Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami, Coming of Age, Psychology, Psychoanalysis, review no spoilers

Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore: A Micro and Macro Path Forward

I was recently in San Francisco at the American Psychoanalytic Association’s annual convention.  While there, I went to Japan town to a stationary store.  My obsession with fountain pens leads me to also be interested in ink and paper, and the Japanese make some of the finest paper in the world (one of their secrets, apparently, is to mix some hardwood into softwood pulp used to make paper – allowing for incredibly thin paper that is non-absorbent and doesn’t bleed through to the other side).  After being a little overwhelmed by all the washi tape and stamps and other accessories for sale in the store, I walked across the hall to a Japanese bookstore.

I probably should have asked one of the storekeepers for help, but instead, standing in front of the fiction shelves, realizing that I had not, to my knowledge, read any Japanese literature, I Googled Japanese novels to read.  The first review was about some current book, but the author of the review mentioned having read Murakami – including, he or she said, “of course, Kafka on the Shore.”  Well, when I looked at that book on the shelf and compared it to the other Murakami books, I thought, “Oh no, another one of these long, difficult masterpieces that is going to be impenetrable.”

I have read War and Peace – I quite enjoyed it actually, but I am currently only halfway through Moby Dick, and Infinite Jest took, to my mind infinite patience to read, and I gave up 3/8ths of the way through it.  Coincidentally, one of my patients mentioned on my return a recent New Yorker article that I also haven’t read suggesting that books like Infinite Jest are marathons intended to test the reader’s endurance – their ability to take on another’s perspective and look at the world through their eyes.  Well, some tests are too long, some bars are too high, and some perspectives are a bridge too far for me.

I thought about picking up one of the shorter books, but I was in San Francisco alone, had just finished a book, and I had a long flight home – so, why not?  Let’s see if I can make it to the end of this one…

Surprisingly, this book was, for me, a real page turner.  I looked forward to returning to my hotel every night to re-enter this magical, nearby world that was both mildly foreign – Japan is a different country, but it has highways and towns and cities and forests – and totally, completely different and yet, somehow, familiar as a dream scape – as the kind of world that you discover when, as a young man, you take off and find out that the world is both held together all over the place – and also infinitely variable and your place in it moves from relative certainty to being unknown and open to question almost everything once you step out of the door (or through the back of the closet).  And the feeling of this space is both terrifying and exciting and also terribly lonely.  You feel cut off from the rest of the world – as the hero in this book becomes – but also as the reader, I became. 

It felt odd to be reading a book that I so thoroughly enjoyed – while feeling that so many people that I know might not like it at all – they might feel too threatened or disoriented or repulsed by the raw violence or the raw sexuality – that the dream scape that this artist creates would be one that many readers would want to be wakened from because of its nightmarish qualities, but that I was consuming like manna.

I suppose my reading of 100 Years of Solitude – a million years ago and long before I could make sense of it (or even thought of blogging) – was like this reading, only at that time I was so confused I just wanted the dream to end, though, even then, I was compelled to finish that book (and I sense this means I might quite like it now).   

Because this book reads more like a dream than a straightforward narrative arc, I don’t know that I will be able to give a veridical account of what happened in it.  Or rather, if I give my account it is unlikely to match yours, and that is fine.  This is not, by the way because the book lacks structure.  It is very well organized and structured – like the best dreams… But like the best dreams, it can be accurately interpreted in multiple ways and, because Murakami is a consummate story teller, it becomes our dream – we participate in it with our own mind, so our experience of it is valid, even if it doesn’t square with someone else’s valid experience.

(I serve on a research committee.  It is a psychoanalytic research committee – but the explanation I offered above would simply not fly with a research committee.  We propose only testable hypotheses, they would say, and when we test them, we discard those that would not work.  The tension between that position and the more analytic position about flexible realities I have taken above is part of what makes serving on that committee both delicious and frustrating.)

So – this book is structured as a description of the movement through time of two individuals.  One of them, Kafka, is a fifteen year old boy.  His are the odd numbered chapters.  He has led a bleak life as the son of a remote sculptor whose wife (Kafka’s mother) and daughter (Kafka’s sister) left him when Kafka was so young that he has at best fragmentary memories of her.  The father destroyed whatever pictures there were of his mother (save for one that is hidden and that Kafka discovers) and was so bitter that he lays an Oedipal curse on him.  Kafka, not surprisingly decides, with the help of his alter ego, Crow, to run away from home and seek his fortune.

Though I worked at a halfway house for runaway teenagers, I never ran away from home.  That said, I did go hitchhiking and I had the fantasy of putting a canoe in the Olentangy River and taking it out only when I reached New Orleans.  This Tom Sawyer/Huckleberry Finn fantasy was realized when I rode my bicycle (with a friend) 1500 miles home at the end of my Junior year of college.

The other individual, who is the centerpiece of all of the even numbered chapters, was injured by a supernatural event – or perhaps by something much more personal but traumatic – in either case he is left in a state of helpless, but very sweet dependence.  His superpower is his ability to talk to cats – but also to wait indefinitely.  He is in no hurry to get anywhere, has had most of his cognitive abilities erased and he refers to himself in the third person.  “Mr. Nakata would be happy to find your cat,” he might say.

These stories, the story of Kafka seemingly straightforward, and the story of Mr. Nakata filled with magical and other worldly events, seem to be related – and when they cross over it seems almost accidental – as if the author didn’t see it coming any more than we did.  Indeed, in the anniversary edition of the book that I read, the author had a preface in which he stated that his writing of this book (and I think his writing in general) involves a sort of taking of dictation from what he describes as another world – going over to this mysterious place and bringing back the writing from it.

The magical quality of this “shadow” story appeals to both my more childish self – the kid who believed in all kinds of magic – from Santa Clause to ESP – and to my analytic identity with its affinity for dream images where the shackles of empirical living have fallen off.  Is it plausible that Mr. Nakata is speaking to cats and that fish fall out of the sky when he opens his umbrella?  No, but it is equally implausible that he lives in a place where, when he decides to go on a trip, people are taken with him – they feel compassion for him and comfort in his presence and they not only buy him meals but take up his crazy quest – they, too, believe in magic and get back in touch with aspects of themselves that they have shed in order to enter into and live in the adult world.  And yet, that is the world that I want to live in and have more often than not.

I was listening to a podcast about erotic love this week, and one of its central theses is that the Genesis story is about how erotic love creates centrifugal force that pulls children out of the centripetal force field of the nuclear family.  I think that what gets depicted in this book, with its Oedipal theme, is a kind of have your cake and eat it too coming of age story. 

To get through this novel, you have to survive both the violence – and it comes from the unexpected source of kind Mr. Nakata and the awful world he gets pulled into before heading off to somehow meet up with Kafka, and the sex – this is an Oedipally constructed tale.  And it is not just Oedipus, but Jack Daniels, Colonel Sanders, and Elvis, along with a host of other Western artifacts that make their appearance here.  I suppose I should not be surprised after having recently seen a Five Guys restaurant on the Champs Elysee, but the mixture of Western and Japanese culture into something that feels like an intentional blend helps support the other worldliness combined with the familiar that makes this feel uncanny – that connects me, as a western reader, to a foreign world that is infused with familiar objects.

Despite the violence – I felt strangely comforted by this polyglot world.  The Anime invasion that I see at comic- con events feels less intrusive and more like the Japanese are returning the favor of our cultural sharing/intrusion.  Perhaps we are moving towards a world that is interconnected and reasonably comfortable with that as a way of functioning, creating the discomfort that is leading to conservative efforts to thwart international trade.  It feels like it is too late to close that door and we will learn that soon (or perish). 

But there is also a kind of calm that feels distinctly Japanese.  Mr. Nakata, in particular, feels safe as he travels across the country.  There is a sense of community and caring for others that feels expected and reliable – something that takes place without fanfare.  There is also a comfort with getting to know strangers and looking out for them.  Ironically, this may be partially driven by a monoculture.  Perhaps one day we will have a global monoculture?  We will be able to trust each other because we know that, wherever we grew up, we learned how to be human.

Though that last sentence is, I think, largely true now.  I think if we were plopped down into a village - a ghetto - or a suburb anywhere on the planet, I think we would discover different ways of achieving goals, but I think we would find common values and would be able to recognize how those were being expressed - and recognize that they were functional to a greater or lesser extent.  Over time, we could interrogate our differences and achieve the Jimmy Carter approved message in Voyager 1 that though we are still a bunch of nation/states we are working toward "a single global civilization.universal/world government."   

Ultimately, though, the story is, I think, about the process of transitioning away from the family romance to a kind of courage to function autonomously while being in contact with those around us.  Perhaps because of reading this book, I was musing about the folly of the Japanese attaching the United States during the Second World War.  Japanese autonomy, like British autonomy, emanated from a small island country that imagined itself capable of manhandling those around it.  Of course, since then, the world has become a much bigger place.  I am drawn back into musing about the macro – who isn’t, these days – and about the U.S. imagining of itself as the dominant world power that doesn’t need to rely on others.  We need to be autonomous and in contact with – supporting and being supported by – those around us.  Achieving this delicate state of balance is challenging for both individuals and for nations.  

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Manet and Morisot in San Francisco

 Edouard Manet, Berthe Morisot, Psychology, Psychoanalysis, Art History, San Francisco

Immediately before the American Psychoanalytic Association’s San Francisco midwinter convention, there was a forecast of snowmageddon that might shut down numerous airports.  I rescheduled my flight from Monday to Saturday, and my hotel was happy to accommodate my staying a couple of extra days, so I found myself to be a footloose San Francisco tourist.  I had been there with the family long ago, when we did things the kids wanted to do, like go to Alcatraz, and things we dragged them to, like SFMOMA, and I had been the year before also to the meetings, but my experience was largely limited to downtown and the north shore.  So I decided to walk from downtown out to the Legion of Honor, a traditional art museum in the northwest corner of the city, stopping to indulge my fountain pen and stationaryinterests in Japan town along the way.

The slice of San Francisco – Geary Street – that I traversed felt like a bigger, more sprawlly version of two towns near me here in Ohio: Athens and Yellow Springs.  Both are college towns and have a bit of a hippie vibe, and the housing and shops in all three seem to have a sort of Shabby Chic, with fresh paint not seeming to be in high demand.  It is as if the choices in color that were made a generation ago have only improved with age while fading into a comfortable, lived in tone.

Rodin -
Christ and the
Magdelin

The Legion of Honor is approached by making a right turn through a public golf course that looks, to this non-golfers eye, to be challenging if, for no other reason, than that the changes in elevation are considerable.  Had I made a left turn a little earlier, I would have gone to the DeYoung Museum of American Art.  Apparently DeYoung (who, along with Hearst, had an eponymous downtown building) was competing with the benefactors of Legion of Honor.  I can’t speak to who won, because the DeYoung was closed on Monday, when I intended to visit it, but the Legion of Honor is a Solid museum outlining the history of Western Art with a particular focus on a very nice collection of Rodin sculptures, including an erotic marble sculpture of Mary Magdalen bring Christ down from the cross – one that the curators note is his only overtly biblical sculpture.

But the reason to write about this museum trip is not to describe their standing collection, but instead to highlight a special show reimagining the relationship between Édouard Manet (1832–1883) and Berthe Morisot (1841–1895).  Manet was older and used the younger Morisot as a model, and he convinced her to marry his brother.  The received wisdom is that he was her mentor and guide as she entered into and joined the impressionist movement that Manet had helped to found.  This narrative allowed Morisot to get somewhat lost in Manet’s shadow.

Manet - Berthe Morisot 
with a bouquet of
violets

The show brings together paintings and describes them as artifacts of a relationship in which Morisot pushed and propelled Manet every bit as much as he instructed her.  The curators present them as peers, but my read, informed by them, was a bit different.  I think that Morisot was trying to instruct Manet, an exemplar of the male gaze, in how to appreciate the female perspective.  Another way of saying that is that Morisot was anticipating Freud’s female patients by about fifty years. 

Freud’s patients helped Freud move from the objective point of view of treaters of the day like Charcot, who would hypnotize his patients and show them to his fellow neurologists to marvel at the vagaries of hysteria – a supposedly female disorder.  When Freud listened to, instead of observing, his female patients, he discovered that the, too, had a hysterical personality.  Indeed, that he had an entire inner world that had been unknown to him.  That said, he also imposed the dominant masculine perspective of the day on the women that he treated – and he seemed, later in his career, to recognize that he never truly was able to see the world through their eyes.

Charcot hypnotizing

Similarly, Morisot had a willing student in Manet, but one who continued to value the masculine perspective, never quite being able to make the radical shift that completely taking on the female gaze might have afforded him.  Like the feminists who would pick up Freud’s work – horrified by it, but also drawn to his attempts to understand women and using his insights as a springboard to more clearly articulate women’s minds – Morisot, in her own work, painted with the mind of a woman, pushing Manet forward, but also appreciating women as engaged with the world, not simply observed by it.

Manet - Luncheon on the grass

Manet was a well-established painter, if one teetering on penury, when he first crossed paths with Morisot.  Two of his masterpieces had shocked the Parisian art world when they were shown.  He submitted The Luncheon on the Grass (Le déjeuner sur l'herbe) to the Paris Salon of 1863.  It was rejected and shown in the Salon des Refusés (Salon of the Rejected).  It depicts a nude model sitting in a Parisian Park with fully dressed gentlemen.  While it references classical subjects, it does so in a novel way and is credited with being the first example of Modern Art.  Depicting contemporaries rather than classical subjects per se or famous or important figures was part of what distinguished this from the accepted style of the time.

Manet - Olympia

Manet followed this with Olympia in 1865, a depiction of a nude, but not as a chaste alabaster skinned near goddess, but, again, as a contemporary – and as a prostitute.  Someone who was brashly displaying herself, even as her African servant delivers flowers from an admirer.  A cat, also a symbol of female sexuality (a friend from France assures me that pussy is used to the same effect in French as in English) further underlines the overt sexuality of the painting.

So, Manet is both breaking with tradition – portraying people as they actually are, rather than idealizing them, and he is taking a traditional approach – the women in both of these paintings, while they observe us observing them, are clearly on display; they are objects to be viewed, primarily by men.  This, of course, is mirrored by Freud, who, forty or fifty years later speaks frankly with women about their sexuality and their sexual experiences and fantasies, breaking tradition, but retains a kind of tin ear approach to what these women are saying, filtering their words through his world view as he describes them to his medical peers.

Manet-
The Balcony

In 1868, Manet meets Morisot and he begins to paint her and to admire (and edit) her work.  His first portrait of her is a group painting of three people in the light and one in shadow.  Morisot is the woman on the lower left of the painting The Balcony.  She is a member of the upper class, and Manet is not, and he depicts her as an object – perhaps, some have speculated, of desire.  The shadowed figure, by the way, is a man who is the child of Manet’s father’s (August) lover.  The lover, after the death of his father, became Manet’s lover.  It is not clear whether the child, then, is Manet’s half-brother or his illegitimate son, but he is an illegitimate relative.

Morisot, too, became a relative.  While Manet was painting Berthe Morisot with a Bouquet of Violets (1872), Manet successfully convincing Morisot to marry his brother, which she happily did.  He also managed, during this time, though, to thoroughly anger Morisot.  She had nearly finished a painting of her sister and mother which she intended to enter into the Salon, but she was dissatisfied with it.  Manet came to her studio and, on the day the people were coming to pick it up, reworked the figure of her mother in ways that did not suit Morisot at all, but there was no time to undo the damage.  The painting was taken to the salon with Manet’s mangling (in Morisot’s mind) of it.  It was accepted and shown, but Morisot told her mother that she would rather be at the bottom of the Seine than show the work as her own.

Morisot -
Young woman at her window

The art historians who put together the show in San Francisco (and it will travel to Cleveland after that, so we in Ohio can see it in our neighborhood) made a case for Morisot communicating with Manet in a variety of other ways.  For instance, they maintain that her Young Woman at Her Window is a direct response to The Balcony.  She is saying, in effect, what would it be like if we were to look over a woman’s shoulder – to be curious about what she sees – rather than to look at her, and therefore to be focusing on what we see?  She is not just saying this about women, but also about men – much later she used the same approach to seeing what her husband saw when he was looking out the window.

It was at about this time that Morisot introduced Manet to painting en plein-air.  This was the style of working outside of the studio and catching changing conditions of light – something that Morisot went on to promote as a central figure in the impressionist movement.  She is the artist who showed in the most impressionist shows – more than Degas, Monet, or any of the other impressionists.  She also was central to this revolutionary movement in a way that Manet never was, even though his step into modernism was what allowed for the emergence of it.

Morisot - View of Paris from
the Trocadero

The historians went on to provide multiple examples of the ways that Morisot provided a template for Manet to follow – but I would like to focus on one.  In this example, Morisot’s View of Paris from the Trocadero (circa 1871-1872), includes a little girl with her back to us, presumably taking in the sights of Paris.  The art historians propose that Manet copied this device in The Railway (circa 1872-1873).  Though the other figures in the two paintings could not be more different.  The women in the View of Paris are impressions of people – and the woman facing us in The Railway is carefully rendered.  In fact, she is the same model as in Olympia, but the tenor of this painting is very different.

Manet- The Railway

I am here about to take significant license.  At the APsA conference, my research group was presenting information about the differences between in person psychanalyses and telehealth psychoanalyses.  We proposed that the zoom screen, or the telephone receiver mediates between the psychoanalyst and the patient (just as the air, but also the room that the analyst provides for an in-person meeting mediates the therapeutic relationship).  The goal of analysis, we proposed, is to have an unmediated experience – an experience of presence – with both the analyst (to feel present not just to the person, but to their mind) and for the patient to feel present with their own mind (to appreciate the functional elements of the mind that are usually available only through things like symptoms more directly – to feel things that they usually defend against).

So, I am going to try to have an unmediated experience of the Railway – to imagine my way into the mind of the artist.  He has presented us with a work of art – it is mediating between his mind and ours.  And if I draw on Wilfred Bion, an analyst who proposed that consciousness is finite and the unconscious is infinite, I will propose that my musings may have something to do with the infinite process that Manet was condensing – working and reworking to condense – in The Railway.  I am fully prepared to admit that it may actually have noting to with what was in Manet’s mind at the time, but it just might, so here goes…

The woman in The Railway is facing the viewer, but what she is displaying is a feeling that, to me, speaks of world weariness.  We cannot see the child’s face, but we can imagine that she is excited about the possibilities of life – that she may travel to places far away – that the world is an oyster waiting to be opened.  The woman in front of us has opened her oyster and found inside a book and a dog.  They are both on her lap.  They are the adventures that she has had – and they are much more circumscribed than the little girl imagines her adventures will be. 

I think it might be going to far to think that Manet is sympathetic to the plight of 19^th century women and the constraints that are placed on them.  Perhaps closer to home is the idea that he, himself, is more constrained than he would like in the ways that he sees and understands the world.  In two paintings painted near the end of his life, one by Morisot and one by himself, he paints Morisot’s daughter Julie in a classical pose atop a watering can in the family garden.  Morisot paints Julie playing with the watering can – using it as a prop in the game she is playing.  Despite his ability to move art forward to be “modern”, transitioning to engaging with the world more directly, to appreciate it in the moment, as Morisot does, he is still than creating a staged experience of it, the present still lies beyond his reach.  He still wants to manipulate objects rather than allowing himself, and us to be moved by them but also to play with them (I am aware that I am asserting this despite my having played with The Railway).

Perhaps my musings are influenced by my sense of Freud.  He, like Manet, was a brilliant man who imagined the mind in ways that others had not fully done before.  He is largely responsible (I think) for the sexual revolution and for our becoming a society that is much more accepting of the ways in which our animal roots play out in the ways that we construct ourselves and interact with each other.  Despite this knowledge, I don’t think he was able to transcend the limits that his own repressive background visited on him.   I guess I am proposing that the male gaze is a kind of prison that is very hard for even the greatest among us to work our way out of…

I must also confess that I prefer the work of Manet to that of Morisot.  Manet's painting was characterized by the curators as "overworked" while Morisot's is immediate.  I am in the minority in my family - the reluctant wife and mother - and by the mother's report, the father, all prefer Morisot.  I like the concrete - the care that Manet puts into creating a particular picture, that I can then imagine a world into over the less worked, more carefree characters that Morisot captures - or rather sketches - in the moment.

 

       

                                                                            Morisot -

In England (Eugene Manet on Isle of Wight), 1875

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Palm Royale: Today’s Feminism?

 Palm Royale, Kriten Wiig, Carol Burnett, Farce, Political Comedy, Palm Beach, Psychology, Feminism, Margaret Merriweather Post, Mar-a-Lago

Palm Royale: Today’s Feminism?

The reluctant wife had seen most of the first season of this series, enjoyed it (she didn’t remember having seen the last episode of the first season) and thought that I might be interested in seeing it because of its fun, complicated but light comic quality, but also because it is depicting the Palm Beach of my childhood.  She was willing to rewatch the first season to prepare for the second season because it was a complicated depiction of the intersection of multiple lives in Palm Beach in 1970.

In 1970, I was a ten-year-old living in West Palm Beach.  We went to church on Palm Beach, at Bethesda-by-the-Sea, and I was in a gifted child class that met on Palm Beach one day a week, the rest of the time I was at Belvedere Elementary in West Palm Beach. 

The Palm Beach I knew, was not the Palm Beach that is depicted here.  At Bethesda-by-the-Sea, when my buddy and I approached the Chauffeurs who were polishing the Rolls Royce’s lined up to take the wealthier parishioner’s home, I asked one of them how much the car cost.  He looked down his nose at me and said, in what I thought was a proper British accent, but may have been a cockney one, “Thirty thousand books of Green Stamps.”

For those of you who may be too young to know, Green Stamps were given out to customer’s of the Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company Grocery Store.  When you saved up enough books, you could buy a toaster with them.  Clearly he had correctly peeped me out as not belonging to the class that drove Rolls – or rather had them driven. 

Palm Royale is about that other class – or about those who wanted to belong to that class and worked their way, one way or the other, into it.  It is also a series about women who live in a world that is ostensibly run by men – and it purports to show that this world’s stars, and the people competent to run businesses, politics, and society are actually the women.

The end of the second season (this will not be the spoiler I have set it up to be, don’t worry) references, not so subtly, a film that also celebrates the women behind the men at a time of turmoil – The Sound of Music.  This is not a series that is as impactful as that film was, or that has a straightforward narrative arc, the way that film did.  Instead, it deals in feints and whodunnit twists and turns, and it is filled with antics and comic folderol, but like the film it references, it is definetly a commentary on the politics of an era. 

The intent of the series, as light and fluffy as it is, is, I think, quite serious.  It intends, through sarcasm and innuendo, to show that a world run by women is every bit as ridiculous and crazy, but therefore every bit as serious as a world run by men.

If feminism has had two waves – one that crested with suffragism – and the second, one that was starting at the time of the Sound of Music, and crested with free love and a sort of faux equality; this movie might be heralding the building of a third wave - one in which women are declaring that they are substantial enough to be ridiculous and important enough to have their ridicule be the centerpiece of our entertainment.  We can laugh at ourselves - and you will watch - the way we used to watch you-all laugh at yourselves and we watched.

Oh, the men in this series…  They are incompetent fools who are insipid, they can’t fight their way out of a paper bag – even with stupid stag antlers on their heads, unless they are gay, in which case they can sing, connive and, even more importantly, love. 

The latest word on the internet is that Apple TV has not yet decided whether to renew the contract for a third season of Palm Royale.  Though the door was left open, I found the ending of the second season satisfying.  Perhaps by the time a third season would drop it will no longer be necessary to continue this tomfoolery because the buffoons in office, who so closely mirror the straight men in it, will no longer be in office after the other men in power join the women who are trying to rein them in by growing a spine and tossing them out.  Of course, the other possibility is that those buffoons will have asserted their flimsy authority and outlawed all sarcastic and laughable representations of themselves.  If they smart enough to be able to recognize themselves here, they will surely outlaw this sort of entertainment when they have the power to do so and then there will be no third season for a very different reason.

Let me be clear, I do not believe that men, as a species, are buffoons.  Nor do I believe that the Republican Party is, at its actual core, problematic.  It is necessary for a healthy Democratic Republic to have different governing philosophies and parties.  In fact, the only historical character that I know of that is being depicted in depth here, Margaret Merriweather Post (Patti LuPone), is being, I believe, misrepresented as a means of depicting the current debauchery of Mar-a-Lago, her home now occupied by Donald Trump.  She was, I presume, a Republican and one who, I presume, supported Richard Nixon, who makes a series of cameo appearances to clarify the connection to Presidents who have unlawfully consolidated executive power, something that doesn’t need to be distorted to make the connection with the current administration.  But depicting Margaret Merriweather Post as debauched goes a bit too far for me.

Mar-a-Lago was visible from the end of the block that I lived on in West Palm, across the intracoastal waterway – also known as Lake Worth.  Mar-a-Lago was like Brigadoon, a kind of fairy tale place with a tower and various outbuildings.  It occupies land at the southern end of Palm Beach nestled inside the crook of the road that connects the bridge from the mainland across the Lake to Palm Beach proper, and Mar a Lago has a tunnel under the road to connect the home, that sits on the Lake Worth side, with the ocean (and various pool houses) on the Ocean side of the Island, perhaps the only estate that straddles the island.

I was enamored enough of Mrs. Post to tour her home in Washington D.C. that has been turned into a private museum.  Yes, as depicted in Palm Royale, she has a collection of Faberge Eggs, perhaps the most extensive collection in the world.  Of course, her story is idealized there, but they note that her father let her know that she would be fabulously wealthy and that she should spend two dollars on others for every dollar that she spent on herself.  They also don’t emphasize that while she inherited a great deal, she also built Post into General Foods, acquiring many other major lines in the process. 

She built Mar-a-Lago in the early 1920s as the premier property on the island.  Palm Beach itself was first exploited and created as a winter escape by Henry Flagler, whose museum sits next to the next bridge north from Mar-a-Lago.  Flagler started Standard Oil with Rockefeller, and he built a railroad to Florida and a very impressive, Gilded Age Mansion that he built in 1900, in part to attract other wealthy people down, is now a museum.  

The most impressive thing about the Flagler museum to me as a child was the secret staircase that ran from the back of Flagler’s study to the second-floor bedrooms (that were not open to the public).  Apparently, Flagler, who threw lavish parties, did not particularly enjoy them and would often retreat to his study – and from there, through the panel in the wall to his bedroom, without offending his guests by walking up the front stairs to bed while they were still dancing the night away.

Mar-a-Lago, of course, now has a resident who believes himself too important for the beliefs of those who elected him to matter, and he flaunts himself in ways that Mr. Flagler would have found contemptable.  And, when Ms. Post was in residence at Mar-a-Lago, I am told by my best friend from when I was ten, that hsi mother would see her at the local women's community meetings, something she surely could have sent a proxy to do.

The secrecy and deceptive practices of the very wealthy (I rode my bike past the Kennedy mansion, surrounded with a wall that was capped with broken bottles to prevent trespassers) seems to have attracted the interest of Kristen Wiig (who plays the Tennessee born, orphanage raised, interloper Maxine Delacorte – the star of this show) and the rest of the producers, writers, directors and players, as just the kind of place that would interest middle Americans like me - and I think they are right.  We are curious about the very rich - are they like us?

The assistant priest at Bethesda-by-the-Sea who ran the teenage outreach programs there came to that parish after having served teenagers in one of the poorest parishes in the country in East St. Louis.  My mother tells me that he reported to her that the issues in the two places were the same.  There was little to no oversight of kids among both the very rich and the very poor and this led to very similar issues when the kids became teenagers (we moved north right before I became a teenager, so I did not get to see the parallels).

The adults in Palm Royale are, at best, teenagers, but actually less mature than that.  Maxine Delacorte has been following them in the Shiny Sheet – as the Palm Beach Daily News is called (one of our field trips in the gifted child program was to see how the Shiny Sheet was printed – and the printer gave us each a bit of type that had been used that day).  The Shiny Sheet, though really a local society based paper with perhaps a few stories of national interest to keep up appearances, apparently included distribution in Tennessee, and Maxine grew up wanting to be part of the socialite set – so she snagged a disenfranchised member of the Delacorte’s, a faily of Palm Beach Royalty, when he judged one of her beauty contests and married him while he was a pilot and earning a nice living.  She decided that he wanted to give up their middle class lifestyle and go back to Palm Beach, certainly her own desire, and when they landed there, she worked to break into Palm Beach Society.

She was more successful than she had any right to have been, and she climbs to the top of the Palm Beach pyramid with chutzpah, subterfuge, but also with genuine care and conern for those around her.  At the peak of that society is a woman who has been the queen of Palm Beach forever, Norma Delacorte, played delightfully by the 92 year old Carol Burnett, who gets to play, most of the time, the straight woman (though her stunt double does hilariously do a series of somersaults down the stairs).  Norma, like Maxine – and, indeed, all of the other characters, is hiding who she is behind a series of masks.  This is not a series where we learn about human nature’s depths, but about its surfaces and it is a farce, a spoof, and a whodunit.  Keeping track of the antics from beginning to end is a daunting task, but this may become a cult classic that people enjoy binging for the pleasure of seeing women in all the lead roles of a dramatic-comedy that heralds the abilities of women to take the reins from the men and bring some common sense back to the running of this country.

They may also enjoy the warmth of the ending's message - that the characters who have a happy ending, and who have acted with integrity (more or less throughout) are the outsiders - the ones who had to ask how much that car cost, demonstrating both their naivete, but also their grit and resolve to figure out how to be able to afford it without losing touch with the principles that they learned in simpler, more closely watched world.

 

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Nuremberg: Will Justice be Served?

 Nuremberg, Movie, Narcissism, Psychopathy, Psychoanalysis, Psychology, Goring, Russell Crowe, Rami Malek, Evil, Good, Ambivalence

If you haven’t seen this movie – go see it, or, by the time you read this, stream it.  And tell your friends to see it.  This film is not a great movie, but it is a pretty good one and it is an important one.  It describes a particular kind of toxic narcissism, but one that is, at least to my mind, more noble than the current narcissism that we are seeing in the White House.  Yes, I am maintaining that Trump’s narcissism is more toxic than Hermann Göring’s (Russell Crowe) and, for that matter, than Hitler’s.

That said, if you are reading this review and you have or intend to view the movie, you are unlikely to change your mind about the current political situation.  Like Conclave last year, I think those who are opposed to the current regime will see the value in art that warns us about it, but those who are in favor of the regime will likely see neither the review nor the movie.  When Casablanca had an impact on our engagement in the Second World War, movies were the dominant form of national entertainment.  Movies’ role in determining our national identity has been declining since the advent of television, then the internet, and I don’t think they have recovered from the little sway they had left after COVID and our fear of being in public spaces with others emerged.  And if you show this at a family gathering, be prepared for those who disagree to leave long before the credits.

As depicted in this film, Goring was a self-involved, grandiose individual who had essentially no regard for the negative impact of his actions on others and whose fealty to Hitler was central to his official functioning.  (By the way, Russell Crowe’s depiction of Goring is masterful – the movie could have been great, but Malik’s depiction of Kelley is not at that level).  That said, Goring’s grandiosity was tied to recreating the grandness of his country (OK, because it is available, Make Germany Great Again) – and he saw Hitler as the best vehicle for making this happen.  He would appear to be the political equivalent of Russell Vought or Stephen Miller.  Each of them appears to be loyal to Trump and each suggests that their vision will Make America Great Again.

I have no idea what the family life of the Voughts and Millers are like, but the Goring’s family life, as depicted in this film and apparently, at least to some extent, in reality – is positive.  Goring was a loving, perhaps even doting husband and father.  If we are going to see him as a psychopath, which I think we will, he is what was once known as a type II psychopath.  That is, he treats those not in his family or his tribe as objects towards whom he has no feelings, but is empathically connected to those he cares about.  The type I psychopath cares about no one, including his family members, except in so far as they can help him achieve his own ends. 

My concern is that Trump, unlike Hitler, is so focused on enriching himself and his family (though not, I don’t think, loving them – he is disdainful towards them and thus falls more into the Type I category of psychopath) and enjoying the perks of the office, including attacking those he believes have wrongly attacked him, that he is a pawn being manipulated by the likes of Vought and Miller, whose ends are murkier.  Pete Hegseth’s ends are clearly in line with the Christian Nationalists.  Vought and Miller’s vision of a better America is, at least to me, unknown.  Hitler, for all his faults (and Nuremberg clarifies, as if we need it, that they are unforgivable), at least genuinely shared his personal narcissism with his love of country, as did Goring.  And, according to the film, Goring was genuinely attached to Hitler – something that I wonder about in terms of Vought and Miller.

But the drama in this film involves two additional characters.  One is the United States Supreme Court Justice,  Robert H. Jackson (Michael Shannon), who believes that American style Justice – where no man is above the law (could the message be heavier handed in today’s world?) – should be implemented on a global stage.  The Nazi leadership should be executed, not because they had been vanquished by a superior power, but as the result of being found guilty of crimes against humanity by an impartial court with a fair defense; something never before attempted in the history of the world.  This was not to be a show trial of enemies, but a genuine objective evaluation of the motivations and punishable guilt of members of a political regime (this, too, seems to be a warning – that if the Supreme Court is not going to hold a president accountable, some other body may, at some point…).

One point of drama in the film, then, is whether Jackson, having convinced the world that a fair trial is needed and who then becomes the lead prosecutor, can win the case.  It would seem to be a straightforward prosecution, but Goring turns out to be a worthy adversary.  He did not become the number two man in the Reich by being a dummy.  He is a very smart man who knows a thing or two about the law and about justice.  Serving as his own defense attorney he proves to be a match for one of the best legal minds the United States can produce.

Jackson makes the case that crimes against humanity have been committed.  We see the films that were shown in the Nuremberg trials – the brutality that was committed against Jews and others considered undesirable, and, when we recover from being sickened, we are convinced that those who are responsible for this genocide should be held accountable.  Jackson clarifies that a crime has been committed and everyone in the courtroom, and everyone in the theater is convinced of this.

The other character?  A psychiatrist named Douglas Kelley (Rami Malek) tasked with keeping Goring and the other Nazi high command members on trial alive.  In his first interview with Goring, Goring peeps Kelley out as an ambitious guy, one who is going to make his name by writing about being the psychiatrist who worked with Goring.  This leads Goring to suggest that he and Kelley are not that different – in fact they are same: ambitious men who will do what it takes to promote themselves into positions of power.

The second point of drama, then, is whether Kelley is, indeed, simply a reflection of Goring – and then whether we – the audience, the United States, people in general, are vulnerable to the influence of a strong man like Hitler because of our wish to narcissistically share in his vision of unlimited power – and our desire to ride his coattails – worse than that, to be part of the apparatus that propels him to power through any means possible – and maintaining him in power despite our knowledge that he is orchestrating evil actions, because we, on some level are both on his side and also enamored of him.

The fatal flaw of Jackson is that he is scrupulous.  He believes in the law.  He believes that the Second World War itself and the Holocaust are crimes and the perpetrators of these atrocities should be brought to justice.  He is blind sided by Goring’s legalistic reading of the orders that Goring has signed – they are written euphemistically and never, for instance, refer to a final solution, but instead to exploration – which turns into the final solution, but is not traceable directly to orders from Goring.  The trial teeters for a moment as Jackson realizes his error and is dumbfounded about how to hold this monster accountable.  It is Jackson’s British co-counsel who supports him and gets Goring to implicate himself on the stand using information that is provided by Kelley.

That Kelley has informed Jackson and his co-counsel of the material that Goring has told him as his patient is an ethical violation – a violation of the Hippocratic oath.  As a psychologist, I wonder about the ways in which Kelley’s training as a physician mirrors the kinds of training that Goring had as an administrator, but I want to be clear that psychologist’s, too, make ethical – and legal – violations – see my notes on psychology’s role in committing torture, something that the United States and Psychology as a science and a humanistic service profession are opposed to here, here and here.  But I think that the training of physicians – they are taught to be in charge in life and death situations, and they are selected as the best students in the most difficult science classes to become members of a highly compensated profession – leads to a certain kind of selection and training that mirrors that of a Government official of Goring’s stature – and that can lead to resonating with Goring – and recoiling at the similarities – having chosen to go into a profession aimed at saving lives, not ending them – leading him to choose to compromise himself and his professional credentials in order to save a sense of his personal integrity.

But the violation of the Hippocratic Oath is but one indication of Kelley’s putting himself above the law.  He also secretly takes notes to Goring’s wife and daughter and offers them comfort.  Again, I think this is partly an attempt to reassure himself that he is a healer – a concerned and caring physician, not an unscrupulous, power hungry and needy individual who will exploit his relationship with Goring for personal gain.  He is reaching out to Goring and demonstrating his concern.  But he is also earning Goring’s trust.  He recognizes something that won’t enter the research literature for another fifty years – to get a good outcome in a treatment – which in this case means keeping Goring alive so that he can be executed by the state – it is important to build an alliance with the patient.  But, in order to do this, he must disobey orders and the law and act as a go between with Goring’s family.

Kelley becomes enmeshed here in an existential quagmire.  He uses his alliance with Goring not to help him, but to harm him (The first and greatest rule of the Hippocratic Oath is: First, do no harm.).  This is his charge.  When he fails to prevent the suicide of one of the other prisoners, an officious psychologist is brought in to “assist” him – but he recognizes that he has been displaced for failing to do his duty.  His “friendship” with Goring is both real, but also not – it is a professional relationship and, like all such relationships, it inhabits an ambiguous space based firmly in the human connections and bonds of family and friendship and yet is something other – a generalized concern for the patient borne out of professional, not personal, concern.  And he is engaged in a political reality – Goring has been responsible for a government that has committed atrocities.

It is unclear how historically accurate the violation of the Hippocratic oath is.  I think the courtroom scenes are pretty consistent with the actual trial – there are both transcripts of the testimonies and there are films of the proceedings, but Kelley’s role is not part of those transcripts.  The film is based on a book that seems to be more focused on Kelley’s experiences after the war.  Kelley became increasingly dissolute as he used his experience of interacting with Goring to try to warn the American people that we are (as he assumed that we are a narcissistic extension of himself) vulnerable to the kind of madness that had gripped the German people.

Kelley’s failed attempt to convince us that American Exceptionalism would not save us from the German fate was an extension of the existential quagmire.  He was trading on his relationship with Goring, just as Goring promised that he would.  He was trying to do that selflessly – to sound an unpopular reverse siren call – to keep people from going aground on the rocks of totalitarianism and fascism – but his selflessness, he knew, was, at best, partial.  He was acting as a leader – an unpopular leader trying to convince the world of something that it didn’t want to hear.  He, like Goring, needed a Hitler – someone with the ability to communicate clearly and get people enthused about his ideas – someone who was not ambivalent.

If we are to get anything accomplished in this world – at least in the western hemisphere – we need to create a structure – whether it is a hospital, a corporation, or a University – that will carry out a mission – and we need to get people on board to do that.  If we create a hospital, we need to triage – to figure out who gets treated most quickly, who gets to use which resources and who does not – ultimately, who gets to live and who must die.  We need an administration or a profession – defined by principles that we ascribe to – both as employees and also as consumers – and we need to trust that those principles are being applied by people we trust.  And yet those people, whether they are administrators, managers, or employees, are human and will inevitably be biased in their application of the principles, however well conceived those are. 

Part of Kelley’s dilemma is that he cannot trust others because he cannot trust himself.  He does not experience himself as a reliable leader.  In his failure to trust, he may be more honest than those of us who do trust ourselves – and our peers. He may also be less able to manage ambivalence and ambiguity.  We are both loving and hating of those we are close to and those whom we experience as others.  Figuring out how to manage this ambivalence is important as we enter into ambiguous situations.  If we don't trust ourselves to embrace others while holding in reserve the tools we will need to protect ourselves and/or attack them if that proves necessary, we can reductionistically simplify our evaluation of situations.  Psychopaths simplify all social situations by classifying all others as enemies who need to be defeated lest they defeat me.  Of course, Goring and Kelley mirror each other – they are both human – and they both have a narcissistic streak – a self-protective streak – that they use to navigate the world.

There is not a little irony that fascists use the tool of blaming others to motivate a populace to take responsibility for themselves.  The alternative, I suppose, would be to acknowledge our humility but to recognize that, by forging relationships with others, we become stronger.  At our best, we use this latter strategy.  That strategy is part of the traditional version of American Exceptionalism.  Perhaps we will be able to find leaders who can help us imagine ourselves, once again, as being able to operate with strength from a position of humility.  If we can actually do this, even if only partially, we could begin, once again, to move towards living in an exceptional world.

 

 

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The Great Gatsby – a tale that continues to be uncomfortably relevant…

 Great Gatsby, psychoanalysis, psychology, Robert Redford, Leonardo DiCaprio, F. Scott Fitzgerald, meaning, narrative, fantasy/phantasy, book, movie versions.

I know that I have read The Great Gatsby before.  I think I may have read it twice, but reading it now – and because I sometimes get obsessed with such things, watching both Robert Redford and Leonardo DiCaprio play the part, I am certain that I did not get it when I read it before – probably as an adolescent – and even as a young adult.  I have been told that Shakespeare is wasted on young people (with Romeo and Juliet as a possible exception).  Well, for this guy, F. Scott Fitzgerald was wasted on me (despite the romance that is central to the plot).

The fragment of memory that I had going into the book was that Jay Gatsby killed Daisy by driving too recklessly – and somehow this was a metaphor for the recklessness of the very wealthy and the indulgences that go along with that.  Well, there was a car crash – Daisy was driving that car, not Gatsby – and someone was killed – Daisy’s husband’s lover, and the wealthy are portrayed as reckless, but Gatsby, reckless as he may be, is not reckless because he is wealthy (Tom, Daisy’s husband, is) but wealthy because he is reckless, including reckless in his love for Daisy.

So, to try to clear things up, Gatsby grows up Jay Gatz, living with parents who don’t appreciate what a genius he is.  His parents are dirt poor farmers out west and he yearns to be something greater.  At this point I get confused.  You see, the two movie versions that, in my geeking out, the reluctant wife and I watched – the Robert Redford version (no one looks better in a pink linen suit) and the Leonardo DiCaprio version – have muddled my sense of what information came from which source.  The DiCaprio version was, in our shared opinion, more true to the essence of the book – even though the wealth and the music was depicted anachronistically (and Leonardo’s failure to fill out a suit like Redford did may actually have suited the role of Gatsby, the guy who appeared to glamorous from a distance but who, as we get to know him, is anxious because he is pretending to belong to a social class that he wasn’t born into).

There are actually five movie versions: 1926, 1949, 1974 (Redford), 2000, and 2013 (DiCaprio).  The 1926 silent film is lost – not as surprising as it might sound.  The book was published in 1925 and it was a dud.  No one bought it.  There are promos for the 1926 film, but no print of the film itself.  The book was reissued as a pulp novel and given to servicemen during the Second World War and they came home raving about it, at which point it started its climb towards being the great American Novel.  The 1949 Alan Ladd version is the favorite of NPR film critic Maureen Corrigan’s because it emphasizes Gatsby as a bootlegger and downplays the romance.  I didn’t want to make my wife any more reluctant, so I didn’t push a third movie on her, and I was fine with the romantic angle in the 2013 film.

I am starting my review with the main character, but the book waits to introduce him as long as possible.  He becomes a more and more mysterious person as we wait for his arrival.  Did he kill a man?  He has enormous wealth, but where does it come from?  How does he know the producers and actors and glitterati that constantly appearing at his home?  He is a man of mystery and so this is part of why it makes sense that I was confused about him and his origins as I tried to reconstruct the novel in my mind. 

The DiCaprio movie provides a backstory that is more cogent than the Redford movie and maybe than the book.  Gatz ran away from home, rescued a wealthy, self-absorbed man who was about to drown in a storm in his yacht; the man took him under his wing and Gatz became Gatsby under his tutelage; learning how to call other people old sport and, certainly in the movies, in part because of his good looks, he began to run with a swifter crowd.

At some point, Gatsby joins the military – as an officer, not an enlisted man (presumably because of the manners he has learned from his mentor) and, before shipping off to the First World War, he is briefly stationed in Lexington where, as a dashing young officer, he woos the most desirable blue book woman in town, Daisy.  He falls for her, and she for him.  After becoming a war hero, he returns stateside to build a fortune that will allow him to join the elite ranks so that he can finally win the love of his life who, in the meantime, has fallen for a very, very old money rich fellow who has swooped in from Chicago, married her, and installed her in his opulent mansion in East Egg, Long Island.  Gatsby, by now having (very swiftly) made his immense fortune, buys an even gaudier mansion across the bay in the nouveau riche town of West Egg.

The story, as I have straightforwardly laid it out, does not unfold that way in either of the movies we watched nor in the book itself.  The story is told through the eyes of Nick Carraway, Daisy’s cousin.  A would-be writer and Yale classmate of Daisy’s husband Tom, he is selling bonds and living a decidedly middle-class life, renting a carriage house in the shadow of Gatsby’s manse.  He ends up being the fifth business in this story that allows the love triangle to emerge and to play out.

I like the device used in the DiCaprio version where Nick is in a Sanatorium and his psychiatrist is urging him to write about his experience as a means of recovering from his madness.  This introduction encourages us to wonder what it is about Gatsby, and being in a relationship with him, that would cause somebody to go mad.  This is, I think, an important question to ponder.  That movie suggests that there is a goodness about Gatsby that is not reflected in Nick’s peers from the upper echelon.  But there is, certainly in Dowd’s favorite (1949) version, a fair amount of fault as well.  Gatsby’s character – his ability to act, even if in shady ways, is a contrast to the constricted life that Nick leads, especially as portrayed in the DiCaprio version.

From a psychoanalytic perspective, the mystery surrounding Gatsby creates a space for us to fantasize about who Gatsby is or might be.  Another way of saying this is that Gatsby becomes a transference figure – someone to whom we transfer the experiences (or fantasies) we have had of someone like this from our past.  In other words, just as the people who are going to Gatsby’s imagine who it is that he is, so, too, does the reader/viewer.

Gatsby is certainly the creation of Fitzgerald – and in both Gatsby and Nick aspects of Fitzgerald’s own character are, I think, on display here.  But so are aspects of our own character.  We join Nick in observing and wondering about Gatsby, in being enthralled by him, but also disturbed – by his consumption, initially (we don’t yet know that these conspicuous displays of wealth through obscenely expensive parties are primarily there just to attract Daisy’s attention), but then by his connections with unseemly characters.  Though we don't learn much about the details of his shady dealings, we don't doubt that they are shady.

I think that, as a middle class high school student in the Midwest, I imagined Gatsby to be a member of the rich upper class – someone just like Tom, Daisy’s husband.  The idea of being upwardly mobile – of creating wealth – seemed as ridiculous to me as the idea that science would continue to evolve and that there was room among the pantheon of great scientists for me to make new discoveries.  So, my guess is that I missed out on the class distinctions that are at the heart of this book – because all of the characters seemed out of my league, and they always would be.  I had a static view of class and role.

Reading the book now, I am struck by that static conception of class being spelled out in the novel – something that must have been opaque to me then.  Tom cites a eugenicist psychologist, Goddard.  Eugenics is something that I was only vaguely aware of before I started teaching the history of psychology, and I was completely unaware (even though I had taken a class in graduate school that I cribbed some specific readings about eugenics from in my teaching) of the role of British, but especially American scientists in crafting the blueprint that would lead to Hitler’s final solution.  Eugenics is the idea that we should improve the human race by improving the “stock”; by selectively breeding smart people with each other and sterilizing “mental defectives”  (We sterilized over 70,000 Americans in the 1920s through the 1950s with the intent of cleaning up the gene pool).

To hear Goddard referenced, in the book and onscreen, with his blatantly racist ideas – ideas that were not just tolerated but taken (as Tom does) as scientific fact – when the studies that he did were of such poor quality and his own racism pre-determined the outcome of those studies – was amazing to hear leaping out of the novel.  That said, it speaks to still deeply ingrained beliefs that we hold (as I did as a child) that class begets class, and we are not as fluid a society as Horatio Alger and his stories would have us believe.

So, who knows what version of this story led the service men to get excited about it?  Were they dreaming of returning home and being able to become millionaires – to transcend the class barriers that are so securely erected in American society?  Were they aware that this was a story about a society that they were risking their lives to protect that would, according to the central premise of the book, never allow them access to that society?  Or were they, as I might have been, taking this simply as a fairy tale – like Romeo and Juliet – with star crossed lovers who were separated mostly by time and opportunity?  Or were they reading the more malevolent story line that I see as Fitzgerald’s intent – to clarify that we don’t belong in the upper reaches of society unless we are born there, and, that if we try to get there from here, we will fail – or more precisely, the rich will close ranks and keep us out.

I spend so much time on this because I think one reason that this book has become the Great American Novel (or one of them) is that it is a kind of dream.  And, as in all dreams, there is a tremendous amount of condensation, symbolism, and ambiguity.  In interpreting a dream with a patient, or interpreting one of my own dreams, there are generally at least three or four plausible readings of the dream.  And, as in improv, it is not this OR that, it is generally this AND that… and that and that and that.  Because of the device of letting the hero come onto the stage late in the first act, and our being encouraged think about him a lot before he does, this novel, this movie, this dream is not just his – or Nick’s – or Fitzgerald’s, but ours.  We will hold it together with our own understanding of how the world works.

To nerd out for a minute – the thesis that a narrative - a phantasy - underlies our actions in the world comes directly from the work of a British Psychoanalyst named Spillius.  She wrote a paper near the turn of the last century defending Melanie Klein’s position that phantasy (spelled intentionally with a ph) is the basis of our unconscious functioning – not, as Freud would have had it, drives (or as Solms has clarified – our feelings).  Spillius, and, more contemporarily, Thomas Ogden, maintain that we have narrative structures deeply imbedded in our minds, and these structures determine how we see the world and interpret it.  These structures can vary widely and they can be in conflict with each other.

So, for Gatsby, he can have a structure – a phantasy – a narrative, that maintains that his love for Daisy was real – it was meant to be.  He is not the child of his parents – but the golden boy whose shining beauty matches that of Daisy and they, together, are golden children destined to be soul mates.  This phantasy is powerful enough to fuel his engagement with whatever people he needs to build the image that he does of being the powerful, knowledgeable, wealthy man of the world who is externally, as well as internally Daisy’s match (Redford, by the way, seems to fit most easily into this phantasy version).

There is, though, another operative fantasy.  Gatsby also believes himself to be the son of dirt farmer’s.  Just as Nick, the writer, never felt himself to be the equal of Tom, the football hero at Yale, even though, as Daisy’s cousin, he should belong in this upper class world that Tom effortlessly inhabits with Daisy – while Tom is also slumming it with his mistress who lives with her husband in his gas station between East Egg and Manhattan – Gatsby doesn’t really feel that he belongs (DiCaprio, to my mind, more clearly articulates this underlying phantasy).  Gatsby worries about whether the flowers he buys for the meeting with Daisy will be adequate – he sweats when, having re-established his relationship with Daisy, he visits with Daisy and Tom in their home.

Deciding to drive into town, Gatsby drives Daisy in Tom’s car, while Tom takes Gatsby’s yellow Duesenberg (perhaps the sexiest car ever built by humans) into town with Nick and the professional golfer girlfriend Daisy has bestowed on Nick.  All five of them, after stopping at the gas station that Tom’s mistress’s husband maintains in the slag heap between East Egg and Manhattan, an outpost overseen by the all-seeing spectacles of an optometrist’s billboard, end up at the Plaza Hotel where they rent a room for the afternoon to hang out and talk.

Gatsby forces Daisy to let Tom know that he is her true love.  She reluctantly acknowledges this to be the case.  Tom, taken aback, reminds her that she loves him, too.  She agrees with this as well.  Gatsby insists that they will leave Tom.  Daisy does not seem convinced but leaves with Gatsby to drive back to East Egg.  What we don’t find out until later – but again I will tell the story in more traditional fashion – is that Daisy is behind the wheel and they are now driving in Gatsby’s bright yellow car.  When they drive through the slag heap past the gas station, Tom’s lover, who had seen Tom at the wheel of the yellow car on the way into town – runs towards the yellow car hoping to convince Tom to take her away from her husband who has decided to leave town with her.  Daisy runs her down, killing her, and then keeps driving.  Gatsby, when they get to her house drops her off, but lingers nearby to make sure that the will be alright when Tom returns – assuming Tom may harm her.

The next day, Tom’s lover’s husband tracks down Tom, assuming it was Tom who Killed his wife.  Tom clarifies that the yellow car belongs to Gatsby and sends the angry husband in Gatsby’s direction.  Gatsby has decided to take the rap for the hit and run to protect Daisy.  He never the gets the chance as the dead woman's husband kills Gatsby and then himself – and Daisy goes off, scot-free, with Tom.  Nick is the sole person at Gatsby’s funeral with the exception of Gatsby’s father who has materialized just as all of Gatsby’s friends and acquaintances, including the “business” partners, have melted away. 

Nick mourns the loss of Gatsby, but perhaps even more so the loss of his innocent sense that justice can or will be served, and that people have genuine ties with each other.  Daisy’s casual dismissal of Gatsby may be the thing that drives him mad.  Daisy cares no more for Gatsby than Nick’s golfer girlfriend cares for him, or he for her.  We live in a world that is simultaneously fluid and rigidly defined.  The things we might think of as being most valuable – relationships – seem the most disposable, while wealth, which philosophers and theologians will maintain are ephemeral, create unbridgeable divisions among us.

The phantasies and narratives that guide our lives need to be constantly revised.  Gatsby’s love for Daisy seems to my romantic phantasy notion, to be the most desirable in this story, but it turns out to be illusory or at least transitory.  Daisy’s attachment to Tom – or perhaps more to the point -Tom’s attachment to Daisy – seems to be solid, despite both partners having philandered, and despite Tom’s despicable views about human beings and their worth being determined by their genes and therefore ultimately by their “race”.  We’d like to think this would be the more transitory belief, but it wins out, in the end.

The great American novel, then, appears to unmask the American dream.  If we are able to listen to the underlying phantasy – if we are able (and this may seem obscure, and therefore I apologize) to give up the curmudgeon Freud’s naïve belief that we are driven by our optimistic wish to meet our own needs, but recognize that we are driven at least as powerfully by a narrative that is based in immutable power differentials – we may be better equipped to understand the paradoxes that lie at the heart of American Exceptionalism – that we are, ultimately, not that exceptional after all.  Trump’s America is, indeed, a crass, uncomfortable phantasy that many of us abhor, but it is also a very real vision – perhaps a more honest vision – than we “enlightened” people would care to admit.  No, I am not saying that the eugenicist vision is biologically or scientifically accurate, but it appears to be an accurate description of a more elusive, but perhaps powerful stratum of the human psyche – that I am superior to you and, if I have the means, I will hold onto that superior position – no matter how much evidence of our equality and profiting from each other you pile up.     

 

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