The Anatomy of Violence by Adrian Raine: Natural born killers?

Adrian Raine has a low resting heart rate, a highly active prefrontal cortex and a fissure down the centre of his tongue. Each of these can be risk factors for antisocial behaviour and violence. Should David Shariatmadari be worried about reviewing his bo

The Anatomy of Violence: the Biological Roots of Crime
Adrian Raine
Allen Lane, 496pp, £25

Adrian Raine has a low resting heart rate, a highly active prefrontal cortex and a fissure down the centre of his tongue. Each of these can be risk factors for antisocial behaviour and violence. Low resting heart rate, indeed, is more strongly correlated with psychopathy than smoking is with lung cancer. Should I be worried about reviewing his book, then? Thankfully not, as Professor Raine has a conscience. “I know I can’t follow through,” he writes, “no matter how much I’ve wanted to kill some of my critics”.

So what is it that makes Raine a productive, compassionate member of society and not a serial killer? It’s difficult for even a neurocriminologist to say. As Raine keeps reminding us, biology is not destiny. Environment plays a crucial part, as must other factors that remain obscure to us. No, biology is not destiny, but as The Anatomy of Violence attempts to persuade us, its significance has been grossly underestimated.

Raine bears the scars of years spent battling a consensus he sees as skewed towards a sociological model of crime. Though he’s always polite, you can detect a contempt for social scientists bubbling up through his prose. They are ostriches, as far as he’s concerned, wilfully ignoring mounting evidence of the biological bases of criminal behaviour. Academic brouhaha aside, it’s certainly true that society has yet fully to grasp advances in neuroscience and how they might be used to prevent crime. Raine shows us how the brains of violent criminals function differently. Murderers tend to fall into one of two categories: reactive and proactive.

The former tend to have reduced activity in the prefrontal cortex, the most recently evolved part of the brain that allows us to make rational decisions and inhibit impulses. They’re unable to control the urge to lash out when provoked by a real or imagined slight. The latter, in contrast, can be clever, scheming, manipulative and bide their time before landing the fatal blow. Their prefrontal cortex glows bright in scans but look at their limbic system, the more primitive seat of emotion, and you’ll see that it is overactive, too. Their simmering aggression doesn’t boil over; it’s channelled into carefully planned cruelty.

The autonomic nervous system, which controls things like heart rate, digestion and sweating, also seems to function differently in killers. Raine gives examples of stimulation-seeking psychopaths who just can’t seem to feel anything unless they’re engaged in brutal violence. Their chronic underarousal leads to risk-seeking behaviour and, ultimately, since their blunted brains also lack empathy, torture and murder.

How much of this is fixed at birth, and what, if anything, can be done about it? It’s a shame that Raine begins his book with a discussion of evolution and genetics. If he’s looking to convince those wary of biological determinism, he is unlikely to coax them into a more receptive mood by discussing the evolutionary bases for rape and the fitness advantages of psychopathic behaviour in “primitive societies”.

The broader moral to be drawn from the evidence piled up here is that environment is pivotal. Abnormalities in the brain that make antisocial behaviour and violence more likely are fostered by poor nutrition, heavy metals, parental neglect and physical and sexual abuse. The pathway from brain to behaviour can be altered in all but the most severe cases by intervention.

In the final section of the book, as well as offering a fascinating discussion of how advances in neuroscience challenge notions of criminal responsibility, Raine imagines a future society in which violence is treated much as clinical diagnoses are today. He goes as far as envisaging a programme of mass incarceration of those whose brain scans show they’re more likely to offend, a licensing scheme for parents and a range of compulsory treatments. He admits the prospect will terrify many right-thinking people – but he believes that the gains outweigh the risks.

It is a shame he ends like this. If what Raine tells us in this book is true, great strides could be made without recourse to society redefining screening and detention. The message that ought to be taken from this book is that criminality should be seen as a public health problem. Excellent child nutrition, strict controls on the use of heavy metals, classes in parenting and extra learning support for children and parents from difficult backgrounds – these are all real-world solutions that have enormous potential for good. Raine’s book represents a compelling argument that they are not optional extras, boom-time luxuries, but measures that have the potential to save countless billions, and countless lives.

A knife amnesty in San Salvador. Photo: Getty
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Behind Carol: the photographers who influenced Todd Haynes’ award-winning film

“It seamlessly evokes the period by paying homage to the great photography of the time.”

Variously dubbed “woozy” “stunning” and “gorgeous”, Todd Haynes’ Carol has earned widespread critical praise for its visual splendor. The film’s cinematographer, Ed Lachman, was awarded the Golden Frog, the top award at Poland’s Camerimage Film Festival, which is devoted to the art of cinematography. The jury declared it a film of “aristocratic grace and elegance,” noting its “delicate and precise exploration of emotion through color and light”. They added, “It seamlessly evokes the period by paying homage to the great photography of the time.”

Speaking at a 35mm screening of Carol at the Picturehouse Central on Tuesday, Haynes emphasised the importance of contemporary photography in deciding upon the visual landscape of Carol, explaining that he complied an “image book” of visual references that was shown to almost every person working on the film along the way: producers, set and costume designers, make-up artists, and actors.

The book collected a selection of 1950s photojournalism that revealed a “distressed, dirty, sagging city” that jarred with their own romanticised notions of New York at the time. Aptly for a film that proritises female perspectives, many of these photographers were women: Ruth Orkin, Helen Levitt, Esther Bubley and Vivian Maier were all major influences for the team behind Carol. Haynes added that this was where the film developed its “soiled colour palette”.

Esther Bubley’s “Girl sitting alone in the Sea Grill” (credit: Wikimedia Commons) and Cate Blanchett in Carol.

One key photographer, though, was Saul Leiter. As Haynes said to the Guardian, “He’s known for shooting through windows, for using reflection. His work is impressionistic: these exquisite frames, and then that blown colour palette, muted overall with flashes of colour. I’m so proud that people look at this and think: wow, that’s the film. It means that we got it.” His influence is so great that the Southbank have put together a selection of Carol stills next to Leiter photographs in their South Wing: Through a Lens: Saul Leiter and Carol.

Teju Cole wrote in 2013 that “the overriding emotion” in Leiter’s work is “a stillness, tenderness, and grace that is at odds with the mad rush of New York street life.” Despite its setting, Carol posseses a slowness that mirrors the contradiction in Leiter’s photography: Therese and Carol’s relationship is gentle, silent and moves at a glacial pace.

Haynes also emphasised that Leiter’s focus on frames, mirrors, and glass was equally influential for the film, which often lingers on characters gazing at each other through car windows and camera lenses. In the documentary film about his life and work, In No Great Hurry (2012), Leiter says, “There are the things that are out in the open and then there are the things that are hidden, and life has more to do, the real world has more to do with what is hidden, maybe. We like to pretend that what is public is what the real world is all about.” For a significant portion of the film, Carol is a magnetic but inscrutable character: like Therese, we’re enthralled by, but remain distant from her. Haynes plays with this by including several shots where Carol is partially concealed or abstracted by rainy windows or snowfall. As the film, and its central relationship, progresses, we join Carol on the other side of the glass. Haynes told the Telegraph that when the film opens, “Therese is starting [...] but is not yet ready to put human subjects in her frames. And in many ways you feel like that’s also a process of putting herself in her frame, and seeing herself in the world. Which seeing Carol helps her to do. Carol becomes the first human subject in her lens.”

Saul Leiter (credit: gooseotter on Flickr) and Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara in Carol.

As Haynes concludes in another interview, “We yearn for the desire to triumph, and it almost never does in the greatest love stories, because we’re left yearning for it more in the end and we wish the world were different as a result. I do love that. You see these people functioning, where their gestures and their words have a limited range of possibility, and so it forces us to read between what they’re saying and what’s possible, to look at what’s between the glass separating them, the glances separating them, or even linking them at times.”

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