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.

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Pirates of the Caribbean’s silly magic still works – but Johnny Depp doesn’t

This fifth sequel makes no sense, but my former teenage heart still jumped. It’s Johnny Depp who’s sunk. [Aye, spoilers ahead . . .]

“One day ashore for ten years at sea. It's a heavy price for what's been done.”

Ten years ago, Will Turner (Orlando Bloom), having replaced the sprawling villain Davy Jones as captain of the Flying Dutchman, spent his only day on land before leaving his bride, the incumbent King of the Pirates, Elizabeth Swann (Keira Knightley), for ten years, to fulfil his cursed fate and bring the dead at sea to their eternal rest. Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp) was sailing away to new adventures, again running after his beloved ship, the Black Pearl. It was 2007, I was 14, and the trilogy I had put all my teenage heart into was ending with the third instalment, At World’s End, on a bitter-sweet and loyal salute to the series.

But whatever the posters said, that wasn't quite the end, and what came after was awful.

First, the third film’s traditional post-credits scene showed Elizabeth waiting for her husband’s return, a ten-year-old boy by her side. She, the King of the Pirates, who in the same movie had just led a fleet to defeat the East India Company, had been sitting on the sand for ten years, raising a kid, instead of sailing, even while pregnant, to save Will like a fictional Ann Bonny? I was furious. Then, in 2011, Disney released On Stranger Tides, a sequel so hideous that even this former fan could not bring herself to like it. Bloom and Knightley had moved on, and without the original lovers’ duo, Johnny Depp’s legendary Sparrow had no substantial character to balance his craziness. Somehow, it made money, leading Disney to plan more sequels. Hence the fifth story, Salazar’s Revenge (Dead Men Tell No Tales in the US) hitting theatres this weekend.

Admittedly, it didn’t take the fourth or fifth movie for Pirates of the Caribbean to stop making sense, or just to be a bit rubbish. After the surprise success in 2003 of The Curse of the Black Pearl (young man associates with pirate to save young woman from more pirates and break a curse, adventures ensue), Disney improvised two more stories. Filmed together, there was 2006’s Dead Man’s Chest (couple’s wedding is interrupted, curse threatens pirate, fiancé wants to save his father from said curse, adventures ensue) and 2007’s At World’s End (everyone goes to the end of the world to save dead pirate while piracy is at war with East India Company and man still wants to save his father, adventures ensue). Chaotic plots, childish humour, naively emphatic dialogue and improbable situations quickly lost much of the audience.

Yet I’ve loved the trilogy for it all: the swashbuckling, sword-fighting and majestic ships on the high seas, the nautical myths, the weird magic and star-crossed love story. Everyone knows the main theme, but there are more hidden jewels to Hans Zimmer’s soundtrack. “One Day”, the melody to the couple’s last day together, is a beautiful backwash of nostalgia, as they embrace in the froth. Detailed costumes and stylish sets (At World’s End had stunning shots, such as a Chinese junk navigating the icy waters of the world's end) worked their magic every time.

As expected, there's little subtlety in Salazar’s Revenge. It’s over-the-top comedy and loud action, unnecessarily salacious jokes and copied scenes from the original. Its villain, Capitán Salazar (Javier Bardem), is a parody of a nightmare, but then not everyone can convey terror from under layers of CGI the way Bill Nighy could. It is a story of sons and daughters – Turner’s son Henry is following in the family tradition, trying to save his father from a curse – usually the sign that a series is dangerously lurking into fan fiction (here's looking at you, Harry Potter’s Cursed Child). Praised for being a feminist character, the new female lead Carina (Kaya Scodelario) spends half the film being sexualised and the other half defending the concept of women being smart, where previous films let Elizabeth lead a fleet of men without ever doubting her sex.

But the promise has been kept. Exactly ten years after leaving in a flash of green, Will Turner returns and brings some of the original spirit with him: ship battles and clueless soldiers, maps that cannot be read and compasses that do not point north. Zimmer’s theme sounds grand and treasure islands make the screen shine. The Pearl itself floats again, after disappearing in Stranger Tides.

Yet the one bit of magic it can't revive is in the heart of its most enduring character. Johnny Depp has sunk and everyone is having fun but him. Engulfed in financial troubles and rumours of heavy drinking, the actor, who had to be fed his lines by earpiece, barely manages a bad impersonation of the character he created in 2003. Watching him is painful – though it goes deeper than his performance in this film alone. Allegations of domestic violence against his ex-wife Amber Heard have tarnished his image, and his acting has been bad for a decade.

It should work better, given this incarnation of his Jack Sparrow is similarly damaged. The pirate legend on “Wanted” posters has lost the support of his crew and disappoints the new hero (“Are you really THE Jack Sparrow?”). The film bets on flashbacks of Jack’s youth, featuring Depp’s actual face and bad special effects, to remind us who Sparrow is. He is randomly called “the pirate” by soldiers who dreamt of his capture in previous movies and his character is essentially incidental to the plot, struggling to keep up with the younger heroes. He even loses his compass.

Pirates of the Caribbean 5 is the sequel no one needed, that the happy end the star-crossed lovers should never have had. It is 2017 and no one will sail to the world’s end and beyond to save Depp from purgatory. But all I wanted was for "One Day" to play, and for the beloved ghosts of my teenage years to reappear in a sequel I knew should never have been written. The beauty was in that last flash of green.

And yet the pirate's song sounds true: "Never shall we die". Pirates of the Caribbean has, at the very least, kept delivering on that.

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