Honey, I shrunk the shrinks

Why are movies about therapy so loaded with clichés?

Why are movies about therapy so loaded with clichés?

To coincide with the transmission of BeTipul, the original Israeli version of In Treatment, a discussion on Front Row last week raked over the role of psychoanalysis in movies, fiction and on television. A Dangerous Method recently provided a lightning tour of the early days of psychoanalysis, and one of Front Row's guests, Matthew Sweet, mentioned that Freud himself had once been approached by Hollywood to write a screenplay. Cinema has long been intrigued by what goes on in the therapist's office. Unfortunately, the results often have less to do with the psychiatric profession than with trying to cure a screenwriter's malaise.

Cliché number one is the use of the medical professional as detective, to uncover information crucial to the resolution of the plot. Examples include Color of Night (1994), starring Bruce Willis as a psychiatrist who takes over a murdered colleague's group therapy sessions, and Don't Say a Word (2002), with Michael Douglas forced to interrogate one of his own unstable patients in order to retrieve from her memory a sought-after code number. For all the points of overlap with the reality of psychiatry, Douglas and Willis may as well be playing the Hardy Boys.

Cliché number two -- see K-PAX (2002) or Good Will Hunting (1997) -- features the psychiatrist as a warm and fuzzy individualist whose humanity is brought into focus by an unorthodox individual. These pictures remind you just how radical the representation of psychiatry is in Nanni Moretti's The Son's Room (2002). Moretti plays a psychoanalyst who reassesses his life after a family tragedy. Regardless of the picture's other merits, it deserves brownie points for approaching its central character's vocation with sobriety. "We always see caricatures," complained Moretti, "both in comic films where psychoanalysts have more problems than their patients, and in serious films where they resemble some kind of oracle delivering bookish sentences." Not only does The Son's Room avoid those traps, it also features that genuine rarity in cinema, the shrink with more than one patient.

Good-natured curiosity marked the first appearance of a psychiatrist in a movie, when the kindly shrink in Dr Dippy's Sanitarium (1906) calmed his agitated charges with the offer of pies; an approach not much in evidence these days. In early cinema, the psychiatrist was largely consigned to the role of faceless authority figure. Occasionally he might be rescued from anonymity to receive the ire of a big-shot star who had no truck with airy-fairy mind games: Douglas Fairbanks harboured a well-known distrust of psychiatry, and hoped to stem its increasing popularity with his swashbuckler When the Clouds Roll By (1919), in which the villainous shrink is finally unmasked as an escaped inmate from the New York Insane Asylum.

This sneaking suspicion that the lunatics have not only taken over the asylum but are billing us handsomely into the bargain runs from The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (1919) through to Dressed to Kill (1980), where a psychiatrist is capable of not only messing up your mind, but carving up your body too, or The Couch Trip (1988) and Beyond Therapy (1987), both of which feature shrinks who are in a more advanced state of mental collapse than the poor saps they're trying to help. The Scarecrow, one of the villains in Batman Begins (2005), even counts psychiatry as his day job. (Is Hannibal Lecter his role model?)

Latter-day movies have begun to question whether psychiatrists are even up to the task of paying attention: the therapist in There's Something About Mary (1998) wants to tutor his client in the etiquette of gay cruising, while the one in Happiness (1999) is struggling just to stay awake. In Cruel Intentions (1999) and What About Bob? (1991), the client is presented with a book authored by his analyst, only for the cost of this supposed gift to be added to his bill. In those films, and in those details, you can feel petty scores being settled by screenwriters whose advances have been siphoned off by their shrinks.

Not that all films treat therapists as two-bit hucksters, from the same gene pool as lawyers and insurance salesmen. Distinctly more reverence is displayed in Blind Alley (1939), which stars Ralph Bellamy as a psychology professor who gradually dismantles and overpowers his tough-talking captor through psychoanalysis. It may belong to that group of films that turn the shrink into a proxy detective, but this transformation could not occur without real faith in the profession. While the picture provides a disquieting example of confessions being used against the confessor, it also places psychoanalysis firmly on the side of good.

The friendly neighbourhood psychiatrist was presented as everything you could want in a best friend in The Snake Pit (1948), a film that became "an important stimulus for public acceptance of the health movement", according to Leslie Rabkin, author of The Celluloid Couch. And therapy could also be synonymous with tenderness and sensitivity: long before Lena Olin swapped couch for bed with her not-bonkers-just-free-spirited client Richard Gere in Mr Jones (1994), Ingrid Bergman took the time to unpick Gregory Peck's mental knots in Spellbound (1945), leading the New York Times's Bosley Crowther to breathlessly conclude: "If all psychiatrists are as fruitful as [Bergman]... then psychiatry deserves such popularity as this picture most certainly will enjoy."

Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting is a modern version of the saintly head-doctor. Indeed, that movie embodies so many of the most abhorrent clichés in cinema's portrayal of psychoanalysis that it can only be viewed as a deliberate act of provocation against the mental-health profession. Take the field trips designed to suggest that Williams is eccentric but not threatening, and to give the audience something to look at other than bookshelves. Or the simple, one-step cure, which consists of Williams embracing Matt Damon and repeating the words "It's not your fault," after which the patient is sufficiently well-adjusted to hit the open road in search of happiness.

Such conceits perpetuate the misapprehension that psychiatry is an exact science, with rewards and benefits which can be readily quantified, whether it's a code number, the restoration of inner peace, or in the case of the virtuous Ordinary People (1980), the redemption of an emotionally paralysed family. One of the few films to aggressively deride this habit of using psychoanalysis as an all-purpose cure is Mel Brooks's Hitchcock parody High Anxiety (1977). Brooks is the psychiatrist taking up residence at the Institute For The Very, Very Nervous, and discovering in the film's climax that his vertigo can be traced back to infancy, when an argument between his mother and father sent him toppling from his high chair. "It's not heights I'm afraid of," he announces triumphantly at the news of this breakthrough. "It's parents!"

When High Anxiety was released, viewers were familiar enough with the babble and buzzwords of psychoanalysis to respond instinctively to the film's wittiest sequence, when Brooks's speech at a psychiatric conference has to be spontaneously modified so as not to impinge upon the innocence of two young children who have joined the audience. "Penis envy" becomes "pee-pee envy"; the womb is temporarily rechristened "the woo-woo."

Woody Allen had by then played his part in making therapy fashionable, most notably in Annie Hall (1977), and has been the industry's single biggest salesman in his movies ever since. But only on television has therapy really received the scrutiny that it deserves. Complex or enigmatic characterisation abounds: the unseen psychiatrist in the BBC's This Life, whose disembodied voice is every bit as sinisterly placatory as HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey; the foolhardy Dr Bright, played by Steve Coogan, in Curb Your Enthusiasm; Dr Melfi (Lorraine Bracco) and her own psychiatrist (Peter Bogdanovich) in The Sopranos; Frasier Crane (Kelsey Grammer) in Frasier, whose protective veneer of arrogance has over the course of many years been carefully exposed as all chinks and no armour.

Perhaps time is the key. Just as the convention of the "50-minute hour" seems designed to provoke frustration, so the brevity of films like Grosse Pointe Blank (1997) and Analyze This (1999) will naturally put them at a disadvantage compared with the long, rigorous years that The Sopranos and In Treatment have had at their disposal. Those hours of television provide space for the riveting essence of psychoanalysis: the fumbling misunderstandings; the drawn-out silences; the sheer, staring-at-the-wall nothingness. What cinema's prevailing view of therapy cannot countenance is that mysteries aren't always wrapped up in time for the closing credits. They take a long time to crack, or they get taken to the grave.

 

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child
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New Harry Potter and the Cursed Child pictures: an analysis

What do the new cast photos tell us about what we can expect from the Harry Potter play?

With the first public performance only a week away, the team behind Harry Potter and the Cursed Child have released the first in costume cast photos of three of its stars: Harry, Ginny and their son, Albus.

But what do the new pictures tell us about what we can expect from the play? Here’s your annotated guide.

Harry

Harry is suited up like the civil servant we know he has become. When we left him at the end of book seven, he was working for the Ministry of Magic: JK Rowling has since revealed he became the youngest head of the Auror Office at 26, and the play description calls Harry “an overworked employee of the Ministry”. Jamie Parker’s costume suggests a blend of the traditional establishment with Harry’s rebelliousness and familiarity with danger.

Parker told Pottermore of the costume, “He’s wearing a suit because he’s a Ministry man, but he’s not just a bloke in a suit, that’s way too anonymous.”

Ginny

Ginny looks like a mix of the cool girl we know and love, blended with her mother, and a little something else. She has a perfect journalist’s bob (Ginny became a Quidditch reporter after a career as a professional player), paired with a “gorgeous, hand-knitted jumper” reminiscent of the Weasley’s Christmas sweaters. In silhouette, she might look like her mum with an edgier haircut, but with (literally) cooler colours and fabrics.

Actress Poppy Miller said the costume matches Ginny’s personality: “Kind and cool, exactly as I imagined her.”

Albus

Albus’s costume is perhaps more interesting for what it hides than what it reveals – we are given no suggestion of what house he might be sorted into at Hogwarts. This is particularly interesting knowing Albus’s nerves about being sorted: the final book ended with him asking his father, “What if I’m in Slytherin?”. Rowling writes, “The whisper was for his father alone, and Harry knew that only the moment of departure could have forced Albus to reveal how great and sincere that fear was.”

Actor Sam Clemmett said, “This is what Albus wears at the start of the show. I had the idea he was wearing James’s – his older brother’s – hand-me-downs. So I wanted him to feel quite uncomfortable, and be able to play with his clothes.”

His oversized second-hand clothes also emphasise how important the role of family inheritance will be in the play. The only reminder of Albus’s older siblings, they call to mind both his Weasley heritage (Ginny and her siblings were teased for their hand-me-down robes) and the enormous legacy of his father. The play description notes, “While Harry grapples with a past that refuses to stay where it belongs, his youngest son Albus must struggle with the weight of a family legacy he never wanted.”

Family portrait

Again, this group picture is interesting for absences – there are no Potter siblings here, further suggesting that Albus will be the main focus of this new story. It also continues to place an emphasis on family through the generations – if Albus donned a pair of specs, this could easily be a picture of James, Lily and Harry. Even the posture is reminiscent of the Mirror of Erised shot from the first movie.

An intriguing hint at what next week’s play might hold for audiences.

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.