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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Ken Clarke: Theresa May has “no idea” what to do about Brexit

According to the former Chancellor, “nobody in the government has the first idea of what they’re going to do next”.

Has Ken Clarke lost the greatest political battle of his career? He doesn’t think so. With his shoes off, he pads around his Westminster office in a striped shirt, bottle-green cords and spotty socks. Parliament’s most persistent Europhile seems relaxed. He laughs at the pervasive phrase that has issued from Downing Street since Theresa May became Prime Minister: “Brexit means Brexit.”

“A very simple phrase, but it didn’t mean anything,” he says. His blue eyes, still boyish at 76, twinkle. “It’s a brilliant reply! I thought it was rather witty. It took a day or two before people realised it didn’t actually answer the question.”

A former chancellor of the Exchequer, Clarke has served in three Conservative cabinets. His support for the European Union is well known. He has represented the seat of Rushcliffe in Nottinghamshire for 46 years, and his commitment to the European project has never wavered over the decades. It has survived every Tory civil war and even his three failed attempts to be elected Tory leader, standing on a pro-Europe platform, in 1997, 2001 and 2005.

“My political career looks as though it will coincide with Britain’s membership of the EU,” Clarke says, lowering himself into an armchair that overlooks the Thames. There are model cars perched along the windowsill – a hint of his love of motor racing.

Clarke won’t be based here, in this poky rooftop room in Portcullis House, Westminster, much longer. He has decided to step down at the next election, when he will be nearly 80. “I began by campaigning [in the 1960s] in support of Harold Macmillan’s application to enter [the EU], and I shall retire at the next election, when Britain will be on the point of leaving,” he says grimly.

Clarke supports Theresa May, having worked with her in cabinet for four years. But his allegiance was somewhat undermined when he was recorded describing her as a “bloody difficult woman” during this year’s leadership contest. He is openly critical of her regime, dismissing it as a “government with no policies”.

For a senior politician with a big reputation, Clarke is light-hearted in person – his face is usually scrunched up in merriment beneath his floppy hair. A number of times during our discussion, he says that he is trying to avoid getting “into trouble”. A painting of a stern Churchill and multiple illustrations of Gladstone look down at him from his walls as he proceeds to do just that.

“Nobody in the government has the first idea of what they’re going to do next on the Brexit front,” he says. He has a warning for his former cabinet colleagues: “Serious uncertainty in your trading and political relationships with the rest of the world is dangerous if you allow it to persist.”

Clarke has seen some of the Tories’ bitterest feuds of the past at first hand, and he is concerned about party unity again. “Whatever is negotiated will be denounced by the ultra-Eurosceptics as a betrayal,” he says. “Theresa May has had the misfortune of taking over at the most impossible time. She faces an appalling problem of trying to get these ‘Three Brexiteers’ [Boris Johnson, David Davis and Liam Fox] to agree with each other, and putting together a coherent policy which a united cabinet can present to a waiting Parliament and public. Because nobody has the foggiest notion of what they want us to do.”

Clarke reserves his fiercest anger for these high-profile Brexiteers, lamenting: “People like Johnson and [Michael] Gove gave respectability to [Nigel] Farage’s arguments that immigration was somehow a great peril caused by the EU.”

During the referendum campaign, Clarke made headlines by describing Boris Johnson as “a nicer version of Donald Trump”, but today he seems more concerned about David Cameron. He has harsh words for his friend the former prime minister, calling the pledge to hold the referendum “a catastrophic decision”. “He will go down in history as the man who made the mistake of taking us out of the European Union, by mistake,” he says.

Clarke left the government in Cameron’s 2014 cabinet reshuffle – which came to be known as a “purge” of liberal Conservatives – and swapped his role as a minister without portfolio for life on the back benches. From there, he says, he will vote against the result of the referendum, which he dismisses as a “bizarre protest vote”.

“The idea that I’m suddenly going to change my lifelong opinions about the national interest and regard myself as instructed to vote in parliament on the basis of an opinion poll is laughable,” he growls. “My constituents voted Remain. I trust nobody will seriously suggest that I should vote in favour of leaving the European Union. I think it’s going to do serious damage.”

But No 10 has hinted that MPs won’t be given a say. “I do think parliament sooner or later is going to have to debate this,” Clarke insists. “In the normal way, holding the government to account for any policy the government produces . . . The idea that parliament’s going to have no say in this, and it’s all to be left to ministers, I would regard as appalling.”

Clarke has been characterised as a Tory “wet” since his days as one of the more liberal members of Margaret Thatcher’s government. It is thought that the former prime minister had a soft spot for his robust manner but viewed his left-wing leanings and pro-European passion with suspicion. He is one of parliament’s most enduring One-Nation Conservatives. Yet, with the Brexit vote, it feels as though his centrist strand of Tory politics is disappearing.

“I don’t think that’s extinct,” Clarke says. “The Conservative Party is certainly not doomed to go to the right.”

He does, however, see the rise of populism in the West as a warning. “I don’t want us to go lurching to the right,” he says. “There is a tendency for traditional parties to polarise, and for the right-wing one to go ever more to the right, and the left-wing one to go ever more to the left . . . It would be a catastrophe if that were to happen.”

Clarke’s dream of keeping the UK in Europe may be over, but he won’t be quiet while he feels that his party’s future is under threat. “Don’t get me into too much trouble,” he pleads, widening his eyes in a show of innocence, as he returns to his desk to finish his work. 

Anoosh Chakelian is deputy web editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 29 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, May’s new Tories