Suffenus iste, Vare, quem probe nosti,
homo est venustus et dicax et urbanus,
idemque longe plurimos facit versus.
Puto esse ego illi milia aut decem aut plura
perscripta, nec sic, ut fit, in palimpsesto
relata: cartae regiae, novi libri,
novi umbilici, lora rubra, membranae,
derecta plumbo et pumice omnia aequata.
Haec cum legas tu, bellus ille et urbanus
Suffenus unus caprimulgus aut fossor
rursus videtur: tantum abhorret ac mutat.
Hoc quid putemus esse? Qui modo scurra
aut si quid hac re scitius videbatur,
idem infaceto est infacetior rure,
simul poemata attigit, neque idem umquam
aeque est beatus ac poema cum scribit:
tam gaudet in se tamque se ipse miratur.
Nimirum idem omnes fallimur, neque est quisquam
quem non in aliqua re videre Suffenum
possis. Suus cuique attributus est error;
sed non videmus manticae quod in tergo est.

English translation and Source

Catullus verbally attacks Suffenus in poem 22, insulting Suffenus’ poetry because it is witless and unsophisticated. Although Suffenus is a good person, his inability to express himself efficiently and purely hurts him poetically. Suffenus also is unable to see his flaw, which Catullus extends to all people as a fundamental characteristic of humanity. Catullus draws conclusions about Suffenus as a person and a poet, comparing his inability to see his own mistakes to the failure of everyone to see their own flaws.

Catullus feels Suffenus’ positive characteristics are not reflected in his poetry. Contrastingly, Suffenus thinks that his poetry is a manifestation of his own qualities because he cannot see his own faults. Catullus describes Suffenus as a charming (“venuste”), witty (“dicax”), and sophisticated (“urbanus”) person but does not enjoy his poetry. The tricolon of Suffenus’ description underlines the sheer quantity (“plurimos versus”) of bad poetry that Suffenus produces. Suffenus is unaware of his poetic flaws and feels that the poetry he creates is simply a manifestation of his own traits. Suffenus attempts to perfect his poetry by modifying its appearance, creating sharp edges around the paper with a lead rule (“derecta plumbo”) to emulate his pointed humor and scraping the angles even with pumice stone (“aequata pumice”) to make his charismatic elegance more evident. Catullus attacks this façade of sophistication Suffenus presents in his use of royal papers with new books and knobs. Suffenus is able to fool himself and those around him into believe that he is clever, but in actuality he is as normal and provincial as everyone else. Suffenus is a good person, but as a poet, he is as rural and basic as the goat milker (“caprimulgus”) and the ditch digger (“fossor”).

Suffenus is not the only target of Catullus’ attack; Catullus focuses on how human nature inherently fails to recognize personal flaws. Catullus understands that every individual is given imperfection but nobody wishes to confront or realize their faults. Catullus feels that we do not see our own personal knapsacks (“manticae”) because they are worn on our back (“in tergo”). The imagery here is appropriate because it places the guilt of our existence in a position in which humans can not naturally see it, directly behind the eyes. Suffenus is the key example of a person who makes the common mistake of not recognizing his problems because he attempts to shroud his poetic failure with expensive paper and tools.

Catullus ends poem 22 with an expansion of the criticism of Suffenus; everyone has their problems and it is the problem of human nature that nobody can identify them. While the poem is an attack on the quality of Suffenus’ poems, it is justified. Suffenus places the majority of his effort in the presentation of his poetry rather than the writing. Catullus not only criticizes Suffenus but also assesses mankind as a whole, unable to see the faults that are inherent in our personalities.

Film is unique for its capacity to embody one particularly human aspect of social interaction: the first encounter. Films introduce novel characters and new settings. Directors help shape first impressions of such elements within a film. The film director manipulates the very lens through which the audience perceives any given cinematic reality, and by extension, frames our first impressions in the filmic world. The critical importance of first impressions for the mind have garnered great interest in many disciplines, especially in the realm of social psychology. In Film Theory, semioticians like Christian Metz argue that films are codified, grammatical, lexical, and able to be broken down into units like the phonemes of a language. This relates to the theory of first encounter because many details are processed very quickly in an encounter, though they do not take the form of spoken language, rather, they manifest as body language, facial expression, and tone of voice. Interestingly enough, these features are the ones that actors try to emulate most. This essay examines the degree to which films themselves model the psychic processes of first impression: the introduction of something new which must be perceived, prejudiced, and then predicted. This essay raises the question how are films to be understood as first encounters?

Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind provides some insight into the processes of encounter and impression formation in the film medium. The encounter of interest appears at the end of the film, where a mass group of scientists and technicians, main characters, and a massive alien spacecraft meet. The encounter is intimate and spectacular; humans and aliens meet for the first time and attempt communication. Spectator behavior is modeled on-screen as the unidentified flying object is both alien to the crowd in arena and the audience in the theatre. The filmic encounter is flanked by a series of single lens reflex cameras, film cameras, audio recording equipment, and hundreds of sets of human eyes. Now the analogy between this mise en scène and filmic encounters in general becomes evident: films themselves are coded with visual and auditory information that must be deciphered from the apparatus of presentation. Theatre audiences are well-equipped to perform this decryption.

Audiences attempt to read emotion and persona into the craft, despite the fact that it is a machine and not a biological entity with which they interact as they might with another person. The hovering spacecraft does not have anthropomorphic features at all. In fact, the craft is itself just a medium of interaction between those on board and those on the ground. This transmission relationship is analogous to the production and reception of film as delivered by the apparatus of projection. Visual and auditory communication is both alien and decidedly indirect. The flicker of pulsating lights in differing colors and speeds consume the entire frame. Overwhelmingly, the audience of the diegesis and the audience in the cinema try to decipher the visual and auditory enigma at hand. Both spectator groups try to decipher the first encounter like they would that with a human: by analyzing facial expressions, body language, tone and dialect. The musicality of the alien craft is overriding. One technician wonders, “What are we saying to each other?” Another responds, “It seems they’re trying to teach us a basic tonal vocabulary.” A third technician sighs, “It’s the first day of school fellas.”[1] How do we react when we do not understand the messages that our senses provide to us? Cinema instructs us how to read films in the same way schools institutionalize their students. Luckily for all involved, the first encounter in Close Encounters is a friendly one, and another potentially misfortunate first impression is averted.

Let’s face it: first impressions matter. It is in the first encounter that we render first impressions. The idea of “rendering” first impressions is key because humans process, interpret, represent, and ultimately blend first impressions. This phenomenon is apparent in most first dates, first job interviews, and first meetings with a loved one’s parents. In the documentary Paris is Burning, Pepper Labeija compares the social normative value of the “first impression” to the concept of “realness” in drag ball culture, a world alien to much of mainstream society.

To be able to blend–that’s what realness is. …If you can pass the untrained eye or even the trained eye and not give away the fact you’re gay that’s when it’s real. …The idea of realness is to look as much as possible like your straight counterpart. …It’s really a case of going back into the closet….You can walk around comfortably blending in with everybody else…to make your illusion perfect.

Pepper Labeija’s performance of gender, class, and race is method acting in real life. Generally, actors try to emulate a person’s superficial and subterranean features. It is true that we see and hear a person long before we ever feel like we know them. A common first encounter might involve a smile or a greeting. For Labeija, this smile or greeting will likely be a layer of behavior which is falsified atop a façade of make-up and costume. But as social beings, our day-to-day interactions necessitate that we observe such behavior, and translate our surroundings into predictions which we later test. In any given encounter, Pepper Labeija may smile because she thinks that white heterosexual females would smile. A stranger may meet Labeija and smile back to convey their happiness, courtesy, or non-aggression, although their true mood is unknown. In this regard, the provider of such surface data may be deceptive inasmuch as the receiver of said information may be deceived.

If it were not for this predictive and sometimes deceptive nature of indirect communication, how would a film ever satisfy, disappoint, or surprise us? Indeed, over the duration of any relationship, the credibility of such inferences will either be confirmed, negated, or remain uncertain. For the smiling passerby, surface data is often interpreted on a subconscious level, say, as opposed to the manner in which we attribute character traits to a new colleague’s handshake or the President’s accent. In this manner, anything in our reality can transmit a first impression from which we shape our expectations. But what about the reality of the cinematic world?

For the movie-goer, the film experience is a deluge of first impressions. In each new film, we expect first encounters with new characters in new settings. If not, all films would exist within the same diegesis. Perhaps even our own reality would need to correspond to every filmic event in some fashion. But a theory of first encounter need not be founded upon the idea of films existing in complete isolation. First, technological advancements in cinema train audiences to understand certain encounters in certain ways. On this point, the transition from silent to sound, from monochrome to color, and the development of special effects are of note. Second, seriality and intertextual continuity are certainly possible, as is observable in the development of the distinct Classical Hollywood style, among others. But the general denial of film-to-film time-space interdependence is inherent to the film medium, and by extension, the nature of each encounter. Simply put, most films are designed to stand alone.

The diegesis of the film is itself a microcosm which is related to our reality, but disconnected from its time and space. Film direction controls our frame of reference and suggests to audiences that the data of the film are to be computed relative the filmic world. The encounters of a film are formative just like they are in real life; the facial expressions of actors, the appearance of sets, and even dialogue in scripts present a reality of relativity which is revealed to every viewer in every viewing.

In this sense, a film allows the spectator to observe first encounters, form opinions, test hypotheses, and then re-experience the first encounter from a unique perspective. In M, we meet Peter Lorre’s character of Hans Beckert for the first time. But if we so desire, we may re-encounter Lorre’s character repeatedly, anonymously, and fully unbeknownst to him. In this sense, Christian Metz’s assertion that film is well-suited to the voyeur is appropriate. The voyeuristic spectator may obtain seemingly unlimited pleasure from the anonymous watching and re-watching of a film, or, even the freeze frame. Accordingly, spectators may re-experience their initial appraisal of the character of Hans Beckert and otherwise hone their ability to understand the interiority of the character based upon the purely external data provided. But, the sequence of encounters is always the same; the optical and auditory details of each encounter are immutable. In this regard, films are not just chock full of first impressions — films are first encounters frozen in time by the director.

Uniquely, each spectator brings her own personal experiences and encounters to each filmic event. These experiences may extend beyond the diegesis insofar as the viewer’s life experience is relevant to the filmic encounter. Although spectators tacitly grasp the rift between their reality and the filmic one, viewers are inclined to apply experiences from real life encounters to the filmic encounter, and for that matter, cross-apply encounters within a single film. The similarities between real life appearance, sound, and events are catalysts for the inclusion of personal encounters in the reception of filmic ones. For directors, this means that films must command the circumstances of the first impression effectively enough to rule out misinterpretation, or conversely, to ensure misinterpretation, despite all potential prior experience of any spectator.

Fritz Lang’s precise direction of M limits the audiences frame of interpretation in spite of the prior experience and outside knowledge of the spectator. The world of M is a world in itself, though it recalls real life people, events, and settings. The film parallels a real-life killer in Düsseldorf. Peter Lorre plays that killer, though he poses no real danger to fellow movie-goers. For spectators, the similarity between these on-screen and off-screen themes is uncanny. To overcome this reality-film dissonance, Lang privileges the audience via the camera, demanding that the viewer follow the killer, hopefully to understand him and predict his next move. Viewers perceive the rich surface data of M as a detective would, ignoring more and more of their empirical experience and opting to follow only the clues.

If the stranger who smiles transmits that they are friendly, does Beckert’s frown in the mirror scene mean that he is dangerous? The evidence that one collects to respond to such a query is akin to the way in which characters develop. In the case of M, the first encounter is not a smile but the shadow of a smiling face. After an indirect telling of Elsie Beckmann’s death, spectators observe Beckert from an over-the-shoulder camera perspective. His friendly whistle contrasts with the words he scratches into the piece of paper on the windowsill. The letter will provide the general public and the theatre-going public an impression of the killer’s persona. But, as will ultimately be revealed, the letter’s lasting impression in the wood surface of the windowsill will result in the killer’s capture. In this latter sense of impression, the first impression, and the character’s imprint upon the film cultimate like the plot of the film itself.

Like a detective prowling the streets, the camera raises the question: is Beckert’s whistle ominous, disarming, or innocent? We must use surface data to determine Beckert’s motives. The next encounter with Beckert is the image of him facing the mirror; he seems unable to produce a smile or frown. Spectators encounter Beckert, and then re-encounter him as members of the audience “meet” each new piece of data. At this point the audience must render the data of the shadowy smile, the friendly whistle, the content of the letter to the press, and the mirror scene. Although whistling is innocuous taken alone, the circumstance of encounter (i.e. all filmic encounters relevant to such an encounter) cause us to perceive the whistle as a clue. This is the start of our detective task.

In the world of M, Lang manipulates our first encounter with the whistle in order to imbue the audience’s impression with skepticism. First, the director manipulates the audience’s lack of prior encounter with mature sound film; if audiences had heard diegetic sound in previous encounters with film, the importance of Beckert’s whistle relative to other surface data would have been diminished[2]. This may be taken in tandem with the fact that Peter Lorre’s performance of Hans Beckert was Lorre’s breakout role: the first encounter with Peter Lorre as a film actor. Second, Lang permits audiences to meet a blind man in order to inspire a prioritization of sound over sight among spectators in their first encounter with the whistle. In fact, even in the scene with the blind balloon salesman, Lorre’s face remains unseen to the audience, for only a blind man is exposed to it. This is further evidence that Lang frames the spectator encounter with Beckert outside of the normal process of human-to-human identification (e.g. facial features). Lang effectively models the first impression which he desires from his audience: treat the whistle as a face, distinct like one of the fingerprints a forensic scientist studies. Indeed, the forensic results being read aloud during the mirror scene allow for a completely new, dual form of encounter to be realized for the first time in sound film; the scientist meets the killer through handwriting analysis while audiences meet the killer face-to-face. Additionally, the killer’s gaze into the mirror is a third encounter: the encounter with one’s own demons.

How do film directors engineer our first encounters with movies and shape our first impressions? I shall answer this question by analyzing the first encounter audiences have with a small set of films in light of select film theories of the last century. Like a first impression in real life, the filmic encounter shapes audience impressions and expectations for later filmic content, including character development and narrative structure. Although the first encounter with a character in a film might be self-evident, there is a need to operationalize the definition of the “filmic first encounter.” For the sake of this essay, I shall include the first five minutes of any film in my analysis of the period of first encounter, although this five-minute limit is somewhat arbitrary, as the most impressive data reside in the earliest moments of any individual film, as it is from these early moments that most spectators render their first impressions[3]. In keeping with the theme of repeated first encounters, I shall revisit two directors of prominence, Spielberg and Lang. I selected these films based on their handing of the theme of deception, which I find prominent in both the acting and directing spheres of cinema, a topic which fits nicely with the idea of the first encounter.

The beginning of Schindler’s List is composed in a manner which exemplifies the model of the first encounter, and the prologue to the film presents a structural and visual code by which the rest of the film is to be read. The film starts with darkness and silence. This moment relays the moment of silence observed on the factory floor towards the end of the film. The first sound is a match-head being swiped against a matchbook, and the flame from the match approaches a candle and lights it, then another. Structurally, this candle prepares the audience for the retelling of Jewish history as a framed narrative, bookended by the status quo. Here Spielberg invokes the loric value of candles in the Jewish tradition, and the flame itself creates a contrast against its dark and cold backdrop. If the fragile flame represents life and warmth, the absence of warmth surrounding it represents a cold threat from the outside, perhaps hate. Indeed, it seems that this scene alone could summarize the entire film: one person’s warmth is activated like the lighting of a match–the act of bringing such warmth into the proximity of a larger body is contagious, and in this manner life grants more life as a match’s flame kindles a candle.

The color scene is then expanded; a Jewish family recites a prayer around a dimly lit dining table. A boy is pictured next, his face only illuminated by the glow of the candle and a sunset. The room empties and the candles have shortened as the prayer continues. The title of the film is inserted between the two candlesticks, and then a fade allows the title Schindler’s List to rest superimposed over a candle which is about to die out, its minor flicker still colorful and intact. At this moment Hugo Münsterberg’s call for catharsis in film is fitting. In order to properly achieve catharsis in a film, the first encounter must lay the foundation for future catharsis. The candles represent the start and the end of a narrative as well as the opposite emotions required for a cathartic conclusion. Candles symbolize both the hope of the Jewish faith and the despair of incineration. The smoke from the extinguished flame marks the transition to black and white. Meanwhile, the candle’s smoke is graphically matched with the steam from a locomotive. Black-and-white conjures up other notions of duality (i.e. evil and good) but it also readies the spectator to “read” new encounters in black-and-white as they would a book; impressions of this encounter with history will be cast in a metaphorical grayscale light.

At this point in the encounter, Spielberg’s precise attention to detail provides waves of new detail and data for the spectatorial encounter. The cold, black steel of the train is harsh against the pale-grey sky. The presentation of recorded history is offered in the form of partially visible white text against a black-and-white background. With list-makers setting up temporary tables and stamps on the station platform in the background, the title reads, “September 1939, the German forces defeated the Polish Army in two weeks.” The imposing coldness of the inky blacks and the diegetic sound of the steam engine are mechanical and altogether inhuman in contrast to the breathy echoes of the wood surfaces, the realistic furled edges of white paper, and the wrinkled texture of hands. These details are the surface data of Siegfried Kracauer’s theoretical project. Kracauer suggests that visual furniture and detail are the subtlety necessary to the realization of a film’s meaning. Similar to the encounter process, the sometimes voluntary but often involuntary minutiae of facial expression and gesture reside in the foreground of our thoughts when we consider the “meaning” of individual expression, a circumstance nopt unlike the reception of surface data in film.

At the train station, a family similar to the one at the candle-lighting approaches a record-keeper. A montage begins, depicting masses of people uttering their names. The audience supposes that the members of this mass are expelled Jews whose names must be recorded via typewriter in order to enter Krakow. But is this typed list of names the infamous Schindler’s List? The camera provides a close-up of the names as they are typed, the quick steel ushers their identities into existence. One pair smirks as they accidentally state their names simultaneously and the sound shifts to the gentle violin of a radio broadcast. In approximately three minutes the audience has met the first character in the film: the Jews.

A fragmented arm pours alcohol into a glass–the scene is lit by artificial light. The same person’s midsection crosses the frame, and after a cut his hands toss together the perfect dress outfit: a suit, tie, overcoat, cufflinks, dress shirt, and ring. He ties his tie against the background of a starched shirt. He fills out the arms of his suit coat and tucks in his handkerchief. He is searching for cash around his room now, he reaches into a drawer to remove a bundle, and then reaches again to grab the last bill. And he does it again. Lastly, he dons a swastika pin on his lapel. This method of montage provides both a sense of accretion and a type of collision. In that regard, Spielberg melds the two opposing theories of Russian montage as proposed by Pudovkin and Eisenstein, respectively. In this encounter, the man we are about to meet is Oskar Schindler. But the spectator does not meet the man, the camera only allows an encounter with the items that “make” the man. The things that adorn Schindler are all materialistic, though some are symbolic. The combination of the suit and the shirt and the tie follows the accretion model of montage; Schindler is obviously getting dressed. But some elements in the montage do not fit with audience expectations, and these include the scraping together of every last bit of earnings and the Nazi swastika on the lapel. Here one might draw the analogy to Eisenstein’s concept of overtones and undertones, in that certain elements are superficial in nature, while other elements reveal depth. These loaded symbols communicate a meaning other than “getting dressed.” It is in this manner that montage “makes” the first impression.

But this sort of “first impression” model of montage is widespread in film in the form of editing. Consider for a moment that the first three instances in which the spectator encounters Hans Beckert’s character in M are actually one deconstucted montage similar encounter similar to the montage encounter with Schindler. Spectators encounter feature A (a shadowy smile), feature B (a whistle), and feature C (a hand-written letter) and from those two details the audience is allowed to render its own impression: a culprit. In this context, even the “first” encounter with a character in a film is not always a whole encounter, much in the same way that a movie-goer can draw a first impression from the first part of a film, or from the whole film.

In the very next shot in Schindler’s List, Oskar enters a party which will serve as the foundation for his legitimacy among the Nazi officers for the remainder of the film. Just before the five-minute mark, the spectator encounters the noble profile of Oskar Schindler, which is illuminated with partial light in the same manner as the Jewish boy opposite the candle. The maître d’ has seated the impressively-attired Schindler prominently, but from behind a glass door concedes that he has no idea who he is, though he does not reveal that he accepted a hefty tip from him. Spectators did not know Schindler two minutes ago, but, Spielberg’s two-minute montage of encounter is a clue to his identity. Schindler’s actions are premeditated, superficial, and within the scope of this encounter, he appears to be making a gamble beyond his means. In some ways, both the character of Schindler and Liam Neeson the actor are committing the same illusion that Pepper Labeija explained before. In the end, the narrative comes full circle to show how Schindler’s materialistic vice becomes selfless. Schindler spends every last dime to prove himself to himself, yet another instance of a protagonist’s self-encounter.

In the case of Fritz Lang’s Scarlet Street, the first encounter is utterly revealing of the film’s direction. The director uses the camera to shape expectations for the main character. In the initial sequence, cast and credits appear in the dim light of a painted streetlamp. One minute into the film, Fritz Lang’s own authorship is fronted in large title text, “Produced and Directed by Fritz Lang,” despite the fact that audiences were seconds before alerted to the description of the film as “A Diana Production.” Although the credit sequence is typical for the period, even these minor details front ideas of artistic ownership and the conflict of production in the first moments of encounter. Spectators later realize that this theme of artistic authorship becomes a driving force of the narrative.

The film begins with a strong presence of foreground and background, a visual theme which reflects the construction of a painting itself. The next shot comes from a still camera positioned on one side of a wet street scene. Several adult couples walk briskly along the sidewalks. One woman even walks her dog in and out of the frame. A man in uniform whistles to hail a vehicle, which parks in the center of the image. Next, the camera perspective changes to the opposite side of the street, atop a set of stairs previously pictured. This countershot in the street reveals a blonde woman waiting in the backseat of a care. She patronizes an organ grinder and his trained monkey with a donation. In this encounter, spectators witness begging, donation, and performance and are prepared for its appearance later in the film’s narrative. This sort of aesthetic structure revives Georges Méliès call for layered sets, deep space, and the presence of foreground and background detail. Much like the camera shifts positions from foreground to background in this street scene, the main character and the film itself will shift from discussing the superficial to the subterranean. Although the relationship between a man and a woman begins with exteriority and superficiality, it must shift to the interior realm of emotional bond if it is to survive. The visual presence of males and females is strongly coded in this street scene and audiences are reminded of their own encounters with the so-called opposite sex.

Inside the building, the divide between male and female becomes more obvious. Inside, an image of a man and a maternalistic woman is disconnected. The man is standing, separated from the woman visually by the word “private.” The woman is also knitting; upon this encounter audiences probably assume that this hobby is a craft that she performs in addition to her actual job. This first encounter in the world of Scarlet Street raises questions in the spectator’s subconscious. What private domain will divorce a man from a mother? What hobby-craft will come to the fore? In the film’s narrative, Chris’ private hobby of painting and his private encounters with another woman are the very secrets that divorce him from his own wife.

In the private room, employees of J.J. Hogarth’s bank are singing “For he’s a jolly good fellow” to Christopher Cross, the main character and cashier played by Edward G. Robinson. The audience is informed that the woman waiting in the car outside is his mistress, and a gentlemen’s chuckle ensues. J.J. gives Chris a watch of supreme value and beauty, and the reason for such a gift is engraved into the watch itself. The inscription reads, “To my friend Christopher Cross, in token of 25 years of faithful service, from J.J. Hogarth, 1909–1934.” Indeed this engraving itself brings the relationship between loyalty and beauty into the foreground of spectator minds. Before J.J. departs, he shares a cigar with Chris and a colleague. In this first encounter with Chris, audiences are offered a close-up. Chris reluctantly smokes, as he might not want his wife to smell the smoke and he is superstitious about the match. In the closest encounter with Chris yet, the audience follows the camera’s lens to the image of his crossing fingers. If Chris Cross’ willingness to take risks and enter into unlucky circumstances was not apparent before, the manner in which this encounter is framed makes it all-too-evident.

Béla Balázs’ theory of physiognomy is applicable here. The film itself seems to showcase products for the spectator’s consumption in real life: dresses, suits, cars, pets, and even the bejeweled watch. The cigar, however, is an item which Chris does not want to consume. He expresses this reluctance through a mixture of voluntary and involuntary reactions to the proposition. Spectators are very adept at rendering the impressions they receive in this encounter into a theory of Chris: his superstitious fingers, sweating brow, and jostling posture all demonstrate his discomfort with the situation. Indeed, this acting embodies the “universal language” of facial expression and gesture. Were it not for the close-up of Chris’ fingers, would we have known his superstitious attitude, for it seems that it went unnoticed to J.J. Hogarth. In this context, a theory of encounter can adopt largely from Balázs’ theory of universal language and micro-details. It seems that human first impression formation can extend beyond dialogue and into all other impressive elements of encounter. such as sets, costumes and gesture.

Now let us consider John Schlesinger’s Midnight Cowboy as a body of evidence for the practicality of the first encounter. The film is filled with rich surface data such as costume and dialect. Beyond these features, however, the film embodies new domains of encounter, namely, the gaze. The gaze is tied heavily to the first impression, though the autonomy of the gazed-upon person to manipulate outward impressions is in question.

The film begins with an unfortunate scene of a child playing alone in a deserted drive-in theatre. Although the screen in the drive-in is blank, the camera zooms out to reveal that the Big Tex Drive In was once a potentially happening place for a date. In the background, sound from a Western plays and a man sings, “Get along little doggies, before you know, New York will be your new home.” A cut indirectly communicates that the child playing alone has grown up into the man who is showering. Joe Buck, the singer, is naked and he appears not to mind the camera’s intimate presence. The camera begins at his foot, anticipating his dropping of a bar of soap. The camera pans up Joe’s naked body. This scene is perfect for the voyeur who has a lingering gaze to offer Joe, who seems to like the camera’s attention.

Next a series of cuts create a sense of urgency; people in a kitchen ask, “where’s that Joe Buck?” The audience might wonder in this first encounter, “What kind of buck is Joe?” The spectator watches Joe get dressed up in fancy garb. Joe’s facial expression tells the spectator that he enjoys looking nice and that he favors their gaze. And in a shot before the movie’s soundtrack begins, Joe is located in a hotel room in his cowboy attire, with shadow versions of himself on his right and his left like Peter Pan, the boy who never wanted to grow up and who could only chase his shadow.

Fred Neil’s “Everybody’s Talkin” begins to play as Joe Buck walks out of the motel and underneath a sign which reads “Big Spring Motel.” In this first encounter with Joe Buck’s environment, the spectator is reminded of both “Big Tex” and “Big Spring,” both titles rife with sexual euphemism. As Joe Buck walks, the camera focuses on his cowboy-like traits. His costume consists of a leather jacket with tassels, cowhide luggage, a cowboy hat, boots, and a cigarette. The complete Marlboro Man, it seems. The camera frames his body in close-up, fragmenting his feet, waistline, and face. In these scenes of male objectification, Laura Mulvey’s discussion of pleasure derivation in narrative cinema is all-too-evident. The camera picks apart the features which emphasize Big Tex and his alleged Big Spring.

Furthermore, the concept of the spectatorial gaze is itself revealing of the process of encounter in cinema. First impressions are a moment of critical importance in which the fragmented parts of a person combine in our subconscious to render a holistic impression of a person, an image which we desire to see. Humans fetishize the first impression and value its importance disproportionately. This may be observed in how students act and dress on the first day of school, or in the sense of “realness” as put forth by Pepper Labeija. By placing the first gaze within a sequence, it becomes clear that the most pleasurable moment of the gaze is the first encounter, the first seconds of the gaze itself. As the gaze continues, the accuracy of the spectator’s thoughts about the person gazed-upon are tested and this disrupts pleasure. Overall, the gaze itself is an embodiment of the process of encounter.

In large part, Joe buck is much more of a fragmented image of a cowboy than even he would like. As Joe Buck walks down the street, his chewing gum and small radio make him look childish to be a cowboy. Joe walks underneath a theater billboard that has been abandoned. Instead of featuring John Wayne in The Alamo, we see that letters have fallen over time, revealing the decrepit “J hn ayne The A amo” in the Rio Theater’s billboard. If even John Wayne’s most cowboy-like performance of a cowboy can become corrupted or incomplete, what chance does Joe Buck stand to become who he wants to be? Joe Buck crosses the street and narrowly avoids a Lone Star brewery truck, only to visit his place of employment for one last time. Buck claims to want to head “out east” because of the rich women there. Source and destination is particularly emphasized in the first encounter with Joe Buck, as spectators witness the delivery truck, the cow products Joe wears, and the desire to head from West to East. This origin-to-destination relationship is reminiscent of Dziga Vertov’s highlighting of the process of consumption. All the images spectators are confronted with in the film Midnight Cowboy have an origin, but to contemplate this, they must also consider that their impression of Joe Buck originates in the first encounter.

Directors exploit the notion of the first encounter to inspire and imbue the audience reception. As we have seen, the level of behavior modeling and visual and auditory cues are subtle enough that even a wary spectator would not be able to receive such surface data critically. In the filmic first encounter the cards are stacked in the favor of the director’s desired interpretation. In this regard, a film director may consider the impression forming behaviors of the spectator’s mind a kind of imminent domain which they may possess or manipulate as needed. But, there is some hope to the process of encounter for spectators. Let us consider the words of the emcee who is witness to an outstanding drag performance in Paris is Burning:

Sweetheart, with a cigarette, you’re giving me a banshee girl effect. This is banshee. You know the girls that be hanging out at the corner talking about, ‘Yo, man!’” One that can hang out with the roughin’ and the toughin’. …Banshee girl realness. One that could take her baby brother to school. One that say, “You know…like um hey! I saw a bunch of those things walking down the street…’

-Emcee

Here the participants in this ball make no claim that such gender and class drag performances represent their real identity. Notably, they explain their donning of “other,” or the adoption of stereotypical costumes and behaviors, in terms of pragmatics. In the case of Venus Xtravaganza it is Venus who commands her own gaze. Venus’ identity resides at the intersection of multiple social demographics: African-American, homosexual, male, and urban poor. But even a marginalized member of society like Venus knows that modulating her outward appearance is the key to manipulating the first encounter. The desire to shape the first impression is just as strong for the film director as it is for the person whose true identity is socially undesirable. Venus’ performance of the Banshee Girl allows her to transcend social norms, create and control her first encounter, and impact those around her as a film does. Most importantly, however, it is the emcee, one spectator out of a crowd, who is responsible for the activation of this identity. The emcee spectator provides Venus her springboard. It is the emcee who delivers the vibrant first impressions which in turn complete Venus’ transformation in the moment of first encounter. It is the spectator, not the gazed-upon person, who turns a conceptual identity into a realized one.

Notes

[1] These lines of dialogue were not in the original script by Paul Schrader in Spring of 1976.

[2] Many film historians agree that Fritz Lang’s M was the earliest sound film of major release. Also, Peter Lorre’s whistle is not the diegetic whistle heard as Hans Beckert’s whistle. Peter Lorre could not whistle so Fritz Lang’s whistle was dubbed in.

[3] Psychological studies of first impression formation discuss the nature of first impression, and the cognitive biases which becomes evident in light of new, sometimes contrary information. For more information, see Higgins, Rholes Jones 1977, Hamilton, Katz and Leirer 1980, and Rabin and Schrag 1999.

Poetry students delve into their own minds when they ponder the meaning of a poem. In turn, the interpreters of a poem may be confused by the poet’s rhetoric, stymied by unknown context, or paralyzed by opaque language. To better comprehend a poem, readers might reflect upon their own language, refer to an instructor for relevant historical information, or perhaps even seek a dictionary. Readers often seek to explain the What the Why and the How. But readers might consider a new tool with which to explore the lyric: the Random.

Free association is nothing new to the classroom or the reader of poetry. Unique semantic relationships permit creativity in language and especially in poetry. Poetry readers should operate like more like poets than readers, divining creative language from their mental maps of the world. In order to do so without completely departing from the poem of interest, one might look to the internet for inspiration.

In the digital age, readers are afforded many unique opportunities in the interpretation of texts. This paper proposes a “conspiracy” method of poetry interpretation that utilizes the internet for interpretative segues. According to this method, an adept reader would reach beyond the text in question, attempting to draw intertextual relations to largely irrelevant content. This process is not unlike paranoia: nearly any link, rational or not, will do quite well for the conspiracy reader. But unlike the conspiracy theorist, who reads causality into the correlations of the world, a “conspiracy” reader of poetry draws on the relationships between the relevant and the irrelevant to strengthen interpretative positions about any given poem. The “conspiracy” reading of any poem exploits coincidence to achieve coherence. Subsequently, the limits of any given poem no longer constrain a student’s interpretation nor their mental exercise.

We have long viewed the internet as a tool; but what if we consider the internet as the imprint of the world’s networked mental map of all experience and knowledge to date? Perhaps then using the internet, that is the worldwide mind map, to inspire new poetic interpretations would not seem so off-putting. Consider the elusiveness of poetic allusion; how can modern students of poetry pick up on references which were intended to communicate to an interpretative elite? Many poets distill their work from a lifetime of learning and experience. A “conspiracy” reader goes beyond the poem, assuming that any word might be a reference of interest.

For example, what is to be made of the title of T.S. Eliot’s poem, “The Hollow Men”? If one were to perform a Google search the word “hollow,” for instance, one would find a vast array of hits from which to choose. But what do these results have in common? The results yield the occurrences of the “hollow” utterance across the vast network of thought that the internet represents. A popular hit reads “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” T.S. Eliot probably did not have this story in mind when he wrote his poem. Of course, there are only so many words in the English language — must every word relate to all of its prior published utterances? Perhaps not. Nonetheless, the paranoid internet searcher might try to draw non-sense linkages between the two. Indeed, the mental process of forging connections in the absence of literal relation is all too human. Luckily, the internet is organized enough for daily use; users are not often asked to draw connections between Icabod Crane and T.S. Eliot. But what if readers and searchers could use such non-sense linkages to their advantage? As it were, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow was composed around the right time for T.S. Eliot’s poem to be influenced by it. Perhaps this tenuous connection is sufficient for exploration. The “conspiracy” reader has a new body of work to compare and contrast in light of The Hollow Men, and new directions for interpretation galore.

By using the internet, and other data sets similar to the mind map, readers can explore novel intertextualities. Further, poetic interpretations that function like conspiracy theories allow the readers to exercise their own experiences and knowledge in unique and unpredictable ways. Mind maps are well-known and incredibly powerful tools for organizing and learning. Associating the poem with a related word or concept allows the interpreter to construct a metaphor for interpretation, mapping the domain of the poem upon the domain of the newly associated text. Finally, the internet provides for both the accessibility and the dissemination of this metaphorical interpretation.

An essay on how Freud developed and revised his memory theories

Freud began with a thermodynamic understanding of memory (Entwurf) and then shifted to one grounded in cooperation between the conscious and unconscious (Traumdeutung and Lustprinzip), and finally ended up with a one-way description of how perceptions are passed into memory (Wunderblock). He did, however, have some backwards-looking steps along the way, when he debated with Breuer about the issue of Hypnoid States in Studien über Hysterie and when he had to explain the notion of a reverse-action “screen” memory in Über Deckerinnungen.

First, I would like to point out that Entwurf einer Psychologie, which Freud had tried to destroy but was posthumously published, provided an outline of what Freud had hypothesized in his early career as the thermodynamic operation of the mind. He suggested that the cerebral cortex contained two types of neurones, Ø and Psy neurones, which were responsible for transmitting energy in different ways. He explains that the free flowing (omega?) neurones are responsible for delivering sense impressions and flow rapidly like electricity through the mind. They are filled with energy, which Freud calls Q, and this energy is disseminated and is fleeting. But the Ø neurones could also pass their energy off to Psy neurones, which constituted what Freud thought to be the storehouse of memories in the brain, which contained cathected energy (Qn). Later Freud would deem this presence of memories an essential feature of the unconscious. Surprisingly, he would propose an understanding of attaching mental energy to objects in the world or the self in Entwurf, decades before his work on Narcissism. He suggested that fluid Q energy in Ø neurones could be invested into the Psy neurones for keeping within the mind or released into the nervous system so that it would play out in motility. In later Freud, it would seem that this mass of fluid Q energy in Ø neurones correlates to the libidinal energy of the Ich, which has the choice of investing it itself in the form of ego-libido or investing into objects in the world in terms of object-libido.

In the Traumdeutung, Freud explains that the Tagesreste (residual memories of the recent day’s events) are used material by the unconscious in sleep, like a canvas or set of characters which the Traumarbeit process transforms and mutates according to a deeply held and unconscious wish-fulfillment plot that plays out dream after dream. The dream theory indicates two types of memories, long term ones which we no longer can actively know, and short term memories from the day. They combine in the composite, displaced and intense visual imagery of the dream in order to bring memories to light which would otherwise be too dangerous or incompatible to consciously recognized.

In Jenseits des Lustprinzips, Freud justifies his need to explain the aggressive tendencies of the mind in light of his prior work on Narcissism by suggesting that shell-shocked soldiers have memories from which they will probably never be freed. The traumatic memories of war are so present in the soldiers mind that they express the urge to repeat the behavior in order to master it. Freud even suggests that if the soldiers had been wounded or had acted in the wartime scenario, they would not be plagued by the memory of the event as they currently are, because the cathexis energy of the memory that is so strong would have been released in the form of physical aggression or put towards the nervous system to address the pain of the real wound that they have. Instead, they are left with a psychic wound which is largely untreatable.

At the end of Freud’s career, Notiz über den Wunderblock reveals Freud’s final analysis on how memories work. The Wunderblock is something I describe from my own childhood experience in the following chaotic description: I know this as the cheap dollar store pink sheet of plastic that you write on to draw things in bright pink but those drawings disappear when you lift the sheet from its waxy backing. The sheet on top is the perceptual system resting in the preconscious that memories are initially inscribed upon. We can see that this writing appears, but it appears due to the pressure we place upon the sheet, not because of any ink. It is as if the memory is created by the pressure from the preconscious perceptual system upon the “Block” of the unconscious. All this “memory inscription” can be then, is the temporary adhesion of the perception to already existent elements of the unconscious pad beneath. Implied here is that there are not really any new memories but only novel connections with unconscious ancient memories. When we lift the preconscious sheet from its subconscious backing, the preconscious resets and erases itself, storing no memories unto itself. But as Freud lovingly gazes upon the waxy backing, the memories appear as traces layered upon each other so thickly that it looks like the memory writings of hundreds of sessions have been layered atop each other into a tangled mess. The investigations of the psychoanalyst are akin to disregarding the sheet on top and trying to disentangle the complexity of layers written long ago on the backing beneath.

But when Freud takes up the issues of forgetting and remembering, he must change his tack slightly to account for the ways memories become more and less available to the conscious system. In Studien über Hysterie, Breuer proposes that the hysteric female is subject to entering hypnoid states, and these states are like the hypnotic paralysis and somnambulism, daydreaming, etc. In these hypnoid states, the individual does not appropriately react to the situation, as in the famous case of Anne O. who sees a black snake but cannot fend it off from her bedridden father because her arm is asleep. Breuer accounts for hysteria by explaining the potential to enter hypnoid states among his patients. Freud, against this tact, wants to suggest a split consciousness of which the two opposing sides are in conflict, and that this occurs naturally. He says that hysterics suffer from reminiscences. The implication here is that memories move from the conscious into the unconscious and that this is the natural healthy process; the hypnotic analyst’s task involves helping the patient remember the circumstances because of which the first symptoms started, or the circumstance that is so associated with the symptom that it must be related to it. In Freud’s essay on Deckerinnerungen, he is doing something slightly different with memory, and in light of his situation at the time it seems that he was trying to explain to himself and his peers that he was over the widely contested and soon redacted Seduction Theory. This theory basically suggested that all hysterics (Freud argued for male and female) were victims of seduction by a parent in childhood based upon the analysis of patients which yielded such childhood memories. But in Deckerinnerungen, Freud explains this phenomenon of false memories away by suggesting that the childhood exists as visual mnemic memory material upon which to project wishes in adulthood. How else could he explain the remembrance impossible sexual desires of a child decades later into the individuals lifetime? He tells a story of metaphorical deflowering of a (friend’s?) sister from whom he steals yellow flowers. This is all related to an interpretation about bread winning and bread and (yellow) butter that is playing out in Freud’s adult life. The unconscious system has projected the wishes of the sexual adult, who is well aware of the role of the genitals, upon the memories from childhood, which have been twisted to this purpose.

A central feature of a democratic school is the preparation of students for solving important and pressing social and personal problems. In a democratic classroom there is balance between curriculum designed to help individuals solve personal problems and curriculum organized to help citizens solve problems that they share as community members. It is recognized that if the emphasis is too much on the social, students will rightfully resist. If the emphasis is too much on the personal, students’ attention will not be alerted to the impossibility of solving personal problems in an unraveling world. Some of the pressing social issues that become the curriculum of a democratic school are cited here:

1. An ecologically sustainable society. Curriculum must be developed that enables students to propose desirable feasible ways to achieve environmental stability by preventing the depletion of nonreplenishable resources; the increase in pollution that poisons land, sea, and air; and the massive changes in overpopulation. Such curriculum would require students to examine the appropriateness of such concepts as gross national product; consumption; and consider the viability of an ecological theory of value (Pearl, 1971). Students would be asked to evaluate the ecological impact of various models of global economies on the livability of the environment.

2. An economy that meets human needs while achieving a full, fair, and gratifying employment society. Students will be given the opportunity to evaluate various approaches to a free market economy, as well as variety of alternatives to the free market in an effort to determine which approach is healthy work environment without endangering the environment. The consideration of a future economy would include discussion of conversion from a war to a peace economy and the redirecting of facilities and resources to first define and then to meet human needs. Such challenges would include careful consideration of planned apprenticeships in the human services to take the place of current credentialing procedures (Knight, 1993; Pear & Riessman, 1965). It would also open up discussion involving redefinition of work and the possible creation of a variety of new forms of work.

3. Nonviolent approaches to conflict resolution. The end of ‘the evil empire’ has not produces peace. If anything, war is breaking out all over and is not subject to traditional resolutions (Kaplan, 1994). Students need to be able to analyze at the changing face of war and to devise schemes that replace international and within-nations disorder and bloody confrontations with working systems through which disputes are settled without violence.

4. Just and humane societies. A just society is an equal encouragement society. It is one in which different understandings of justice are considered and issues of putative justices (e.g. racism, classism, sexism, ageism, etc.) are carefully considered and proposed approaches to rectification are debated, tested, and evaluated. Students are encouraged to consider moving from hierarchical and confrontational arrangements based on equitable treatment of women, minorities, and the entrenched poor.

5. Crime-free caring societies. A humane society comes to grips with increasing social instability marked by unacceptably high levels of crime and violence by conscious efforts to construct a workable civil society that can reduce violence and criminal behavior while also scrupulously respecting rights and meeting other democratic requirements.

6. Elimination of world poverty. The challenge starts with at least 2 billion people presently living below the poverty line. Poverty is not exclusively third-world problem. Nor does it distinguish the capitalist economically developed countries from the former Easter Bloc. Within ‘wealthy’ developed nations there are increasingly larger proportion of citizens mired in abject poverty.

7. Moving from the monoculture nondemic cultures to the multicultural democratic cultures. Tribalism, ethnic conflicts, and religious differences present to the 21st century many of its most difficult challenges, including recognition of the rights and values of the ‘fourth world,’ the indigenous populations existing within modern societies. ‘Mabo’ land rights in Australia can be treated as a case study, as can the somewhat similar claims of Native-Americans, and ‘Black’ immigrants in the United Kingdom. At issue is how diversity can be incorporated into a coherent integrated whole that allows for both common understanding and the appreciation of difference.

8. Planning cities of hope. The challenge is to be able to merge economic development, urban planning, and community services in the recreation of local communities. The modern international style with its emphasis on centralization, economic rationalization, and a global economy destroys local culture and decenters communities. Students in democratic classrooms learn how to create a viable community and defend its feasibility and desirability.

9. Marshaling technology for socially useful purposes. Technology has intended and unintended consequences. Most current presentations of a high technology future are dystopic. Students need to examine how technology can be organized to better serve humanity. Students need to distinguish myth from reality in the highly promoted ‘information society.’ They need to be given the opportunity to perform research that will enable them to distinguish information from disinformation. Students need to be able to weigh the difficult ethical issues related to the use of technology.

Each of these problem areas are difficult, but because they are interrelated, the solutions are even more difficult because these problems must be solved simultaneously. Given the enormity of the problem, it is not difficult to understand why people feel powerless and why intellectuals limit themselves to criticism rather than proposed interventions. In the chapters that follow we will discuss how a transition from a fragmented ‘subject’-based curriculum to a problem-solving one can be conceptualized, and how such a curriculum can be organized developmentally. It is through the solving of real problems that students learn to develop arguments designed to persuade others by logic and evidence, and listen to the logic and evidence of other proposals. Democratic education is most effective when classmates, teachers, and community leaders consciously try to influence each other.

The above excerpt was published in “The Democratic Classroom: Theory to Inform Practice” (Pearl & Knight, 1999)

The University cannot react to day-to-day infection data, because these reports are fundamentally flawed. Excess deaths based on actuarial data are the only reliable metric at this point, and the outlook is grim. Universities must plan for the worst and be proactive with the development of a strategic vision for the next 900 days, leaving prior plans by the wayside. The more lead time and resources that the University can provide students and faculties, the more effective those online semesters can be.

Our University should double down on online collaboration and work because all graduates will be hired into a job market that seeks those skills. Changing course at the last minute, as the infections and viral mutations fluctuate, will lead to further chaos, disappointment, and stress. Permitting face to face instruction risks the health of our campus community and the greater community of our region. Our people are our biggest asset and we cannot let them perish due to financial or pedagogical concerns, however legitimate.

One ought to consider that the lives of our people cannot be sacrificed in the hope that our University System may preserve enrollments and revenues. It just isn’t worth it. The virus is highly contagious and we know little about it. Now is the time for bold leadership and prioritization. Our campus leaders must insist that its people dedicate themselves to humanity and the humanities, science and the sciences, by starving the pathogen of its fuel. We should write the next Decameron and bide our time.

The survival of our community depends on its health first, and its financial welfare second. If our University collapses for financial reasons but its decision saves lives, it will have been the right decision by any measure. We can’t teach while enduring mass casualties. Obviously. And our students look to the educated members of our faculties for rational decision-making now more than ever before. In many cases they trust our insights more than ever.

It will be impossible to do our work properly and safely during the viral outbreak, but in the first 100 days of this pandemic, many think that they know better. We can’t complete our normal work. The US is not yet equipped to navigate this level of disruption to its private and public systems. Even if no infections were transmitted on our reopened campus, which is impossible, the majority of our campus families would be experiencing total psychological, financial, and social upheaval due to macro-level chaos. Not even the most well-resourced organizations can endure this crisis with the old blueprint. Only the born-digital enterprises are thriving right now and our University must pivot quickly if it wishes to blaze a viable trail. Let’s all aspire to find new, achievable directives and follow those during this period of total, global turmoil.