Adam Chamberlain's Blog

One of the few consolations of recent months has been the opportunity to make some headway into the perpetual pile of unwatched DVDs stacked in the cabinet beneath my television. Having been nestled towards the top of that pile for some time, I have finally found the time to explore Frank Spotnitz‘s Night Stalker (2005-06).

A reinvention of the concept and character of Carl Kolchak so memorably played by in the TV movies The Night Stalker (1972) and The Night Strangler (1973), and with echoes of both The X-Files (1993-2002, 2016-18) and Millennium (1996-99) in terms of its themes and tone—understandably so given the creative team involved—the series was sadly short-lived due to some unenviable scheduling. Nonetheless, with an emerging character and mythology all of its own, it has much to commend it. As Spotnitz himself says, it gave him the opportunity “to fuse the lessons (he) had learned thus far in (his) career, combining Chris Carter’s writerly discipline with Michael Mann’s cutting-edge cinematic approach”. Furthermore, its final produced episode is particularly noteworthy in terms of this blog’s focus. Please note that there are spoilers for the episode and series in what follows.

[image error]Title: Night Stalker “What’s the Frequency, Kolchak?”

Writers: 
Director:
Network: ABC

Original Release Date: 17 March 2006

Gilligan’s script finds L.A. Beacon reporter Carl Kolchak (the excellent ) abducted from his office late at night by a disturbed man, Paul Krieger (). Kolchak is taken by Krieger to a decrepit building where newspapers are stacked from floor to ceiling, and cuffed to a wheelchair. There, Kolchak learns that Krieger is convinced that an entity known only as the Old Man lurks in the darkness behind a door at the property, and seeks an “answer” from Kolchak to enable Krieger’s escape. An early exchange reveals Krieger’s delusion, and that the escape he is seeking is more internal in nature.[image error]Krieger is convinced that Kolchak has been communicating with him via code through his published newspaper stories, and hence that he can help him. His initial claims to know Kolchak are borne out to be true, as they had previously spent time together on the same psychiatric ward. Kolchak has no memory of this given he had been prescribed psychotropic drugs at the time, but confirms he had spent time at the hospital following the death of his wife—an event central to the series’ mythology.

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The episode’s title references the phrase “What’s the frequency, Kenneth?”, which came into popular parlance (and inspired the title for R.E.M.’s 1994 single) after US journalist and news anchor Dan Rather was assaulted by a man who repeatedly asked him, “Kenneth, what’s the frequency?” during the attack. The alleged assailant was later identified as William Tager, who went on to kill an NBC stagehand due to a delusion that television networks were transmitting signals directly into his brain. The comparisons between this episode’s concept and Tager’s story are self-evident.

Krieger’s condition is never explained or named. When Kolchak has him narrate his personal history, Krieger plays down any suggestion that he was mentally ill at all, suggesting he had used an insanity plea to avoid prison time after being convicted of killing his grandparents and claiming that the Old Man first manifested when he was undergoing electroconvulsive therapy at the hospital. We have to consider him an unreliable narrator in this regard, though, and his paranoid delusions present in a similar way to schizophrenia or perhaps psychosis due to severe depression. (It is worth noting that electroconvulsive therapy is not a typical treatment for schizophrenia, although it is still sometimes used to treat severe depression.)

There are a number of potential causes for the emergence of schizophrenia or depression, including abuse, and there are hints of such a personal history for Krieger, with the “Old Man” potentially signifying his father, grandfather, or another older male. Alternatively, as Kolchak suggests, he is perhaps simply a manifestation of his inescapable guilty conscience.

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A common observation I have made on this blog is the representation of those with mental illness as being violent—especially in ways that are complex and pre-planned—when, statistically, they are more prone to being the victims of violence. Whilst those suffering with schizophrenia can become aggressive, particularly when suffering extreme symptoms or during periods of high stress, it remains an all too common trope. That concern was in the back of my mind as I watched this episode, until events took an even darker and more ambiguous turn towards its climax.

With Kolchak having missed her birthday party, his close colleague Perri Reed () is persuaded by photographer Jain McManus () to track him down. She appears at the house, only to be attacked by Krieger. At this, Kolchak loses his own self-control, and dispatches Krieger to the mysterious back bedroom. Only then realising that Perri had never been there at all, Kolchak finds Krieger’s body among several others in the room. The precise events that actually unfolded are thrown into doubt, with Kolchak showing signs of having himself suffered some sort of dissociative fugue state.

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It is this ambiguous and unsettling climax, one that is never fully resolved and which further adds to doubts about Kolchak’s true nature, that is the episode’s most impactful beat. It is also its most resonant in terms of the representation of mental illness.

In the series’ pilot episode, it had been revealed that Kolchak bears a mark on his wrist, the very same mark as found on the bodies of innocent people that had suffered violent deaths. In a later episode commentary, Frank Spotnitz reveals this as the mark of Cain, a sign of evil, and that part of Kolchak’s arc would have been to learn of its nature. Whilst the narrative of this episode thankfully does not equate evil with mental illness, the broader mystery surrounding Kolchak is thus deepened in an effective fashion. The potential for good and evil within each of us is a theme that recurs throughout much of Spotnitz’s work, and Night Stalker looked destined to explore the idea further.

Having just consumed the entire series over the past two weeks, I highly recommend checking out Night Stalker in full. It benefits from a distinct sense of place, fine performances from its regular cast, and some thoughtful storytelling. The DVD set is notable in that it contains two insightful episode commentaries in which Frank Spotnitz reveals tantalising details of the direction the series’ mythology would have taken, as well as some other key creative choices—such as in terms of the show’s striking visual character.

The series is widely available to stream, including via ABC, Google Play, or Amazon in both the UK and the USA. So, be courageous and take to Los Angeles’ streets after dark in the passenger seat alongside Carl Kolchak as he “stops at nothing to uncover the supernatural side of the night”.

It was my privilege to have been asked to appear on a recently released instalment of the Projections podcast, a production that mostly discusses film from various psychological perspectives. The edition in question was released under the banner of “Boxsets on the Couch”, and comprised a discussion on representations of mental illness on television—coinciding with the very raison d’être for this blog. As a companion piece to that guest appearance, I wanted to share my thoughts in more detail on one of the shows I cited during the discussion—no less than a favourite episode from a favourite series of mine. For me, this is a prime example of how a series that didn’t necessarily put mental illness front and centre could tell a powerful and meaningful story when it incorporated such concerns into its universe.

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Title: Buffy the Vampire Slayer “Normal Again”

Writers: 
Director:
Network: UPN

Original Airdate: 12 March 2002

Across seven seasons, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997-2003) told the story of Buffy Summers (), the Chosen One of her generation, a young woman nominated as the Slayer and thus gifted with powers to fight vampires, demons, and various such supernatural forces. Helped by a group of friends and guided by a Watcher, the various Big Bads that were set against them were typically metaphors for the pains and tribulations of adolescence and early adulthood. As stated in the DVD featurette Buffy 101: Studying the Slayer, “the genius of the central concept [is] that we are all beset by monsters, all around us. And that we all see our problems as monstrous and the people who are doing it to us as monsters.”

By the middle of its sixth season, the series found Buffy in the depths of a nihilistic depression. This is an understandable response to her extraordinary circumstances, having sacrificed her life only to be resurrected and wrenched back from heaven to the ongoing trials of living in her hometown of Sunnydale, horrors emerging from the Hellmouth underneath its high school on a weekly basis! She has entered into an abusive relationship with the vampire and former foe Spike (), whilst her entire group of friends find themselves in one or other form of despair or addiction. The entire so-called “Scooby Gang” is at its nadir.

The teaser for “Normal Again” sees a demon summoned and unleashed upon Buffy, setting up one of its trademark action scenes. During the fight, the demon injects the Slayer with what turns out to be a hallucinogenic venom. At that moment, in a match cut, we suddenly encounter a distressed Buffy in an altogether different environment: a psychiatric hospital where two orderlies are injecting her, against her will, with medication. The episode then plays out between these dual narratives as Buffy faces her demons—both real and allegorical—and battles a debilitating mental illness.

This was the first commissioned script from writer Guttierez, which makes it all the more remarkable for its accomplishment as a stand-out instalment from the series’ entire run. On his commentary accompanying the DVD release, he shares his thoughts about coming up with the idea for the episode:

The best Buffy episodes always get to the heart of the matter fast, and really put you into something that is very essential to the metaphor and what the characters go through, and Buffy’s whole story… They’e all very much at the bottom of the well at this point, and all very insecure about who they are and what they’re going through. It fits to put a concept in which all that—everything that you are, your entire world—gets questioned to the point that you might be in an insane asylum. That’s how bad things are, that Buffy would believe that, and want to believe that, to an extent.

The idea of a series protagonist having imagined the entire story in which they feature, for one reason or another, is a familiar one. (For another example featured on this blog, look no further than the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode “Frame of Mind”.) But what marks out “Normal Again” is just how plausible and even desirable it is for a mentally ill Buffy to be the “real” narrative. Through a number of stylistic choices, coupled with Gellar’s entirely believable performance, the episode treads a careful and emotionally involving balance.

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One of those stylistic choices, as shared by director Rosenthal in the self-same DVD commentary, was to ensure that each “reality” looked just as real as the other. As such, there was no visual distinction made between the two perspectives that might indicate one was imagined. The same type of film was used, and the starkness of the psychiatric hospital was designed to look as authentic as possible. It might sound odd to suggest a realm of vampires and demons was just as plausible but, after six years of having been immersed in this world and invested in its characters, I can vouch as a regular audience member that Sunnydale felt entirely real to me, too. Which only made it all the more gut-wrenching to be presented with an alternative version of Buffy’s reality that, whilst still painful, offered a more hopeful prospect. As the British Film Institute’s critical reading of the series describes it:

She’s going through such a rough time in her real world that she’s tempted to surrender to an alternate, more mundane reality in which her mother is still alive, her parents are still together and she no longer has to bear the weight of the world on her shoulders, a reality in which she is, in fact, just an ordinary girl. It’s an indication of how well the writers have done their work that we now find ourselves rooting for her not to relinquish six seasons’ worth of preposterous events in favour of the easier, non-heroic but more realistic option.

As to the nature of Buffy’s apparent mental illness, it is described as a type of schizophrenia. The level of her accompanying dissociation approaches something of a fugue state—a condition that, in keeping with the dual narratives and ambiguity of the episode, could be applied just as readily to Sunnydale’s Buffy imagining herself under care in the hospital as a response to the traumas of her life. But, back in the world of the psychiatric hospital, her doctor () is a compassionate and benevolent character that further inclines the conflicted audience to want to believe in that world:

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Back in Sunnydale, a further reveal by Buffy plays further with the narrative history of the character, as she reveals to best friend Willow () that she had spent time in a clinic after she first told her parents she had encountered vampires. This would place the character’s treatment between the events of the original 1992 movie and the ensuing run of the television series. Following her revelation, Buffy voices the central question ultimately posed by the episode about the series in its entirety: “What if I’m still there? What if I never left that clinic?”

Having attempted to silence her friends’ protestations about her condition by subduing and gagging them and offering them up to the demon, ultimately Buffy chooses to rescue them and defeat the creature. There is a sense that her two realities have started to merge, as she chooses which one to embrace. And, heartbreakingly, it is her late mother Joyce‘s () kind words to her daughter that ultimately herald her decision to overcome her grief and leave behind an imagined version of her past so as to face her destiny:

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Boldest of all, though, is the creative choice of how to end the episode. Bidding her mother goodbye, Buffy drifts into a catatonic state in the hospital before a triumphant return to her usual self in Sunnydale as, naturally, she defeats the demon and saves the day. Yet the final shot focuses not on this victory, but rather on her unresponsive figure slumped against a wall back in the hospital. In one sense, it’s a somewhat disempowering idea to suggest a series that champions female empowerment is all a figment of a disturbed young woman’s mind, but it also makes for an intriguing creative statement in terms of the core nature of fiction.

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In that regard, perhaps I should leave the final comment on this episode to the series’ creator, Joss Whedon. In conversation with the New York Times in 2003, he had this to say of the episode:

How important it is in the scheme of the Buffy narrative is really up to the person watching. If they decide that the entire thing is all playing out in some crazy person’s head, well the joke of the thing to us was it is, and that crazy person is me! It was kind of the ultimate postmodern look at the concept of a writer writing a show, which is not the sort of thing we usually do on the show. The show had merit in itself because it did raise the question, “How can you live in this world and be sane?” But, at the same time, the idea amused me very much and we played on it a little bit… We played on the crazy things we came up with time and time again, to make this fantasy show work, and called them into question the way any normal person would. But, ultimately, the entire series takes place in the mind of a lunatic locked up somewhere in Los Angeles, if that’s what the viewer wants. Personally, I think it really happened.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer is still widely available, although viewers should beware that the high definition version currently available on Amazon Prime in the UK has been thoroughly derided. Nonetheless, it remains a rich and genre-defining body of work—as is, for that matter, its spin-off Angel—and as such I thoroughly recommend (re)visiting the very real world of Sunnydale.

In my final look-back at the Cinematic Representations of Mental Illness course I attended at Crouch End Picturehouse late last year, I reflect upon three films we considered that portray Borderline Personality Disorder.

A broad diagnosis taking in a range of characteristics, Borderline Personality Disorder is marked by emotional difficulties with the self and in relationships, including in regards to self-image, impulsivity, intense emotional responses to situations, and extreme fear of and reaction to abandonment or rejection. The disorder bears a strong correlation to child abuse and especially sexual abuse, affects women more often than men, and has frequent comorbidity with depression, substance misuse, and eating disorders, as well as a very high suicide rate—around one in ten. As a diagnosis it is not without controversy; onscreen, it has a degree of popularity given how it makes for unpredictable characters with a broad emotional range, although it is also prone to falling into stereotypes if not executed with sensitivity.

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Title: Fatal Attraction

Writer:
Director: 
Studio: Paramount Pictures

Release Date: 18 September 1987

Fatal Attraction turned out to be one of the most interesting inclusions of the entire course for me. The biggest box office success globally in the year of its cinematic release, it is a film I recall seeing as a teenager when it first appeared on television a few years later, and taking at face value without giving it too much thought at the time. It tells the tale of a love affair between publishing editor Alex Forrest () and married family man Dan Gallagher (), and of the escalating fall-out when Dan seeks to end it.

Dan—a type of role that was quite typical for Douglas in this period of his career—is portrayed as the more relatable character of the pair in spite of his self-centredness. By contrast, Alex bears the burden of responsibility for their affair, not least due to her response: she takes his rejection badly, stalks him, feigns pregnancy, attempts suicide, and—perhaps most memorably of all since it birthed the phrase “bunny boiler“—kills the family’s pet rabbit on the kitchen stove.

Perhaps it is a film that has not aged well given how society’s understanding of mental illness has—in some respects, at least—advanced in the past three decades, but I do find it a little depressing to find it and Alex Forrest still being included on such lists as “film’s deadliest female psychopaths” with little or no nuance. The character’s lack of a backstory in the film arguably doesn’t help in this regard. Indeed, Glenn Close had been concerned at how to portray Alex and consulted with psychiatrists as part of her preparation, during which she was advised that, based on the script, Alex seemed to be suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder.

Perhaps most noteworthy in terms of how the character of Alex is perceived, however, is how the film ends and and how this varies from the original version. As originally scripted and filmed, Alex commits suicide using a knife that bears Dan’s fingerprints from a prior violent encounter, leading to him falling under suspicion of having murdered her. Following audience reactions to test screenings, this ending was eschewed for one in which Alex is killed in self-defence after she comes to Dan’s house and attacks him and his wife.

During the original ending’s suicide sequence, Alex is listening to Madame Butterfly, a reference that survives in the released version of the film in a scene in which a dejected, distressed Alex is seen listening alone to a recording of the opera. Most recently, Close discussed this more sympathetic and nuanced representation of Alex with film critic Mark Kermode in his Kermode on Film podcast in January, during which she agreed with his assertion that the original version deserved to have been retained, whilst also acknowledging why the change was made:

Yes, that was the character that I created and that I loved and I believed in. She was not a psychopath; she was a damaged, needy person. And so the thing about the Madame Butterfly (ending is that) it was seamless, but it was seamless in a way that American audiences get very upset by. They have the fight, his fingerprints are on the knife, and when she kills herself with the same knife he was sent to jail for it. That’s kind of a seamless, wonderful film noir ending, and for her that was the true ending. I think she was much more self-destructive than a psychopath.

The one thing that happened that never was shot was, in the beginning of the film, there was supposed to be a scene where she was at the opera—with an empty seat beside her because she had invited Dan—watching Madame Butterfly kill herself because she’d been abandoned. And not having that scene I think took away from the beautiful ending, that she chose to end herself the way she had seen Madame Butterfly (do so), and it was about being rejected and the pain of that rejection. And also she had a whole history that was my secret but was never in the script, so I always will feel that the original ending was the right ending, but I don’t think the film would have been the huge hit that it was without that re-shot ending, which basically gave the audience her blood, which is cathartic.

The audience wanted to feel that there was hope that the family would be okay, that they would get back together. The last shot is a long tracking shot focusing in on a picture of the mother, father, and child, and that’s classic, that’s making people not go out of the theatre just upset but with a little bit of hope. But it was at the expense of who I thought Alex really was… What I think would really be interesting would be if you took the exact same story but you wrote it from her point of view, she would become a tragic… figure, because people would understand the why of her behaviour.

Tellingly, Glenn Close has gone on to campaign for mental health awareness, ultimately founding and chairing Bring Change to Mind, a US-based organisation dedicated to ending the stigma of mental illness. This was in direct response to mental health conditions surfacing in her own family, but I can’t help but think that the lack of appreciation of Alex’s “true” nature in Fatal Attraction might also have been a factor. If so, perhaps this is the film’s most meaningful legacy.

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Title: Single White Female

Writer:
Director:
Studios: Columbia Pictures

Release Date: 14 August 1992

Released five years after Fatal Attraction, Single White Female brings us another example of a female character suffering Borderline Personality Disorder in Hedra “Hedy” Carlson (), a troubled young woman who is selected by Allison “Allie” Jones () to be her new roommate. Gradually, Hedy becomes more and more obsessed with Allie and her life, mimicking her look and identity, impersonating her, and ultimately committing a series of violent acts that hasten a deadly showdown between the pair.

In Hedy’s attempts to copy Allie’s identity, we encounter the disorder’s lack of a defined sense of self, which is only compounded by the sense of rejection when Allie asks her to move out of her apartment. In the course group’s discussion, we reflected back on how, in the disorder’s lack of a clear sense of self-identity, it is similar to narcissism. We also drew comparisons back to Shame and ‘s character, Sissy, as a further—and arguably more nuanced—example of the disorder onscreen.

Here we do have some sort of background for Hedy, who had a twin sister that drowned at a young age; Hedy lies about this, though, claiming she was stillborn, leaving us to speculate as to precisely what were the circumstances of her death. This loss of her twin enhances or at least mirrors her lack of a sense of self, too. Nevertheless, she is hardly sympathetic, even down to the rather tired trope of her ensuring Allie’s pet dog falls to its death from their apartment to signal the nature of her character.

Popular public perceptions of Hedy weren’t all that removed from those of Fatal Attraction‘s Alex, with Jennifer Jason Leigh winning the MTV Movie Award for Best Villain in 1993. It seems that moviegoers’ views of such a character were—and arguably still are—prone to being simplistic in nature. Single White Female offers a more rounded character in Hedy than Fatal Attraction‘s final screen version of Alex, but its narrative nonetheless sensationalises her condition in its audience-grabbing reliance upon sensationalism and cliché.

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Title: Thirteen

Writers:
Director:
Studio: Working Title Films

Release Date: 19 September 2003

Another couple of decades on from Single White Female, Thirteen brings us the most sympathetic and tragic representation of Borderline Personality Disorder from this selection of films. Tellingly, it was co-written (in less than a week) by one of its stars, Nikki Reed, and loosely based on her own life in her early teens; that authenticity most definitely translates to the screen.

Thirteen focuses upon Tracy Freeland (), the increasingly wayward daughter to Melanie (, who was nominated for an Academy Award for her portrayal), a divorcee and recovering alcoholic too distracted by her own life to take sufficient notice of her daughter’s condition. Initially a model student, Tracy befriends Evie Zamora (Reed) at school, and begins an indulgent slide into ever riskier delinquent behaviour, from petty criminal behaviour through substance abuse and underage sex. Tracy’s life spirals way beyond any typical adolescent experience, her disturbance of identity and apparent recklessness heightening this to a frightening level. The hand-held camera style lends the film a documentary-like experience that only compounds its unsettling tone.

In terms of my own response to the film, at first I found myself judging Tracy’s behaviour as simply brattish and annoying, but the power of the performances and its dramatic slide into chaos soon shifted my perspective. Ultimately, as Tracy’s condition becomes more self-evident, her breakdown and tentative reconciliation with her mother—whom we speculate might also be a sufferer—are both tragic and deeply affecting.

All in all, this final trio of films made for a fitting and thought-provoking finale to the course, prompting me to examine some of my own preconceptions of personality disorders. In their own way, I’m sure that each of these films has also contributed something to the maturing of that conversation. No matter how some people may seem to be acting out, unsociable and unpredictable behaviour may—more often than we often take care to acknowledge it—offer clues to mental ill-health and personal trauma.

I will close this look-back with one more recommendation to follow course lecturer Mary Wild on Twitter; she runs a number of insightful courses, bringing her psychoanalytical perspective to a host of themes, and you can find out more details of them on her feed. Also, do check out the Projections podcast, which is co-hosted by Mary and has discussed different movies around many of the same groups of mental illness covered in this course—and much more besides. It is never less than an entertaining listen, I am now a loyal subscriber, and am thrilled to be able to reveal that I will soon also be making a guest appearance!

For my penultimate look-back at the Cinematic Representations of Mental Illness course I attended at Crouch End Picturehouse late last year, there was something of a shift away from more recognised mental disorders to consider narcissism. Whilst a degree of egocentrism is an adaptive quality to ensure a level of self-belief, narcissism goes beyond this to a disproportionate level of investment in the self over that afforded to others. Sigmund Freud wrote an essay on narcissism, theorising that it represented a neurosis that can isolate the individual via the level of disinterest in others to which it can lead. Then there is also a definition of narcissistic personality disorder, marked by a deluded sense of self-importance and grandiosity that renders empathy impossible and leads to a sense of entitlement, exploitation and envy of others, all undercut by a fragile self-esteem.

As a trait, narcissism—whether or not it is strictly pathological—can make for compelling characters with considerable dramatic value of the kind that viewers love to hate, and so it is not an uncommon archetype in drama and comedy. All three of these movie choices—each of which is an adaptation from a novel—exemplify that archetype in one way or another.

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Title: American Psycho

Writer:
Director: 
Studios: Edward R. Pressman Productions / Muse Productions / Lionsgate Films

Release Date: 14 April 2000

I struggled to engage with American Psycho on first viewing, much as I had struggled with the prose of Brett Easton Ellis, the original novel’s author. I did, however, really enjoy the Almeida Theatre‘s premiere of the musical adaptation several years ago, which featured a revelatory turn from as its protagonist Patrick Bateman and successfully conveyed the material’s black comedic heart, and hence I approached a second viewing of this movie adaptation with an open mind, perhaps for the first time engaging with the material on its own terms.

Patrick Bateman () is, superficially at least, a successful New Yorker living the high life as an investment banker at the height of the mid-Eighties era of Reaganomics, fetishising the shallow, materialistic details and vanities of his daily routine. (In a throwaway moment, his head is turned when he thinks he has spotted Donald Trump’s car.) He hates his associates and his fiancee, though, and his superficial fixations ultimately drain his individuality to the extent that that he finds himself a victim of mistaken identity, his peers becoming doppelgängers for him and for one another.

Bateman makes for an unreliable narrator—although by its nature the film adaptation is less ambiguous than the first person narrative of the original novel—such that his descent into hyper-violence as his “mask of sanity” slips cannot necessarily be taken literally, instead revealing the story’s twisted satire of the vacuous lifestyle that he idealises. In a telling early scene, Bateman’s voiceover reveals as much of his character as do the visuals as he peels off a skin treatment face mask:

There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman—some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me—only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable, I simply am not there.

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Title: Gone Girl

Writer:
Director:
Studios: Regency Enterprises / TSG Entertainment

Release Date: 2 October 2014

I will necessarily spoil certain key aspects of Gone Girl here in considering its psychology. Adapted by Gillian Flynn from her own novel, it at first appears to tell the story of how Nick Dunne () becomes the prime suspect following the tragic disappearance of his wife, Amy (). In a mid-movie reveal, however, it becomes clear that Amy faked her own disappearance having learned that her husband had been unfaithful, setting up a new life for herself whilst in the process leaving a trail that would incriminate him by way of revenge.

The media attention is piqued over Amy’s disappearance due to her having been fictionalised by her parents in a series of books as “Amazing Amy”, an idealised version of herself to which she could never live up. This, then, is a play upon both the personality’s disorder’s inflated sense of self and its true nature as a lack of self-esteem, her parents partaking in the creation of her disorder having exacted a kind of cruelty upon their daughter:

With me—regular, flawed, Real Amy—jealous, as always, of the golden child. Perfect, brilliant Amazing Amy.

Amy’s deceitful, manipulative behaviour sees her represent the so-called dark triad of narcissism, psychopathy, and Machiavellianism, and in particular the latter, in not too dissimilar a fashion from American Psycho‘s Patrick Bateman. The prominent “MISSING” poster seen during the search for her provides its own visual clue as to her true nature as a lost soul.

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Title: To Die For

Writer:
Director:
Studios: The Rank Organisation / Columbia Pictures

Release Date: 6 October 1995

All three of these film choices have an unusual tone to them that befits the kinds of characters that they portray, and none more so than that struck by ‘s impressive turn as Susanne Stone, a woman obsessed with becoming a top broadcast journalist who by sheer determination forces her way onscreen as a weather presenter for a local cable station. In a similar vein to American Psycho, the very pursuit of the American Dream is being satirised in this comedy-drama, as is the modern narcissistic drive for infamy at any cost and for any reason.

I was, however, surprised to learn that the screenplay is based on a book by  that explores the real-life case of Pamela Smart, who conspired with an underage lover to murder her husband. In the film,  plays the poor, unsuspecting spouse who meets an untimely demise when his plans for a family threaten to thwart Suzanne’s ambitions. At this, Suzanne seduces a naive student, Jimmy (), one of the subjects in an artless documentary she is in the process of filming, and manipulates him and his friends into killing her husband.

Speaking in sound bites that help formulate her mask of a fictionalised version of herself, Suzanne makes for an all-too-recognisable screen presence:

You’re not anybody in America unless you’re on TV. On TV is where we learn about who we really are. Because what’s the point of doing anything worthwhile if nobody’s watching? And if people are watching, it makes you a better person.

Not for no reason does narcissism so often seem to be deployed onscreen and on the page to satirise the vacuous pursuits of the modern world. In each of these films, a personality disorder is represented as a method of revealing a deeper truth about the nature of our society, its reflection of what drives many to attain fame and material success naught but an ugly expression of an existence without true meaning.

Once again, I will close with a recommendation to follow course lecturer Mary Wild on Twitter and to give the Projections podcast a listen, which is co-hosted by Mary and has discussed different movies around many of the same groups of mental illness covered in this course—and more besides. Furthermore, Mary returns to the Crouch End Picturehouse next month for a run of her popular course “Women in Horror Films“, which I am very much looking forward to attending.

Next: the final instalment of this look-back on the films featured in Mary’s previous course with a consideration of three cinematic representations of Borderline Personality Disorder.

Resuming my look-back at the Cinematic Representations of Mental Illness course I attended at Crouch End Picturehouse late last year, for its fourth week three powerful films explored themes of addiction.

Addiction has suffered historically from a tendency to equate it with a failure of character, a lack of willpower as opposed to a medical condition outwith the sufferer’s control. Whilst this is a perception that still persists within society—not just in relation to addiction but also a whole range of mental health issues—such attitudes are slowly changing, and addiction is now formally acknowledged as a complex brain disorder that results in compulsive substance misuse or other behaviour in spite of harmful consequences to the individual—and often to their interpersonal relationships in turn. Risk factors for addiction are considered to be a combination of genetic and environmental or experiential in nature, e.g. trauma, including epigenetic inheritance—a powerful notion which can see its destructive nature persist through generations.

The course’s introduction to the condition also considered how addiction can co-present alongside other mental health problems, as well as potential treatment options. A challenge here is that approaches that are effective for other mental health conditions can be less so for its sufferers, who will often be unable to contemplate surrendering their addiction and therefore are prone to treat with disdain such attempts to have them do so.

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Title: Requiem for a Dream

Writers: 
Director: 
Studios: Artisan Entertainment / Thousand Words / Sibling Productions / Protozoa Pictures

Release Date: 19 January 2001

Requiem for a Dream is a difficult watch in a number of ways. Based on the novel of the same name by screenplay co-writer Selby—himself a drug addict whose hallmark was exploring the dark underbellies of life—it depicts, dramatically and unremittingly, the downward spiral of four people who fall under the powerful grip of addiction. It focuses upon widow Sara (), her wayward son Harry (), his girlfriend Marion (), and friend Tyrone ().

In its familial connections, there is a hint here of the potential inheritability of addiction, although the experiences of mother and son are quite different. Sara cuts a lonely figure, whiling her days away watching TV, but whose luck appears to take a turn when she wins a spot on a gameshow. As a consequence, though, she starts taking prescription amphetamines to lose weight for her upcoming appearance, fixated on being able to fit into a red dress once favoured by her deceased husband, a totem of what she has lost in life. She begins to suffer stimulant psychosis and is ultimately committed to a psychiatric hospital where she receives electroconvulsive therapy. Whilst early on her son implores her to stop taking the drugs, he has his own problems as he starts dealing heroin with Tyrone as a money-making venture, landing them both in trouble with the law. Tyrone ends up having a miserable time in prison, whilst Harry’s problems worsen further as his use of heroin leads to a needle infection in his arm that ultimately finds him needing to have the limb amputated. Meanwhile, girlfriend Marion is pimped out by Harry to help provide financial support for their drug-dealing, leading her into her own downward spiral of ever more demeaning situations. A feel-good, optimistic movie about people bettering their situations this is not.

The film is segmented into three signposted chapters of summer, fall, and winter as it depicts a downward spiral from initial happiness through an increasing set of challenges and then hitting rock bottom. In addition to this overall structure, a visual method that Aronofsky uses to portray drug use is a recurring series of very short shots cut together. I found these annoying in their repetition over the course of the film and increasingly intrusive to my engagement with the narrative, but my takeaway from this is that this was entirely the point of them.

Notably, the cast and crew have been reluctant to discuss the movie since its production, so harrowing was it to film certain sequences. I know a little of how they might feel from merely watching the film; I’m not sure I could sit through it a second time, so visceral are its depictions of addiction and its ultimate effects. It is, however, a powerful representation of the condition, of its psychological allure, and of how drug abuse ultimately acts to undercut any attempts to improve self-image or the experience of being in the world. As Aronofsky explains in the DVD commentary for the film, notably over a scene in which Harry hallucinates an alternative reality in which a healthy, happy Marion—and again, significantly, in a red dress—is waiting for him at the end of a pier on Coney Island under a clear, blue sky:

Ultimately, Requiem for a Dream is about the lengths (to which) people go to escape their reality. And that when you escape your reality you create a hole in your present, because you’re not there—you’re chasing a pipe dream of the future. And then you’ll use anything to fill that vacuum. So it doesn’t matter if it’s coffee, if it’s tobacco, TV, if it’s heroin, if it’s ultimately hope, you’ll use anything to fill that hole. And when you feed that hole—just like the hole in Jared’s arm—it’ll grow and grow and grow until, eventually, it will devour you.”

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Title: Factory Girl

Writers:
Director: George Hickenlooper

Studios: Regency Enterprises / Extension 765

Release Date: 16 March 2007

All of the films under consideration here—and, of course, many more besides—speak to personal experiences of one sort or another, but what is on display in Factory Girl is a biographical representation of an actual life. Edie Sedgwick () was an actress and model who found herself dubbed an “it girl” as part of the sociopathic Andy Warhol‘s () strange, cult-like circle of Superstars for a time in the Sixties, briefly attached to Bob Dylan (), but ultimately spurned by them both and. Following a period of recovery and a hospital stay, she died at the age of twenty-eight from an overdose of alcohol and barbiturates.

I found it difficult to like this film, perhaps because of how unrelatable and unlikeable I found most of its characters, but I was struck by the tragedy of Sedgwick’s short existence, and of the psychological examination of her life that was proffered during the course. She came from a wealthy and prominent family background but her father was narcissistic, remote, abusive, and a philanderer. She once walked in on him having sex with a mistress, and his response was to accuse her of imagining the entire encounter and to have her prescribed tranquillisers. Later in life, in the grip of alcohol and drug abuse after her friendship with Warhol had soured and with her work for him having gone unpaid, she accused him of ruining her life and of not valuing her.

The theory that was introduced in relation to Sedgwick’s life was Sigmund Freud‘s 1914 paper “Remembering, Repeating, and Working Through Childhood Trauma“, which posits that a patient who has repressed a damaging life experience through disengagement and detachment as opposed to coming to terms with it is prone to acting this out over and over again subconsciously. Thus, Sedgwick’s dysfunctional relationship with Warhol is theorised to echo that with her father. It is a powerful idea, and one that Sedgwick’s tragic life seems to reflect.

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Title: Shame

Writers: 
Director: 
Studios: See-Saw Films / Film4 / UK Film Council

Release Date: 13 January 2012

The most affecting of all three films selected for this theme for me was Shame. Considered the middle film in director Steve McQueen’s thematic trilogy of films on confinement alongside Hunger (2008) and 12 Years a Slave (2013), each of which include a collaboration with , It follows the lives of two siblings, Brandon (Fassbender) and Sissy (), their unusual, tense relationship with one another, and their self-destructive behaviours.

Brandon appears, superficially at least, to have an ordinary and moderately successful and functional life in New York but is revealed through the course of the film to be a sex addict, and in unflinching and uncompromising detail. He masturbates, consumes pornography, and has both virtual and in-person encounters with sex workers—all of this and more, and all of it repeatedly, compulsively, and joylessly. When his sister, Sissy, comes to stay with him uninvited, their odd relationship is revealed, her own emotionally unstable behaviour hinting at borderline personality disorder,  and his self-destructive routine starts to unravel.

Whilst still argued by some to be a contentious or even mythic form of the condition, sex addiction has been demonstrated to correlate to drug addiction in terms of how it affects brain activity, and its depiction here is harrowing, the film’s sexual explicitness anything but erotic. In an interview featured on the film’s DVD release, Fassbender accurately describes Sissy as “explosive” whilst Brandon is “imploding”, “seeking sexual encounters… to numb away any emotional content”. He is caught in a perpetual cycle of momentary gratification following by self-loathing and shame that serves to isolate him from anything that approaches true intimacy, the one person with whom he finds himself unable to be physically intimate being a co-worker with whom he goes on an uncomfortable date.

Both Fassbender and Mulligan are superb in their roles, utterly believable and sympathetic under McQueen’s considered direction. Also powerful is the film’s combination of sexual explicitness alongside its restraint at offering straightforward explanations or solutions. It hints—but only hints—at the siblings’ conditions as contrasting reactions to a shared history of childhood sexual abuse, with Sissy delivering a telling line that surely says much about the underlying nature of addiction for so many:

We’re not bad people; we just come from a bad place.”

Shame was for me, then, the stand-out from this selection, and I recommend the film in particular for its challenging but utterly believable and revelatory depiction of a form of addiction that is perhaps more misunderstood than most.

I will close by reminding readers of this blog of my recommendation to follow course lecturer Mary Wild on Twitter and to give the Projections podcast a listen, which is co-hosted by Mary and has discussed different movies around many of the same groups of mental illness covered in this course, and much more besides (most recently beginning an exploration of the world of fashion in film). Next: three selections that exemplify narcissism.

Week three of the Cinematic Representations of Mental Illness course I recently attended at Crouch End Picturehouse explored three films chosen to represent the theme of psychosis.

The topic was introduced with a brief description of how psychosis is marked by a loss of reality, with the sufferer experiencing hallucinations or delusions, plus disorganised thinking and speech. Taking a sufferer’s point of view as an unreliable narrator therefore has significant cinematic value when seeking to create plot twists and intrigue, and hence it is not uncommon to see the condition represented onscreen in one fashion or another.

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Title: The Machinist

Writer: 
Director:
Studio: Castelao Productions

Release Date: 18 January 2004

It had been a number of years since I had originally watched The Machinist, an offbeat morality play arguably most famous for—and perhaps otherwise overshadowed by—the fact that star  lost over sixty pounds for the titular role of emaciated Trevor Reznik. The inspiration for the character came from Nine Inch Nails frontman Trent Reznor, and in particular the band’s 1994 album The Downward Spiral. As well as influencing the theme and tone, there are also multiple visual references to the work of Russian novelist Dostoyevsky: in visual references to Crime and Punishment (1866), The Idiot (1869), and—in naming the mysterious Ivan ()—The Brothers Karazamov (1880).

Reznik is haunted by guilt and shame following an event the nature of which is hinted at throughout the movie and revealed at its climax. “If you were any thinner, you wouldn’t exist,” Reznik is told on more than one occasion. “A little guilt goes a long way,” he says himself at another. He claims (unrealistically) not to have slept in a year. Post-It notes on his fridge hint at the truth he is unable to face, one that obliquely infuses so many scenes. The trauma such as that experienced by Reznik is indeed one of a range of potential causes of psychosis, alongside its presentation as a symptom of a number of underlying mental health problems—schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, depression, and addiction among them.

In terms of quite how Reznik’s condition is realised onscreen, director Brad Anderson provides an insightful summary in an interview featured on the DVD release:

The whole movie is essentially told from the perspective of Trevor. The look of the move, the way we sapped it of colour… is almost monochromatic. That was a choice that was made… knowing that one of the symptoms of severe insomnia is that… your brain can’t process colour like it used to, and you see the world in a more black-and-white way. So, I wanted the look of the film to match the mental state of the lead character, hence… we decided to pull all the colour in the movie. Except for red, which is in some ways symbolic for Ivan’s car—that Red Firebird which is always cropping up in weird places—almost pinging Trevor’s guilty conscience and luring him closer and closer until he finally has his epiphany…

The other thing is, we didn’t want to differentiate the delusional scenes from the reality scenes. We wanted them to be seamless, more or less. We didn’t want to shoot the delusions or Trevor’s dream-like sequences in a dream-like way. The performances were a little skewed in those scenes at the airport cafe. I wanted Christian and  in those scenes to almost have this heightened reality to the conversation; it doesn’t feel totally naturalistic, so it felt a little off. But visually we didn’t want those scenes to pop out from the rest of the movie that much… I wanted the image to be cleaner, and the camera movements to be elegant and simple…. We wanted the pacing to have a very languid, dreamlike quality to it, until we get more towards the end and his paranoia ratchets up and becomes more intense… We didn’t want to literally distort things, but there would be a feeling of unreality to it, even for the scenes that were really happening… We just wanted to create something that felt like some kind of nightmare dream… that this character was experiencing.

There is certainly a sense that Reznik’z psychosis in The Machinist is essentially a device around which to spin the movie’s central mystery before its escalating drama and final rug-pull—one that irritated me on first viewing—but its artful and considered presentation together with an all-too-convincing central performance by Bale make this a notable example of psychosis on film. If you don’t know the film but are interested in seeing such a representation, I recommend you seek it out.

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Title: Coherence

Writer:
Director: 
Studios: Bellanova Films / Ugly Duckling Films

Release Date: 20 June 2014

Coherence represents James Ward Byrkit’s directorial debut, shot on a micro-budget in his own home in Santa Monica over five days with a cast of eight actors. Its story is centred around the strange effects of a passing comet, which appears to create multiple intersecting realities. Its selection for the course was not due to any specific representation of psychosis, but rather for the approximation to some of its effects achieved by the unsettling narrative.

To at least some degree, it seems that this effect was a consequence of the situations in which the cast unexpectedly found themselves. Discussing his creative approach to the film, Byrkit reveals that he wrote a detailed twelve-page treatment which included all the key story beats, but that the cast received nothing but a series of notes for each night’s shoot, so were unaware of the circumstances and events that were to befall them.

Byrkit cites The Twilight Zone (1959-64) as an influence, but two of the qualities of that series that stand out for me are its economy of storytelling and a strong sense of authorship, both elements that were missing for me in Coherence. Its naturalistic tone certainly makes for an unusual watch and the unconventional approach to its production creates a boon from its scant resources, but ultimately—perhaps due to nothing more than personal taste—the banality of much of the dialogue in particular meant it didn’t really hold my interest throughout its running time.

Some elements did, however, intrigue me. The improvisational approach lends a fragmented, chaotic mood, in which suspicions towards one another abound. The notion of the coherence of reality itself breaking down both represents the sense of existential crisis that psychosis can inflict on the sufferer and the theoretical physics of quantum decoherence that is referenced onscreen. And the lure of conspiracy theories and sense of false reassurance they might offer—as when the group start discussing historical events related to comets and meteors such as the Tunguska event of 1908—is an idea that has long held my interest in a similar context.

Coherence is, ultimately, not a film that really held my attention or that offers an overt representation of psychosis, but it is nonetheless of interest in terms of its creative process and some of the ideas enshrined within it.

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Title: Unsane

Writer: 
Director: 
Studios: Regency Enterprises / Extension 765

Release Date: 23 March 2018

Released earlier this year, Unsane was also filmed in a somewhat unconventional style in that it was shot entirely on an iPhone, lending the film a familiarity, intimacy, and an experiential tone. It tells the tale of Sawyer Valentini (), a young woman who has relocated to escape a stalker and now finds herself alone and vulnerable in an unfamiliar city. Her previous trauma leaves her prone to being triggered by interactions with men, “seeing” her stalker when he is not there.

Sawyer visits a counsellor at a behavioural health centre, only to unwittingly sign a release allowing her to be committed to an overnight stay that is then extended to a week. This turn of events is interesting in and of itself, suggesting an institutional manipulation of insurance cover by immoral private hospitals keen to increase their turnover, or perhaps an example of the conspiratorial thinking that is a facet of psychosis.

Foy’s performance is every bit as excellent as you might expect, grounding the film even as events spiral. There is an ambiguity to these very events once again from having an unreliable narrator as the protagonist, one that director Stephen Soderberg has explained in an interview he deliberately amplified by making changes to some of the early scenes during the editing process, seeking to deepen that sense of mystery. Ultimately, whilst a few onscreen clues point to what may be real and what may not, the narrative escalates to a preposterous degree—the kind of sensationalism that serves only to stigmatise conditions such as psychosis—and I can’t help but think that even a slightly more reigned-in final act would have led to a more effective and apposite finished product.

British newspaper The Guardian published an article published to coincide with the film’s opening under the headline “how film’s portrayal of mental illness is (slowly) improving“. In some respects, I can agree with its assertion that, as public awareness of mental health conditions has been raised, “the tone, purpose and dynamic of films about mental ill health have slowly shifted”. It still feels like there is more work to do, though, and a further heightened level of care and attention required from many screenwriters and filmmakers.

I will close once again with a recommendation that readers of this blog follow lecturer Mary Wild on Twitter and also check out the Projections podcast, co-hosted by Mary and which discusses different movies around the same six groups of mental illness covered in this course, and much more. In particular, check out the episode on psychosis, which considers two different films: Frances (1982) and The Truman Show (1999). Next: three films that exemplify addiction.

For week two of the excellent Cinematic Representations of Mental Illness course at my local cinema, the lovely Crouch End Picturehouse, we explored three distinctive movies that had been selected for their varied portrayals of depression.

Relevant to the film choices and therefore called out in the introduction to this week’s session was Sigmund Freud‘s 1917 essay “Mourning and Melancholia“, in which the father of psychoanalysis argued that both states are responses to loss. In the case of a the natural process of mourning that loss is something specific and definable, whilst melancholia is less tangible and therefore the process is unconscious and considered pathological.

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Title: Melancholia

Writer:
Director: 
Studio: Zentropa

Release Date: 30 September 2011

Melancholia is the second of auteur Lars von Trier’s so-called Depression Trilogy that also comprises Antichrist (2009) and Nymphomaniac (2013). Von Trier suffers with depression, and there are autobiographical elements to this trilogy. The core concept for this film came from one of his own therapy sessions, as he revealed in an interview about the film:

My analyst told me that melancholiacs will usually be more level-headed than ordinary people in a disastrous situation, partly because they can say, “What did I tell you?” But also because they have nothing to lose.

The movie opens with a stunning, surrealistic overture of apocalyptic imagery that features the two sisters at its heart, Justine () and Claire (), as well as a devastating celestial collision, soundtracked by the dramatic prelude to Wagner‘s “Tristan und Isolde“. It leaves the viewer in no doubt that the film is careering towards the end of the world, and sets a dream-like quality and tone that is eschewed for much of the remainder of the film but returns occasionally, including in its final moments.

Categorised by some as a psychological disaster movie—a sub-genre that appeals to me, as I am quite taken by the notion of the apocalypse becoming personal—its backdrop is the somewhat implausible but symbolically interesting idea that a newly discovered rogue planet, Melancholia, previously hidden behind the sun, is potentially on a collision course with Earth. There is a doom-laden symbolism in this manifestation of complete destruction that has emerged from behind the life-giving force that is the sun, one that will inevitably devour our entire world.

Dunst’s performance is the stand-out in an excellent cast that also boasts ,  (as Justine’s bitter, morally deficient mother, another recurring and autobiographical von Trier motif), and . The first part of the film that follows that extraordinary opening sequence is titled for Justine, following on what should—according to popular custom, at least—be the happiest day of her life: her wedding day. It is a lavish affair, but Justine finds herself unable to engage in its rituals due to her depression, absenting herself throughout the reception. There is a sense of cruelty as her dysfunctional family and entourage seek to subject her to the rituals of the occasion, whilst her state of mind and behaviours feel authentic in spite of the heightened sense of drama and theatrics. The wedding therefore exemplifies what Freud argues is one of the hypocrisies of civilisation, seeking to unite people in a way that can ultimately lead to isolation and psychological pain. As von Trier explains, though, in spite of herself Justine wants the day to be a success:

She wants to end all the silliness and anxiety and doubt. That’s why she wants a real wedding. And everything goes well until she cannot meet her own demands. There is a recurring line: “Are you happy?” She has to be, otherwise the wedding is silly… And they all try to bring her ashore, but she doesn’t really want to be part of it… Slowly, melancholia descends like a curtain between her and all the things she has set in motion… In a way, she succeeds in pulling this planet from behind the sun, and she surrenders to it.

The second part of the film is titled for Gainsbourg’s Claire, a character with whom von Trier states he identifies more given her doomsday anxieties. Her growing sense of panic contrasts with Justine’s acceptance of the end of days, and a key message underlying the film is that a melancholic perspective on the world has more truth to it than blind optimism.

I was interested to learn that von Trier almost exclusively chooses female protagonists for his films since he thinks women are afforded a richer emotional life than are men, and that it would therefore have felt inauthentic to portray a male lead character. This is an idea that interests me as I feel it reinforces gender stereotypes, and it is a stance I firmly think needs rebalancing, both in art and in life.

However deliberate, there is something jarring about the mix of personal and universal threats in Melancholia, but—by some margin—this was the most effective choice of films for me on depression: a strange but deeply affecting experience that has the ring of emotional truth to it.

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Title: The Girl on the Train

Writer:
Director:
Studio: DreamWorks Pictures

Release Date: 5 October 2016

The Girl on the Train is a mystery thriller adapted from novel of the same name by author Paula Hawkins. It tells the tale of Rachel Watson (), an alcoholic divorcee who rides the train to and from New York every day even though she is longer employed there, fixates upon the lives of people she glimpses on her travels, becomes embroiled in the case of a missing woman, and even comes to believe she may have been responsible for her death.

Truth be told, there was little about the film’s somewhat pulpy plot that really held my interest, but on reflection—notably given Mary’s commentary on the film—some of its representations of depression are indeed noteworthy. Rachel’s apparent willingness to accept the blame for the circumstances in which she finds herself embroiled is a characteristic often seen in depression, stemming from anger and criticism directed inwards as she mourns the loss of her marriage, this aspect of her mental state becoming central to the movie’s dramatic tension. And, whilst the film itself did not leave a lasting impression upon me, Blunt’s performance goes some way to communicating her sense of isolation and emotional stagnation, her alimony payments being used to pay for—literally and figuratively—”tickets to nowhere”.

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Title: Three Colours: Blue

Writer: 
Director: 
Studio: Sony Pictures

Release Date: 15 October 1993

Three Colours: Blue is another film from a trilogy, this representing the first instalment of Kieślowski’s three films titled for the colours of the French flag and loosely themed around the French Revolutionary ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity. It follows Julie () as the sole survivor of a car accident that kills her husband and daughter, mourning their loss and seeking to break ties with her former life as she struggles with her grief.

Music plays an interesting role here, Julie’s husband having been a noteworthy composer who left his latest commissioned work incomplete. Julie seeks an emotional freedom from her grief and the painful memories of her former life, but is thwarted in her efforts, the recurring musical motif from the unfinished score haunting her. The titular colour blue is another recurring motif, reflecting Julie’s mood in various contexts.

A recurring stylisation in the film is a mid-scene momentary fade to black, a device I found confusing at first but which seems to portray Julie’s sense of dislocation and disconnection. She attempts suicide in an early scene and self-harms in another, but is unable to release her internal pain, although a shift towards acceptance of her circumstances does lead her towards some modest progress in this regard as the film closes. There is a pervading sense of melancholy throughout, not just through its visuals and soundtrack but also in its pacing and the sense of stillness and dislocation portrayed by Binoche’s understated yet effective performance.

I’m continuing to really enjoy and learn a lot from this six-week course, and I will repeat my recommendation that readers of this blog follow lecturer Mary Wild on Twitter and also check out the Projections podcast, co-hosted by Mary and which discusses different movies around the same six groups of mental illness covered in this course, as well as more besides. Next: three films that explore psychosis.

In the past fortnight I have started an evening course being run over six weekly sessions at my local cinema, the stylish and welcoming Crouch End Picturehouse, one of my favourite hang-outs in this little corner of North London I call home. Titled Cinematic Representations of Mental Illness, each week it considers how three films represent a different class of illness. Whilst this blog set out to focus largely upon television and to consider a writer’s perspective, this broader consideration of the techniques filmmakers employ has been both fascinating and invaluable. Referencing the Goldwater rule and therefore cautioning against casual diagnosis of conditions, the focus is rather upon how writers, directors, actors, cinematographers, editors, and composers all seek to approximate the emotional experience of mental illness through their craft. Considering a range of perspectives, then, I will be posting a few thoughts on each set of films over the coming weeks, starting with the three selected movies that portray anxiety.

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Title: Adaptation.

Writer:
Director:
Studio: Sony Pictures

Release Date: 6 December 2002

Adaptation. (2002) is a long-standing favourite of mine, written as it is by . (Whilst co-credited to Donald Kaufman, his twin brother in the film, Donald is a complete fiction.) Its relevance to the theme of anxiety can be traced back to the story of the film’s development. Originally, Kaufman had sought to write a straight adaptation of the book “The Orchid Thief“, however he had found the lack of a clear narrative difficult to fit into a movie structure. Instead, the script he wrote was of his tortuous, anxiety-ridden creative process, whilst his uninhibited fictional twin brother, Donald—the polar opposite of Charlie’s timid persona, and a stand-in for who he might be but for his condition—attains success as a hack screenwriter.

Much of the film’s success in portraying anxiety comes from the painfully confessional script, with delivering frantic stream-of-consciousness voiceovers that betray Kaufman’s crippling insecurities related to his social and existential anxieties. There is something almost masochistic about writing such a version of oneself into a script, all the way to how the final act self-knowingly descends into violent and revengeful farce, replete with all the cliches that Kaufman had fought so hard to avoid in his work. Quite brilliantly, though, his approach to the adaptation turns out to suggest one potential solution to his anxiety and to honour the source material after all, as its author Susan Orlean wrote in the foreword to the published screenplay:

Strangely, marvellously, hilariously, his screenplay has ended up not being a literal adaptation of my book, but a spiritual one, something that has captured (and expanded upon) the essential character of what the book, I hope, was about: the process of trying to figure out one’s self, and life, and love, and the wonders of the world; and the ongoing, exasperating battle between looking at the world ironically and looking at it sentimentally. Oh, and orchids. It is about orchids, about how they adapt to their environment, sometimes resulting in the strangest and most marvellous forms, proving that the answer to everything might indeed be adaptation.

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Title: The Invitation

Writers:
Director: 
Studio: Drafthouse Films

Release Date: 10 April 2016

The Invitation (2016) is a tense, claustrophobic, psychological thriller. Its ensemble cast is led by ‘s Will, who has responded to a dinner party invitation along with his new girlfriend that takes him to what is now his ex-wife’s house in the Hollywood Hills. Throughout an unsettling evening, dramatic flashbacks hint that Will is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder following the death of his son. The circumstances of that death are never fully revealed—only serving to amplify the event in its unknowability—whilst the urgent flashbacks, editing, and use of music all work together to effectively demonstrate the intrusive thoughts and relived states of emergency and distress that are characteristics of the condition.

Events explode as the film moves towards its dramatic conclusion, and the intriguing suggestion is that, as painful and debilitating as is Will’s condition, his is perhaps the more honest and ultimately healthier response to process his grief compared to such stalling strategies as denial. Mary made reference to Sigmund Freud‘s 1930 publication “Civilisation and its Discontents” when speaking about The Invitation, and there is very much a sense in the movie of the destructive nature of the pressure upon the individual to conform to societal norms. I didn’t know this film but I do recommend it now, hence will not spoil its final act here.

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Title: Safe

Writer:
Director:
Studio: Sony Pictures

Release Date: 30 June 1995

The strongest aspect of Safe (1995) for me is ‘s career breakthrough performance as protagonist Carol White. Living an unfulfilled housewife’s life in the San Fernando Valley in the mid-Eighties, surrounded by vacuous friends and married to a decent but emotionally distant husband, she seemingly falls victim to an environmental illness known as multiple chemical sensitivity, also known colloquially as “Twentieth Century Disease”. Tellingly, this condition has never formally been accepted as purely physiological in nature, but instead linked to somatic symptom disorders, depression, and anxiety. Carol suffers a number of panic attacks that are judged perfectly by Moore in her performance such that they feel urgent and real whilst never tripping into melodrama, as they so easily might have done. Crafted with a dexterous touch and in contrast to the energy of the anxiety-led sequences in the previous two film choices, these sequences typically comprise longer takes, whilst they are often prefaced by contaminating background radio or television broadcasts discussing environmental or apocalyptic concerns.

Given how much Carol appears to have internalised her anxiety and finds it so difficult to voice her emotions, the somatic nature of her symptoms, and the weight loss to which she submitted herself through the film’s shoot, are effective ways to render her internal anxiety visual. Ultimately, Carol moves to a New Age-type retreat that promotes a deep ecology philosophy, and where she can start to decontaminate her life. Here, in spite of hints that the leader of the retreat is somewhat self-serving, she begins to comes to terms with a deep-rooted sense of self-hatred. (Incidentally, Carol’s exile reminded me somewhat of Northern Exposure‘s Mike Monroe, whose afflictions were virtually identical and led to him living in self-imposed isolation in a geodesic dome in Cicely, Alaska.) An understated film, Safe is all the more effective for that, and is also well worth checking out.

For those with an interest in cinematic representations of mental illness in general (as I’m guessing and hoping most readers of this blog are), I would certainly recommend that you follow the course lecturer Mary Wild on Twitter to find out more about similar courses and appearances, and that you check out the Projections podcast, co-hosted by Mary and which has already discussed different sets of movies around the same set of mental illnesses covered in this course. Mary describes herself as a “Freudian cinephile”; I have to confess that when I studied psychology (around two decades ago now) I was quick to dismiss Freud’s body of work as outdated and flawed in comparison to other doctrines, but her carefully considered lectures have given me cause to dust off some of his tomes from my bookshelf and give his ideas fresh consideration. That’s quite a turnaround for me, and I’m sure the rest of the course will continue to give me food for thought. Next: three films on the theme of depression.

Title: Chris Packham: Asperger’s and Me

Director:
Executive Producer:
Producer: 
Network: BBC Two

Airdate: 17 October 2017

Full disclosure: I am a huge fan of Chris Packham. He is, hands down, my favourite television presenter, and a genuinely inspirational figure to me as a naturalist, a conservationist, and—more recently—as an author. This blog usually (and all too sporadically, particularly of late) concerns itself with fictional onscreen representations of mental health, but in the case of this recent documentary by Chris about his experience of Asperger’s Syndrome, I therefore had to make an exception. The only reason I didn’t write about it sooner is that I was out of the country when it aired, and hence have only had the opportunity to catch up with it over the past week. It is, however, every much as extraordinary and superlative an hour of television as I had anticipated and hoped.

My name is Chris Packham. What you probably don’t know—because I’ve been hiding it most of my life—is that my brain is different than yours, because I’m autistic. My type of autism is called Asperger’s. I’ve spent thirty years on the telly trying my best to act normal, when really I am anything but. Now, I’ve decided that I want to talk about my Asperger’s. I want people to try to understand what it is like to be me. There is a lot about me which is pretty normal. There are a lot of other things that are not quite so normal. This is the story of my life: the past and the present, how those that love me have learned to live with me. As a young man there was absolutely nothing available to help me, but now I am going in search of radical new therapies that might be able to improve my life and the lives of millions of others, treatments aimed at making us more normal, stripping us of our autistic traits. If a cure for autism ever became available, would I choose to take it?

[image error]Last year, Chris Packham published Fingers in the Sparkle Jar, a memoir remarkable for its detailed recall, its beautiful prose—especially when describing his experiences of the natural world—and a unique style that finds sections written as from a third person’s perspective mixed in with first-hand accounts and exchanges from his therapy sessions. It was in this book and the promotional tour that accompanied it (during which I was lucky enough to attend a talk at London’s Natural History Museum and, briefly, to meet Chris) that he first talked about his Asperger’s, and the challenges it has conferred upon him throughout life.

If you have autism there’s an enormous breadth of how that impacts upon your life, and I think it varies from having a few traits that might be perceived as quirky or difficult socially—and many, many people will have those—and, at the other end, I think that it is fair to call it a disability. I’m not a typical autistic person because there is no typical autistic person.

Asperger’s (or Asperger Syndrome) is on the autism spectrum, a developmental disorder characterised by levels of difficulty in social interactions including understanding and experiencing empathy. It is notable how Packham describes the spectrum in such inclusive, individualistic, and relatable terms. Indeed, there are certain behavioural “quirks” that Chris references—his deep love for the animals over and above human relationships, obsessional interests, and a degree of social awkwardness—that I recognise to some extent as traits of my own such that they do not seem abnormal to me at all.

Throughout the documentary and with great candour, Chris reveals his experience of Asperger’s and its effects upon his life from childhood through adolescence and into adulthood. He explains the hyper-reality with which he experiences sensory data, and cascades of remembered encyclopaedic information that tumble through his brain and can lead to lengthy, verbose monologues of free association he is inclined to share with anyone who might listen. He has learned to minimise his clumsiness in social circumstances, but in some respects that has led to a decision to isolate himself from such interactions.

Packham lives in a house in the New Forest with Scratchy, his beloved miniature poodle, as his sole companion. (His rapport with animals is self-evident in any number of encounters, both during the documentary and throughout his television career.) He describes how that self-enforced solitude helps him to feel “normal” in his day-to-day environment, and how he takes rigorous steps to control that environment, for example by leaving window blinds pulled down through the day, and by regimentally organising his belongings and habits.

There is, however, a price to pay for such isolation. Alienated from social circles by other children at school he felt an escalating conflict with the outside world, preferring instead to spend his time with the natural world, leading to an obsessional interest. The pinnacle of this was his six-month relationship with a kestrel he took from a nest as a young teenager, which he describes as a “mental love missile” but which ultimately ended in the “catastrophic event” of the bird’s death from illness. That part of his personal story was the most powerful passage of all in Fingers in the Sparkle Jar, and his pained response as he revisits the bird’s grave in the documentary makes for difficult viewing. He has considered suicide on no fewer than three occasions during his lowest moments, revealing the psychological impact living with autism can have—not only upon the individual but also upon their family.

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One of the aims of the documentary is to explore potential treatments for those with autism. To this end, Chris crosses the Atlantic, first visiting Rhode Island’s Brown University where a program is trialling Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS) in order to determine whether or not it can help alleviate the effects of autism. TMS operates according to the theory that autism may be caused by over- or under-activity of certain parts of the brain, and uses electrical induction to cause neurons in such areas to fire. Packham is concerned that the accuracy of the equipment used is to within one cubic centimetre—comprising many millions of neurons—and hence announces that there is “categorically not a chance” that he would ever countenance undergoing such treatment for himself, whilst also admitting the dichotomy that the scientific part of his nature inclines him to also consider that you have to “pioneer”.

More disturbing is his exploration of Applied Behavioural Analysis, an educational approach that is often applied in attempts to eradicate autistic behaviour. Chris Packham’s distaste at the technique and the chaotic environments in which it is practised is clear, however he also acknowledges its appeal to desperate parents of children with seriously debilitating forms of autism. It is considered a panacea in the USA—where one practitioner he meets is positively evangelical about its potential to eradicate the condition, citing it as “educational chemotherapy”—however is widely discredited in the UK for its attempts, essentially, to force autistic children to become something that they are not.

Returning to his personal narrative, Packham credits his anger and confusion at his difference from others as leading to an interest in punk rock (citing Penetration‘s “Shout Above the Noise” as his life anthem) that he found empowering. Furthermore, his obsessional interest with animals led him to his career break on The Really Wild Show in 1986, on which he first learned to control some of his behavioural inclinations and turned in a charismatic performance as a presenter that birthed a career that sees him as a stand-out performer in his field.

Reflections on his personal history combined with his investigations into potential treatments for autism lead to the revelatory conclusion to Packham’s journey. He recognises how he is lucky to be high-functioning with his autism, yet realises that his career would not exist without his condition.

I realise now that there is no way I could do my job without Asperger’s. What I do in terms of just making this programme is afforded to me because of my Asperger’s—because of my neurological differences—so that’s being able to see things with perhaps a greater clarity, to see the world in a different way, in my case in a very visual way. But I’ve been able to understand that, and that’s something that was a painful process to go through, but I did it and now I am very fortunate to be able to reap the benefits of that. Not all autistic people are in that position. There are many aspects of Asperger’s which are enormously positive, and there must be many other people out there who could contribute in an immensely productive way who aren’t able to do so because they can’t quite manage some aspects of their life in the way that I do in order to make it productive. In the UK, only 14% of autistic adults are in full-time employment, the lowest percentage for any notifiable disability, and that is a tragic loss.

For his last journey Stateside, Chris visits Silicon Valley and learns that it is people with autistic traits that are responsible in part for some of the most celebrated leaps in technological innovation of recent decades. In this context, the idea of a cure for autism is considered nothing less than “toxic”. Whilst treatments are founded upon the assumption that autistic people should be forced to fit within society rather than adapting to include them, some of the tech giants of Silicon Valley have learned to do just that, to society’s enduring benefit.

Imagine all those people trapped in their room because they are isolated by this condition. They haven’t been able to sculpt opportunities, manage themselves in a way that allows them to fulfil their lives. That’s like a ghastly sentence set in a vile fairy tale. No one should be imprisoned by this condition. They should be allowed to exult in those aspects of the condition which empower them. That difference is such a valuable tool, an enormous asset. To be able to see things, understand things, process things and remember things in a way that most people can’t do has to be seen as a gift, not something that you are badged with and it’s about what you can’t do; it’s got to be about what you can do.

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I have often railed on this blog at the presentation in television dramas of mental health conditions as some kind of super power, but when it comes to certain kinds of autism Asperger’s and Me makes a powerful case that, in certain circumstances, the positive aspects of some conditions can be harnessed to considerable benefit if the more negative aspects can be managed.

Countering this perspective, however, Chris shares his honest fear that he may be making this documentary in an “interval between disasters”, noting that for all his successes he still finds himself unable to deal with losing those that he loves, and that he does not wish to therefore appear as some kind of a charlatan given a sense that all of the success and happiness he has found may be “built on sand”. Nevertheless, in sharing how he has sustained a long-term relationship for a decade (albeit not without its stresses and strains) and also enjoys what is clearly a mutually rewarding and loving relationship with his step-daughter, there is an undeniably optimistic thread to the balanced view of his condition that he presents. And so he has his answer to the question he poses at the beginning of the documentary.

For all the contradictions, all the heartache of this condition, what I have seen in America has made it very clear to me that we need to understand autistic people better, not try to change who they are. If you offered me a cure, from my particular perspective, from where I stand, then no thank you.

Asperger’s and Me is a bold documentary in which Chris Packham dares to reveal a side of himself and aspects of his personal history that are clearly deeply personal and, at times, harrowing. It is to his credit that he has done so, as he has helped to shine light upon a complex, poorly understood range of disorders. His sharp intelligence, matter-of-fact delivery, and scientific mindset combine to make this a very special hour of television indeed. The critical response has been universal in its praise, prompting Chris to write a heartfelt thank you note on his website. Asperger’s and Me gets my highest recommendation, so if you can please do check it out on the BBC iPlayer (it is available for UK viewers for another couple of weeks or so, at the time of writing), or alternatively/ additionally read Fingers in the Sparkle Jar. Both offer the opportunity to see and understand the world from the gifted perspective of a unique, intelligent, and fascinating man.

Title: EastEnders

Writer: Lauren Klee

Director: Toby Frow

Network: BBC One

Airdate: 30 December 2016

Today is Time to Talk Day in the UK, an initiative by the Time for Change campaign that encourages people to talk about their mental health. It feels an appropriate date, therefore, on which to revisit a recent episode of an iconic British soap that sought to explore the same ground to dramatic effect.

With the recent change in executive producer to Sean O’Connor, at times EastEnders (1985 – ) has felt a little less visceral, with some episodes ending almost sweetly as opposed to the trademark drum-laden cliffhanger. It does, however, still retain its licence to shock with some storylines (not least a recent full-on disaster), and perhaps all the moreso for the increased shades of light and dark.

One recent—and, at time of writing, still ongoing—storyline of note to this blog has been that exploring Lee Carter‘s () latest period of depression. This represents a type of mental health narrative I still think is too rare on our screens, that of a vulnerable young man. Given Lee’s former career as an army officer, his character feels a good choice for the storyline—what we might perceive as a strong, masculine military type laid bare.

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The low ebb at which the start of this particular episode finds Lee is one that has built for some time. His depression has been an ongoing story thread, as have his feelings of inadequacy towards his new wife, and work-related stress from a dead-end job the true nature of which he has kept secret from his nearest and dearest. It is fair to say that sometimes his storylines have rung true, whilst at others they have felt needlessly overblown; his role in setting up a robbery of the family’s pub, that bedrock of life in Albert Square that is The Queen Vic, stands out as a particular low point. Still, this is soapland, and I guess such plots are to be expected.

Lee leaves a handwritten note on the dashboard of his car that simply reads, “I’m sorry”, then strides off to the rooftop edge of a car park to contemplate jumping to his death. It is there that he is interrupted by Karen ( in a deeply affecting guest role), a car park attendant to whom Lee had been rude and aggressive earlier in the day. In spite—or perhaps even because—of his previous behaviour, Karen engages with Lee and begins to get him to open up to her. Initially he is resistant, but soon he begins to speak about his all-too-common plight of a troubled young man struggling to make his way in the modern world:

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Karen tries hard to get Lee to talk about his life, reminding him that he has loved ones who will be worried about him, who will miss him if he were to end his life here and now. Ultimately, it is through their open honest conversation and a powerhouse speech, delivered with raw emotion by Rogers, that she is successful in reaching out to him and coaxing him off the ledge:

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EastEnders has a good pedigree of working with organisations who can advise on storylines such as Lee’s (as with Stacey Branning’s post partum depression). In this instance, it was the Samaritans—a UK-based charitable organisation offering a confidential helpline for those who need to talk about their problems—that provided advice, blogging for the BBC on their collaboration and on Lee’s plight.

Their work also features explicitly in the episode when it is hinted in how she empathises with Lee that Karen has her own private struggle. She hands him a Samaritans card before they part, indicating that she has had a need to call upon their services and encouraging him to do the same, and the final shot of her character shows her break down next to a photo of an adolescent boy—perhaps her son, perhaps someone she has lost. In a subtle touch for a soap we never find out for certain, but the point is made that so many people have their own mental Achilles’ heel, and that through an empathy strengthened by such struggles we can relate to and find solace in one another.

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Most dramas take place in a heightened reality, but EastEnders is to be congratulated for managing—most of the time, at least—to confine that heightened reality to its more far-fetched storylines, yet to root its plotlines in the ongoing lives of characters that can feel only too real.

Hatchard has been announced as set to leave the Square in the near future, and recent turns of events hint that Lee Carter may not get a happy ending. (For those not familiar with the series, these are all too rare in EastEnders.) Nonetheless, in this instance I do hope that the writers and producers offer some optimism to viewers who might relate to Lee’s daily struggles. And, if that is not meant to be, the dramatic heart of this episode at least reminds us that conversations with others when our mental health is at a low ebb really can save lives.