choice left is to break the window, run to the open world, and reclaim freedom through your own means. Who knows, away from repression, there might be better chances of re-negotiating your existence.

References:

Fischer, C. (2010). Consciousness and conscience: feminism, pragmatism, and the potential for radical change. Studies in Social Justice, 4(1), 67-85.

Norris, P. (2005). Political activism: New challenges, new opportunities. Oxford Handbook of Comparative Politics, Oxford University Press

- Liane Candelario

“One flew East
One flew West

And one flew over the cuckoo’s nest.”

Presented by a children’s nursery rhyme (entitled Vintery, Mintery, Cutery, Corn) is an entire introductory metaphorical concept to Milos Forman’s 1975 film One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. There are two elements that fly in oppositional combative directions that are meant to create an obvious conflict. And one, as mentioned, flies over the cuckoo’s nest (the asylum housing ‘cuckoos’) and seemingly becomes an omnipotent eye and ear to the whole mental institution. The film is set in a mental hospital but it is not a film about mental illness. The title hints of insanity but our anti-hero, Randle “RP” McMurphy is not one to be claimed to be a mental patient. What, then, must the film be exactly about?

In Cuckoo’s Nest, we are introduced to Nurse Mildred Ratched who embodies the full denotation of an iron fist and heads a mental ward where the film is generally set (except for a fishing trip sequence). We are also introduced to free-spirited recidivist criminal RP McMurphy who is to be ‘evaluated’ for his previous actions and is the primary cause of his indefinite stay in Ratched’s ward. The film is, simplistically, an allegorical statement to conformism to the Establishment, to the Man, and to the basic status quo. Here, Nurse Ratched personifies the whole Establishment while RP McMurphy obtrudes in his motives and actions his anti-establishment beliefs. Nurse Ratched, palpably enough, is the one flying to the East and RP McMurphy is the one flying to the West. This makes up the primary conflict of the whole film.

One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest is considerably one of the greatest and most unforgettable American films of all time. I have seen it listed on almost every Favorites and Greatest lists, both mainstream audiences to film critics alike. It is great because of its simplistic approach and style and yet how it manifests the makings of a perfectly stitched narrative film. It is unforgettable because even after three decades of its conception to the film world, Cuckoo’s Nest tackled issues and themes that most likely still are relevant and contemporary in every sense of its perception and analysis.

Roger Ebert, in his wonderful review of the film, posed a necessary question for discussion: “Is One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest not a great film because it is manipulative, or is it great because it is so superbly manipulative?” Manipulative here is used in the sense of its ‘scheming’ and not of its ‘controlling’ denotation. But is it manipulative just to the audiences, generally? Or manipulative in the underlying analysis of the film’s sometimes faulty but still workable elements? Its popularity does endure the test of time because the mental patients – or rather, for some, volunteers to the mental institution – are used as mere accessories and not as real individuals to be taken in depth. It is as always remembered and sometimes even categorized a comedy because it is comical, whimsical, and unbelievably false. This strengthens the allegorical nature the film as it is to be taken as – it is a parable, and after all, the metaphorical statement is derived from a children’s folk song.

What is also most effective of the film is its keen and precise detail of its mise-en-scene. Take for example McMurphy’s apparel as opposed to the bland dirty-white uniform of his fellow inmates. He dresses himself in a way that still appears to be part of the norm, that he is indeed, not at all a lunatic that should adhere to the system’s instruction of wearing such passé-looking clothes. Nurse Ratched, however, being the head figure of the ward, is dressed in a way that it exudes a militaristic personality – with her nurse’s costume as if it were an imperative military commanding officer’s uniform, her nurse hat and her usual entrancing black cape. Also, as if acting like a separate accessory to her complete uniform is the silent nurse who acts like her ‘side-kick’ or in a better sense, her executive officer, her second-in-command. These elements -- alongside the wholly locked-up (even from their own personal dorm rooms!) and dull interiors of the mental asylum, the patients’ and volunteers’ uniforms, the glass door separation from nurses to their tending men – all elicit a kind of claustrophobic set-up that seems to choke every air of humanity of its all seemingly sane cuckoos. RP McMurphy is the only contrast to this order, in his dominatingly black apparel (his bonnet, his jackets, and his pants) and is the one claiming anarchic freedom, bringing to his fellow inmates a taste of this freedom as well.

The cinematography and the editing of every shot and reaction shot of the film is also too keen and precise that it exhibits the necessary emotions that it tries to give out all too well. At every morning group discussion, each of the inmates is always given a close-up shot introducing every reactionary emotion they give out to in varying degrees that strengthen the innate trait of every character. Take for example, Charles Cheswick who is overpowered by the inner child in his mind, always cries to get what he wants and stomps his way into tantrums. The stuttering and frightful Bobby Bibbit, however, is usually unspeakable even when the discussion upends into a ruckus. In the fishing trip sequence, McMurphy introduces each of the inmates as doctors and they react, partially in common sense (which as they are not so common at all they suddenly had have), all too humanly as if they did not have any psychological problems at all and were normal people enjoying a bogus all-doctor fishing trip. The close-ups help, especially with McMurphy, Nurse Ratched, and Chief Bromden, because they all present a distinct contrast to every person’s motivation and intrinstic nature. McMurphy usually wrinkles his forehead and puts on an annoyed eyeing-everyone face. Chief Bromden, who fakes his deaf-mute condition, is seen as passive but whenever he looks at McMurphy does he only summon a mischievous smirk. Nurse Ratched’s face-time induces a stern and steely woman who does not want to veer away from schedule, organization, and formality. This effectively brings out the embodiment of every representational elements of the film: McMurphy is anti-establishment, Nurse Ratched is the Establishment, and Chief Bromden is caught up in between two forces that he remains the passive deemed-as-dumb Indian.

Being a social commentary on conformist governments and societies, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest’s attributing to this issue ends in what remains to be present in our modern set-up today. McMurphy has such a startling effect on his fellow inmates – always suggesting that they aren’t what they think they are at all, that the man on the street is worse off than them actually – that he isn’t much of an anti-hero at all. What remains a mystery is that despairing line that divided his will to stay for a while (until he finds out that is committed indefinitely) and act as leader-teacher to his fellow inmates and the will to escape, as he is sick of the place, sick of the rules, sick of the Establishment which is, Nurse Ratched. In the end, we find out what he chooses and what remains again, a mystery, is why he chooses to see for himself Bibbit’s bloody suicide spot rather than freeing himself from the closed and claustrophobic system. However, it is not a mystery as to why the film’s narrative chose for McMurphy to stay as they decide to uphold optimism on the Chief’s escape (which sets off a parallel – parallel in the filmic sense of the word – on McMurphy’s failed attempt and Chief’s successful one). The lifting of the hydrotherapy console symbolizes the difficulty – or even, the impossibility -- for escape from the asylum and how, in the earlier part of the film, McMurphy fails to lift it and says: “But I tried, goddamit. At least I did that.” This, however, again brings up another thread of discussion as to what exactly did McMurphy try? He tried to let his boys think in the way of his thinking – live free, even if it meant to die trying. He tried to reform the organizational and carefully worked-out instructions of the Establishment that only aimed to better their living condition in their small institution. He tried to have his boys experience a taste of the real outside world as if to introduce their reintegration to the wider view of society, that it wasn’t at all too difficult as they would think it would be. And at last, he tried to escape as if to say that his job is already done but the locked-up walls of the mental hospital devours his wish as if to say his job isn’t over yet, isn’t fully accomplished at all.

In these interlacing themes of lunacy paired with a conformist system guised in a flawed democracy, to what extent does it become a full mirroring of a larger scale of the social order? It must be then that it serves as an entire metaphor, an entire representation to a wider society, a wider institution. “Forman himself noted that the asylum was a metaphor for the Soviet Union and the desire to escape.” RP McMurphy’s character is drenched with all these desires to escape for his anarchic motivations. He does what he pleases but he dwells in a closed system. This, now, results in a chaotic turn of events that lead to his tragic end. The film has beautifully weaved a man’s tale that tells not exactly of a greater moral victory and certainly not of hopelessness and pessimism of our society’s current status, but the idea of the acceptance of one’s fate – in the sense that fate does not choose where one leads but in the better perspective that one chooses where he leads his fate to.

References:

Ebert, Roger. (2003, February 2). One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975). Retrieved from http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20030202/REVIEWS08/302020301/1023

Dirks, Tim. Filmsite Movie Review: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975). Retrieved from http://www.filmsite.org/onef.html

- Hil PetersenVargas

Un Prophète: The Pragmatism of Identity

There can be many motifs, themes, and symbolisms identified in the complicated and almost messy film Un Prophète by Director Jacques Audiard (2009), but none is perhaps more salient than the politics of identity and prison power relations. The entire film itself focuses on the prison life of young Malik El Djebena who was all of a sudden thrown into the dirty power struggles in prison and amongst various ethnic groups. Indeed, the intricate power relations of prison and identity in the film all symbolize at the micro-level the larger social realities of contemporary French society and the experiences of the people in France as they negotiate social boundaries within the state that has been increasingly assimilative of immigrant groups and other out-groups.

Malik El Djebena is a mysterious and clueless 19-year-old boy sentenced into prison for six years for reasons not directly identifiable from the film but may be interpreted as charges of attacking policemen, for which he was accused as he was being interviewed by a prison officer before actually entering his cell. In a scene that appears to be an interview for prison classes, Malik reveals some important telling facts about his life before becoming an inmate. Having had no parents to raise him, Malik spent his childhood at an unspecified youth center until he was 11 years old, at which point he left the center without learning sufficient skills to read and write. When asked by the interviewer about his mother tongue or at least the language he spoke first, Malik does not know whether he spoke French or Arabic first. He simply answers that he spoke both. Tracing this through the lenses of psychology (Smith, Nolen-Hoeksema, Fredrickson, & Loftus, 2003), this may mean that in his early toddler years Malik was already exposed to groups that spoke both French and Arabic – either a combination of French and Arabic groups or a simple immigrant Muslim group in France. In any case, this means that Malik was most probably born in France and that, more importantly, he was exposed even at an early age to Muslim communities in the country.

The internal struggle and self-negotiation within the character of Malik El Djebena is important and salient especially in the arena of the sociological theoretical perspective of symbolic interaction. In truth, the characterization of Malik’s persona narrates the larger ongoing negotiations of Muslim culture and identity within the French society. The Muslim community in France is the largest in Western Europe, constituting five to six million or 8-9.6% of 62.3 million French citizens in 2004 by estimates of the French government (BBC News, 2005). Around 70% of this Muslim community traces its heritage to the French colonies of Algeria, Morocco, and Tunisia in North Africa (BBC News, 2005), spelling a high probability that Malik’s inmate nickname amongst the Corsicans – “the Arab” – is in fact a misnomer and that Malik is in fact more likely to be of North African descent. Ergo, the symbolism of Malik’s confused persona here is more or less clear: In the same way that Malik El Djebena has to come to terms with his own Muslim identity as he faces the might of the French prison, ethnic discrimination from the Corsicans, and the anger and disapproval of his own Muslim brothers, many Muslims in France today have to come to terms with their own identity as they face the pretentiously tolerant but merely assimilative French state, the increasing xenophobia amongst various groups in French society, and even the pressure of extremist Muslim forces in France (Noiriel, 1996).

As seen in the film, Malik had been initially detached from his Muslim identity most especially during his long-time slavery under the Corsican prisoners but eventually let himself be absorbed into the Muslim community. His allegiance with the Muslim prisoners towards the end of the film through his charitable donation to an imam (Islam priest) may appear sudden and unexpected at first but, once thoroughly analyzed, his allegiance was in fact a process – a negotiation within himself and a long and difficult formation of his own integrity as he spent years in prison. Throughout the narrative, Malik was exposed to kindness from Muslim individuals such as Reyeb who treated Malik kindly before Malik was forced to murder him. In fact, Reyeb was one of the first people who actually showed interest and care for Malik, promising to leave Malik his books so he can learn to read. Malik was so attached to Reyeb that he kept fantasizing about Reyeb’s existence, imagining Reyeb as his only confidante in the chaos and secrets of prison life. There was also, of course, Ryad who eventually became his business partner and his closest and most reliable friend. Malik found himself caring so much for Ryad that Malik even promised to adopt Ryad’s family after Ryad’s death as soon as Malik left prison. Aside from the kindness of his Muslim brothers, Malik was also exposed to discrimination from the Corsican prisoners who treated Malik like their slave and even forced Malik under a death threat to murder Reyeb. Malik may have therefore attached discrimination against the Muslims to the Corsicans who hated him as well, allowing for sympathy towards the Muslims. If only none of these factors were present, Malik may have continued to live without any identity or sense of belongingness to a community, having had no such concept at the beginning of the film. For example, if only the Corsicans sympathized with Malik and treated him kindly, Malik may have become more attached to the Corsican than the Muslim identity. Such experiences of Malik therefore may have fueled the process of his growing sympathy with the Muslim community.

Malik El Djebena, of course, was only one persona in the film and depicted only the confusion and negotiations of Muslims in the French society. Looking at the larger power relations going on in the film, we see as well the power struggles and negotiations of the in-prison Corsican mafia led by Caesar Luciani. The political history of Corsica, an island outside mainland France and nearer to Italy than France, is replete with occupations by various forces beginning with the Carthagians but its more modern and therefore more recent memory of colonization is marked by the political negotiations between Italy and France. Corsica was ruled by the Italian Republic of Genoa from the 1400s to the 1700s (BBC News, 2011). An independent Corsican republic was founded in 1755 by nationalists, but the island was ceded to France by purchase in 1769 (BBC News, 2011). Today, Corsica is a territorial collectivity and one of the least developed regions of France (BBC News, 2011). Its culture is also closer to Italian than French, with its language being linguistically similar with Italian and the existence of mafia families in the island (Nundy, 1993). The Corsicans therefore, with their Italian-influenced culture, have to come to terms with the various impositions of rule under the French state which continuously fails to understand the special needs of the Corsican people. This has led to a violent separatist movement in Corsica (BBC News, 2011).

Unlike the Muslims, however, the Corsicans in the film depict a success story in the beginning of the narrative. Through negotiations with the corrupted French prison system, Caesar Luciani leads a well-connected Corsican mafia spoiled by the prison guards. Unlike other prisoners, the Corsicans are allowed several liberties such as outside communication and the freedom to bully and dominate other groups in prison without punitive measures. The Corsicans, however, eventually face defeat as the Muslim community in prison grew in number and began to dominate the politics in prison particularly through Malik El Djebena’s eventual betrayal against Caesar Luciani. The defeat was also, quite ironically, fueled by the pardon ordered by French President Nicolas Sarkozy to Corsicans, seeing them merely as political prisoners under the growing tension between the Corsican separatist movement and the French state. Here, again, we see the connection between social and political realities and the prison politics portrayed in the film.

Finally, the film also alludes to the increasingly relevant issue of corruption within the machinations of the French government. Cited by Ezra Suleiman in 1994, the French civil service, formerly a bastion of efficiency and impressively professional bureaucracy, faces criticisms as it is eaten by politicization and problems of corruption. This is particularly important in the depiction of the French prison in the film. Clearly portrayed as a total institution – an institution of social isolation and administrative manipulation (Macionis, 2005) – the prison was trembling into corruption and bias to the powerful groups inside it. Elements of its character as a total institution were shown in the film through a regularized diet for prisoners, regularized recreational periods and areas, and even Malik’s forced stripping of his clothes and property before entering the prison. However, alluding to reality, the prison guards were depicted to have tendencies to support the Corsican mafia, for example, which had a powerful network outside the prison walls. Ergo, even the French prison has to deal with its own negotiations with the various groups existing within its walls and is, in fact, pressured to maintain its integrity despite the strength of forces subject to it. The French prison can therefore be seen as a symbolism of the larger French state, which has to come to terms with its growing Muslim community, the Corsican mafias and separatist movement, and even its own depleting and crumbling integrity in the face of politicization and corruption.

In synthesis, therefore, the narrative within the film not a narrative isolated from the larger social contexts within which the film was made. The clear social realism within the film has unavoidably turned its fictional narrative into a social and political depiction and critique of French society and politics. The salience of the film as a product of political socialization is undeniable and cannot be ignored. Indeed, as was made clear by this film, the political values and realities of the larger social context inevitably affect filmmaking.

References:

BBC News. (2005, December 23). Muslims in Europe: Country Guide. Retrieved July 5, 2011, from BBC News: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/4385768.stm

BBC News. (2011, April 28). Regions and territories: Corsica. Retrieved July 5, 2011, from BBC News: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/country_profiles/3028038.stm

Macionis, J. (2005). Society: The Basics. US: Prentice Hall.

Noiriel, G. (1996). The French Melting Pot: Immigration, Citizenship, and National Identity. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Nundy, J. (1993, August 25). Corsican guerrillas take on Mafia: The nationalists demanding independence from Paris have a new aim, writes Julian Nundy in Ajaccio: tackling organised crime. Retrieved July 5, 2011, from The Independent: http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/corsican-guerrillas-take-on-mafia-the-nationalists-demanding-independence-from-paris-have-a-new-aim-writes-julian-nundy-in-ajaccio-tackling-organised-crime-1463291.html

Smith, E. E., Nolen-Hoeksema, S., Fredrickson, B., & Loftus, G. R. (2003). Atkinson & Hilgard's Introduction to Psychology (14th ed.). Australia: Thomson & Wadsworth.

Suleiman, E. (1994). Presidentialism and Political Stability in France. In J. Linz, & A. Valenzuela (Eds.), The Failure of Presidential Democracy, Volume 1: Comparative Perspectives (pp. 137-162). Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

- Juan Carlo Tejano

A 19 year old Arab boy gets imprisoned for attacking a police officer. Upon his entry, the battle between morality and survival begins as Malik receives a killing order from the Corsican Mafia in exchange of protection and his own place in the prison hierarchy. He is an antihero who murdered his own race, sought revenge on the Corsican gang and became a mafia boss himself.

A Prophet is a film about the corruption of French society manifested through its penal system. France proclaims itself as “Le Pays des droits de l’Homme” (the country of human rights) when extreme cases of xenophobia is present in their everyday lives. One issue presented in this film is the discrimination against the Arabs, evident in the racist remarks of the Corsicans. Malik, an Arab man considered to be part of their clique who is treated otherwise, and is made to do the dirty job fit for his race. He serves them food, cleans their cells and follows them around like a dog, yet he is consistently a target of racism. At one point, Malik tries to imitate their words, “fucking Arab shit”, insulting his own people. He is presented with the dilemma of embracing his Arab identity in the expense of his survival inside the prison. While running errands for the Luciani, he lingers long enough at the sight of the Muslims praying, suggesting his desire to do the same. However, there is a time when the Arabs insulted him as a pig for enslaving himself to the Corsicans. It is difficult to establish his allegiance to both races as it is often inconsistent.

But what is Malik el Djebena identity? Could we blame him for killing his fellow Arab in a total institution devoid of morality? The social norms no longer apply in a system that is filled with cold blooded criminals. The rules have changed: kill or get killed. And this is exactly how a powerful mafia boss threatened a newbie petty criminal. Of course, the need to live would outweigh the moral implications of murdering a man. Especially when Malik is confused of his identity, it is easy for him to give himself at the disposal of the gang. However, throughout the movie, his allegiance to both races can become confusing to the audience as he starts learning how to read with his fellow Arabs. This is further complicated by his companionship with Ryad and servitude to Luciani. His allegiance to the Arabs and Corsicans is conflicted throughout his 6 year sentence. I think that his loyalty to a particular race is a self-serving means of being at the right side of the fight at the right time. His identity remains as vague as his dreams and “visions” of the future.

The penal system is created to protect the society from the criminals who pose threat to the lives of its citizens. However, it must also be correctional for the reformation and rehabilitation of the prisoners for their future reintegration to the society.

However, this is not the case in the film. This institution has dehumanized Malik starting from the humiliating full body inspection upon his entry to the prison. He even brings this routine in the airport as a security guard inspects his body. His crime was not established concretely and remained vague until he killed a man. How would we know if he was a random person in the street who was taken advantage of the police? The answer is no longer important for the very institution tasked to turn him into a better citizen, introduced his innocent young mind to the brutalities of the world. It is not only the police who turn blind on the crimes happening inside the prison, but also the lawyers who represent their clients for financial reasons alone. The entire penal system is perpetuating a culture of violence and breeds corrupted felons.

The transformation of Malik comes in full circle when he murdered the leader of the mafia and his men in broad daylight. A moment of distraction on a luxurious pair of shoes in a window of a store, shows the reluctance of Malik to carry on the deed. However, his face instantaneously turned cold and dark, filled with murderous intent. Without mercy, he blew up the brains of the men and used their bodies as shield as he went for his final kill. This shows the effect of the institution of the prison and its ability to dehumanize people. It corrupts the morality and belief systems governing an individual and transforms him in a state of anarchy, who lives by the rules of the day.

However, the corruption of the Malik is a learning process. Entering a dangerous world filled with criminals and not knowing how to survive is definitely terrifying for a petty criminal like Malik. He killed a man who showed kindness and introduced education to him. His conscience keeps him company in the form of Reyeb. As he gain experience on the drug trade in prison, his autonomy from Luciani and his gang increased, allowing him to build his connections with other inmates. His deception skills reached at its peak when he got the trust of both the leaders of the warring factions. From the blade in his bloody mouth, he now kills without remorse. Reyeb ceases to exist after his transformation from the 19-year old boy to a fully-pledged mafia boss.

“A Prophet” is an award winning film not only because of its harrowing story but also because of Jacques Audiard’s ability to captivate his audience and place them inside his film. The heaviness of the conscience of Malik before he kills Reyeb transcends the screen and fills the entire room. The whole class is writhing in their seats as they struggle in the frame that could barely contain them. The tones of the entire film are in blue or gray giving off a depressing vibe to the film. Furthermore, the violence is overpowering as the bloody images remain with the audience.

- Victoria Tiangco

Rashomon: The Negotiation Of Reality

“L'auteur est mort.” (Barthes, 1967)

There is a frustratingly funny contradiction when viewers of the 1950 Akira Kurosawa classic Rashomon end up confining their discussions within the theme of perception subjectivity. Funny, because their notions, while remaining subjective, are practically the same – that the film takes on a pessimist view of the human nature, that it reinforces the idea of relativity of truth. Frustrating, because you would know that these people have further been socialized into the dominant-hegemonic position (hence their expected interpretations) by a film whose plot is inherently counter-hegemonic. Indeed, many have spoken of Rashomon and its non-conformist elements, but only a selected few has taken the path of deviance in trying to deconstruct the film.

In his post-structuralist essay The Death of the Author, Roland Barthes critiques the manner in which readers attempt to extract meaning from a certain text by basing it on various aspects of the author’s identity such as political views, historical context, religion, ethnicity, and other personal attributes. He argues that such a means of interpretation “[imposes] a limit on that text.” Mikhail Bakhtin (1981) follows by claiming that “meanings are constructed through dialogue,” and needless to say, the experience of watching films is a dialogic activity between the producers and consumers. In a useful analogy of V.N. Voloshinov (1973), he explains:

A word is a bridge thrown between myself and another. If one end of the bridge

belongs to me then the other belongs on my addressee. A word is a territory shared

by both addresserand addressee, by the speaker and his interlocutor.

The dominant hegemonic discourse on Rashomon heavily relies on Kurosawa’s explanations in Something Like An Autobiography. Clearly, there is an obvious contradiction when a film preaches about subjectivity and relativity of truth yet the director/writer provides the audience a perspective on how to interpret the film. It is therefore unsurprising that people would think along the lines of these themes, and consequently fail to notice the other agenda it may contain. The discourse, however, is altogether different yet subsumed under the bigger dominant hegemonic position which ultimately defines the way people read the messages. This process is more familiarly known as depoliticization.

In the four mutually incompatible accounts of what people so often refer to as “rape” and murder presented in the film, a common theme – equally explicit as the central subject – can be found. For lack of a better and forgiving term, let it be called women discrimination. The only female character was portrayed as a weak, submissive, deceiving, adulterous, cunning, and basically evil individual. In the bandit’s narrative, the woman still ended up failing to protect herself, although it was made clear that she struggled to fight with all her might. From the husband’s recollection however, she immediately left the woods with the bandit after having slept with him. And then there is the woodcutter’s version, where she was able to successfully manipulate the two men to engage in a sword fight, with the winning party taking her home as a prize. Finally, even in her own account of the incident, it was depicted that she rather dies than suffer from the glaring stares of her husband, as if to say that the judgment of a man is more important than the life of a woman. It does not take a genius to arrive at this observation. It is far from subtle, and needs no deciphering. Why then does it appear to be so?

The norm dictates that generally, men, in most if not all respects, are stronger than women. This is the dominant hegemonic position that has accustomed people to think that it is logical for a man to defeat a woman in a battle of physical strength, or it is sheer common sense that necessitates a man to walk a woman through a forest by letting her ride on a horse. Some would argue that this is a manifestation of culture – but it is precisely the point! After all, culture is a contested space where various social forces struggle to achieve “political, intellectual, and moral leadership” (Gramsci, 1971), and film is but one of the many areas where such battle happens. Thus, adopting Barthes’ approach, Japanese culture is irrelevant in making sense of Rashomon. The point is once a film is produced and released, it goes beyond lifetimes, and whatever idea it seeks to permeate will continuously politicize or depoliticize the minds of its audience. There are no fair and unfair judgments – only judgments which would either strengthen or challenge the dominant hegemonic position where most films are juxtaposed.

Much has been said about how grand of a masterpiece Rashomon is – the stunning visual experience, the innovative style and techniques of filming, the groundbreaking concept and its eternal influence to the industry. This post does not intend to add up to the all-praise list. If only for the technical aspects and the buzz it created accordingly which led to the introduction of Japanese cinema to the world, Kurosawa deserves much credit. Everything else is debatable. But since its content is essentially political – exploring the philosophy of justice and exposing conventional power-relations, among others – Rashomon still rightfully deserves the attention and importance it has been receiving. It should definitely be included in the bucket list of someone who claims to be a film buff.

On a more personal note, I would like to emphasize the idea of deconstructing a film beyond the boundaries of how it is packaged. For instance, when we talk of James Cameron’s Avatar, do we talk about the future of technology, or the potential of humanity to destroy the world? Or do we ask why it lost to Kathryn Bigelow’s The Hurt Locker in the bid for Best Picture at the 82^nd Academy Awards and eventually discover for ourselves that it was due to the fact that it takes on an anti-imperialist stand, while the latter depicts the struggles and victories of American soldiers in the Iraq War – as if saying that they are part of the unspoken heroes of the world. The bottom line is deviant perspectives, aside from being refreshing, may in the end prove to be more critical and useful. Then again, my interpretations are as sensible and valid as someone else’s, because as Roland Barthes puts it, “the author is dead.”

References:

Bakhtin, M. (1975). Epic and Novel. The Dialogic Imagination, 1, ---.

Barthes, R. (1967). The Death of the Author. Aspen, 5-6, ---.

Gramsci, A. (1971). Selections from the Prison Notebooks, Hoare, Q. and Smith, G. N.

(translators and eds). New York: International Publishers.

Voloshinov, V. (1973). Marxism and the Philosophy of Language, Matejka, L. and

Titunik, I. R. (translators and eds) Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

- Mico Quijano

A woman is allegedly raped and a man is found dead in a grove in the woods. This might just be the most accurate summary of the incident around which the film Rashomon revolves. The rest of the details form an intricate tangle of testimonies that mismatch, and as the story unfolds the audience is led, more often than not, to utter the very same line with which the film opens: "I don't understand."

That is not to say, of course, that the film is a failure. Directed by Akira Kurosawa, Rashomon (1950) is an internationally-acclaimed Japanese crime/mystery film that tells of a supposed murder and a rape incident mainly through the testimonies of four different people: the bandit Tajomaru (the rapist and possibly the murderer), the Samurai’s wife (the raped woman who also claims to be the murderer), the Samurai himself (who, through a medium, instead claims suicide), and a woodcutter who later claims to have witnessed the entire incident. Closely based on the short story In a Grove by Ryunosuke Akutagawa, the film is groundbreaking in its use of the narrative device of contradictory flashbacks from multiple points of view to expound on what had happened.

What makes Rashomon so compelling, however, is that it doesn’t expound on what had happened, because the reality of “what happened” depends on agreement. Rather, the film boldly raises the question: what if there is no agreement on what happened? By reviewing the same incident over and over again, through different perspectives, the film cleverly depicts how subjectivity is injected between an act and how one perceives the act, creating entirely different meanings. Thus from four different viewpoints, was the rape really rape, or was it consensual? Was the death of the samurai the result of a valiant duel, or a pathetic attempt to save the last of one’s dignity? Yet, despite the absurdity of it all, Rashomon is a film that deals uniquely with the idea of reality. Rather than presenting a single, solid reality, the film comes up with a surprising, and sometimes disturbing premise - that the truth of one’s reality is actually as subjective as one’s personal opinions.

And it is indeed disturbing, as Kurosawa expresses through the monk who sits shivering by the Rashomon gate. If there is no consistent truth to speak of, if all reality is colored by egotism, self-interest and motive, lies become the lot of humanity, and earth becomes, as the monk and the commoner put it, “a living hell.” Tracing the root of such subjectivity to our being human, Rashomon is thus also an exploration of human nature, delving into the darkest recesses of humanity – or inhumanity, in this film.

Kurosawa masterfully brings these themes to life through the various, well-coordinated elements of the film. The black and white of the film, for example, seems to heighten the interplay of darkness, shadows, and light – visual representations of how what we perceive to be the truth can sometimes be obscured by grey areas. The same can be said for his extensive use of the forest foliage and the contrast it creates with the sunlight. The torrential rain in the opening scene was not merely used to distinguish the present from the very sunny flashback scenes; it highlighted the divide between physical reality and the transformative power of the meanings we attach to it. The Rashomon gate serves as another metaphor for the threshold that we have for physical reality, while the scene of the woodcutter’s long, silent walk in the forest is somewhat reflective of how we sometimes lose our grasp of reality in the midst of meanings and interpretations.

More than the visuals, however, it is the portrayal of the characters that truly bring out the film’s themes. The stark contrast of the flashbacks are easily tangible through the performances of the actors: the samurai is cold and hateful from the woman’s point of view, while from his own viewpoint he was dignified and even pitiful in his sorrow. From the bandit Tajomaru’s point of view, the woman was weak and easily subdued, while from the woodcutter’s, the woman was extremely manipulative and calculating. It was also interesting to see how the theatricality of the acting in this film brought attention to the extremes of human character. Tajomaru is loud and boisterous, callous and unapologetic, easily and unabashedly giving in to his passions and fancies, while the samurai is quiet, restrained, dignified yet cold and even cruel, and in contrast to Tajomaru he seems to have no passion at all. And yet, even with four different viewpoints on hand, there is the insight that there will always be something beyond what these characters do. Tajomaru might have had true feelings for the woman, or the woman might have hated her husband, or the samurai might not have seen the woman as anything but his “beautiful wife,” but who knows? The film does not tell.

It is exactly this sort of speculation this film generates which makes it so riveting. As it looks into the subjectivity of our perceptions of reality, it ingeniously forces the audience to do the same, leading the audience to examine the characters and the complexity of their actions, and ultimately, to the conclusion that the truth is only as good as how we see it.

Produced after the war, the film is certainly political in many ways. For one, Rashomon may actually serve as an allegory for post-war Japan. After experiencing such tragedies, Kurosawa might be putting across a message of hope and redemption through the film’s final scene, wherein the woodcutter who initially lied and thieved exhibits some nobility of heart by adopting an abandoned baby.

Yet the greatest political issue in the film is one that is easily missed. The film, as much as it is an exploration of human nature and human reality, is also a vivid portrayal of how women’s issues have long since been depoliticized and reduced into mere context, that is, a function of history. Set in 10^th or 11^th century Japan, portraying women as weak and subordinate to men is of course understandable. Thus the woman in Rashomon sits by the river while the two men make their way through thickets and brambles; much like her horse, she was nothing more than the samurai’s property, and it is but appropriate that it was a bandit – a thief – who tried to “steal” her from the samurai. Even she sees herself as helpless (“what is a poor woman like me to do?”), and in the film she did nothing but weep or faint or stumble as she ran away. At some point even the bandit who raped her was deemed more honourable by her own husband, but of course these are all perfectly consistent with the setting.

It is rather ironic that such a dilemma can be found in the film Rashomon – a film that as a work of art has itself broken the conventions of its time by creating new contexts in film-making; even more so because the film challenges people to review how they agree to perceive reality. There is nothing wrong in the film’s portrayal of women; historians would even deem it accurate. What is disturbing, however (so much so that even today, it remains neglected even by top movie critics), is that much like the resignation of the commoner to the evil nature of human beings, the issue is treated as not an issue at all.

- Therese Buergo